Angelina watched the mademoiselles weaving their fingers over the pewter and china plates ,selecting fork and serviette, delicately filling their plates with hors d’oeuvres from the city’s best chefs. How unfortunate if one of their names should be drawn out of the feathered hat, forcing them to take part in the afternoon’s recitals. Their frivolous natures would be exposed.
The household’s modest staff had begun preparations the day before. The stored chairs and small tables had been brought down from the tiny attic and arranged into groups of place-settings. As was tradition, her maman chose to hold her salon in the chamber adjacent to her sleeping quarters, which by day served as her writing room and office. Although the area was not overly large, it was sufficiently sized to house several dozen guests. Welcoming touches of fresh flowers and matching cushions, their finest candelabra, created a cosy, intimate atmosphere. Each set of chairs had been turned to face the balcony doors – the drapes parted and secured with tasselled ties – before which a temporary stage had been constructed.
Angelina should have been excited to discuss fairy tales and poetry. She read passionately and was arguably her mother’s biggest fan, so much so that at Saint Anne’s she had convened her own literary salon. Though there had been no wine, no pastries and most definitely no famous authors, she nevertheless adored these gatherings. She had relished her position as the daughter of one of Paris’s best-known conteuses – storytellers – passionately dissecting the characters and settings in the tales her mother published. It fired her imagination ever much more than chapel, and she had reigned supreme over the group – that is, until Henrietta du Blois joined them.
Angelina bit her lower lip. She had vowed to stop doing this to herself. She would face the future; she would not give in to the temptation to ruminate.
‘Angelina, dearest, there’s somebody I wish you to meet.’ Marie Catherine clutched the ball of her black lacquered cane, the flesh of her index finger swollen around her signet ring, which denoted membership in a Spanish literary academy. It was an honour she was immensely proud of, particularly as female writers were not permitted to join the French institutions.
‘Of course, Maman.’
Angelina motioned to Sophie, her mother’s maid, to change positions. Still growing used to Angelina’s addition to the household, the maid paused, checking with a glance that her mistress approved. Angelina stood patiently and, when her mother was ready, tucked her elbow into Marie Catherine’s and took up the hem of her mother’s long, black cape.
‘Thank you, child,’ said Marie Catherine, leaning heavily on Angelina, drawing her towards a table near the back of the chamber.
Beneath the cape, Marie Catherine wore her customary sapphire silk gown, silver threads sewn into the bodice and cuffs. Angelina could smell the lavender and rose pomade brushed into her mother’s hair, though Marie Catherine refused to make up her face. Only Sophie and Angelina knew that beneath the rich folds of the dress she wore plain woollen house stockings and comfortable shoes – no stays. Marie Catherine could not bear her feet growing chill, nor the feeling of the bone-stiff ribs of female underclothing pressing into her waist.
‘Here he is,’ cooed Marie Catherine, addressing three young men who sat huddled together, absorbed by the pages of a small notebook.
The gentleman holding the book sprang out of his chair, bowing low and kissing Marie Catherine’s bejewelled fingers.
‘Monsieur Alphonse Aperid,’ Marie Catherine glanced meaningfully at Angelina, ‘meet my daughter, Angelina, a former sister of Saint Anne’s.’
Angelina smiled; her mouth had gone dry, and she ignored the impulse to swallow. So, this was Paris’s up-and-coming storyteller, whose praises her mother could not stop singing.
‘The Baroness has told me much about you,’ offered Alphonse.
Thank goodness he had the sense not to extend to her the overly familiar greeting he had given her mother. She felt herself shrink inside her skin at the thought that he might attempt to peck her cheek. ‘Don’t believe a word,’ she said, mustering her confidence. ‘She’s known for making up stories.’ Why must she state the obvious?
Marie Catherine frowned, her close-set black-brown eyes inspecting Angelina’s dress. ‘Didn’t Theresa show you how to tie the waist?’
Angelina caught Alphonse’s wink. He touched her sleeve and leaned in. ‘I’ve been discussing the piece I’m reading with my friends. Perhaps you could cast your eye over it? I’m to perform on stage.’
‘Yes, please,’ she said, playfully narrowing her eyes at Marie Catherine. ‘Before the last vestiges of my confidence are cut away.’
‘Take good care of her,’ Marie Catherine said to Alphonse. ‘She needs a friend. And the best of luck.’ She turned to Angelina. ‘Don’t eat all the oysters,’ she cautioned.
