The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  She took the package and stared at it, her thoughts racing. The afternoon contained a promise of the life she might live outside the walls of Saint Anne’s, but she was confused. Alphonse’s attentiveness made her feel cared for; unlike in her past friendships, he was not forced into her company by communal living arrangements, but with Marie Catherine in the background his attention could not be wholly altruistic. A friendship with Angelina would be of use to him, and she was conscious that she must guard herself against being used. In the past she had been too open, too encouraging, and it had led to great pain. He might slip beneath her skin, planting himself in her thoughts before she had even decided if she wanted to cultivate a new friendship. Or, more likely, before she was sure this was the friendship that she should be tending. Closing her eyes, she let out a slow breath, chiding herself for being overly concerned about the impression she had made.

  ‘Maman is busy, especially with Madame Tiquet,’ she said, finally. ‘But I’ll see she finds time to respond.’

  Alphonse paused. ‘They’re close, aren’t they?’

  ‘Very,’ said Angelina. ‘The arrest has left Maman quite poorly, but this may be the distraction she needs.’

  An emotion – was it impatience or curiosity? – flickered behind Alphonse’s eyes. ‘I’d be most grateful.’

  The door to Deidre’s chamber was closed. The maid issued a sharp knock, and it was drawn open by a capped nurse. Ushered into the cloying room, the fires stoked, the curtain pulled closed, a pealing cry sounded.

  ‘She’s taken a turn,’ the maid explained. ‘She’s been asking for you, she’s delirious.’

  Angelina had sometimes been called upon to attend births at Saint Anne’s and had usually found the mission an ordeal. And not just for mother and child. The sisters administered a maternity ward; well-to-do families paid handsome sums for the care of daughters who had put their reputations at risk. The convent boarded the women for the duration of their pregnancies, and, should the infant survive, oversaw its adoption into a new family. The girls were then sent home as though nothing had happened, and usually married off as soon as possible.

  The afternoon spent with Alphonse receded from Angelina’s mind like a puff of dandelion seed. Be calm, she told herself. She whispered a Hail Mary and two Lord’s Prayers, just in case. ‘If you might give me a moment,’ she said, struck by a sudden urge to visit her nieces.

  The maid nodded. Angelina opened the door to the nursery, ‘How are my lovely little dears?’ she called, arms open to receive cuddles.

  Her three nieces, a set of toddling twins and a dimpled four-year-old, glanced up from their dolls. The eldest dropped her toy and rushed over to Angelina, smiling to reveal tiny milk teeth, her curly red hair falling in waves around her chubby face. The twins wore identical green-striped dresses – she was sure Deidre had one of her own in the same print. How strange to spend one’s time coordinating the family wardrobe, she thought, a little uncharitably.

  ‘Bonbons?’ asked the eldest, smiling hopefully.

  ‘Of course!’ said Angelina, opening her pocketbook. She had bought sugar candy at a renowned shop at the Place des Vosges. ‘You must hide it from your mother, though,’ she warned.

  ‘Maman’s having a baby,’ said the youngest.

  ‘That’s right. And she needs me to entertain her. So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll peep in again before bedtime, but for now I must leave you with nurse.’

  ‘Bye bye, Aunt Angelina,’ said the twins. Standing in their long dresses, their identical faces showed opposite expressions: one chewed her nails, her eyes downcast at the floor; the other met Angelina’s gaze with brazen confidence, as if she might be on hand to help.

  ‘I’ll see you again soon,’ said Angelina, backing out of the playroom and its sunny disorder.

  She readied herself to approach Deidre’s bedchamber. She had to face her sister’s trials with calm and strength, two things she was not feeling. Drawing in a breath, she straightened her spine and steadied her steps.

  Her eldest sister lay in a froth of undergarments on the canopied bed. Bolsters propped her knees. She wore a linen nightgown that would surely be cast into the fire when all was finished. Theresa, who had been sitting in a chair beside Deidre’s bed, rose to greet her.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ she said, taking Angelina’s hand and drawing her towards the end of the bed. ‘We weren’t expecting anything until next month.’

