by Jamie Carie
“Wait.” Robespierre paused. “I remember now. You are the apothecary. You are no physician.”
Jasper kept his focus on his food, and his tone casual. If Robespierre only remembered him as an apothecary, he just might get through this unscathed. It was hard to imagine the many inquisitions the man had been involved in. He might not remember. “The midwife sent for me. Your niece suffered some excessive bleeding. I have herbal remedies for such things, and I often assist midwives and physicians. Many people think of me as both an apothecary and a physician.”
Robespierre looked unconvinced, but picked up his fork and began eating again.
Jasper took an inward sigh of relief, digging into his own plate of food.
The meal progressed in silence until Robespierre stood, threw his cloth on the table, and nodded once to Jasper. “I shall leave you now, citizen. I have a new nephew to meet.” He walked a few steps and then turned and looked back at Jasper. “I hope Scarlett remembers a physician assisting her.” His lips stretched across his teeth again, the smile making him look even more ghoulish. “I know where you live.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jasper fled, cursing his hungry stomach for getting him into such trouble. What had he been thinking to stay at that house one second longer than necessary?
Once on the busy street he felt a bit safer but couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following him. Every time he looked behind him, he saw the same man in the distance—or at least, he thought he did.
Thinking quickly, he decided to visit his neighbor, Rene Basset, an old physician who long ago retired from his profession. He banged on the door, clutching the lapels of his waistcoat, pretending to appear every inch a man with no cares. When there was no immediate answer he banged again, looking behind his shoulder down the narrow street.
A short, stout man turned down the street, looking in a hurry and winded. It was the same man Jasper had seen since Robespierre’s lodgings! He was being followed!
Jasper reached for the latch and rushed into the entryway. It wouldn’t do to look like he was knocking at his own front door.
Voices sounded from the salon. Marguerite Basset was some thirty years younger than her husband, his third wife, and, as Rene had admitted to Jasper over a bottle of burgundy, a challenge to his aging nervous system. Jasper had laughed heartily at that and hinted at a man’s folly when a beautiful woman was involved.
A folly that was making itself known, if the heated argument he was hearing was any proof. That explained why no one had heard the door.
He cleared his throat and called out, but not before he heard the words, “But Rene. It is Madame Récamier! We must attend! I cannot disappoint her!”
A sudden noise of people moving caught Jasper’s ears. His cheeks burned as he fumbled with his hat. Rene came from the room. “Jasper! Has something happened?”
There could be no other explanation for him barging in, and Jasper decided to nod. His shortness of breath was real as he reached out to grasp the man’s hand. “Pardon my abrupt entry, my friend. I knocked, but when no one came to the door, I let myself in. I believe I am being followed and didn’t want to go home just yet.”
Rene looked distressed. “Come in. What has happened?”
Jasper followed Rene into the salon where Marguerite sat with carefully arranged skirts and a pleasant if false smile upon her pink lips.
“Please forgive my intrusion, madame. No one heard my knock and I was in something of a tight spot on the stoop.” He allowed the drama of the scene into his voice as he stared at the carpet near the young woman’s pretty feet. “I saw Robespierre today, and I believe he was having me followed.”
“Oh, my! Do sit down and have some sherry!” The blond woman leapt up to pour for them, bringing him a crystal glass from her own elegantly turned hand. “Robespierre? I have not seen him in an age, so busy he is with our dear cause.” Scorn dripped from her tone, but Jasper knew it wasn’t directed at him. Robespierre had dug his own grave and climbed inside, waiting for the people who had at first backed him to decide he was going mad with this new power he held. Marguerite circulated with many who secretly discussed the political upheaval of their day, and Jasper would not be one to underestimate her.
“Pray forgive me again, madame, but did I hear you mention Madame Récamier? Such grace! Such beauty! It would be a distinct pleasure to meet the woman some day.” He sighed as if he would never get the chance.
