The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  But they returned to Marie Catherine’s chamber to be greeted by a pile of correspondence, her mother protesting that she was in no condition to concentrate on reading. Might Angelina inform her of any missives needing her immediate attention? The letter from her Dutch publisher could wait. However, the package from Monsieur Matthias Carlier, Nicola’s brother, must be unwrapped then and there. Angelina unfolded the parcel, shaking out a veil of white Italian lace, and remarking upon its delicacy. There was a letter tucked inside.

  ‘Open it,’ said Marie Catherine, sitting on the chaise and nervously touching her headwrap.

  Angelina eyed the script. ‘Monsieur Carlier sends his apologies for his late response to your enquiry. He was away from his Paris barracks and his estate in Léon, on the road with the King.’ She read ahead. ‘He begs your indulgence as his messengers did not forward your letter. He was not aware of your friendship with Nicola.’

  Matthias Carlier wrote that he had undertaken to make a campaign on behalf of his sister’s life. The Duchess of Burgundy, a great friend of the King’s and his own family, had petitioned Louis for a royal pardon, as had he, his wife and several of their circle of friends. But their efficacy was made complicated by Nicola’s romantic association with Matthias’s colleague, Gilbert Montgeorge. The matter was most delicate; indeed, Montgeorge had almost fallen out with the King over the scandal.

  Several days before Monsieur Carlier made his appeal to King Louis, Gilbert Montgeorge had sought his own private audience. Rumours had been circulating in the ranks of the King’s Guard about Montgeorge’s possible involvement in the conspiracy to murder Monsieur Tiquet. Marie Catherine must understand, wrote Matthias, that Montgeorge was a gentleman of impeccable honour, his loyalty to his King and country unquestioned. Several years ago, during the incident of the lettre de cachet, the King had taken personal counsel with Montgeorge, advising him that the scandal around Nicola and her husband’s accusation of adultery threatened to mar his flawless record of service. The King would not pass a judgement on Gilbert’s private conduct, but he advised his guard unequivocally to cease his relationship with Nicola Tiquet.

  Montgeorge had obeyed the King’s instruction, severing his attachment to Matthias’s sister. Nevertheless, despite no longer calling himself a friend of Madame Tiquet, Montgeorge had made an appeal to the King to show mercy in her case, putting himself at personal and professional risk. Not wishing to be involved, the King responded by issuing him with three months’ forced leave from the King’s Guard.

  You must understand, Madame d’Aulnoy, how difficult it has been for my family to intervene in my sister’s case. I have had to protect my own interests and approach her fate through clandestine arrangements. And I do not exaggerate when I write that it has been difficult to find individuals loyal and willing to help in Nicola’s time of need. I can count them on one hand! If you could pass the veil on to dear Nicola – our mother wore it on her wedding day – I should be eternally in your debt. Send her my love and tell her she is in Montgeorge’s heart. He has passed on a small note for her, perhaps you might enclose it with the veil. I shall be ever grateful.

  ‘I cannot feign why he bothered to write to me,’ muttered Marie Catherine. ‘He’s only trying to ease his wretched conscience.’

  ‘So, Monsieur Tiquet’s accusation of adultery was correct?’ asked Angelina. ‘I thought they were just rumours – you made it sound as if he invented it all. She’s caused deep trouble for her family.’

  ‘I did not think to concern you with the details. Montgeorge helped Nicola to endure her horrid marriage. He’s practically a saint. He’s certainly no bedhopping chevalier. Until very recently, I’d been under the impression she was finished with him.’

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Angelina. ‘Why did you keep this from me? I do not understand why you insist on helping her.’

  ‘I did not think it necessary to involve you. Please, Angie, you’re not to speak of it to a soul. It’s a private matter,’ said Marie Catherine, seizing the letter from Angelina and glancing at the fire. She stopped short of throwing it into the flames.

  ‘I think it’s gone beyond the walls of Madame Tiquet’s boudoir. Besides, who on earth do you imagine I’d confide in?’ asked Angelina. ‘It’s not as if I have any influential Parisian friends.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Marie Catherine, her voice weary.

