Before the Storm

by Melanie Clegg

  Phoebe looked at her. ‘Are you going back to London?’ she asked. ‘I can get Lucien to arrange the papers for you...’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Clementine wearily interrupted. ‘I’ve only just left. It wasn’t planned and now I don’t know what to do next.’

  ‘Wine,’ said Phoebe as she steered her into the white, blue and red papered salon, which smelled comfortingly of lilies, burnt toast and Phoebe’s expensive musky scent. ‘Wine and a bath then bed. Everything will seem better in the morning.’

  ‘Will it?’ Clementine asked with the ghost of a smile.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  It took a week for the bruising on Clementine’s face to go down and she spent the long sultry days mooching around Phoebe and Lucien’s untidy, sunlight filled apartment, dozing on her bed in their small spare bedroom, longingly watching people strolling up and down the busy street below and listening to Lucien’s friends when they came around to talk about current affairs over several bottles of wine and silver bowls full of oysters sent up from a shop downstairs.

  At first the more terrifying revolutionaries didn’t know what to make of Clementine as she sat quietly beside Phoebe, her face discreetly turned away to hide the bruises that even Barbe’s skilful applications of rice powder and paint couldn’t disguise. That she had clearly been roughly treated naturally aroused the indignant sympathy of these radical gentlemen, most of whom had been lawyers, doctors or journalists before the Revolution had come and swept their old lives away, but they were never quite able to forget that once upon a time she had been a duchesse and a lady in waiting to the Queen.

  ‘What is she really like?’ Danton had asked once, pulling his chair closer to Clementine’s and fixing her with his small blue eyes.

  She was startled. ‘The Queen?’ He nodded. ‘She’s just a woman like any other.’ Danton looked disappointed and she frowned, thinking about Marie Antoinette as she had last seen her just a few weeks earlier - harassed, exhausted and tearful yet still proud as she gathered her children close to her pale yellow skirts as outside the mob screamed and fired guns into the air. ‘She has unbelievable courage,’ Clementine said. ‘She loves the King and her children more than anything on earth and would, I believe, die to protect them.’

  Danton nodded, satisfied. ‘She is a very great woman,’ he murmured before sighing. ‘It’s a pity.’

  ‘I swear that he’d save her if he could,’ Phoebe whispered to her a few days later when Clementine had finally felt able to go outside and they’d gone together in a hired carriage to the Jardins du Luxembourg for a gentle stroll in the sunshine. ‘Lucien says that Danton is getting more lily livered by the day.’

  Clementine couldn’t think of anyone who seemed less lily livered than Georges Danton but bowed her head to what she presumed was Lucien’s superior knowledge of his friend. ‘Is he a secret royalist then?’ she asked as they turned together down one of the paths and went to stand at a balustrade that overlooked the palace and its terrace.

  Phoebe shook her head, her dark ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. ‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s not fond of the King, at any rate, but the Queen...’ She grinned. ‘I’m sure Her Majesty would be extremely gratified to learn that she still has the power to melt men’s hearts.’

  ‘Even those of her enemies.’ Clementine unfurled her pink silk parasol and looked quizzically across the terrace at the lovely Italian styled palace, which in her opinion was far more beautiful than Versailles.

  ‘Especially those hearts,’ Phoebe replied with a laugh. ‘Much good may it do her.’

  Clementine looked at her friend. ‘You think something is going to happen?’ she asked.

  Phoebe shook her head again. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Lucien says they intend to bring the King to trial and maybe the Queen too, but can they really do that?’

  Clementine shivered, remembering the cold marble tomb of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots and Sidonie gently saying: ‘Marriage is not always a happy fate for a woman.’ She hoped that it would not prove so for Marie Antoinette.

  ‘Oh God, we’d best change the subject,’ Phoebe muttered. ‘Eliza is here.’