‘You handle her well,’ whispered Alphonse with an approving nod.
‘My mother is at pains to please, even with me. Few people are uneasy around her; have you not noticed?’ She observed Marie Catherine’s slow-gaited departure, shaking her head in admiration of her mother’s peculiar charms. There was a pause as she waited, unsure how to proceed. With a flourish, Alphonse drew back a chair, which she accepted with relief. His companions, introduced as a poet and a playwright in training, reminded her of the gauche, book-worshipping novices who had attended her convent salon. Immediately, she was drawn into speculations about the afternoon’s diversions.
‘Will we play the pen-portrait game, do you think?’ wondered the poet, his blue eyes lit with anticipation.
‘I’m not familiar with its rules,’ said Angelina, hopeful that her friendly tone might invite him to explain it to her.
‘It was invented by La Grande Mademoiselle,’ interrupted Alphonse, ‘our King’s glamorous cousin. Players are asked to make an inventory of the moral, physical and mindful qualities of their neighbour.’
‘Oh dear, that could be disastrous,’ said Angelina.
‘Perhaps we will create a little drama,’ said the playwright. ‘It’ll likely be Ovid. We should decide amongst ourselves who is to take the part of Medea or Procne – might it be you?’ He smiled at her.
‘Do I appear the vengeful sort?’ asked Angelina, drawing her brows down in an expression of mock fierceness.
The poet smiled. ‘Alphonse can be our Jason or King Midas.’
‘I rather hope it’s poetry,’ replied Alphonse, sipping his wine. ‘If we’re asked to pen a sonnet or a madrigal I have every confidence.’
‘You have probably rehearsed one already!’ teased the poet. ‘There’s a skill to producing a rhyme in the moment, I’ll have you know.’
Angelina listened, a combination of apprehension and excitement causing her stomach to flutter. She concentrated on the waiter filling her glass with wine. As she brought the glass to her mouth to sip, she spilled a little on her chin. She glanced around the table, hoping no-one had noticed, and met Alphonse’s gaze. Before she could invent an excuse for her clumsiness, Madame du Noyer had taken the stage, rustling her papers and clearing her throat to command the room’s attention. Announcements were made, the list of the afternoon’s events explained. The opening divertissement would be the pen-portrait game mentioned by the poet, a current favourite: each guest was to write a little character sketch of the person seated to their left. Angelina picked up one of the quills and a piece of paper from the centre of the table.
Monsieur Aperid’s smile revealed pointed white teeth, like a cat’s, she wrote. That was weak. But what a pleasant surprise,she went on, hidden inside his small mouth. It led one to notice his eyes, green, like the lichen on fortification walls. Start again. Like a frog hiding in shadows, a sprig of sage in her basket. Yes, sage. His build was slight – the flaw hardly noticeable; the eye was drawn rather to his purple jacket, his extravagant collar and cuffs. His nose was straight and well-proportioned.Noses were difficult: they usually had a flaw – snub, bumped, hooked … this spontaneous writing was a challenge. She scratc
hed out the paragraph and folded her paper over. Her table companions wrote furiously, oblivious to the ticking clock. And so did everyone else in the room. Glamour drew her eye wherever it fell: the poet’s powdered silver wig; the playwright’s enamel and gilt writing case.
To Angelina’s relief, she was not summoned by the hostess to reveal her muddled portrait of Alphonse. Several charming sketches were shared with the guests, including one by Mademoiselle Anja – it seemed she should not judge by appearances. Votes were made as to the best portrait by the shaking of one’s handkerchief. After much debate, a bottle of wine was delivered to one of the tables occupied by Deidre’s tipsy friends.
The next entertainment was Alphonse’s recital of a fairy tale. He had been invited to participate in the tradition of sharing an unpublished work with the assembled company. When the recital concluded, the guests, ever eager to participate, would offer up their spoken opinions as to how the piece might be improved. The teller of the tale took note of the suggestions and returned home to work on their masterpiece. If the story had potential, they might perhaps be invited, at the next salon, to circulate the improved version for further comment, or for the mere pleasure of it.
After an encouraging jostle from the poet, Alphonse rose unsteadily to his feet and walked to the stage. He faced the audience and began to speak, his voice a little shaky, then seemed to gather confidence. He paced backwards and forwards reciting a fairy tale about a courtly knight transformed into a dragon-slayer and rescuer of wayward maidens. Hardly an original idea, Angelina observed, and yet each sentence was illuminated with a distinct flourish. At one point, he shook his fist at the chandelier for emphasis. Technically, her mother’s protégé was exceedingly skilled, she thought, but perhaps next time he might keep to the chair that had been provided – his gesturing was distracting, verging on comical.
