Eliza had begun to cry and she hugged her sister close. It was daylight now and the alarming sounds of earlier had vanished and been replaced by the continuous roar of an enormous crowd. ‘What do you think is happening?’ Eliza whispered, terrified.
‘I have no idea,’ Clementine replied, a reckless idea taking shape in her mind. ‘I think I might go and find out. It would mean leaving you here alone though...’
‘No.’ Her sister shook her head. ‘I want to come with you.’ She scrambled off the bed and patted her loosened hair. ‘I would be much more frightened if I had to stay here on my own,’ she explained as she tied a wide pale blue ribbon around her hair and patted some refreshing, soothing orange flower water behind her ears, on her cheeks and across her bosom.
‘I wish that Phoebe was here instead of London,’ Clementine whispered as she shakily unlocked the door and stepped out into the small vestibule. ‘She would have seen them all off.’
The two girls crept through deserted magnificent state rooms until they came to one with a view across the marble courtyard at the front of the palace. A few other intrepid courtiers had also ventured out and they exchanged silent, strained nods. Everyone knew that the court at Versailles was at an end - it only remained to see just how bloody that end would be.
Clementine pulled aside the rich gold embroidered curtains and they both looked down on the mass of thousands of people, both men and women, who had gathered overnight. They roared and screamed with rage as they waved their crude, makeshift weapons in the air, their eyes fixed on the gold painted balcony of the King’s bedroom, the centre of the enormous château in more ways than one.
As they watched, the windows opened and after a pause, Marie Antoinette stepped out onto the balcony, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders and dressed only in a thin yellow and white striped gauze and silk nightdress and dressing gown. She lifted her chin high as she cooly surveyed the gathered crowd, although God only knew what panicked, terrified thoughts were racing through her mind.
She held her two adorable, fair haired children, Madame Royale and the Dauphin by the hands and they peered fearfully over the top of the metal balcony, their huge blue eyes wide as they stared at the mob, who had broken into a chant of ‘No children! No children! Send them back inside!’
The Queen nodded and released her children, turning briefly to pass them to her sister in law, Madame Élisabeth, who hovered just out of sight on the other side of the door. After this she straightened her shoulders and reluctantly turned to face the crowd.
Clementine and Eliza held their breath and clutched each other’s hands as an uneasy silence fell on the courtyard. They could see a few muskets raised and pointed towards the Queen as she stood with no appearance of fear before them, but no shot was fired. The moments stretched before them like an eternity.
The first shout was like a miracle and took everyone by surprise. ‘Vive la Reine.’ There was a pause before a hundred, then a thousand other voices took up the chant. ‘Vive la Reine. Long live the Queen.’
Marie Antoinette looked visibly moved as she inclined her head graciously then swept her lowest curtsey to the mob, while the onlookers in the windows of the palace clung to each other in relief. General La Fayette stepped onto the balcony beside her and with a smile at the mob, lifted her hand to his lips in a gesture redolent of a long lost chivalry as they erupted into cheers.
‘To Paris! To Paris!’ the crowd shouted now, wild with excitement as the Queen and La Fayette stepped back through the window and vanished from sight.
‘It looks like we are leaving,’ Clementine said with a sigh.
‘Clementine?’ her husband’s voice made her jump before she turned and gratefully fell into his arms. ‘Edmond told me that you were safe.’
‘Is it all over?’ Clementine asked, nestling her face into his chest. He smelled faintly of lavender water, smoke, sweat and gunpowder.
He nodded and kissed the top of her head, hiding his tears in her auburn hair. ‘It is all over.’
Chapter Twenty Four
Clementine would never forget their long, slow journey back to Paris with as many of their belongings as would fit fastened on top of their large travelling berline. Edmond and Eliza travelled with them and the Duc made a point of putting down the carriage’s window blinds so as to spare his sister in law the sight of the severed heads of several guardsmen that the mob gleefully waved in the air as they marched alongside them.