Marguerite’s smile finally reached her eyes as she looked at Jasper, his fumbling entry forgiven, and then up at her husband with a challenge in her eyes. “You see, Rene? Not everyone is as disinclined toward the pleasures of Madame Récamier’s salon.” She turned her flashing eyes to impale Jasper, causing him to understand, in that moment, why his dear friend had lost his heart to such a one. It would be hard to resist any request from that heart-shaped, upturned face.
“I have been invited to her salon this Saturday. Jasper, dear, I am sure that you of all people realize the great honor. Please—” she tilted her round cheek toward a shoulder, her lips curving up at him in such a way that made his breath catch in his throat despite himself—“wouldn’t you come with us? Why, I do believe Rene would think it great fun if only you would come too.”
Jasper looked down, all meek compliance. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. “Of course, madame. Anything to smooth a good friend’s time.” He allowed his glance to dart toward that friend and saw resignation in his eyes—and a touch of humor.
“But Jasper will need to bring a woman too. To make the party even, you see.”
The two men locked gazes, both agreeing they’d been had by the other.
An idea dawned, sending the first real excitement about such an excursion in years coursing through Jasper. “I know just the woman.” He laughed at the shocked expression in his friend’s eyes. “And she has a lovely daughter looking to enter Parisian society. Do you think Madame Récamier would mind?”
“I’ll send her a note in the morning to ask, but her salon is always a crush. I doubt she will mind.” Marguerite pressed her lips together in a pretty pout. “Why, Jasper, why haven’t you told us you were getting out of that musty smelling laboratory and going about in society? Who are these new acquaintances?”
Jasper shook his head. “Not so, my dear woman. I was called upon by Suzanne Bonham, recently arrived from Carcassonne with her two daughters. The eldest daughter, Scarlett, just delivered a healthy babe and needed my assistance.”
Marguerite’s eyes widened. The woman was terrified of pregnancy. He knew this because she came to his shop once to ask if he knew of any remedy to keep her from becoming pregnant. “How is she?”
Jasper waved a hand, “She’s fine. A widow of the nephew of Robespierre. They are all three lovely women. Her younger sister, Stacia, is, I believe, husband hunting.”
Marguerite clasped her hands together in joy. “Oh, how exciting! I shall hint as much to Madame Récamier. She is a veritable matchmaker!”
After another half an hour of catching up, Jasper rose from the settee and shook his friend’s hand warmly in his. “Thank you for allowing me such an intrusion. These days—” he shrugged and knew the disquiet in his old friend’s eyes was reflected in his own—“we hardly know what will come next.”
As he left the room he thought about how thankful he was for old friends. The Révolution was nothing anyone of his generation had expected. Like all things young and impetuous, it had started like a fire, born from great need from the cold knowledge of little food and fire. But this fire spread throughout France with little thought for who or what it destroyed in its roaring path toward so-called freedom. The people no longer knew whether to quench it out or let it burn on. They could only stand back from the intense blaze and hope they survived long enough to know the charred remains of a country.
No king. No queen.
No government they could understand.
They only wanted one thing: enough bread to fill their childr
en’s stomachs.
JASPER WALKED THE short distance back home, looking over his shoulder, thankful there was no sign of the man who had been following him. He let himself into his quiet house, immediately looking for writing instruments to make out an invitation for Suzanne. Finding paper in his desk, he smoothed out the sheet and stared at it. The quill was old and had to be sharpened twice before it was acceptable for such a task.
A few minutes later, Jasper blinked, staring at the small, compact handwriting of his note. Would she agree to accompany him to Madame Récamier’s famous salon? Oh, he hoped so! He sent the note off, hiring a lad of about ten to deliver it, and then took a turn, and then another and another, about his sitting room. He sat down and pondered. How best to start the search for Émilie? The people who attended Madame Récamier’s events were well connected and informed. Possibly he could find some help there. The only problem would be knowing whom he could and could not trust.
This would not be easy.
The next hour seemed unending as he busied himself in the laboratory, trying to distract his thoughts. That not working, he eventually turned to cleaning the house—a task he didn’t remember ever giving him much satisfaction.