  Startled, Clementine looked up to see her sister advancing towards them along the dusty path, exquisitely dressed as always in pale blue and white striped silk with a gorgeous beribboned straw hat perched on her carefully arranged fair hair. She didn’t look very pleased to see Clementine and barely accorded Phoebe with a civil nod as she moved back to discreetly allow the sisters to talk.

  ‘So you haven’t gone home then?’ Eliza said without preamble. ‘I heard that you ran away from your house barefoot in the middle of the night.’

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ Clementine murmured, hiding a smile behind her hand. She might have known that the tale of her leaving the Duc would be embellished beyond recognition in the gossipy aristocratic circles that her sister frequented. Most had emigrated over the years since 1789 but a few remained - bored, resentful and full of spite.

  ‘No?’ Eliza looked furious and also a little humiliated. Clearly she had been taking the gossip about Clementine personally and had perhaps even received a few snubs and pitying looks on her account. ‘So what really happened?’ She didn’t look in the least bit sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ Clementine said in a low voice.

  Eliza rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the trouble with you. Clementine,’ she said, almost snarling. ‘You never want to discuss anything of importance.’ She took a step closer to her sister and took hold of her arm. ‘You must abandon this foolishness and go home at once,’ she said. ‘You aren’t a child any more and Edmond and I agree that it’s about time you grew up and considered how your selfishness impacts on other people.’

  Clementine stared at her. ‘My selfishness?’ she exclaimed. ‘He hit me, Eliza!’

  Her sister had the grace to look discomforted for just a few seconds before she recovered herself. ‘That is very unfortunate, to be sure but your duty, Clementine...’ She sighed and tried again as her younger sister looked increasingly mulish. ‘Your duty is to remain at your husband’s side no matter what happens between you.’

  ‘That is no longer possible,’ Clementine whispered. ‘Surely you must understand why.’

  ‘No, I must confess that I don’t understand,’ Eliza said. ‘It would never occur to me to leave my husband, no matter how he treated me.’

  ‘Clearly.’ Clementine turned away in resignation, recognising that nothing she said would change her sister’s mind.

  ‘So what do you intend to do now?’ Eliza persisted. ‘You can forget about going back to London. Mama will be furious when she finds out what has happened and it’s only a matter of time before the princes learn of it.’ She was thinking about the King’s two younger brothers who had taken up residence in England. ‘They could make life very uncomfortable for you.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about what to do,’ Clementine lied. In fact she had thought about very little else. Naturally her first thought had been to return to England but then the old familiar longing to travel and see more of the world had swept over her and she had found herself poring over Lucien’s map books, tracing routes between Paris and Florence and Constantinople with her finger as she daydreamed about spice markets, beautiful palaces, sunshine and exotic flowers.

  ‘I suggest that you sit down and have a good long think about the few options that are open to you,’ Eliza recommended coldly. ‘Then perhaps you might come to your senses and stop being so childish. I only pray that you do so while he is still of a mind to take you back.’ She turned away. ‘I will leave you now, but if you ever require my services to speak to your husband on your behalf...’

  ‘I can assure you that I have no need for your assistance,’ Clementine replied quietly.

  ‘Has he written to you?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Just once,’ Clementine replied. A brief note had arrived at Phoebe’s apartment th
e morning after her departure, accompanying three trunks full of her clothes, all of her jewels and a casket filled with several thousand pounds worth of English banknotes. ‘Let me know when you require the rest of your things and I will have them sent on to you immediately. I will be making arrangements with your father to repay your dowry in full.’ It was a sad end to her marriage but she knew that this was Charles’ way of apologising, of letting her go.

  After Eliza had indignantly stomped away back down the path, Phoebe and Clementine sat down together on a marble bench and stared at each other in wide eyed horror before dissolving into relieved laughter. ‘You don’t agree with her, do you?’ Clementine asked eventually.

  Phoebe vigorously shook her head. ‘I can promise you that I absolutely do not,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, Clementine, but has Eliza always been so obsessed with rank and duty?’

