The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

Vilmain’s brow furrowed. There was dried blood on the backs of his hands. He had taken off his coat and necktie. ‘Please, Nicola, leave him be. He’s not himself. He’s been attacked by street ruffians. He may not survive. He’s lost much blood. I implore you, for the sake of peace, return to your apartments.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Nicola. She did not know what possessed her. ‘You cannot tell me what to do.’ She began to hit her husband’s cousin in the chest, landing several blows before Vilmain’s fingers gripped her wrists, holding her arms away from his body. She felt Mathe’s hand on her back, heard her pleading that she calm herself.

  Oh, but she wanted to kick the stupid man.

  Vilmain’s eyes locked with hers, as if sensing that her fury would only be provoked by his fighting back. She held his gaze, startled into stillness when she realised that he was not angry – rather, it seemed a sort of peace had overtaken him. She suddenly understood. There was nothing she could do but obey. She would return home and await the morning, when there would be news.

  Angelina

  7 April

  Angelina lifted her lute down from its stand. Lise had just delivered the package of catgut strings ordered from Italy. She set to unwinding the clamps, carefully removing each old string and twisting it into a thin coil for disposal. The new strings glistened in their package, a faint smell of tanner’s treatment lingering. But, like a dish that was an acquired taste – the mould surrounding a good cheese, the brine of fermented fish – the smell was welcomed.

  At Saint Anne’s she used to sit beside Henrietta, plucking in tune to her friend’s singing. How strange that the memory of her face was fading. She recalled her lips, her small white teeth, the flicker of her heavy eyelids, but could not arrange the picture into a face. Henrietta glimmered before her and disappeared. Her frock. Her habit. Her pretty feet hidden in the plain boots worn by the novices.

  Had Henrietta been a boy, her father might have permitted her to enrol in the music academy, for she came from a cultured and aristocratic family. He might have allowed her to receive tutoring to hone her home-taught talents – become an accomplished musician, even. But her refusal to follow the path of a docile, well-behaved maiden had infuriated her family to such an extent that they had cast her out, into the cold embrace of the Church.

  Angelina no longer felt like playing music. Lute strings waxed, she oiled the face and bowl of the instrument and returned it to its stand near her writing desk.

  She might as well start her day. Though used to dressing herself, she was patient as Lise laced her yellow smock and tied a sturdy belt at her waist. Her hair was hidden in a wrap and thick stockings were rolled onto her legs, house slippers warming her feet. She washed her face and hands at the ewer, squinting at her complexion in a hand mirror. She looked wan and tired, as if she needed more sun. Maybe she should visit Deidre, she thought. Bring over a gift for her nieces and enquire how her eldest sister was holding up in her confinement. Deidre had always made an effort to bring the girls to see Angelina at Saint Anne’s on their birthdays and special feast days. Angelina had found their company immensely diverting, and never forgot to pluck them a bouquet of flowers from the garden she tended, or filch a little treat from the kitchen.

  Dressed, she hurried down the stairs to Marie Catherine’s second-floor chamber. ‘Good morning, Maman,’ she said, rubbing her hands along her arms. She must remember to bring a spare shawl when she was to work there. Marie Catherine’s office was almost as cold as the hallway; her mother had been absorbed in her morning tasks and forgotten to ask Sophie to bank the fire. Although Angelina knew she should call the maid, it was easier to open the coal chest and deliver several black lumps to the fire herself. She glanced at the curtains, which were drawn closed, ignoring a flicker of resentment about Marie Catherine’s preference for low light. If it were her workplace, she would throw open the balcony doors to let in the morning sun, not to mention the sounds of the street life outside, enlivening the staid atmosphere of shelves and books and messy papers.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Angie. I’ve invited Alphonse for morning tea,’ said Marie Catherine. She sat behind her desk, surrounded by teetering books and empty inkwells, squinting at a letter.

  Surprised, Angelina steadied her voice. ‘I cannot receive a visitor dressed like this. Imagine if one of Madame Jasmine’s daughters were to see me. May I return to my room and change?’

  ‘If you wish,’ replied Marie Catherine, half-listening.

