The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘When was this?’ asked Angelina, crossing the ballroom. The doorway through which the servants had entered led to a hall, off which the kitchen was located. A foul smell lingered in the air.

  ‘Ten days gone,’ said the woman.

  ‘That smell,’ said Alphonse, pinching his fingers to his nose.

  ‘Has nobody taken out the rubbish?’ asked Angelina.

  ‘We weren’t told,’ said the valet, his face a crisscross of drinker’s lines.

  Angelina enquired about the remainder of Nicola’s staff, learning that aside from the police guards, the couple were all that remained of the Tiquets’ formerly flourishing household.

  ‘We’ve not taken anything,’ protested the valet.

  Angelina excused herself, brushing the fellow’s shoulder in her haste. She walked down the servants’ passageway, leading to the storage rooms and kitchen. The rotten stink increased as she neared the larder.

  The housekeeper and valet followed on Angelina’s heels. ‘Madame de Senonville locked every room except the kitchen and the ballroom. She had those lazy guards dismiss the staff. Still, things were stolen.’

  Nicola’s kitchen featured an enormous, sooty hearth with several cooking surfaces and a set of Dutch doors that opened onto the courtyard, so that deliveries could be made directly into the room. Angelina’s eye was drawn to a chocolate cake on the long preparation bench, bugs crawling in the watery turned cream. There were platters of pastries, glace fruits and custard slipped and spilled onto their casings. Wilting vegetables, and, the source of the foul smell, a cheesecloth, from which a fleet of blowflies lifted off, with rancid meat beneath. At the end of the table, a stack of irises, tulips, roses and peonies, which had been left in their packaging, the petals browned, pollen smearing the scrubbed wood.

  ‘Go to the storeroom and find the rubbish sacks and cleaning equipment,’ said Angelina. She was furious. How could these fools let the flowers rot on the table? ‘I want this garbage removed before we leave. If you wish to stay here with a roof over your heads, I suggest that you move quickly.’

  Angelina rattled the set of keys at Alphonse. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘You’re a little fearsome,’ remarked Alphonse, playfully poking her in the arm. They were on the stairs, passing the second floor where Monsieur Tiquet had formerly kept his chambers.

  ‘Old habits,’ Angelina replied, with mock archness. ‘The waste would’ve given the Abbess a fainting spell.’

  Madame Tiquet’s chambers were located on the top floor, down a long, wide hallway, beyond a small suite given over to Jean Paul and his nurse. Angelina tried several keys on the ring, finally finding the one that opened the doors. As they swung open, she feasted her eyes upon Nicola Tiquet’s extraordinary canopied bed – twice as wide as Marie Catherine’s was tall, the red and green curtains edged in gold tassels – pressed against the far wall.

  They had been charged with finding money to pay off the police guards that protected Nicola’s apartments, to cover the rent on her cell and privileges in the Petit Châtelet. But it appeared they had a task ahead of them. The room was in disarray, open boxes scattered over the floor, the doors and drawers of the wardrobes and armoire flung open, underclothes and skirts and shoes left where they had been discarded. Alphonse drew back the curtains. ‘I need help,’ he called. It took both their efforts to wrench closed the heavy doors to the balcony. Rain had blown in, soaking the expensive fabric, soggy leaves and fallen branches scattered on the floorboards.

  ‘This must be where she met her lover, Montgeorge,’ observed Alphonse. ‘I hope it was in a better state when she entertained him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t listen to that broadsheet gossip that passes for news,’ said Angelina. ‘If it were true, it would bode very ill for Nicola. Maman would never take on such a hopeless cause.’

  ‘Perhaps she knows nothing of it?’

  ‘I imagine she would. They’re close friends. What have you heard about Montgeorge?’

  Alphonse shrugged. ‘That he’s handsome. Ambitious. Perhaps too ambitious to involve himself in such a mess, even if he was able to clear her name. I do not predict a happy ending for Nicola.’

  ‘But isn’t that for the court to determine?’

  ‘Do you believe her innocent, though?’

  Angelina paused a moment. Did she think Nicola innocent? Could she go on helping her mother to rescue a woman she believed capable of such violence?

