“I thought…” Mademoiselle de Fouet gulped. “It felt like the influenza. I nursed Madame de la Brosse and thought I caught it from her.”
“Did her maid get ill? Anyone else in the household?”
“Non, Monsieur.”
Manu glanced around. Where was Anne, his mother’s maid?
The door opened again. The maid stepped in and stopped short, face paling, gawking at the Mousquetaires.
She scurried to the family group and stood beside Mademoiselle de Fouet, back against the wall, head down. Where was Marie, the girl they had brought from the baron’s house?
“I have notified the Mousquetaires, as you see. There are so many rumors and suspicions of poison lately that I have been working with them far too much. I am sorry, but they will ask all of you some questions tonight.”
Another knock and a footman slipped in. He glanced around, apparently torn between fear and curiosity, then handed a package to the surgeon’s assistant and bowed his way out, hand over his nose.
Aurore slapped her handkerchief to her nose and coughed as the assistant passed her. Manu stepped back as the stench of asafetida rolled past him.
Dom glared at the surgeon. “Do you plan to revive my mother-in-law with that?”
The surgeon shrugged. “I have created a tincture to add to a poisoning victim’s wine. The merde du diable settles the stomach and aids the digestive problems caused by poison. The garlic draws the arsenic out. I would bleed the baronesse, but she is weak. Once she starts to recover, I will remove the poisonous blood.”
“Arsenic?” Manu heard himself croak. “It’s not a mistake?”
The surgeon looked him over, eyebrow raised. “She has all the symptoms. There’s always a possibility her attacker has given her more than one type of poison.”
Chapter Eight
“Hope, it is true, often gives relief,
Rocks for a while our tedious pain,
But what a poor advantage, Phillis,
When nothing remains, and all is gone!”
Catherine supposed that a few years before, when she had been dreaming of marriage, before her betrothal to Laurent, before his death, before the loss of her parents and her dowry, having a vicomte on one knee before her in a palace garden, declaiming poetry, would have made her swoon.
Who is Phillis? she wondered instead, distracted from her worries about the baronesse and the pointed questions of the Mousquetaire the night before.
“You once showed some complaisance,
But less would have sufficed,
You should not take that trouble
To give me nothing but hope.”
Complaisance? She looked away to hide the fact he wasn’t making her blush. She contained a shiver and wished she had brought a shawl. The sky was overcast, and she wondered idly if it might rain.
“If I must wait eternally,
My passion, driven to extremes,
Will fly to death.
Your tender cares cannot prevent this,
Fair Phillis, aye, we’re in despair,
When we must hope forever.”
Ridicule. He wanted to bed her. It wasn’t like he had an enduring interest in her. If she made love ever again, she would wait for the priest to verify she wasn’t going to be left alone and pregnant. She hadn’t fallen pregnant after dallying with her fiancé, but she could have.
She blushed when her thoughts turned to Monsieur Emmanuel. Then she shivered, remembering his shock when the surgeon announced his mother was suffering from poison: from grief-stricken to angry to shocked and back to angry. She hadn’t watched the others for their reactions; she had been worried about him.
The Vicomte d’Oronte waited on one knee, his puppy-eyed expression not masking his smug superiority.
“That was…” Catherine had to think for a moment. “That was quite…interesting.”
D’Oronte scowled.
“These matters, Monsieur, are always delicate, and everyone is fond of being praised for his wit.” She was pretty sure she knew the verse from somewhere. She stalled. “Did you write it yourself?”
“Of course! With some help from my friends, of course. I didn’t want the outpourings of my heart to become incoherent in their, ah, pouring out.”
If only you had been coherent. She stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to think of the poem. “Who is Phillis?” she asked.
“She’s the ideal of a shepherdess. The symbol of innocent, pastoral love.”
Catherine pouted to hide her laugh. Was this really how the nobility wooed their mistresses? “It’s not even a French name.”
“It’s from Greek.”