Finally a knock sounded at the door. He opened it, anticipation mounting in his chest. Ah, finally! The messenger boy. The lad tipped his hat and held out the folded paper. Jasper offered a few coins and the boy grasped them and ran off down the street. Jasper didn’t watch his flying feet. He hurriedly shut the door instead, settled his spectacles over his eyes at the correct angle, and shook open the note.
My dearest Jasper,
Stacia and I would be honored to attend Madame Récamier’s salon tomorrow at one o’clock. You are as a knight in shining armor, come to rescue us and lead us in these treacherous times. I shall persuade Stacia to put upon herself a meek and sweet-natured mien (if possible, dear sir) in the effort of gaining her a husband. Why is it that we women have to pretend to be something we are not to snare a husband, I wonder? It seems so unfair to the men in question. Why, you all must be shocked when, after the service, we prove ourselves with opinions and something of a brain. I have heard though, that Madame Récamier is no fool. I am greatly looking forward to meeting a lady made with such bold opinions and spirit.
As you said in your letter, it would be foolish to see you again here at the Duplays’. Though I despair that you cannot visit us, I know that sending letters and secret rendezvous are our only recourse. Let us meet at the marketplace as you said, so that we might carry on together to the esteemed lady’s salon.
You are in my thoughts,
Suzanne Bonham
For the first time in his life, Jasper’s mouth went dry. A knight? He’d never considered himself of such sturdy ilk. He was a scholar, an aging one at that, bent over some experiment or recipe. He wasn’t the type to notice much beyond what lay directly in front of him. He could feel the advancing years in his bones each morning. He could hear the creaking in his back as he bent, feel the tension in his neck after hours of having his arms extended to pour and mix and fuel the fire. He didn’t deserve to find love at this time in his life . . . not when life everywhere hung in the balance on the next accusation.
But he smoothed the letter against his chest with his bony hands, smoothing and smoothing it, feeling her close to his heart. He chuckled at himself. What foolishness! And yet he couldn’t help the lightness in his steps as he finished straightening the room, seeing it for the first time as a woman might . . . as Suzanne must have seen it when she was here. His eyes grew wide.
“Have mercy!”
SUZANNE BRISTLED WITH energy as she stared into the gilt-framed mirror above the washstand in her bedchamber. She patted her chest, seeing that her bosoms were nicely but modestly displayed for a woman her age. Her heart beat against her hand as it rested there. She shook her head at herself, watching the fat curls bounce against her shoulders. Not too much gray yet. Not very much at all. She turned and picked up her hat, a lovely creation that Scarlett had made from the odds and ends of other hats and adornments the three of them collectively owned. Scarlett truly had a flare for piecing something elegant out of outdated fashions. Suzanne sighed. Scarlett had such potential. What was the girl going to do now?
That thought scattered away as she set the new creation on her head, turning her chin this way and that. It was pale pink, round brimmed with a little height, only shorter than a man’s would be. From its brim a froth of tiny white flowers and a large white feather cascaded nearly to her right shoulder. Her dress was white, a gentle pattern of white embroidery along the length of the skirt with flowing lace sleeves at her elbows. Her overcoat was dark red, almost black and shining silk. She looked into the mirror and smiled a smile that she hadn’t worn in a long time. At this moment, she didn’t feel a mother, nor a widow, nor an aging woman. At this moment, she felt as happy and silly as a young woman. There was a wide pink bow beneath her chin that covered her plump flaws quite well. Her white collar rose from behind her neck, giving her height that she didn’t really have. She looked down and felt a moment’s glee despite herself. On her feet were pointed-toed, dark red slippers. They made her feet look so small and narrow! She couldn’t help her chuckle.
She smoothed down her dress, feeling the underskirt rustle against her thighs, a rustle of memories washing over her. It had been so long since she’d felt this way.
She looked back into the glass, sure in the knowledge of what had gone before and excited for what might yet come. Then she thought of Jasper, and the woman staring back at her fairly glowed with happiness. Like the girl she felt, she clapped a hand over her mouth as a laugh escaped her throat.