  ‘Have you sent for the midwife?’ asked Angelina. The straining in her sister’s face, her pinched cheeks and glazed eyes, the sweat on her brow, her rolled-up sleeves, all indicated that she was in advanced labour.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ said Deidre. She struck out her hand, which Angelina grasped and squeezed. She took too long to let go. A pain struck, the force of Deidre’s grip turning Angelina’s fingers purple.

  ‘You should have called for me this morning,’ said Angelina, not unkindly.

  ‘It came on quickly,’ explained Theresa. ‘As is the way with Deidre.’

  Two nurses kept busy rubbing Deidre’s feet and administering her wine diluted with water. Two nuns sat on the chaise before the fire, prayer books opened on their laps.

  ‘We thought you might attend?’ said Theresa hopefully.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Angelina, though it was not her preference. Give her a broken bone, a cut finger, an epidemic – anything but birth.

  ‘Tell me a story while I have a mind to concentrate,’ begged Deidre. ‘You may need to pause when I take a pain.’

  ‘No prayers?’ asked Angelina, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘God forbid no!’ Deidre groaned.

  Theresa shook her head at Angelina. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

  Angelina sat on the wicker chair on the opposite side of Deidre’s bed. ‘It so happens I’ve just been on a walk with a gentleman Maman introduced me to at her salon,’ she said, lightly.

  ‘Who’s the dark prince?’ asked Deidre. ‘Maman didn’t mention a beau.’

  Angelina knew that her sisters enjoyed romantic gossip more than any topic under the sun, except, perhaps, the antics of children. Alphonse was no beau of hers – the package he had given her had made the nature of their relationship quite clear. But she was willing to play the game for her sisters’ sakes.

  ‘He pleases the eye,’ began Angelina. She described Alphonse’s richly brocaded jacket, his cheeky manners and quick wit. She told them of the concert too, of the singer’s extraordinary voice, the over-groomed gentlewomen and their preening companions. But she omitted the awkwardness she felt, and the dominant place Alphonse had begun to hold in her thoughts. She presented the episode as a contrivance for Marie Catherine, which indeed it was. It was just a game, Angelina assured them, and she was enjoying the diversion. ‘Do not get your hopes up for intrigue. He’s a friend, nothing more.’

  ‘Why then are your cheeks flushed?’ asked Theresa. ‘He must like you a little. Who could not?’

  ‘Writers will entrust anyone with anything, should they profess even the slightest flicker of interest in their work. Surely you know that. No vainer creature walks God’s earth; except perhaps a bishop, or a musician, or a poet.’ Angelina flicked open her fan and struck it back and forth, batting her eyelashes in a parody of coquetry.

  ‘It sounds as if he has his hooks in you,’ said Theresa.

  ‘He wishes to ingratiate himself with Maman and improve his standing in the salon community.’ Angelina sat up. ‘I’m to be a conduit to whisper sweet nothings into her wrinkled old ear.’

  Deidre let out a tremendous groan. ‘I cannot stand it!’

  Please, dear Lord, spare my sister, prayed Angelina. ‘Do you have something I might change into?’ She touched the embroidered bodice of her borrowed dress.

  ‘On the chair near my dressing table,’ muttered Deidre.

  Angelina stood before the enormous looking glass taking pins out of her hair. ‘I’ll do that,’ said Jeanette, rushing over. In a few moments the brocaded
skirt and bodice had been unbuttoned, unlaced and laid carefully over a chair, and Angelina had been helped into a plain dressing-gown, the rope tied firmly about her waist. She washed her hands at the ewer and then turned to address the nurses who were fussing at Deidre’s shoulders and feet. ‘I need hot water. And rags, cloths. She may lose water. Theresa, can you fix the bolsters under her knees better, push them back, like this?’ Drying her hands on a towel, she demonstrated with her sister’s right leg.

  ‘All will be well, dearest Dee Dee.’ She looked gently into Deidre’s eyes, holding her gaze. ‘You’ve nearly finished the first part of your labours.’