“Isn’t it an English conceit? Phillis the shepherdess?”
“I…” D’Oronte frowned. “I really don’t know.”
“For some reason, your poem makes me think of the Restoration of Charles II in England. Something about it makes me think of when I was younger.”
She realized this was the first actual conversation she had ever had with d’Oronte. Yet all she wanted was for him to go away so she could go back to the baronesse, who was awake but groggy. Some of her friends were with her, including Madame Philinte, who had appeared with her favorite grandson. He had promptly whisked Catherine off for a walk.
“When you were younger? Well, it must be because of the youthfulness of the verse. The sweet innocence of the shepherdess.”
What was d’Oronte talking about? Oh, yes, his sonnet. “Merci. But it also makes me think of…” Syphilis. She wouldn’t say it out loud. She didn’t think there was a polite way to refer to the Italian Disease.
“What is your reply?” D’Oronte got up and held out a hand for her to rise from the stone bench.
“My reply? Did you ask a question?”
He rolled his eyes and put his hat back on, shading his face in a menacing way. He placed her hand on his arm and began to stroll along the lane of hedges in the vast gardens. “Most of us at court like to be subtle, Mademoiselle.”
Implying she was too stupid to understand subtlety. It was her own fault; she had projected stupidity as part of her invisibility. She was useful to her patronesses’ schemes and plans. She carried notes but did not write them herself. She pretended to agree with her current patroness and do as she was told. Especially with the baronesse this meant not speaking her mind. And if it was stupidity, then she was stupid. And yet, here she was, fed and lodged and clothed, still at court. Her father’s friends had long since given up finding her a husband, as they had said they would when she was first orphaned.
“So you were asking subtly if I was going to make you wait forever, because that would kill you?”
“I…” He pulled a paper from his waistcoat pocket and scanned it quickly. “Yes, I suppose so.”
She looked down again, striving not to laugh. If only she could remember why she knew the sonnet. She had heard it before. Or read a bad-tempered critique of it.
Bad-tempered. Ah. She hesitated. “I am afraid, Monsieur d’Oronte, I am not vivacious and sharp-witted as, say, Célimène.”
His grip on her hand tightened. She was glad they were headed back toward the palace, because she thought she might have to run away from him. “Neither am I one to encourage the affections of many men at once, like Célimène in the play. I have to admit, though, the sonnet does make me think of genius.”
He smiled at her, relieved.
Comic genius. Her hint about Célimène hadn’t quite worked. So much for subtlety. She quickened their pace, walking in silence until they reached the wide lane which led straight from the palace to the Grand Canal. She turned left, back toward people and safety.
She sighed. “It’s a pity you don’t know me better, Monsieur d’Oronte.”
He looked puzzled but forced another smile. “I am trying to remedy that. But your natural demureness has made it difficult. We are talking now, are we not?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” A few steps farther and they would be in view of the nex
t little path in the hedges. She was fairly certain d’Oronte’s friends had followed them down. She had spotted men darting into the side pathways. “But what you do not know about me, Monsieur, is when I do speak, I speak my mind.”
He did not reply.
“How did Molière say it? Ah, yes. ‘A gentleman ought at all times to exercise a great control over that itch for writing which sometimes attacks us.’ ”
D’Oronte clutched her hand until it hurt.
She yanked away. “And, ‘In the frequent anxiety to show their productions, people are frequently exposed to act a very foolish part.’ ”
“One would think you would be flattered, Mademoiselle, if anyone cared to read you poetry at all.” D’Oronte glared, pretense gone.
She really should have been flattered. No one had ever written a verse in her honor. Of course, d’Oronte hadn’t either. He had lifted it word for word from Molière, who wrote it badly so he could mock it. “One would think, Monsieur, you would be more subtle about choosing a poem to read. You might choose a sonnet that was not the object of farce. You would find out if the lady you wished to flatter was familiar with the theatrical works which had been presented in the last few days at court. Le Misanthrope isn’t much loved in court circles, but everyone knows it. Even stupid girls with small dowries.”
