The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  A chill passed through Marie Catherine. It was a bold move to publish such speculation. All Paris might know of Nicola’s love affair, but that was hardly an unusual course for a woman in her position. In suspicious minds, a motive for Nicola to have her husband disposed of perhaps already existed, but now it was printed in the newspapers, for anyone to read.

  The morning’s news brought Nicola’s vulnerabilities into sharp relief. She was in imminent danger. If anyone in the city knew how swiftly the tide of public opinion could turn, it was Marie Catherine. It was only matter of time before Nicola began to face serious difficulty. Perhaps it would be best if Nicola left Paris for a little while – bought herself some distance?

  The Parish of Saint-Sulpice was a short palanquin-ride from Marie Catherine’s apartments. She had not visited the cathedral, one of the largest in Paris, with its fluted ceilings and carved saints’ alcoves, in many years. It had been her custom to travel out of the city during feast days to attend the services held at Saint Anne’s and to visit Angelina, but of late her observance of her faith had been as ill-disciplined as her writing.

  She slipped between the cathedral’s enormous oak double-doors. Pausing at the scallop-shaped basin of holy water inside the entranceway, she made a slow sign of the cross. The cathedral was empty, chairs laid out for afternoon mass. Frankincense lingered in the air, the atmosphere dark, though occasional candles burned in the chapels of the saints.

  A heavy-set woman carrying a basket was changing candles before the shrine to Saint Joseph. Marie Catherine moved over to the woman, fingers clutched tightly around her cane. ‘Is Father Étienne still here?’

  The woman gazed at her with small dark eyes. ‘Yes, Madame, I think he’s in his office. Shall I find him for you?’

  Marie Catherine nodded. She watched the woman shuffle along the black-and-white tiled floor. Overcome with nameless guilt, she stood before a statue of Saint Francis: his hands were clasped at his chest, his head tilted to the heavens, and a dove had settled on one brown-robed shoulder.

  ‘You asked to speak to a priest?’ enquired a voice.

  Marie Catherine shifted her cane to her other hand, leaning heavily on it for support. She stepped down from the alcove, into the shadowy aisle. ‘Father Étienne?’

  The priest standing before her, hands tucked into the sleeves of his black cassock, resembled her old friend in many ways. His hair was now grey, closely cropped in the familiar style; his eyes were as warm as ever, though there were crows’-feet at the edges, and lines running alongside his jowls. His lips were pink, his nose straight, and his figure slight, even more so than previously, as if a lifetime of bearing the sins and secrets of his congregation had caught up with him somehow.

  ‘May I make a confession?’ suggested Marie Catherine. Acknowledging her lax faith had not been her intention, but she was unsure how to broach her proposal.

  Father Étienne seemed amused. ‘By all means.’ He opened the door to the confessional in Saint Francis’s chapel, holding out his palm and inviting her to step inside.

  Tiny shafts of light poured through the holes in the grille. She could not kneel and so had to stand, hunched uncomfortably, her hands clasped over her belly. She felt foolish. Too many thoughts crowded her mind. Where to begin?

  ‘Take your time,’ prompted Father Étienne.

  It was no use. ‘This is a mistake, forgive the interruption.’ She pushed open the door, blinking as she stepped back into the cathedral’s dim light.

  Father Étienne came to stand patiently beside her. ‘Shall we take a turn in the garden? It’s peaceful this time of day. I can pick some of my roses for you.’

  ‘Only if I might lean on you. I have an affliction—’ she broke off, avoiding the priest’s eyes.

  Father Étienne nodded.

  ‘I’m a little …’ she rushed on, waving her fingers at her throat. ‘It’s a little stifling in here. I can’t hear my thoughts.’

  Pressing on her cane, she moved closer to Father Étienne, exiting the cathedral and shuffling along its stone-buttressed side, to the garden and graveyard at the back. She understood immediately why he had suggested taking a walk. Recognising the trio of elm trees planted in an intimidating row, black branches budding with soft new growth, she drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. The elms’ branches seemed to gather the graves below into a protective embrace.

  Side by side were the tombs of her first-born, a son, delivered the year she turned sixteen, and her first-born daughter, arrived not long after her seventeenth birthday. Each infant had been permitted to draw less than a moon-cycle’s breath.