  ‘You know that she has,’ the other girl replied with a shrug. ‘When we were small children, it was always Eliza who had to marry the prince in our games. I’m amazed that she settled for a mere Comte.’

  ‘He’ll be a Duc one day,’ Phoebe pointed out. ‘It must really annoy her that you got there first.’

  Clementine considered this for a moment then nodded. ‘I think that it must do,’ she agreed. ‘The fact that I don’t properly appreciate what she sees as my extreme good fortune must just make her all the more furious.’

  Phoebe grinned. ‘I half expected her to click her fingers to summon a gang of burly footmen to bundle you into a carriage and take you back to Charles.’

  Clementine laughed. ‘So did I.’

  They walked on through the palace’s lovely gardens, which as always were full of people all enjoying the sunshine, leafy promenades and beautifully arranged flower beds. The air buzzed with laughter and conversation and Clementine felt a pang of longing when they went past first a young girl in a pink and white flounced bonnet, deep in serious conversation with an older woman who, judging by her plain dress, was her governess and then a young courting couple, who had eyes only for each other.

  ‘Oh.’ Phoebe had come to a full stop in the middle of the path and then clumsily tried to turn around, pulling Clementine with her. ‘Perhaps we should go this way,’ she mumbled.

  It was too late though as Clementine had already spotted the tall young man in a green coat who stood with his back turned towards them, appreciating a view down a long avenue towards the palace. She couldn’t see his face but would have recognised him anywhere. ‘Antoine?’

  At the sound of her voice he turned and looked straight at her. ‘You.’ A few seconds later he was standing in front of her, taking her hand in his and looking down into her face as she blushed, unable to tear her eyes away from him. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said quickly, ‘but Mademoiselle Roche said that you didn’t want to see any one.’

  Clementine nodded. ‘I was too ashamed,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t want anyone to see me.’ She closed her eyes as he tenderly stroked her curled hair away from her face and then leaned over to gently kiss the corner of her eye, which was still slightly bruised beneath her face powder.

  ‘I want to kill him,’ he whispered and she was startled to realise that there were tears in his eyes. ‘How could he do this to you? You aren’t going to go back to him are you? Promise me that you won’t.’

  Clementine smiled. ‘I promise,’ she said.

  ‘I thought about you every single day while I was away,’ he said suddenly and almost despairingly. ‘I thought that I was going to take leave of my senses when my sister’s letter about your wedding arrived. I cursed myself for not having the courage to tell you how I felt before I left France.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I told myself that you were too young to be a wife.’

  She shook her head. ‘I wish that you had said something,’ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I have always loved you, Antoine and always will.’

  ‘Always.’ He took hold of her shoulders and stared almost hungrily down into her face, which she turned happily up towards him. ‘And to think that we have never so much as kissed,’ he wondered as his hands moved up to her face. He looked ruefully across at Phoebe, who was looking not a little embarrassed and doing her best to maintain a discreet distance. ‘If I kissed you now then I know that I would never be able to stop.’

  ‘Then don’t stop,’ Clementine whispered as his lips met hers.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  ’It has come to the attention of your Devoted editor, that the Lovely Young Duchess of C--------, formerly Miss C--------- G------ of London, has left her Marital Home in Paris in some Haste. At the present time, your faithful correspondent was unable to find a cause of this Unusual flight from the Abode of Cupid but it is being whispered that the Duchess had formed An Attachment to a certain Viscount of E------- before her marriage, no doubt facilitated by her governess, Miss R----, who is said to have been a Go Between for her young Charges, the Misses G------ while they were resident in Bath.

  The Lovely Duchess is believed to have taken Refuge in the home of her Friend, Madame D------, formerly Miss P----- K------ of Soho, who was a Favourite of the Duchess’ Father before her recent marriage to a ferocious Revolutionary Gentleman.’