  Over a luncheon of beef, beans and potatoes, Marie Catherine pondered aloud how to respond to Nicola’s sentencing. ‘I cannot believe she’s been found guilty of a conspiracy planned three whole years ago – and which was not even carried out! It’s nothing less than outrageous!’

  ‘You’ve put much effort into helping her,’ observed Angelina. ‘Perhaps it’s time to let things go? This whole sad affair has interfered with your writing. You have abandoned your new idea. All your fretting is keeping you up at night. I hear you, pacing about the floorboards. Perhaps it’s the right moment to accept the verdict of the state?’

  Marie Catherine put down her fork. She looked at Angelina, her eyes flashing. ‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I am certainly not ready to hang up my hat. It’s all because of that damned servant, Jacques Mouer. He’s the one with the grievance against Monsieur Tiquet. Nicola told me as much. Her so-called accomplice, that Cattelain fellow – your father wrote to me about him – is utterly discreditable. A common criminal. I fail to understand why his word has been held up as true against Nicola’s. She is an upstanding citizen. With a fortune to her name. It makes no sense.’

  ‘But what can you do, Maman? You are no lawyer. You do not have friends at the Grand Châtelet. Her husband works there, for goodness’ sake. They are probably protecting him.’

  Marie Catherine gazed at Angelina for a long moment. Angelina could almost see the thoughts wheeling behind her dark brown eyes. She seemed to have an idea.

  Finished lunch, Marie Catherine bade Angelina to sit at her desk and cut a new quill. She was to copy down her mother’s dictation. For a moment, Angelina’s hopes rose that Marie Catherine had taken her advice and was going to work on her new story idea, that after luncheon she had been fortified, even if just for an afternoon, to push the Tiquet business from her thoughts.

  ‘There’s still time,’ said Marie Catherine, her voice quickening in excitement. ‘I think I have found an answer. We shall do exactly what the court has done, except in the favour of elevating Nicola Tiquet’s name, rather than tearing it down. I am going to write a pamphlet about her. I’m going to list all her many good works. She is the benefactress of one of the biggest orphanages in Paris. Perhaps the state needs reminding of precisely whom they seek to condemn. She descends from the Carlier publishing fortune! She has a flawless mental character. If no one else will come forward in her defence, it shall have to be me. I know all about her husband’s mistreatment and I’ll bet you she has not been able to have that side of the case heard in the courts. They do not allow representation. That fraudulent dupe of a husband used to lock her in her rooms. He stole money from her! Manhandled her. He tried to drown her, I’ll wager you didn’t know that! This afternoon we’re going to set to work, writing down a strong testimony to speak of her good name. Oh, I should have done this weeks ago.’

  ‘It seems a long bow to draw,’ observed Angelina, resigned. ‘But worth a try, I suppose.’

  Marie Catherine wrung her hands. ‘The woman deserves justice. My Dutch publisher, Alberts, is coming to Paris in a week and I’m going to ask him to print the testimony into a pamphlet. We can circulate it in all the best political and literary salons. We shall collect signatures. And when it’s ready, I shall have it delivered to the magistrates of the Grand Châtelet.’

  Her determination renewed, Marie Catherine called Sophie into the room and had her stoke the fire hot. Angelina opened a fresh notebook, admiring the cleverness of the last part of her mother’s plan: she would anonymously author the document, then have it printed in Amsterdam and shipped back to Paris, eva
ding the Royal Censor.

  Marie Catherine, overtaken by the spirit of seeking justice for her dear friend, fretted and schemed and solved. Soon, she had formulated the structure of the entire pamphlet. She would begin by reminding the city’s residents of Nicola’s high rank, the tragic loss of her parents:

  The lady in question was the daughter of a publisher, named Carlier, who had bequeathed her five hundred thousand livres, and the same to her brother, who was a captain in the Guards. She became an orphan when she was fifteen.