  She’d not planned to visit the graves of her children, preferring to associate their memory with places other than the desolate parish cemetery. But the priest had a knack of intuiting the needs of his parishioners and friends before they realised that they existed. The notion must have kindled to life in some secret place beyond her awareness.

  Father Étienne had taken a pair of shears from his robe and cut two perfect white roses from the bushes.

  ‘You pricked your finger,’ she noted, accepting the flowers. She stopped herself from touching the droplets of blood formed on the priest’s thumb.

  ‘I’ll leave you a moment,’ he said.

  Leaning over the tombstones to read the inscriptions she had ordered from the stonemason, she muttered a prayer, laying one rose on each tiny grave. The memories of her children’s unmoving bodies had not dimmed in the intervening years.

  ‘I have a small problem,’ said Marie Catherine, when she joined Father Étienne on the path.

  ‘I deduced as much.’

  Buying time, Marie Catherine brightened. ‘Angelina’s left Saint Anne’s. She’s adjusting to Paris, if a little slowly.’

  Father Étienne asked why she had withdrawn from the cloister. Flustered, Marie Catherine concealed her selfishness and ventured that her daughter’s vocation had wavered. She was a lively girl. ‘She’s sharp, never hesitates to give me her opinion, which is always different from the one I profess. It’s good to be challenged in my ways.’

  ‘And Deidre and Theresa?’

  ‘They’re married, busy with their lives.’

  Marie Catherine stopped, turning to face Father Étienne. ‘I’ve a request. It involves a dear friend. I thought we might put our heads together like old times.’

  In a rush of words, the story of Nicola Tiquet’s predicament poured out, as well as Marie Catherine’s fears that her friend would be arrested, thrown in prison, tried and blamed, made to suffer for the attack on her husband. She had tossed about in bed all night trying to think of how she might intervene. She asked Father Étienne if he’d read about the case in the newspapers. He replied that he had, and that he knew Madame Tiquet, though only a little, for she often attended mass. ‘Unlike yourself,’ he teased.

  ‘Can I be blamed?’ protested Marie Catherine. ‘There’s too much pain here.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Father Étienne, gentle-voiced. ‘There’s no need to bristle, I’m on your side.’

  Marie Catherine leaned on Father Étienne’s arm. ‘I have thought it all through. I think the best course is for her to leave Paris. Until everything settles. Her servants need not know of it: I can arrange a sedan chair and then a carriage to meet her on the outskirts of the city. I’m not sure where to send her; I’m sure she’ll have her own thoughts. But I wondered if you might be the one to convince her? You are persuasive.’

  ‘Why not let the law take its course?’

  She heard the change in his voice, the mask of social convention slipping. ‘You know exactly why,’ she replied, searching his eyes. ‘Please, you must help me. Do not have me beg. All you need do is visit her for tea, have a simple conversation. I shall take care of the rest. Simply tell her that you’ve come from me. She will understand. She must.’

  Father Étienne sighed. ‘Leave it with me. Though you understand I do not know her well. When do you want the meeting organised?’
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  Marie Catherine closed her eyes. ‘Soon. I fear it’ll be a mistake not to act. What if she’s arrested? If we find her refuge, she can plan her next move. As far as I’m aware, money is no concern.’

  Father Étienne must come through. Speaking her plan aloud convinced her it was the right decision. There was a queer rumble in her mind, like a crackle of thunder inside a distant cloud. A tempest rolled towards her, gathering in strength, and she did not wish to be pummelled by its fury.

  Nicola

  18 April

  Jean Paul was small for his age, with dark brown hair and eyes the colour of a troubled sea. Moving his bottom onto the high-backed chair, inching backwards like an encumbered hermit crab, so his legs dangled over the edge, he put his hands in his lap and slumped forward. His nurse had fastened the buttons of his brown velvet waistcoat, adding a fresh collar and laced cravat, secured with a pin in the shape of a lion, his favourite animal. The family dinner was always served in the middle of the day, and formal attire observed. Not even Jean Paul was excused from a change of clothes, a rough wash and a brushing of his lovely curls.