  But in the hallway, Angelina bumped into Sophie, who had answered the front door and was already leading Alphonse towards Marie Catherine’s chamber. She paused, unsure if she should finish her mission of changing outfits, or if it were too late. Alphonse grinned, bowing deeply. Recovering, she mumbled an awkward good day, and he stepped forward and took her hand, pecking her on the knuckle. Despite her best efforts, she could not stop herself casting her eyes up and down his form, drinking in his pink stockings and buckled shoes, his dark blue velvet breeches, which matched his impeccable vest and doublet.

  Aware of her appraisal, Alphonse blushed to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Come,’ said Angelina, taking over from Sophie. ‘Let’s bring you to Maman.’

  Marie Catherine rose from her chair, inching her way around her desk, then clutching the top of one of the chaises longues arranged on the circular rug before the fireplace. She waved her hand towards a small round table and chairs set before the balcony. ‘We’re dining by the French doors for a change.’

  As if cued somehow, Sophie rushed over, removing the cloth that had been placed over the table to reveal a plate of pastries, some sliced fruit and an urn of steaming coffee.

  Perhaps Angelina had misjudged the fading ambience of her mother’s chamber. It was a workplace, after all. It made sense for function and practicality to reign, except for during the monthly salon. Sophie was now pinning back the curtains; it seemed her mother had put careful thought into this meeting.

  Soon, they were seated at the sunlit table, Sophie using a pair of silver tongs to deliver an éclair to each of their plates, adding a slice of pear and apple. Angelina felt suspicious. What game was Marie Catherine playing at? She had better not be involving herself in her private affairs. That she be allowed to conduct her own friendships was one of the conditions she had demanded in agreeing to work as her mother’s secretary.

  ‘Take this,’ said Alphonse, passing Angelina a napkin. She had dropped a blob of cream on her bodice.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angelina. Now she was flushed.

  She glanced at Marie Catherine, annoyed to see her scrutinising their exchange, an expression of cool amusement in her eyes.

  Angelina studied Alphonse’s small, soft fingers, ducking over the table to serve Marie Catherine another slice of fruit, the lacy cuffs of his shirt inches from the cup of cream. It would give her much pleasure, she decided, most ungraciously, for him to slip.

  ‘I enjoyed the poem you sent,’ Angelina began. ‘In fact, I’m dressed like this because I stayed in late trying to compose a reply, though I’m not quite satisfied.’

  ‘Take your time.’ Alphonse smiled, affecting a nonchalant toss of his hand, resulting in his lacy cuff landing in the cream.

  Angelina smiled, sipping at a tiny cup of sweet coffee. Her victory was short-lived, because Marie Catherine had taken charge of the conversation, launching into a discussion of the story Alphonse had recited at the salon. He’d left the copy with her. She was appreciative of his reference to her tale ‘The Yellow Dwarf’, in which the identity of a mischievous dwarf, who has been enchanted by a fairy into a beautiful maiden, is given away by a pair of hirsute feet.

  ‘It’s perfectly amusing,’ said Alphonse.

  Angelina felt the old suspicion slide open its leathery eye; that she was merely an addendum to her mother’s performances. Listening to Marie Catherine’s responses to Alphonse’s story, she felt foolish. Her mother’s reading was generous, designed to encourage him to keep developing
the draft. He had not yet fully marked it with his own style, Marie Catherine said gently. Angelina’s criticism of the poem he’d sent seemed fierce and pointed by comparison – thank the Lord she’d kept it to herself. She’d only wanted to impress him with her convent education.

  She recalled the jealousy she’d felt when Henrietta du Blois, after attending her first salon at Saint Anne’s, had knocked on the door of her room. She had a copy of the Contes des Fées in the pocket of her nightgown.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much I love your mother’s fairy tales?’ asked Henrietta, her green eyes shining. ‘Oh, Angelina, I suspect we shall be firm friends.’ She had moved her eyes towards the floor, tears welling. ‘Saint Anne’s is my death sentence. But perhaps we can make the time pass more quickly.’

  Angelina, recovering from the shock of being visited in her bedroom at night, against the convent’s strict regulations, had beckoned Henrietta to the chairs near the fireplace.

  ‘We can read a tale together, if you’d like.’ She was intimidated by the glamorous new novice and felt slightly resentful that her mother’s stories were the reason for the girl’s interest.