‘Savages,’ Eliza whispered as she closed her eyes and leaned her head queasily against the side of the coach. ‘How can they live like that?’ She’d almost fainted with fear as a crowd of ragged women had surrounded them as they got into their carriage outside the palace and Edmond had had to lift her up and carry her through them as they stared and roughly fingered the soft rose pink velvet of her dress.
‘It’s not their fault,’ Clementine said gently. ‘You forget how fortunate we have been, never to have experienced want, fear, starvation and poverty as they have done.’
‘Still, a bath wouldn’t go amiss,’ Edmond remarked with a fastidious shudder. ‘And don’t tell me that they have more important things to think about than baths. My father was one of the old King Louis’ ministers but still managed to have a bath once a week and change his clothes every day.’
‘There is no comparison,’ Clementine replied angrily.
Edmond shrugged and brought out a snuff box. ‘No, I suppose not. They should consider themselves fortunate really that they do not have any real cares to occupy their time.’ He flicked the box open and offered it to the Duc, who shook his head. ‘I see no need for them to live as they do. If they only worked harder then they would be able to afford bread and there would be no need for all this rioting and nonsense.’
Clementine gaped at him. ‘If they worked harder?’ she exclaimed. ‘And you, of course, have worked extremely hard for everything that you have.’
Eliza opened her eyes briefly. ‘Oh, stop shouting, Clementine,’ she murmured weakly. ‘We all know that you secretly sympathise with the rabble - even if they have made it plain that they would cut your throat sooner than look at you.’
‘They haven’t though,’ Clementine replied. ‘They haven’t laid a finger on me. What does that tell you?’
‘Nothing. It tells me nothing.’ Her sister shook her head and closed her eyes again, signifying that the subject was now closed, while Clementine turned her head away and fulminated silently to herself all the way to Paris.
They were all exhausted by the time they reached the Hôtel de Coulanges on the splendid Place Louis le Grand and even Clementine, who hated the huge, ostentatious mausoleum to past glories that was her husband’s Parisian home, was thankful to get out of the carriage and hurry into the echoing marble floored entrance hall.
‘Tea please!’ Clementine called to the sullen, dark browed housekeeper, Madame Blanchard as they went through to the large salon overlooking the garden at the back of the house. Her sister looked close to fainting again and was being half carried between Edmond and the Duc, her huge stomach straining painfully against the velvet of her dress.
‘I feel so ill and have such strange pains,’ she moaned as they helped her on to one of the elegant yellow silk covered sofas and put cushions behind her back and head. ‘Is the baby coming?’
Clementine anxiously took her hands, noticing how hot and dry they felt. ‘I do not know, Eliza,’ she said with a look at her husband, who had backed away nervously. ‘I will send a page out to fetch your accoucher if that will make you feel more comfortable?’
Her sister nodded, still clinging to her hand and Clementine realised from her expression that she was downplaying the discomfort that she felt. ‘Yes, send for her straight away,’ she said, clutching her stomach.
By the time the fashionable accoucher arrived, Eliza had been moved with difficulty to a bedroom upstairs and was rocking herself on the bed, moaning and crying with pain as Clementine and some maids did their best
to comfort her. ‘I am going to die!’ she screeched as they tried in vain to make her lie down and patted her hot forehead with pieces of cloth doused in refreshing lavender water.
‘You aren’t going to die,’ Clementine replied as calmly as she could, even though she felt mad with panic. ‘The midwife will be here soon and then you will have your baby and all will be well. The only thing you need to worry about is Mama arriving post haste from London as soon as she hears the good news.’
‘You promise?’ Eliza clutched at her swollen stomach, her eyes wide and wild with pain. ‘You won’t leave me will you, Clementine?’
‘I promise that I won’t leave your side,’ her sister replied, kissing her cheek. ‘Now please try to drink this orange flower water, my love. It will make you feel calmer.’
Eliza laughed. ‘It won’t. Nothing on earth could make me feel calm.’ She obediently bent her head and drank from the glass that Clementine held up to her lips though and then allowed them to place her back against the pillows.