  Instead of Monsieur Tiquet, Mathe de Senonville headed the dining table, her hat and coat hooked on the stand in the entranceway. She had arrived late, occupied all morning with errands. She apologised, flustered, and lowered herself into her seat, professing an inordinate hunger. At present, she was holding a crystal goblet up to the light from the chandelier, letting the flickers of candle-flame enhance the clear lemon of the Teutonic wine.

  ‘Tell me your opinion,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ve ordered a crate for Jean Paul’s party.’ She dug her son’s silver fork into his buttered asparagus and beckoned him to move his chin closer to his plate, so as not to spill food on the floor. He opened his pouty lips – in a state of resistance, confronted with the necessity of eating, rather than any natural turn of his face – and, with his teeth almost closed together, took a nibble of the vegetable’s wheat-like head. ‘Eat,’ hissed Nicola, ‘I’m not in the mood for games.’

  With his father absent, Jean Paul’s behaviour had become excessively childish. He shut his mouth, raising his long-lashed eyes to defy Nicola’s pleading gaze. He was taking advantage of his mother’s softness, behaving as if he had all the time in the world to finish his meal, for Claude was not there to reprimand him, bringing his fist down upon the table, causing them all to start.

  Platters of roast beef, peas, bread, cheese, a dish of onions, were laid out on the table. Before the great chairs, before Nicola and Jean Paul who sat side by side, roared the fire.

  ‘It is lovely. Crisp, not too dry.’ Madame de Senonville put her glass down and leaned forward in the chair. ‘Please do not take this as a criticism —’ she drew in a breath, treading carefully ‘— but are you not going too far?’

  Nicola covered her son’s ears, mock outrage rippling across her face. ‘Nothing’s too much for Jean Paul. You only turn eight once, don’t you darling?’ She moved her hands to her son’s shoulders and kissed his nose.

  ‘Yes, Maman,’ said Jean Paul, closing his eyes and moving closer to Nicola.

  ‘Eat your meat,’ said Nicola, taking advantage of his distractedness and popping a forkful into his mouth.

  ‘Mesdames Charlotte and Louise have advised they cannot attend.’

  ‘I’d not heard – are you sure? We shall miss the girls, won’t we, Jean Paul?’ But her son had turned his attention to sculpting his peas and gravy into a row of soldiers, about to breech a rather muddy moat.

  ‘I can confirm for you. The Mullinix family are occupied. They have a fair to visit – the heifers from their estate are being sold at market.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Nicola, swallowing a mouthful of wine. ‘There are others to fill their places.’

  Jean Paul was dipping his fingers into his gravy and trying to write his name on his plate.

  ‘Stop it, please!’ said Nicola. Glancing guiltily at his mother, Jean Paul pulled back his hand, catching the side of his special mug, which overturned, the contents dripping over the tabletop. Mathe made busy with her beef, slicing a perfect sliver, which she dipped in gravy and popped into her mouth, closing her eyes to savour the rich flavour.

  Nicola rang the bell for the nurse, and when the woman arrived, slightly out of breath, Nicola instructed her to return Jean Paul to the nursery. She would have his tutor begin the afternoon’s lessons early.

  ‘Maman,’ her son whined, fat tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

  Nicola leaned over to peck his cheek. ‘There, there. I’ll be in to read with you just as soon as I’m finished.’ But Jean Paul was not comforted. Nurse had to use a strong, tenacious grip to remove his clinging fingers from their grasp on the back of his chair. He was eventually prised free, and, after Nicola blew him a kiss, disappeared down the hallway, his hand firmly clasped in his nurse’s, her large bottom wobbling around the corner.

  ‘I’ve not seen him like this,’ remarked Mathe.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Nicola dabbed at her lips with a serviette.

  ‘He’s confused. He pines for his father.’

  ‘I’ve had a day,’ Nicola protested, refusing to be drawn on the topic. ‘I obtained funds from my banker, a little insurance. I tried writing to Montgeorge, though I was unable to set my thoughts on paper with much sense. Claude shows improvement. I’m informed he’s up and about.’

  ‘How can you speak of your husband and lover in the same breath?’