  ‘Oh, yes, let’s. I thought, perhaps, if your mother visited, she might write a dedication on my copy? But this is a better idea. To hear her own daughter read to me, why that would be heaven!’ Henrietta grasped Angelina’s wrist. ‘What’s it like to have a famous maman?’

  ‘I suppose it’s rather wonderful,’ Angelina grumbled.

  Henrietta opened the small volume. ‘My family is so dull. Novels and stories are my only escape. My nurse used to read to me, but Maman got wind of it and had it stopped. She prefers me to absorb the lessons of the psalms. It’s been seasons since I was indulged with a fairy story. Might I select one? I’ve a favourite.’ Henrietta’s eyes pleaded with Angelina.

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘“The Blue Bird”.’

  ‘“The Blue Bird” it shall be,’ said Angelina. It was a good choice. She had been observing Henrietta, on guard against the new novice’s attempts to steal the floor at her salons, knowing instinctively that her charges would install the fascinating Henrietta as their new queen in a blink.

  Angelina had taken the small volume from Henrietta and started to read it in front of the fire. Since she knew the tale almost by heart she was able to make a study of Henrietta as she recited the well-loved adventures of Princess Florine and her ugly step-sister Truitonne, competing for the love of Prince Charming, who, attempting to escape a forced marriage to Truitonne, had angered the fairy Soussio and been turned into a bird for punishment. The attentive Prince Charming, in feathered guise, visited the princess in her tower in the evenings for satisfying conversations, fluttering away between the bars as dawn broke with pledges of undying devotion.

  Henrietta, for all her enthusiasm and spirit, appeared upset by the story. She curled the edge of her nightdress in her fist, listening avidly to every word. She had high cheekbones, a wide, friendly mouth – quick to pull into a smile or a pout – and attentive, expressive eyes. She was long-limbed, a doe in the woods, all arms and legs, a slender white neck. She had a cleft in her chin, and the reddest, plumpest lips.

  Angelina, lost in her observations, soon realised she had read most of the story – a feat, as it was many pages long. When she glanced up, she saw that Henrietta was slipping off to sleep. She smiled – a good result, Marie Catherine would be pleased – and closed the volume, placing it on the small table between the chairs. ‘Henrietta,’ she whispered, ‘you should go to bed.’

  Henrietta stirred. Her cheeks were pink from the fire. ‘I’m so sorry. I shall have to arrange another escape. We must resume soon. Oh, Angelina, thank you.’ She stood, grabbing Angelina’s hands, and, as if taking the position of the prince – before he was transformed into a bird – drew Angelina’s hands to her lips and kissed them fervently.

  ‘Shush.’ Angelina giggled. Feeling daring, she kissed Henrietta’s hands in return. ‘You must be quiet! Hurry to your room.’

  From that moment onwards, Angelina had kept her eyes and ears out for Henrietta, as if her body were attuned, like her lute to her friend’s beautiful singing voice, to her every coming and going. She had been thawed. And because of the special attention Henrietta had commanded from her – surely her interest in her went beyond the fact of her famous mother – she had started noticing that some of Henrietta’s beliefs and behaviours were very strange indeed.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Angie?’ asked Marie Catherine.

  Angelina started. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I was telling Alphonse it’s my duty to respond to talent,’ she replied. And, in a segue all too familiar to Angelina, her mother began to recite the story of her rise to fame. How she wanted to be a writer since as far back as she could remember. How she read everything that she could get her hands on. How she wrote in solitude, without a sliver of support. How she dreamed of success but never dared imagine its possibility. How Alphonse must believe in himself, ignoring detractors and staying true to his vision.

  ‘You must be flexible. Try every form. Verse is all very well,’ she glanced at Angelina, ‘but hardly a way to earn one’s living. Unless the King takes an interest. But you’ll have to court his favour. And that, dear boy, is a career in itself.’

  Alphonse held onto Marie Catherine’s every utterance, spellbound. For this moment at least, he was a writer and all the possibilities the world of letters might offer were spread before him like a summer sky. He admitted he’d had a story accepted by a small, well-respected journal.

  Marie Catherine tapped the table. She asked whom he was reading, and when Alphonse replied that he was studying Charles Perrault’s Tales of Mother Goose, she narrowed her eyes.

