The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘She asked me a month ago, all very hush-hush, if I would act as an ally for Nicola. Don’t you find that queer? It’s as if she sees me as a spineless minion, eager to go along with her every suggestion, simply because of her literary standing.’

  Angelina raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I think the attention you’ve received this evening has gone to your head. Whatever Maman asked of you, do not forget that you are an outsider. You’re acting like everyone else, eager for the next chapter of this drama only so that you might gossip about it. You don’t really care about Nicola. She’s just an entertainment to you. But this is a family matter for me. Do you have any idea how hard Maman has worked to help her case? She’s run herself ragged! Unless you intend to visit in the morning to help wipe away her tears and hold smelling salts under her nose, I suggest you keep your opinions private.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Alphonse, grimacing in feigned amusement. ‘I shall bite my tongue and make no further comment. I do not entirely agree with you, but perhaps you are blinded by the matter. I only have your best interests in mind.’

  ‘As does Marie Catherine,’ contended Angelina.

  ‘I would not be so sure of that, Angie dearest. How long have you been living under her roof? A few months? And where did you reside before then? Who looked after your needs? Certainly, your mother knows how to take care of herself. And her dishonourable friend, of course. But do not fool yourself that she is watching out for yourfuture!’

  ‘Please,’ said Angelina, holding up her hand. ‘Stop talking. You have said enough.’ For a moment her mind was utterly empty of a response, but soon enough she found her tongue: ‘I shall pretend, for our friendship, that I did not hear those comments. I hardly think you are in a position to judge my family. She sent your manuscript to a publisher! How can you be so ungrateful? And what of me? Do not forget that the fairy tale we recited this evening was rewritten by my hand!’

  ‘I have not forgotten any such thing. But you might remember that I did not ask Marie Catherine to send my manuscript to Alberts. In fact, I wish she had not. I would do anything to get it back. And you put yourself forward to rewrite my fairy tale. I could have done it without you, believe me. But you and your mother have constantly pushed your own ideas onto my work. They have nothing to do with what I’m interested in writing about, if you must know. In fact, I might as well tell you now – it’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Angelina, her arms folded across her chest, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’m hoping to write a book about your mother and her relationship with your father. I have no need of her as a patron. So, there you have it. There shall be plenty of fascinating plot for Parisians to read about.’

  ‘Do whatever you wish,’ muttered Angelina, turning to look out of the window. She refused to speak to Alphonse for the remainder of the journey.

  How could it be that only moments earlier, she had been marvelling at how much she adored him? At what a superb pair they made? She had even considered placing her fingers inside the folds of his doublet, reaching over to kiss him with abandon in the open-topped carriage as it tumbled through Paris’s streets. Perhaps he was jealous of her own literary talent? Of her mother’s success? How could he be so insensitive?

  She was not yet ready to share with Alphonse her own deep confusion about her mother’s choices. His harsh words caused her doubts to multiply, infecting her thoughts like a deadly rash, a red welt arising here, a livid pustule beside it. Hastily, she wrapped her doubts in denial. Perhaps it was her religious training, but when she contemplated the fate of Madame Tiquet she felt only pity and horror. Even if Nicola had taken the law into her own hands, conspiring to rid herself of her husband, who was Angelina to pass judgement? She had not been present; she did not know what was concealed in the chambers of Nicola’s heart. And equally, who could blame her mother for helping her friend?

  ‘Shall we say a prayer together?’ asked Angelina, stroking her mother’s hand.

  ‘Certainly not,’ whispered Marie Catherine.

  Around six in the morning, a wailing howl had sounded from the floor below Angelina’s chamber. She had woken with a thumping heart, for a moment not recognising the bulky shapes of her writing desk and clothes bureau. It had taken until the early hours for her to properly fall asleep, every movement and creak inside the apartment startling her back to consciousness; she sat up, perspiring inside the sheet, a fist of dread in her stomach, her myriad fears let loose in a galloping stampede. It was not her finest act, but upon returning home, Angelina had immediately retired to her chamber, nurturing a hope that in the morning Sophie, unable to conceal the knowledge of Madame Tiquet’s execution from her face, would be the one to deliver the news along with Marie Catherine’s breakfast tray.