Eliza’s labour lasted for several more hours and as she gripped her sister’s hand and wiped her brow, Clementine reflected several times that she had never felt so useless or frightened in all her life. She found herself eyeing the door longingly, thinking of her husband and Edmond who were both waiting in the salon downstairs, drinking coffee and pacing anxiously as they waited for news.
‘How fortunate men are,’ she thought to herself as Eliza rolled from side to side and screamed on the bed as another terrible pain ripped through her body. The pains were coming closer together now, leaving her sister no respite at all. ‘They think that they do their best to shield we women from the unpleasant brutal things in life while blithely ignoring the fact that the most terrible task of all is exclusively a woman’s work.’
Another scream. Louder this time. ‘Oh help me, Clementine,’ Eliza implored, straining with all her might. ‘I cannot do this. God help me, but I can’t.’
‘Her time is coming, Madame la Duchesse,’ the midwife murmured, wiping her hands on a white linen apron. ‘Take her hand for she will need you now more than ever.’
Clementine took a deep breath then pinned a reassuring smile to her face and took her sister’s hand. ‘You’ve been so brave, Eliza,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘All of this pain means that your baby is almost here.’
‘Is it almost over?’ her sister gasped as the maids re-plaited her long fair hair and swiftly changed her into a fresh linen chemise as the old one was soaked with sweat and blood.
Clementine looked across at the midwife, who gave a swift nod. ‘Yes, dearest. It is almost over.’
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes as Eliza pushed and screamed and gasped on the bed until finally her son, small, red and furious slipped into the world. ‘Madame, you have a son,’ the midwife announced as Clementine kissed and hugged her exhausted sister.
‘A son...’ Eliza murmured with a weak smile as the governess quickly washed the baby and wrapped a clean blanket around him. ‘Georges.’ She reached out to touch the baby’s almost impossibly soft cheek, then turned to Clementine. ‘Please tell my husband straight away and bring him to me.’
Clementine kissed her forehead. ‘I will,’ she said, immediately going to the door. She was relieved to be out of the birthing chamber and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, leaning out across the banisters and breathing in deeply as she collected her disordered thoughts before she went downstairs to announce the new arrival.
Chapter Twenty Five
Venetia reached up to trace the familiar but beloved outline of Eugène’s face before she took hold of his head and brought his all too willing lips down to hers. ‘It’s been so long,’ she murmured against his mouth. ‘How could you stay away from me, my love.’
Eugène laughed and kissed her again. ‘It’s been a week, Venetia,’ he said, kissing her eyelashes, nose, chin and forehead. ‘And I thought of you every moment while I was away. The countryside is very dull - are you sure you won’t come with me next time?’
She led him to the pink satin sofa that had been such a focal point of their ardent meetings that it featured in most of his dreams. ‘You know that I would if I could.’
He laughed again. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He kissed her lips. ‘You hate the countryside, remember?’
She sighed and leaned her head against him so that her curled and rose scented crimson hair tickled his nose. ‘Ah yes, it is such a trial having to pretend to enjoy dressing up as a milkmaid and traipsing around farmyards admiring the sheep and chickens. That’s one thing I won’t miss about Versailles.’
‘But you did it so charmingly,’ Eugène reminisced with a fond look, remembering Venetia in a particularly becoming outfit of a loose white muslin dress pulled in at the waist with a wide scarlet watered silk sash and with forget me nots and red roses in her hair.
‘Flatterer.’ She sank into his arms but then sat up again a moment later when they heard the front door close. ‘Heavens! I hope that isn’t Jules.’
Eugène pulled away from her. ‘I thought he didn’t come to see you any more?’ he asked with a frown.
Venetia shook her head. ‘He hasn’t been here for many months now,’ she said. ‘He pays for this apartment though and he is free to see Alexandre whenever he pleases, even if he rarely chooses to do so.’ She thought sadly of their son, currently fast asleep in his nursery at the back of the house with his adoring nurse watching over him. ‘I have surrounded him with as much love as I can,’ she said. ‘I just hope that it is enough.’