She pulled away from him and had taken only a step when he said, “One would think, Mademoiselle, that in light of your guardian’s poisoning, you would seek protection from as many powerful friends as you can.”
She froze. “Are you insinuating I had something to do with the baronesse’s poisoning?”
He smirked again. “Of course not. I am only thinking others might suspect you. You are always in the baronesse’s presence. Surely she has left you some sort of legacy. Who truly wishes to be bound to a lady like that forever?”
She felt the blood running from her head. Fear and anger swirled inside her. “I can only protest my innocence, Monsieur, and have faith the culprit will be found out.”
He grabbed her arm, fingers digging in. “It would be wiser to ask for my protection. The baronesse herself knows justice is not always served when the culprits have powerful friends.”
Anger surged to the fore, and she pulled away from him. “So if I were to lift my skirts, let you do as you wish and give you your dalliance, you would be absolutely sure I would never be arrested as a poisoner.”
His eyes darted away.
“You have a courtesy title, Monsieur. Would your father make the same promise? Would he countenance you marrying a lady accused of being a poisoner? Because I’m not seeking to dally with you or anyone.”
His gaze jerked back to her, and he scowled.
She had known from the start he did not seek to marry her. If she had believed it, she might have tried to like him better. Still, it hurt a little.
“At least your grandmother would never think me a poisoner. She can hardly believe anyone would do anything wrong, and she has always been my friend. Would you truly wish to dally with a poisoner who had escaped justice? Would you ruin an unmarried woman’s reputation if she had both the motive and opportunity to poison you?” She stood up very straight. “I should thank you, Monsieur. Merci.” She curtsied.
He automatically bowed, though he clearly had no idea why.
“You obviously believe I am innocent. No matter your disappointment—I do not wish to be your mistress, I did not appreciate your attempt at poetry, and I am rather less stupid than you thought—you believe I am innocent. You would never invite a poisoner to spend time with you, n’est-ce pas? Tell your friends, who are standing in a cluster behind this hedgerow, you believe me innocent of all charges. You would bet your own life on it.”
D’Oronte was angry and red, but nodded briskly.
She turned toward the hedge. “Good day, Messieurs. I depend on your help, too.”
Then she turned toward the palace and strode away as fast as she could without exciting the notice of passersby. Not that there were many people around, since the clouds were low and dark.
She labored up the enormous marble staircase to the parterre and around the Latone Fountain, thinking if she were a goddess, she would turn people into frogs, too. She glanced up and saw Monsieur Emmanuel, the Comtesse de Bures, and their sister-in-law, Madame de Cantière, the heir’s wife. She felt a lightening in her belly—or maybe a tightening of desire—at the sight of Emmanuel, his strong shoulders silhouetted against the dark gray clouds. She told herself it was a burst of relief at the sight of friendly faces. But they were also the baronesse’s family, so maybe they were here to accuse her. She paused and looked up at them again. They had only just noticed her, and the comtesse waved cheerfully. Emmanuel’s eyes darted all around. He’s looking for trouble, she thought. She had left trouble in the hedges.
The ladies stopped where they were, but Monsieur Emmanuel muttered something and started down toward her. She lifted her skirts and climbed as fast as she could, though she was out of breath and her legs burned.
They met in the middle, and Emmanuel gripped her hand tightly. He bowed and kissed the back of her glove. The fear and anger of the last half hour lifted away. Their eyes caught and she forgot to breathe. She thought of the day before, when she had been miserable, and how different it was to have this strong, awkward man kneeling before her instead of d’Oronte with all his facile charm.
“Mademoiselle de Fouet,” Madame de Bures called from just ten or twelve steps above them. “I was wondering where you were. We stopped by my mother’s rooms, and you were already out. Manu insisted we come looking, but here you are, perfectly healthy. I know my father occupies himself with Maman’s needs and hired someone to watch her food and drink. But if you were poisoned too, even accidentally, I hope he is watching over you. The man my father hired, I mean.”