  On entering Marie Catherine’s bedchamber Angelina had offered to rub ointment into her feet, having missed the previous night’s application, but her mother flinched, claiming she did not want to be soothed. Across the bedcovers lay the morning’s newspaper, torn down the middle of an article announcing new details of the case, suppressed until the final verdict of the magistrates had been made public. It seemed that Claude Tiquet and his relative Monsieur Clément Vilmain had travelled to Versailles to petition the King to grant Nicola a pardon on behalf of her son, Jean Paul. Claude claimed he was ready to forgive his wife; his own life had been spared – might his wife’s sentence be commuted to life imprisonment? The reputation of the Tiquet family must be considered. The King had enquired why Monsieur Tiquet had left his appeal for clemency to such a late stage in the proceedings. Too late, in fact, for Louis had decided to wash his hands of the affair and would not interfere in the court’s ruling.

  Marie Catherine drew her mouth into a bitter grimace. ‘I cannot tell who I’m angrier at, Claude Tiquet or the Church.’

  Angelina studied her mother’s profile as she read, her features tense and drawn. She had seen Marie Catherine through the grief following her secretary’s death, the incessant financial arguments with the Baron, her concern about Theresa’s childlessness and Deidre’s pregnancies, and Marie Catherine had always appeared unflinchingly strong. But it was as if her mother had aged an entire decade overnight. She seemed so very reduced, pulled in on herself.

  Eventually Marie Catherine pushed the newspaper away and sat glaring at the wall in silence as Angelina read. The remainder of the article brought the political aspects of Madame Tiquet’s case into sharp relief. Angelina should not have been at all surprised to learn that the Archbishop had bent the King’s ear, warning that no husband in the city would be able to sleep should Louis respond to the many petitions made in Nicola’s favour. And yet, reading the words in black and white beggared belief. The anonymous author of the article cited an unnamed source from the High Court who claimed the Archbishop had conspired to influence the magistrates, succeeding in gaining their confidence.

  ‘I cannot believe it. They wish to make an example of her to all the wives of Paris,’ said Angelina. ‘What do you make of the claim that the court received many confessions of women who had made attempts on their husbands’ lives?’

  Marie Catherine pressed the back of her hand to her cheek, closing her eyes. She drew in a breath, ‘Hand me that cursed rag!’

  Angelina found the piece of the newspaper relating to spousal homicide and passed it to Marie Catherine.

  ‘It’s simply preposterous!’ her mother spluttered. She began to read aloud: ‘“The volume of such claims has reached epidemic proportions in the City and no husband is safe!” I fear our petition to the Archbishop may have only harmed Nicola’s case.’

  ‘The Archbishop’s disdain for women is no secret in the Church. The nuns at Saint Anne’s often bemoaned it,’ said Angelina.

  ‘Then why did you not speak up when I sought to petition him?’ asked Marie Catherine.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Angelina, shrugging helplessly. ‘Words seem to fail me when I most need them.’

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nbsp; Marie Catherine touched Angelina’s shoulder, flicking her wrist to indicate that she needed to move off the bed. Decisively, she tossed back the bedcovers. Angelina gathered the pieces of the newspaper together and made them into a pile. ‘If you will excuse me, I have an errand to run. I have to send a package to Papa, I didn’t have time yesterday.’

  ‘I hope you don’t intend to deliver it yourself?’ Marie Catherine’s voice trembled, ‘I need you here with me.’

  ‘It will not take long,’ Angelina said reassuringly.

  Her heart thumping wildly, she left Marie Catherine’s chamber, rushing down the staircase and into the kitchen. She removed her medical kit from the cupboard, unlacing the tie and unrolling the leather pouch on the preparation table. What a miserable excuse for a daughter she had become. In the commotion of the past several days, the promise she had made to the Baron to send him the preparation l’Chinese had slipped her mind.