  Clementine felt sick as she read the scrap cut from a recent edition of The Times that had arrived that morning with no clue to the identity of its sender anywhere on the envelope. She remembered how proud and excited her mother had been when her wedding and that of Eliza had been reported in The Times along with several other events such as their first presentations at Versailles and the births of Eliza’s babies and wondered how she must feel now.

  She turned her head as Phoebe quietly entered the room, her face pale and manner hesitant. ‘Did you get one as well?’ she asked in a low voice, hardly daring to meet the other girl’s eyes. ‘Do you think they sent it to Eliza as well?’

  Clementine sighed and ran a nervous hand across her forehead. ‘I expect so.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Phoebe whispered, still not coming close to her friend. How many times had she wished that she could tell someone about what happened and now she longed more than anything that it was still a secret.

  Clementine looked at her in confusion then nodded. She’d been so intent on the parts about herself and Antoine that she’d barely noticed the juicy little snippet at the end about Phoebe and her father. ‘Is it true?’ she asked now, to her surprise she found that she didn’t really care either way.

  Phoebe hesitated, briefly tempted to pretend that it was all just a vicious lie put about by the royalist emigres in London, but then she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s all true.’

  Clementine looked away. ‘Does Lucien know?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Phoebe replied, coming closer now. ‘He knows all about it. I told him before our wedding day and he doesn’t care.’ She gave a small smile. ‘He says that it’s none of his business.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Clementine stood up and went to her friend. ‘I expect that I should be furious or upset or something but I don’t really care either,’ she said, giving Phoebe a hug, which the other girl gratefully returned. ‘It’s strange, of course, to think of you and father but it doesn’t make me angry or anything.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t promise that Eliza will feel the same way though.’

  ‘What about you and Antoine?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Will this change anything?’

  Clementine shook her head. ‘We don’t have any plans,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’m still married after all.’

  Phoebe nodded. ‘This will make life very awkward in London,’ she said. ‘You know how they can be once they sniff out a scandal.’

  ‘I know.’ Clementine turned away and went to the harpsichord, where she lightly played a tinkly little air by Herr Mozart. ‘I wonder if Mama knows yet.’

  ‘I expect that they all know by now.’ It was Phoebe’s turn to feel sick as she imagined the uproar that the news about herself and Mr Garland would occasion in London. She sat
down heavily on a chair and put her hands to her face. ‘My mother is going to kill me,’ she moaned miserably.

  There was a knock on the street door below and they looked at each other in horror, imagining Eliza or maybe Mrs Garland herself standing on the doorstep. ‘Who do you think it is?’ Phoebe said in a very small voice, mentally calculating how long it would take a furious betrayed wife to make the journey from London.

  Thankfully they didn’t have too long to wait before Barbe opened the door with a letter in her hand. ‘The messenger was told not to bring back a reply,’ she said with a disapproving sniff as she handed it to Phoebe.

  ‘I wonder who..?’ she said playfully as she opened it, only for her voice to trail away as she quickly scanned the contents then handed it silently to Clementine who immediately recognised the handwriting as her sister’s.

  ‘Never speak to me again,’ Clementine read aloud. ‘Oh, Eliza.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then!’ Phoebe said with an attempt at bravado. ‘I don’t blame her really. What I did was terrible.’ She rubbed her fingers on her temples. ‘I deserve to be ostracised.’

  Clementine took her hand. ‘It wasn’t terrible,’ she said. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with. Eliza will come round.’

  Phoebe shook her lovely head. ‘We both know that won’t happen.’ She looked up at Clementine. ‘I’m surprised that you are still talking to me,’ she said. ‘It was your father after all...’

  Clementine considered this for a moment then shook her head. ‘I know that I ought to care,’ she said quietly, ‘and perhaps I would have done a few months ago but now...’ She shrugged and turned away. ‘Everything is different, isn’t it?’

  Phoebe nodded and quickly wiped away a tear as she looked down at Eliza’s curt little note. ‘It certainly is,’ she said.

  ‘I wonder what Sidonie will make of it all,’ Clementine said. ‘This must be very embarrassing for her.’