The door opened and her footman, Dubois came in with a harassed expression. ‘Madame la Comtesse,’ he said. ‘A Mademoiselle Knowles is here to see you.’
‘Phoebe?’ Venetia looked confused then burst out laughing as Eugène stared at her. ‘Oh, typical Phoebe. The whole country is rioting and in uproar and she decides to come here for a holiday.’
‘Not just a holiday,’ Phoebe said with a grin as she swept into the room. She was dressed in a tight red and white striped silk redingote dress, teamed with a huge black hat and sable muff. ‘I’ve come to do some shopping as well. The shops in London this season are terribly dreary.’
Venetia sprang up and embraced her friend. ‘How good to see you. Are you going to stay with me? Is your mother with you?’
Phoebe sighed and cast her muff onto the sofa before sinking down next to it. ‘Yes, she’s with me. We’re staying a hotel near the Louvre. It’s rather charming really.’ She looked up at Eugène with a smile. ‘Monsieur le Comte, what a pleasure to see you again.’
He bowed then turned to Venetia. ‘I feel decidedly de trop,’ he said with a smile. ‘Shall I leave you to your gossip?’
‘Do you mind, monsieur? Phoebe is such an old friend and we haven’t seen each other for a long time.’ Venetia replied with a smile. ‘I will repay you tomorrow.’
He lightly kissed her lips. ‘Be sure that you do.’
‘So he is still madly in love with you then?’ Phoebe asked with a laugh as the door closed behind the Comte.
‘Yes, he is.’ Venetia smiled a little coyly and went to sit next to Phoebe on the sofa, moving the muff so that it was on her lap and idly stroking it as she spoke. ‘Only now, I am madly in love with him too.’
‘How romantic,’ Phoebe said a little ironically. ‘And where is Jules in all this?’
Venetia stopped smiling and shrugged. ‘Oh, Jules...’ She didn’t even know where he was most of the time but something stopped her saying so. ‘I thought he loved me. How foolish I was back then. I know better now.’
Phoebe looked at her friend in surprise. She had never seen the usually cheerful and laughing Venetia look so downcast before. ‘How do you bear it?’
Venetia shrugged again, hardly able to meet Phoebe’s concerned eyes. ‘I distract myself. What else can I do?’ She didn’t need to explain what form those distractions took: Eugène, cards, shopping and, increasingly, wine.
Phoebe
sighed. ‘I don’t know.’ She squeezed the other girl’s hand before releasing it. ‘Don’t you think you deserve better?’
‘I have Eugène.’ Venetia laughed and shook her head in amusement. ‘He says he will marry me as soon as I am free of Jules. He thinks that it’s only a matter of time before he either gets killed in a duel or drinks himself to death.’
‘How very morbid of him,’ Phoebe said with a roll of her eyes.
Venetia sighed in a languishing manner. ‘It is, I suppose.’
Phoebe took a deep breath. ‘And what of the Garlands?’ She didn’t really want to ask, but knew that her mother would demand gossip when she returned to the hotel that evening. The grand marriages of the two Garland girls had done nothing to abate Mrs Knowles’ contempt for their entire family - if anything it seemed to have increased it.
Venetia shook her head. ‘I don’t really know. I see them so rarely these days.’ She fluttered her small hands in a vague manner. ‘Clementine spends most of her time dancing attendance upon the Queen at the Tuileries and Eliza is completely occupied with her baby.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘How old is the little Comte? It’s six months now isn’t it?’
Venetia sighed. ‘Yes. Of course he has knocked my little Alexandre out of the succession but I find that I don’t care very much. Jules is furious, of course as it puts him another step away from the title as well, but it’s just some big mouldering old houses and a mountain of debts as far as I can tell.’ She pulled a face. ‘That’s not how Eliza sees it of course. She is very keen that everyone should know that she is mother to the heir to a dukedom.’
Phoebe laughed. ‘She’ll turn into her mother if she’s not careful.‘ She helped herself to a pale green iced cake from the dish that stood on the table beside her. ‘Is she happy?’
Before the Storm Page 17