  ‘I cannot say. But I do know she was kind to me. Whatever the truth, she doesn’t deserve to languish in prison forever.’

  She began to tidy a set of drawers, folding blouses and putting them away. ‘Why in heaven didn’t Madame de Senonville have the room cleaned?’

  ‘Perhaps she was occupied with Jean Paul,’ said Alphonse. ‘We should call that rascal housekeeper up.’

  ‘I’m not sure I trust the her,’ said Angelina. ‘It won’t take long. We shall do it together. I did my fair share of cleaning at Saint Anne’s. Nothing’s below the station of a novice.’

  ‘Was it as terrible as I’m imagining?’ teased Alphonse.

  ‘Doubtless it was infinitely worse,’ replied Angelina. ‘According to Maman, the coin is in the bureau drawer. Why don’t you start there?’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Alphonse. ‘I’m surprised there wasn’t a fire.’ He drew a chair under the chandelier, which had clearly been left burning for hours, drips of wax fallen onto the Turkey carpet, and began removing the spent candles.

  Angelina straightened a gown and took it into the adjacent dressing-room, hanging it carefully in the wardrobe. Alphonse checked the bureau, claiming he could not find the money that was supposed to be hidden in its drawers. ‘But I did discover something useful.’ He held up two glasses of brandy.

  ‘Then we’ll be as poorly behaved as that pair downstairs. The fellow was drunk, did you notice?’

  ‘Don’t we deserve refreshment?’ suggested Alphonse. He fussily brushed his cuffs. ‘I’m almost sweating with all this effort.’

  ‘If you insist,’ smiled Angelina. She accepted the drink, seating herself before the dressing table at which Nicola performed her toilette. ‘Observe how quickly I find her coin,’ she joked, eyeing the numerous drawers. She was fascinated at the treasures they might contain. Sipping the fiery liquor, she traced her fingers along an ivory-handled brush-and-comb set. She reached into one of the drawers and drew it open. A collection of gloves. She pulled on a pair, emerald green. She found a pot of rouge and smeared a little on each of her cheeks. She drew Nicola’s comb through her hair. At the end of the bureau sat a wig box. She prised it open and lifted out a magnificent curled blonde coif, which she placed carefully over her hair. She recalled an afternoon dressing up in Henrietta’s beautiful clothes. Henrietta’s mother had sent a gown that she was to wear on the day she left the convent, following the birth of her child. But Henrietta couldn’t fit into it and had asked Angelina to model it for her. Henrietta sprinkled perfume on Angelina’s wrists, put powder on her chest and pinned up her hair.

  Now she was caught up in imagining she was Nicola Tiquet, undertaking her daily beauty ritual. She gazed at herself in the impressive mirror, cast from a single piece of glass large enough, if the viewer stepped back a little, to reflect one’s coif, gown and shoes.

  ‘Alphonse,’ she called, barely recognising herself, looking every bit the glamorous society mademoiselle. ‘Might I have some more?’ She drank the second glass quickly and was taken with a sudden urge to explore the canopied bed. She drew back a curtain; the bedding was rich and plush, the mattress high off the floor. Sighing, she lay back on the covers, glancing up at the craftsmanship of the canopy.

  ‘Marchioness?’ Alphonse enquired, holding open the curtain and tying the little tassels. ‘Your brocade is hideously out of fashion.’ He giggled.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Angelina sighed. Her heart quickened and yet she felt relaxed, a delicious warmth flowing throughout her body. Alphonse should join her on the bed,
she decided. Dream a little with her. Nicola’s gloves smelt of cloves and frankincense, and, as if protected by the veneer of leather, she reached out a finger, tracing it along his arm. ‘Lie next to me,’ she said.

  Stiffly, Alphonse sat down on the covers. He touched her nose with a fingertip. ‘Now your hair is rather superb. If a little woolly!’

  She tingled all over, desire, like a serpent, uncoiling through her body. If Alphonse dared to kiss her right then and there, she would not resist. She closed her eyes, licked her tongue across her lips.

  Alphonse wriggled his hand out of her grip.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Alphonse, searching her face. ‘You’ve caught me off guard, that’s all.’