  Perched at Marie Catherine’s desk, Angelina wrote until her fingers cramped, trying to keep up with the furious pace of her mother’s thoughts. The document completed, she made Angelina list every acquaintance they could think of who might put their name forward in support of Madame Tiquet’s good reputation. By mid-afternoon, Marie Catherine was slumped in her chair, exhausted. The pain of her affliction had returned; the joints in her feet and hands filled with a dull throbbing.

  ‘You must rest, Maman,’ advised Angelina. ‘This morning’s news has been a shock.’ Worried, she called in Sophie to remove Marie Catherine’s stockings and walk her over to the bed, helping to ease her under the blankets. Fearing her mother would not be able to rest, she went to the kitchen to make up a sleeping balm and a fresh batch of ointment for her arthritis. She spent an hour soothing away her mother’s pains, gently massaging the reddened skin covering her aching bones, only ceasing when she was sure her breathing had slowed, and she was drifting to sleep.

  Angelina was several hours late for the appointment she had made with Alphonse. They had arranged to meet at a coffeehouse, but in the fluster of Marie Catherine’s pamphlet-writing, she had forgotten all about her plans. Shaken by Nicola Tiquet’s verdict, she decided to dispense with the convention of sending a messenger ahead of her visit as she bundled herself into a coat and shawl. She would expel her nervous mood by travelling on foot, paying a visit in person to Alphonse at his private residence.

  To her immense relief, Alphonse answered her knock on the door.

  ‘Angelina? What are you doing here?’ He glanced around the street, apparently searching for her absent chaperone.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alphonse. I completely forgot about our meeting. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.’

  ‘Not at all. I assumed the Baroness must have needed you for something. We can go now if you’d like, I’ll just fetch my coat —’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Angelina interrupted, ‘I’d rather we stayed here. I’m not sure I can face a crowd.’

  Alphonse hesitated. ‘Of course. If that’s what you prefer. Come in, come in,’ he said, waving her awkwardly into the single room of his apartment.

  His servant must have been out on an errand, for Alphonse helped her to remove her gloves and shawl. ‘I have a pie and a bottle of wine, so we shall be just fine,’ he assured her. Despite his uncertainty, he seemed as eager as she was for company, inviting her to sit on the small chaise longue arranged before the fireplace. A nosegay propped in a vase brightened the low table set between the chairs and, apart from several balls of discarded paper near the grate, the cosy room was meticulously ordered. Alphonse’s chamber was packed with books, its walls hung with paintings by little-known artists. The room caused her to sigh and exclaim with envy. To live entirely for oneself. To make one’s own choice on when to set a meal, when to retire, how late to stay awake. The quarters she occupied at Marie Catherine’s were nothing to boast about, the former chambers of a maid her mother could no longer afford to pay. It was even smaller than her room at Saint Anne’s, though she resisted making comparisons and sounding complaints.

  ‘How is your writing progressing?’ she began, unwilling to bring up the subject of Madame Tiquet’s sentencing. It would be a pleasure to turn her mind to her pet topic instead. Marie Catherine had corresponded with Mademoiselle L’Héritier about Alphonse’s manuscript and she had offered him a reading at her salon, like a real conteur.

  Alphonse searched her eyes, ‘It’s worse than before. I’ve been studying the books you sent, but I’ve only become more stuck. I was up all night with my glass slipper tale, trying to learn it by heart. I practised in front of the mirror, but Angie, I look like a court jester.’

  Angelina smiled reassuringly. She would share her idea. In all honesty, she was secretly glad he had made little progress. ‘If you can forgive me, I’ve been working on your story myself. If you really have nothing – which I do not believe for a moment – perhaps we can present my version. I’ve grown quite fond of it. We could perform it together. I had an idea I could bring along my lute. I used to play at Saint Anne’s, and I’ve been practising again, so it would be no trouble.’

  Alphonse studied her, considering his response. He slapped his knee. ‘That’s a splendid thought, Angie. Yes, let’s do that.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure. Maman’s not fond of editing either. It’s fortunate you both have me. Not that she’s been writing anything new of late.’ She thought about mentioning Nicola Tiquet’s verdict but still could not bring herself to broach the painful subject.