  The directions on the brown bottle were written in such a tiny script that she could barely read them. The preparation was strong; the Baron’s valet would need to dose him carefully. She recalled the fellow’s slow-witted responses and decided she had better write down the instructions for her father to read. In Marie Catherine’s chamber – Sophie was helping her mother with her toilette – she rummaged through the contents of her writing desk for letter paper. She copied out clear directions, adding a note wishing her father well, and then heated a candle to seal it. But there was no wax, and none in the supply cabinet either.

  Sighing, she put on her travelling cape. She would have to fetch more. A porter could run the errand, but she preferred to do it herself. The supply store was not far and she knew the remainder of the day would be passed in her mother’s gloomy chamber writing the letters she dictated so that they might attend Nicola’s execution. As the only tree standing in the field of her mother’s fury, she was preparing to be lashed by strong winds, vulnerable to a fiery lightning strike. A solitary stroll for a few lungfuls of fresh air, the sun making the new leaves of the trees shimmer, would help her to face the storm.

  At the top of the street a procession was taking place, the traffic on Rue du Four halted to allow it passage. A bishop dressed in white and gold vestments walked beneath a canopy embroidered in silver and gold thread; his hands clasped a heavy monstrance, its rays wrought in brilliant gold leaf. Four priests in cassocks surrounded the bishop, supporting the canopy with golden poles. Behind them moved the long tail of the liturgical procession, deacons, monks, a section of nuns and novices, and lastly, the laity.

  She remembered participating in the Corpus Christi parade at Saint Anne’s. It had been one of her favourite feast days, the celebration of the host’s transubstantiation into Christ’s flesh touching her soul with its solemn beauty. The novices were always excited for an excursion into the village, promenading in their white veils and habits along the main street towards the medieval cathedral on the hill. Was it shameful that such fond memories were permanently marred by her lost faith? She paused to watch the passage of believers, her mind crowded with heretical thoughts. Prayer would not bring Henrietta back to life, and neither would prayer stay the violence about to be inflicted on Nicola Tiquet by the kingdom, its entwined arms of Church and State. Receiving the Eucharist would not ease her father’s physical suffering.

  Several stragglers hurried by, rushing to catch up with the parade, and it was as if the last vestiges of faith in everlasting life, in the doctrine of Christ’s forgiveness, slipped from her forever. She felt nothing, not guilt, nor grief. She was simply emptied out.

  She had best fetch the wax quickly and take herself home. The medicine for the Baron, which would garner him measurable, verifiable relief, must be delivered.

  Marie Catherine

  18 June

  Still wearing her nightgown, Marie Catherine opened the door to her chamber, that former place of refuge where she had penned fairy tales and bestselling historical novels. Leaning on her cane, she walked towards her writing table and drew out the chair. She sat down painfully, tucking herself in, lit a fresh candle and drew in a breath. The surface was littered with the remnants of the letters and envelopes received in her campaign to have Nicola freed. If she were to work again on her writing, she would need to sort through this debris, filing it away, clearing a physical space so that she might again think. Wearily, she began to gather the letters together into a pile.

  She did not need to read their contents to feel the cold accusations in their pages. It would be best to get rid of them for good, she decided. The room was chilly. She rubbed her arms and glanced at the fire. There were still a few smouldering coals in the grate. That was what she would do: rekindle the day’s fire with the letters as fuel.

  Yes, she would incinerate the reminders of her Paris acquaintances’ unwillingness to fight for a woman who had been the faithful supporter – even if it were only in food and sparkling drinks – of their beloved literary gatherings.