  Deidre nodded obediently and then clutched Angelina’s hand, bearing down with a soft grunting sound. Angelina thought quickly – her sister was nearer to birth than she had realised. She folded the rag she had been holding, instructing Deidre to take it in her teeth. ‘Bite down hard.’ She searched amongst the draughts and medicines on the side table, hoping to find a painkiller, but the labels on the bottles, sealed with wax-soaked cloths, suggested innocuous ingredients that appealed to the senses rather than containing any effective medicine. One of the nurses appeared with a kettle of hot water. She pushed a cloth into the liquid and squeezed it out, pressing it against Deidre’s forehead – her sister had broken out in a profuse sweat. Her contractions were coming at short intervals, and with each pain she tossed her head to one side, her eyes rolling back.

  Half an hour later, with the midwife nowhere in sight, Deidre, all animal now, was ready to push. Angelina had arranged herself at the end of the bed, affecting all the calm she could muster, though in a secret part of her mind she was starting to panic; every litany she could think of played with great urgency on her lips.

  Deidre rose up onto her elbows, straining, her brows bunched together. She grasped alternately at the hands offered by Theresa and the nurses as she howled and pushed and cried again and again, until Angelina could hardly breathe with fear that the child was stuck in the birth canal. It should be over by now. It should not be so painful. Deidre slumped back, a long wail echoing in the hot room. The door to the bedchamber opened and in rushed the midwife, a whiff of whiskey on her breath. She washed her hands and nodded to Angelina, who moved to the top of the bed so that she could reheat the flannel pressed to her sister’s head.

  The sweetest relief entered her soul.

  ‘We have news.’ Angelina blinked, as if she were about to cry. ‘Deidre’s delivered.’

  Marie Catherine drew the blankets up to her neck. Angelina sought her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. ‘She’s well. And the infant. A girl, another daughter. Healthy, fine. Perfect in every way.’ Angelina wiped her eyes. ‘I almost caught her. Thank goodness the sodden midwife arrived in time.’

  Marie Catherine grimaced, watching the flickering candle Angelina held. Suppertime had passed; though it was not yet late, she had crawled into bed to keep warm. She paused, sighing. ‘What a blessed relief. I shall have to think of a gift.’

  The time for celebration was upon Deidre’s family. Her sister would lie in for a month, being visited and pampered by relatives and friends. A week’s celebrations would be undertaken, wine, meats, fruits and breads laid out day after day. The infant’s lips would be wetted with wine and her head kneaded every morning for two weeks so it formed a good shape; she would be tightly swaddled so that she might grow up with a straight posture.

  ‘Thank you for not telling me it started early,’ whispered Marie Catherine. She glanced at Angelina and then looked away. ‘Though it shames me to admit.’

  ‘You shouldn’t trouble your mind,’ Angelina said gently. She understood her mother’s fears about the perils of labour and birth, but she was aware of a deep exhaustion – her own niggling unease, though of a different source to her mother’s. ‘If you must know, Maman,’ said Angelina, ‘it shames me that all I can feel now, still, is anger at Saint Anne’s.’ Her voice quivered. ‘I wish I could simply be happy for Deidre, but I can never forget those girls forced to part with their infants. The agony of being separated. The money that changed hands so their families might be rid of the burden. It’s almost evil. How can the Church put women though such terrible suffering? All evening I’ve been overcome with fear and guilt. I barely enjoyed a moment of helping my sister. Indeed, I nearly resented that she called for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry you see it this way, Angelina,’ said Marie Catherine. ‘You need not upset yourself. Try to put it behind you. Deidre’s child will be showered with love. She’s wanted. You’ve been generous with your skills.’

  Angelina put the candle on the bedside table and rubbed her temple. A sharp pain wriggled behind her eyes. She’d not eaten all day and was painfully hungry, yet food held no appeal.

  ‘Might you take care of your Maman’s troubles?’ Marie Catherine motioned to her feet under the blankets.

  ‘In a moment. I must wash first. I’m weary.’ She began to walk to the door. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Alphonse gave me a package for you. He wanted me to guard it with my life,’ she shook her head in fond resignation. ‘It waits on your desk.’

  Marie Catherine brightened, a glint in her eye. ‘Oh yes, your rendezvous. How fares Romeo?’

  ‘You’re reading too much into it. It’s your favour he wishes to cultivate, not mine.’