Maybe it wasn’t too late for love after all.
STACIA MET HER mother in the hall.
“Ma Mère! You look wonderful!”
Suzanne grasped her youngest to her in an embrace. “Merci, my dear. And you look like the most beautiful maiden in Paris. Are you anxious to be going to such a famous salon?”
Stacia was dressed in the height of fashion, in a high-waisted gown of white muslin with black rickrack around the collar, waist, and hem. Her bonnet was white and voluptuous in its ruffles and lace, leaving plenty of room for her wispy fringe to fall, dark and shining, against her forehead. She wore her hair partly up and partly down, with ringlets of russet brown framing her cheeks and forehead and hanging down around her shoulders. She brandished an unopened umbrella with one hand and grasped her mother’s wrist. “We must hurry! We can’t be late!”
Suzanne looked absently at the hallway pendulum clock. “Let us make haste. Have you said good-bye to Scarlett?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Now let us go.”
They arrived by a hired carriage at the marketplace, where they tumbled out in a froth of skirts. Once there, they scanned the area for Jasper. Suzanne spotted him first. “There he is.” They stared in astonishment as they saw the effort he had put into his dress. Black trousers, a white shirt, cravat and waistcoat, trimmed in green and a long green tailcoat. Upon his gray head sat a fine tri-cornered black hat.
Suzanne quickly grasped Stacia’s arm and set the tone. Chin up, shoulders back, they walked with all appearance of grace and stateliness toward him. Suzanne reached out to grasp his hands. “Jasper. Are we not late? I do hope we are not late.”
Jasper shook his head at them, making Stacia stare at the bald spot on the top of his head as he removed his hat.
“Not at all. You are a vision, my dear.” He seemed to have forgotten Stacia was there, for he didn’t comment on her appearance at all. “Come, I have a carriage waiting.”
Stacia looked quickly down, commanding herself that the corners of her mouth didn’t rise. The man only had eyes for her mother.
THE CARRIAGE GLIDED over the cobblestone road, making Stacia think of a ride through the clouds. It stopped abruptly at a tall, brick building on the city’s fashionable side of town. As they stepped down from the carriage, Stacia wondered if the v
isit would go as smoothly as the ride.
A man in Révolutionary dress met them at the door, complete with red stocking cap and one red and white and blue circular cockade attached to his lapel. He wore a red shirt, white pantaloons, and a long, blue coat that touched the white turned-over tops of his dark blue boots. Stacia pressed her lips together as he swept them inside with the words, “Welcome to the salon of the Révolution.”
Her mother gave Stacia a worried glance and then plunged into the dimly lit entryway. Her mother leaned close to whisper in Stacia’s ear. “It will probably be best to just look pretty and not say too much.”
Stacia rolled her eyes. Yes, as long as they don’t rile me.
As they entered the salon they saw a crowd of about fifteen, most of them dressed in the colors of the new government, though the women had far more freedom in their choice of dress. Jasper grasped Suzanne’s arm in his as if he wouldn’t soon let go and led her about the room, making the introductions to his neighbors, Rene and Marguerite Basset. They, in turn, introduced the three of them to Madame Récamier.
She was a lovely, younger woman, her eyes twinkling with intelligence and mischief as she hugged Stacia’s mother. She kissed Stacia on the cheek and whispered, “Oh good, another pretty bird in the room to distract them.” Her effort was friendly as she waved them to the empty chairs next to her.
A man sat down next to Stacia, stretched a large, muscular leg displayed in his tight breeches and stockings out so that his foot nearly touched hers. Stacia slowly sat further back into her chair and moved her feet away.
“Citizen Bonham,” the man thundered. “You are new to Paris, yes? I know I would remember you if I had seen you before.”
Stacia blushed. Why didn’t the silly man quiet his voice? He was gaining the attention of all in the room. She inclined her head and softened her voice to a near whisper. “We have come from Carcassonne.”