  Alphonse picked up a small knife from the table and removed an orange from the fruit bowl. He began to peel off the skin, the pith forming a spiral. ‘I’m relieved you’ve taken my story under your wing. In truth, I’ve abandoned the idea. I’m working on something else, but it won’t be ready in time for the salon.’

  Unsure how to respond, Angelina glanced at a portrait of a woman in a rounded frame. ‘Who is this? You have such a likeness.’

  ‘My late mother,’ said Alphonse, his expression suddenly so forlorn she regretted the comment.

  Angelina selected an apple from the dish, biting into its flesh. ‘But your fairy tale is fresh, it’s different. That’s a shame. Perhaps you can tell me about your new idea?’

  Alphonse sat back on the chaise, thoughtfully chewing the pieces of orange. There was a tension between them she did not recognise.

  ‘Why have you fallen quiet?’ Angelina addressed his vest, frightened of catching something on his face. Perhaps she had been too bold, overstepping the boundaries of their new friendship. She had arrived at his home unannounced. She needed to slow down, to not be so overeager. Though she could not bear him closing up on her, just when they seemed to be forging a closer bond. Especially about his writing. ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ she said, reaching for her purse. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you.’

  ‘There’s no need to go,’ he said, meeting her gaze. But she could not read his expression.

  ‘Alphonse, I …’ She broke off, becoming aware of what was wrong. Of course. She had visited his home uninvited – he could have no doubt of her feelings for him. She might as well have propositioned him in a written declaration. And now he was trying to protect those feelings. Because of course he did not share them. She had suspected it before, but his awkwardness confirmed it. He was afraid to tell her the truth about himself. He preferred men. She had sometimes wondered if this might be the case, an explanation for his hesitancy, his occasional distance, but she had held out hope that she had been mistaken. Now she knew in her heart it was true. What was she to do with the kindred feeling they shared? She might as well have her suspicions confirmed. If he did not feel comfortable initiating discussion on the topic, she would show him that, although she had been brought up a religious, she had her own mind and formed her own opinions. Alphonse being unlike other men was what had drawn her interest and she could not be free without acknowledging the immense space this difference occupied. ‘You know, my Papa prefers men, too. The family curse that’s been passed onto me. But I see no shame in it.’

  ‘There’s a story about Papa. He was arrested many years ago, imprisoned in the Bastille for several months.’ Why was she running on so? She knew she should stop talking, but she was terrified of silence falling between them. ‘He was staying as a guest of his good friend the Marquis Dubosque at the Luxembourg Palace. Papa had a fight with a lover, I don’t know the details,
but the fellow was spiteful. Two handsome young men invited him to take a walk with them in the gardens. For, you know,’ Angelina looked at Alphonse but could not read his features. ‘For favours. It was his birthday. He thought it was a treat arranged by the Marquis, who was also fond of men.’ Angelina frowned. ‘Oh, don’t be shocked! I only tell you to try and explain myself. I don’t hold your tastes against you. And, so, Papa went with the two young men into the garden and they played a game. Except it was all a ruse. A trick. The pretty young men were police officers, and they had Papa arrested for homosexual misbehaviour.’

  Alphonse frowned. ‘I thought you knew.’ He sighed.

  ‘I did. I realised some time ago. That’s why I’m telling you about my father,’ said Angelina. She touched a finger to her brow and let out a slow breath. ‘I understand, as well as I’m able, being female. But we’re alike in our fundamental natures. We shouldn’t let it come between us. I’m just confused. I’ve no experience with attachments. You must be patient with me. I promise to nurse my wound in private.’

  ‘You’ve got it all muddled up,’ said Alphonse in a soft voice. He placed the knife back on the table and wiped his hands on a cloth. Standing up from the chair he began to untie the knot of his cravat, feeling for its pins. Slowly he unwound the long sheath of fabric. She stared at him, unable to speak, as he shrugged off the brocaded doublet and placed it on the back of the chair. He unbuttoned the matching vest. Dressed in a cream shirt, he untied the cord at his neck and shook his arms, pulling the material over his head. Rather than reveal a bare chest, she saw that he wore a binding of white muslin, like bandages from the surgeon, around his upper chest.