Catherine and Monsieur Emmanuel were nearly to the top of the staircase, and the other two ladies climbed back up the few steps they had descended.
Madame de Bures went on, her arm laced through her sister-in-law’s. “And poor Marie, the maid? She is so frightened she will be accused, though she only met my Maman a few weeks ago. I suppose she’s been cleaning our father’s country home for a few years already, hasn’t she? Think of the stories she will tell when she gets home. Unless you wish to keep Marie? She seems very fond of one of Manu’s grooms, did you know? But anyway, I don’t know if she’s old enough to leave her family. She says she had never been out of la Brosse, and I felt remiss for not even taking her over to our château-fort. Though, really, I don’t know why we would think to take all the young maids and footmen a day’s ride away just for the joy of it. The footmen do have more opportunities for travel, especially as our father likes Dom to train them to defend the family.”
Catherine was only barely listening as she leaned on Emmanuel’s arm, catching her breath. She breathed in deeply and smelled the scent of horse and the faint perfume he used. She didn’t even know if it was perfume or if he only cleaned himself with pure alcohol. Maybe his servants washed his clothing in some sort of scented soap. She shook her head at her wandering thoughts.
****
Emmanuel’s thoughts were not wandering so much as heading in a single direction.
Mademoiselle de Fouet had looked like a warrior marching up the stairs. Yet there was something vulnerable and frightened about her; she had almost been running. If d’Oronte was the one who had brought her out here, then she was running from him. Manu hadn’t spotted anyone on the parterre at the bottom of the stairs. Had the vicomte tried something inappropriate again?
He wasn’t positive there had been anything inappropriate in the ride the day before, but Manu had wanted to run d’Oronte through anyway. Manu hadn’t gone out to practice fencing that morning, having stayed up late to be questioned by a musketeer captain.
At the door to the palace, they split into two groups of two instead of a long line of four. Somehow, Aurore latched onto Mademoiselle de Fouet, and Manu
held his arm out to Cédric’s wife, Sandrine. They dawdled behind, Manu watching Catherine’s elegant, straight back and hearing her get a quiet word in edgewise every now and then. The two ladies laughed, and he smiled.
Sandrine tugged at his arm. “How are you, Emmanuel?”
His mind bounced around from the accusations of the night before to Mademoiselle de Fouet and d’Oronte and over to his father’s list of brides. He shrugged. “Bien. And you?”
“Cédric is devastated. We all are. He made the baron tell the boys because he was afraid he would cry.”
The upset within the family had begun just after dawn, with two nephews standing over his bed, arguing if they should wake him and then nagging him to tell them what was going on. He sat with them while the baron gathered all the grandchildren. Little Françoise clung to her grandfather’s neck, and the three boys tried to look stoic but were uncharacteristically subdued. Manu sat with them, arms across their narrow backs as they leaned against him, shivering.
Manu stared at her in amazement. They had all been shocked, but Cédric hadn’t looked more than serious, certainly not devastated. And the baron had cried a little anyway.
“We were up very late talking. But he didn’t look half as upset as you and the baron. I wish you—both of you—had someone to talk to.”
Manu’s gaze went to Catherine, but he shook his head. She was closest to his mother and was probably at the top of the list of the accused.
“Talk to your father.”
“What is this about him trying to reconcile with Maman?” Manu blurted out. Other than the shock of poison, his parents’ relationship had been the biggest—or at least strangest—surprise.
Sandrine tightened her grip on his arm. “I had no idea. But it makes sense. We didn’t know why she came all the way to the country, because she doesn’t unless he summons her or there is some scandal in the family. When we all sat down to dinner together, your father was jovial and your mother polite. I could tell they were biting their tongues from time to time, both of them, to keep from saying something awful.”
The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) Page 14