  Taking herself to the fireplace, the bundle tucked under her arm, she crouched before the grate. As the flames began to lick and grow, she recalled that afternoon of her salon, many weeks ago, when Nicola had sought her advice. She had visited a fortune teller who had left her feeling distressed and desperate. And Marie Catherine had every sympathy for a woman put to shame by her husband. But she feared her suggestion had been misunderstood. Taken too far. What had she said to Nicola? She searched her memory. She had told her to look to the future, echoing the soothsayer’s prediction, to pretend that Monsieur was invisible, perhaps. She could not recall her precise words. To live as if he could not make trouble for her anymore. Nicola had certainly seized an opportunity for herself in resuming her dalliance with Gilbert Montgeorge. Marie Catherine supposed that, had the plan not fallen apart, it would have made Nicola happier – for a time, at least. But the valet had that altercation with Monsieur Tiquet and the idea of Nicola freeing herself from her miserable marriage, even if only in thought, seemed hopelessly naive. She would never know if the plot to attack Monsieur Tiquet had been the valet’s invention or if Nicola had also been involved. She did not wish to think about it. Whatever the case, and only those two knew the truth, Marie Catherine had played some role and now carried a bundle of guilt. Why had she told Nicola she had the power to change the circumstances of her life? When had such an outcome been possible for a woman of their rank? It had never been her intention to suggest Nicola dispose of her husband. Or had it? Nicola was one of the few people in Paris who knew the full story of Marie Catherine’s marriage. She had confessed her own crimes one evening after they had taken too much brandy. Nicola had been in an horrific fight with Claude, leaving bruises on her neck and scratches on her wrists, and Marie Catherine had attempted to comfort her with the tale of her own struggles, wanting to make her feel less wretched and alone. Perhaps she also wished to share a secret that was becoming difficult to contain. Had this knowledge hung in the shadows of her friendship with Nicola, awaiting the perfect hour to rear up and strike? She should have known better; she should have kept her own counsel.

  A knock sounded on the door of the chamber and she glanced up, fingers sooty from the fire. ‘Come in,’ she called.

  Angelina rushed over to her. She reached out her hand, taking Marie Catherine by the elbow and helping her to stand. ‘What are you doing down there?’

  Marie Catherine explained that she was burning the letters she had been sent from her Parisian connections, who had mostly declined to help Nicola. She had decided to clear the air. How could she be expected to resume writing when they cluttered up her desk, a constant reminder?

  ‘I think I have a way we can help Nicola,’ said Angelina.

  Marie Catherine shook her head wearily. She gave her daughter a thin smile. ‘That time has passed, daughter.’

  Angelina shook her head vigorously. A piece of her long brown hair had fallen out of her headwrap. ‘Listen to me a moment, I shall explain everything,’ she said. ‘You may find it rat
her shocking, I know it, but if you truly love Nicola, then you’ll take the chance.’

  Their messenger had been sent to the Baron’s residence and would not be back for an hour. Marie Catherine must travel now, in person, to visit with Father Étienne to discuss their plan. When asked why she would not make the journey herself, Angelina expressed frustration. It was Marie Catherine who held sway with the priest, not Angelina. The idea had come to her on her walk: she had not seen Father Étienne in the Corpus Christi parade, so it was likely he was readying himself to attend Nicola at the Grand Châtelet the following day. Angelina had too much else to prepare, but she might take Lise to assist her – Angelina’s maid had already expressed her willingness to help. Could she not see it was the only way?

  Marie Catherine had the carriage stop at the back entrance to the cathedral, leaning heavily on Lise and one of the footmen to make the short journey to the seat beneath the elm trees. She removed her gloves and rubbed her fingers. The day was warming up; in the noon sun, the cemetery seemed almost like a garden, Father Étienne’s rosebushes weighted with rich, velvety blooms. Were her joints not seized and crippled, she would have stooped before the gravestones to deliver kisses to her children’s names.

  Lise was taking her time fetching the priest, so Marie Catherine had the opportunity to fully examine the implications of Angelina’s plot, which she had agreed to rather impulsively. It provided an object about which her mind’s tremulous deliberations might be organised, much in the manner that a physician’s emetic redistributed the pains from her toes to her bowels. If only she could get up and pace about. Instead she sat rooted to the bench, unable to move. A crawling sensation on her sensitive fingers was a trail of ants, unaware of her intrusion, collectively treating her as a log or branch fallen across their path. Soon she was caught up imagining her feet and legs, her hands and arms, slowly transforming into wood and bark; she was no more a woman waiting to take part in an urgent conversation, but a part of the garden, the claws of a jay in her hair, its bill digging into her scalp as it fussed about weaving sticks to make its nest.