  She thought of Henrietta, who had let herself into her room, slipping under the covers of her bed, how she clutched and stroked Angelina in desperation. She had been frightened to sleep alone. How the feeling of being needed by someone as vulnerable as her new friend made her experience all the wrong emotions. How she had swelled with a secret desire to touch her beneath her clothes. How wrong it was for her to feel that way. Some demon must be influencing her. The need made her ache. She was pulled towards Henrietta as if a cord bound their bodies together, drawing them ever closer, all the more powerful for its invisibility.

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been rebuffed.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Angelina. Your maman trusts me. I cannot—’

  ‘Do not bring her into our conversation,’ said Angelina, her voice a low whisper of annoyance. She rolled over on the bed, facing away from him. She was filled with a hot shame, which seemed to be transferring into a tormented sadness. In a moment – she could tell, it came on like a long sneeze – she would start to sob. She felt Alphonse’s hand on her arm. He touched the side of her cheek with his finger, catching a tear. She shook her head on the pillow, eyes shut tight, to make him stop.

  Alphonse climbed up on the bed. He sat on the covers beside her, his back pressed against the wall, legs crossed, sipping brandy. ‘Do you wish to talk about it?’ He offered the glass.

  She sat up and wiped her face, rouge reddening her fingers. She nodded yes, accepting a sip of the liquor. ‘I’m a terrible person,’ she said. ‘My friend, Henrietta, the girl Maman told you about, was pregnant. And I had the care of her.’ She began to tell Alphonse about Henrietta’s ordeal, the words tumbling from her mouth, a flood of refuse pouring down the cobblestone streets after heavy rain.

  As the completion of Henrietta’s pregnancy drew nearer, she had undergone a dramatic change. Angelina knew that Henrietta would not see her own child once it had been born; she had assisted the nuns several times in such situations. It had been different when Angelina was sixteen. She had viewed the convent’s involvement in forced adoptions as benign – a service, even. An unwanted child sent to a good home to be loved and cared for, rather than abandoned to an orphanage. The fees, handsome sums to right unforgivable mistakes, invested back into the convent by the Abbess.

  She had not grown close to the three other girls she had attended. Had not understood the pain of being made to give up the child that they had carried inside their bodies, made of their blood and flesh, irrevocably bound to their hearts. But Henrietta had been different.

  After she had delivered Henrietta’s daughter, she placed the infant on her friend’s chest, so that she might say goodbye to her. But it had been a mistake. The Abbess entered the birth room, saw Henrietta holding the child and wrenched the baby out of her arms. She scolded Angelina. It was not the practice of the convent to let mothers like Henrietta spend time with the babies they were forced to surrender. Henrietta was sent back to her chamber to recover. Her breasts were bound in cloth and she was told to rest. The infant, robustly healthy, was collected three days later from the infirmary by a childless couple, who had paid to have their names recorded on the baptismal certificate as her parents.

  After the infant was taken from Henrietta, the wound inside her was reopened. She broke apart under Angelina’s loving ministrations – in her arms. When Sister Agatha, Angelina’s confidant, discovered the girls’ connection, Henrietta was removed from her care.

  Henrietta stopped sleeping. She refused to eat. But most concerning to the convent, she began to speak in tongues. To spit and to froth at the mouth. She rubbed faeces on the wall of her bedchamber. She tipped water on her fire and threw off her clothes. She tried to sleep on the floor. She broke the terracotta jug that held her drinking water and took the shards into her hand, tearing them along the flesh of her legs and arms, until the skin split and bled.

  Henrietta’s parents were called to take her home. They arrived, tight-lipped, and a terrible fight ensued. Henrietta refused to leave her room. Refused to speak to them. Desperate, Angelina visited her in the middle of the night, shocked to see that the rumours circulating about her behaviour were true. She did not really believe in such things, but the evidence before her eyes was undeniable. Henrietta was possessed by a demon influence. A priest was despatched, a pious elderly man with yellowed eyes and a severe manner, to cast out the evil voices that had taken control of the young woman.