  Marie Catherine

  22 April

  Marie Catherine’s morning correspondence included a letter from Marguerite du Noyer, in which was enclosed a note from another friend, recounting an entertaining game of ‘hide and seek’ played with the Duchess de Lude. She read the missive to the end, realising only when she unfolded the letter from Marguerite that it was in fact a taste of the manuscript Marguerite wished to circulate at their next salon. Signing off the correspondence, Marguerite made a mention of Madame Tiquet’s arrest, venturing her opinion that their mutual friend’s case appeared increasingly hopeless. It was difficult to intervene in the machinations of the courts, and she failed to see what they might do to avert a trial, in which she believed Nicola would be judged with prejudice.

  Marie Catherine was taken aback. Why, Marguerite must be growing soft! She was surprised her vivacious friend had been so easily disheartened, and suspected her resignation was more a sign of disinterest than any genuine judgement of the case. Marie Catherine felt very differently. Indeed, Nicola’s incarceration had only made her more determined to help her cause, and with her connections and high standing, she was confident she would find a way to quell the matter. Not that she envisioned a plan just yet, but she was working hard on the problem.

  She folded the letter back into its envelope and then turned to her next piece of correspondence, which was from her French publisher, Claude Barbin. She’d been waiting for a report on the sales of her collection of fairy tales, hoping to sign a contract for a second printing. However, she was to be disappointed. Not only was Barbin writing to inform her that he was withholding her earnings from the past year, but he also deemed that she’d not sold near enough copies to warrant a reprint. She put the letter down, her hands shaking with fury. If he’d supported her plan to run advertisements in several leading French journals, as she’d originally proposed, they wouldn’t have been in this position. It seemed that while her fairy tales were beloved amongst the salon crowds, they’d not quite made the same impact on the broader public.

  For some time, she’d considered taking all of her business to her Dutch publisher, Cornelius Alberts, who acted as an agent for her English, Spanish and German translations. He had a strong stable of French authors and was not averse to risk. Monsieur Alberts funded his literary titles by publishing a seditious broadsheet, Histoire Journali è re, under a secret imprint, available from behind the counter in any reputable Parisian bookshop. One only needed to ask the right question. The magazine was published weekly in Amsterdam and shipped immediately to France. The anonymous French authors that Alberts supported wrote with vigour about their dissatisfaction with the authoritarian regime and
their warmongering, spendthrift King. Such risqué writing would never pass the Royal Censor in France. It went without saying that Alberts was feted and wooed by the city’s women and men of letters.

  In the past, Marie Catherine had been careful that her criticisms of Louis’s regime – principally concerning the practice of arranged marriage and how it ruined the lives of women – did not contain any traceable political threat. She was canny enough to weave her disapproval of the status quo into intricate plots of courtly intrigue set in foreign countries and times, or idyllic fairy lands. But then there was her new book idea. If she really was willing to write subversively about French society, Alberts might be a key ally. Angelina had been growing impatient with her. She complained that she had promised her secretarial work but had produced no pages for her to transcribe, no plots for her to test. Now that Marie Catherine had a plan, Angelina was eager to begin work. Marie Catherine dared not admit how vague her notions for the new book were. Whenever she faced her writing desk, she was met with a frustrating feeling of resistance. She simply could not settle into the task that for many years had been her livelihood. The morning’s news from Barbin was deeply troubling. While she accepted that her imagination seemed disinclined to delve once more into those magical worlds, she still believed that fairy tales were not merely a passing fashion, and that their audience extended well beyond the salon crowd.

  Perhaps she should arrange an appointment, next time Cornelius Alberts visited the city? He frequently travelled between Paris and Amsterdam on business. It would not be difficult to organise.

  She folded Barbin’s letter and returned it to its envelope. A head-pain for another day. She leafed through the remaining pile of letters, the ecclesiastical stationary of the Parish of Saint-Sulpice catching her eye. She took a letter opener to the small, green-sealed envelope. Four days after Nicola’s imprisonment and there had been no reply to Marie Catherine’s letters to the Petit Châtelet where she was being held. The bouquet of pink and apricot peonies that she had bought on Rue Taranne, which Sophie had propped in a vase above the fireplace, had held their shape beautifully. Looking at them, she tried to imagine the small crude cell in which Nicola was being kept. She hoped her friend had the sense to pack coin to pay her way.