  ‘My husband has no need of me. Vilmain sees to him,’ said Nicola, affecting a dismissive air. ‘Tomorrow I’m having my hair curled, in preparation for Jean Paul’s special day. My orders are with the caterers. I have a puppeteer booked, and a fellow to give lessons in throwing hoops. A game of croquet. The afternoon will be on everyone’s lips.’

  Mathe settled back in her chair. ‘I’m pleased you’ve taken your mind off your troubles. I don’t know how you manage.’

  Nicola asked the maid to refill her glass. ‘More?’ she pointed to the carafe, raising her brows at Mathe. At the back of her mind the truth hummed uncomfortably. She would not let Mathe see her fear.

  ‘I have an appointment this afternoon, I’d best keep my wits.’

  ‘I hoped you might keep me company a little longer,’ Nicola whispered. She glanced at the portrait of Clotilde – a fine rendering painted by the renowned Claudille – sitting on a swing dangling from a great oak tree, her legs kicked out, her hair in ribbons. Nicola brought the goblet to her mouth, drinking deeply.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve taken enough wine?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Nicola shrugged. Behind the facade, underneath her skin, she was aware of a looming dread. It had increased in size during the past week, boundless, like some spreading abomination drawn out of the sea, sending its feelers throughout her body. She did her best to ignore it, distracting herself by picturing her grand dining room denuded of its finery. She’d been considering transporting the more precious items to her private chambers. The large mirror above the fireplace, her Roman tapestry, the Turkish carpet lain over the sideboard. Perhaps even the chandelier that shimmered above the long table. When Claude was well again, he would come sniffing around, demanding his share of their possessions. She did not expect him to resume living in the same house. The marriage was broken beyond repair.

  She recalled the visit by Saint-Sulpice’s parish priest, Father Étienne, several days ago. He claimed to have been sent by Marie Catherine and had hired a carriage, insisted she rouse Jean Paul and pack a valise. They wanted to take her out of Paris, where she would be safe, he explained. But she had turned him down. It seemed too great a risk. The second she was gone, Claude would no doubt move back into their house, seal the doors and change all the locks. For all she knew, it was a ruse arranged by Claude himself – what did Marie Catherine know of this priest, after all?

  On top of her distrust was disappointment. Her maid had snuck the priest into her room disguised as a Thetian monk, and when she first heard h
is whispered voice, she had thought he was Montgeorge, come to help her. A false hope had risen in her heart that was soon dashed. Perhaps if it had been her lover visiting, she might have accepted the offer.

  With a prickle of nostalgia, she recalled her first meeting with Gilbert. Her brother, Matthias Carlier, was a soldier in the King’s Guard, and, using his connections at the Palace of Versailles, had arranged for her to attend a theatre production. She remembered the hall of mirrors, the primped and formal courtiers. The play was performed in the gardens with moving sets, an extravagant fountain display and fireworks. When his formal duties had concluded, Matthias sought her out, asking if she was impressed.

  ‘This is too much,’ she had replied, squeezing his hand.

  Gilbert stood next to Matthias. The men gleamed in their polished uniforms.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Monsieur Montgeorge,’ Matthias said.

  What control and forbearing her brother’s companion held himself with. He was tall, with light brown hair, and alert, green eyes. Her brother was perhaps more handsome, but Monsieur Montgeorge had an air of mystery about him. Although he spoke little, his eyes barely left her face for the rest of the evening. He was naive, she recalled thinking, he did not know how to hide his attraction towards her. She found it endearing.

  She had passed the evening laughing, delighting at the pomp and splendour, a fairy tale evening at Versailles at the King’s pleasure. A few weeks later, she had received a letter from her brother’s friend, asking if she might correspond with him.

  She had been shocked, and then delighted. Pressing the letter to her cheek and kissing it many times. Their flirtation had begun. They wrote weekly, exchanging gossip, quoting lines from poems, sharing tender endearments. She felt grateful to her brother, who was aware of the cracks in her marriage, and had sent her this charming fellow as a diversion. Their correspondence brought her immense comfort. When the King’s Guard were stationed in Paris, she would sneak out to the opera or theatre with them. It was a secret, imaginary life, one that sustained her, keeping her from expressing her bitterness towards her husband for his many betrayals.