  Following the exorcism, Henrietta appeared calmer. She convinced the nun in charge of her to allow her to visit Angelina. They spent the evening talking in front of the fire in Angelina’s room. Relieved, Angelina kept the fire burning hot, her eyes filling with tears as they spoke.

  Henrietta told Angelina she had resigned herself to her fate. She thanked her for tending to her during her six-month stay at Saint Anne’s, and said she was the best and dearest friend she had ever known. Angelina, feeling optimistic, suggested that they read their favourite fairy tale together, for old time’s sake. Henrietta agreed, delighted. They sat up reading ‘The Blue Bird’, Henrietta naming the characters, each a different pawn in the convent’s hierarchy. She said that the heroine Florine’s stepmother and stepsisters were her own hated family. That she was not really related to them at all. That she, too, had been stolen, like her own child, from her real mother at birth.

  Alarmed, Angelina hid her growing concern. Aside from Henrietta’s conviction that ‘The Blue Bird’ had been written by the Baroness d’Aulnoy especially for her, the girl appeared to be on the path to healing. She had washed her hair, she was clean, she was dressed warmly. She accepted the milk and bread Angelina offered her when they finished the long reading. She even laughed, looking deeply into Angelina’s eyes, when Angelina assured her that her child had been placed with loving parents, that the girl had the chance of a new life.

  Henrietta touched Angelina’s brow. ‘Pray for me.’ She stood up from the chair.

  ‘Stay,’ said Angelina. ‘The night sister won’t report us.’

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ said Henrietta. She kissed Angelina’s cheeks and searched her eyes. ‘Look after this for me,’ she said, touching the volume of Contes des Fé e s Angelina had given her.

  She did not stop Henrietta from returning to her room, though something in her nursing training had intuited that her friend should not be left alone. She was wary of pushing Henrietta, of making demands upon her.

  When Angelina had first learned of Henrietta’s pregnancy, she had assumed her friend was simply weak, a limp-willed girl who had not learned to control her mind and body. It made her feel superior. But Henrietta had proven herself to be so much stronger, so much more courageous than Angelina had realised. Oh, how false and ignorant Angelina had been, trying to remain in the graces of the nuns by aping their every thought. She knew better, now.

  When Henrietta left that evening, Angelina truly believed that a new beginning had been forged. Henrietta would remain in the convent. They would continue their friendship, but it would be framed by duty, good deeds and submission to God. Angelina would put her heart and soul into convincing Henrietta she could make a life for herself – rewarding and meaningful and satisfying – in the Convent of Saint Anne. They need not take ever
y word the nuns spoke as truth; they could find their own way through. No matter how much time it took, she would convince Henrietta she had not been discarded, that she was loved, that she had a place in the world.

  In the morning, the groundsman found Henrietta’s body. Her altered behaviour suddenly made sense to Angelina. What she had mistaken for a new beginning, was in fact a last goodbye.

  Henrietta had not gone back to her room after they parted for the evening. She had stolen the keys from the sleeping guard and climbed to the top of the belltower above the chapel. Climbed out onto the slate roof and jumped to her death.

  How had she been so blind, so willing to believe that a visit from a priest could seal up Henrietta’s pain?

  ‘I had no idea. What a cross to bear,’ said Alphonse, releasing her hands. He had squeezed them steadily throughout her confession, which had served to prise almost every drop of the story from her. ‘Perhaps you should write it down.’

  ‘I have,’ sighed Angelina. ‘The pages of my diary are filled. I was so angry. I could hardly stand to attend the services, to take Communion from the priest.’ She paused, drawing in a shuddering breath. She raised her eyes and held Alphonse’s gaze. ‘But that’s not the reason for my shame,’ she whispered. ‘I had an inclination towards her. I loved her.’ Angelina smiled, tears in her eyes. ‘But it’s a love that has no home, not in the convent, not anywhere.’ She shook her head, ‘Henrietta preferred men, though, and rejected me ever so gently.’

  ‘You must not feel that way about yourself,’ said Alphonse, his voice fierce with conviction. ‘No matter what other people say is right or wrong. Promise me you’ll forgive your heart for taking its own way?’