  ‘You know, I have an immense argument with Monsieur Perrault. Granted, he’s a supporter of the modern voice in French literature – give me Molière or La Fayette over Racine and those stuffy old champions of the Hellenic spirit. But I take great exception to his opinion on the woman question.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with it,’ said Alphonse.

  ‘Take my advice and don’t waste your time.’ Marie Catherine pressed a pastry into her mouth, chewing in annoyance. She swallowed. ‘It’s all there in his fairy tales. He’s only satisfied when his heroines are humiliated into submission. He celebrates the obedience of servants, scullions and kitchen slaves. His morals instruct young women that their true value is in being a humble and supplicant wife. Though of course I admire his powers of invention, and have paid homage to him myself – his mouse-drawn carriages I especially like – you cannot imagine what frustration I feel at his view that women should have no agency, no intellectual life.’

  ‘Surely you cannot deny the genius of “The Little Glass Slipper”?’ asked Angelina, glancing at Alphonse in hope of agreement. ‘He makes an excellent point about the situation of young women. His observations don’t fall wide of the mark. Though that’s only my opinion.’

  Marie Catherine reached out a finger, touching Alphonse’s sleeve. ‘I trust you’re not that kind of writer – or gentleman.’

  ‘I promise to do my utmost to celebrate female heroinism,’ Alphonse replied, laughing. He winked at Angelina and she smiled back in gratitude. Perhaps he wasn’t an unthinking sycophant.

  Marie Catherine gave a satisfied nod. She brightened. ‘Go to the library, Angie, and find a copy of The Prince of Carency. I have a few spares.’ She turned to Alphonse, smiling. ‘A gift.’

  ‘I cannot express my appreciation,’ replied Alphonse, clearly pleased to have won the prize of Marie Catherine’s special regard.

  Marie Catherine ordered him to show her more of his work and told him that she would be keeping an eye on his development. He showed a rare promise.

  ‘You might write me too, should you feel inclined,’ teased Angelina. ‘Though I’m but a lowly reader.’

  Marie Catherine

  7 April

  Nicola Tiquet, dressed in a black-and-white-c
hequered skirt and jacket, was speaking to her liveried chair-bearers. She adjusted her stiff collar and pulled her shoulders straight. Lifting her skirt, she delicately stepped over a puddle. Marie Catherine watched from above, as Nicola’s beringed knuckles reached out to rap on her front door.

  She let the curtain drop, moving painfully towards the chaise to await Nicola’s arrival in her chamber. ‘Come in, come in,’ she called from her seat near the fire in answer to Sophie’s knock. ‘Thank you for the note of warning.’

  Nicola swept her eyes across Marie Catherine’s writing desk, cluttered with empty glasses, spent quills, dried seals and piles of disorganised papers and accounts. ‘Have you had company?’ She had spied the remains of morning tea set on the table under the window. Upon receiving Nicola’s message, Marie Catherine had invented the excuse of a horrid headache and sent Alphonse home, then given Angelina the remainder of the morning to herself.

  ‘What are they saying about me?’ Nicola had removed a hand-mirror from her pocketbook and was patting her curls.

  Sophie laid a tea tray on the table near the chaises longues. ‘Close the door on your way out, please,’ instructed Marie Catherine. ‘We’re not to be disturbed.’

  She turned to Nicola, speaking in a low voice. ‘All I can say is thank the Lord you’ve come to me. You can’t go talking to all and sundry. Where’s Jean Paul? Is he well?’

  ‘He’s with his nurse,’ said Nicola, putting the mirror away. She began to fuss with the frilly cuffs of her sleeves.

  ‘Come and sit down. Have some tea.’

  Nicola glanced up and met Marie Catherine’s eyes, held her gaze. ‘We’ve all had a terrible fright.’

  ‘Well of course you have. I’m uneasy about the situation and you know the steely nerves I possess. How does Monsieur Tiquet fare?’

  ‘He’s recuperating at Monsieur Vilmain’s apartment.’ Nicola lifted her narrow shoulders in a shrug. ‘He refuses to come home.’

  Marie Catherine poured two cups of tea. ‘If you want my counsel, you’ll need to tell me exactly what happened.’