‘Pardon me, Angelina.’ She hadn’t heard Sophie approach. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re needed in the hall.’
‘Of course, I’ll come right away,’ Angelina whispered, eyes still on Alphonse.
‘I’m sorry, it seems urgent,’ Sophie insisted with a meaningful look. ‘It’s Madame Tiquet.’
A servant paced the corridor, his face a desperate frown. Nicola Tiquet stood beside a mirror, gently bumping her forehead into the wall. Her companion, Mathe de Senonville, hovered ineffectually, a hand on Nicola’s shoulder. At short intervals, Mathe mumbled into her ear, but whatever she said only provoked Nicola into further protest. Now she was moving her head from side to side.
‘Let’s find you a chair,’ Angelina said calmly. She took Nicola’s hand and pulled, ever so softly, urging her to turn her head. To her surprise, Nicola allowed herself to be walked over to a chaise.
‘Dear Angelina,’ said Nicola, her bright blue eyes rimmed red. She reached up and stroked Angelina’s hair. ‘Such a fine colour.’
Angelina had never seen her mother’s sophisticated friend distraught. Even so, she could not help but admire the immense care Nicola had taken with her appearance: a scarlet mantua over a gown of dark green velvet, the gold brocade of the cuffs set off by a pair of sparkling emerald earrings. Nicola had sprinkled silver powder onto her curled blonde wig and blended rouge onto her sculpted cheekbones and wide, pink mouth. The gentlewoman’s creamy décolletage, her arched brows enclosing large, expressive eyes, were the dream of every portrait painter, and her high state of emotion only added intrigue to her already formidable beauty.
Even now, despite her distress, Nicola held herself with practised elegance. It seemed to Angelina that this set her apart from the festival of carping wits that formed Marie Catherine’s writing circle – of which Nicola was most certainly not a member. She was tolerated at the salons for two very different reasons: she donated funds for the supper, and she provided a unique form of entertainment. How the conteuses tumbled over one another to dissect Nicola’s outfits, sniping about her enslavement to appearances, each trying to outdo the next in inventing the most searing condemnation of her vanity. But though Angelina didn’t know her well, on the several occasions Nicola had visited she’d taken the time to extend small kindnesses to her.
‘Let’s sit while you gather yourself,’ Angelina said. ‘No one wants to see you like this. There’s no need to make an appearance at the salon if you’re not in the mood. Maman will understand.’
‘The salon!’ said Nicola, squeezing Angelina’s fingers. ‘I forgot all about it.’
‘It’s of no concern,’ Angelina said gently, careful not to inspire another outburst.
‘But I must speak with your mother,’ said Nicola. ‘I shall not leave until I have her ear.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Angelina. ‘It’s nearly suppertime, you can talk then.’
Nicola seemed placated for the time being. Angelina sent Sophie and the servant to fetch smelling salts, Mathe to the kitchen to find the medicinal brandy. Perhaps Nicola hadn’t taken lunch and felt faint, or had let her bodice be laced too tightly.
‘I can sit with you awhile,’ suggested Angelina.
‘Don’t let me keep you from your friends,’ replied Nicola, glancing at Angelina with concern. ‘I shall be ready in a moment to face the room.’
‘I, too, would be glad to rest.’ Angelina squeezed Nicola’s hand and sighed. ‘I hardly know anybody. And I’m not used to extravagance.’ She gestured towards her skirt and shoes.
‘But surely you fit Marie Catherine’s crowd?’ countered Nicola. She touched Angelina’s chin, turning her face towards hers. ‘You have a natural poise. It’s to be encouraged.’
‘I do not see it,’ replied Angelina quietly. ‘But thank you all the same.’ She raised her eyes, meeting Nicola’s attentive gaze. Perhaps her mother’s friend had forgotten her troubles already.
Marie Catherine
30 March
Marie Catherine pressed her lips together, closing her eyes. The trout pâté melted into a fatty tingle of fish, brine and cream. What did a stutter of indigestion later matter? With only crumbs left on her plate, she glanced at Nicola for permission, received a disinterested nod, and helped herself to her friend’s bread. ‘What would I do without you? I missed you in the kitchen this morning, bossing the staff. Madame d’Airelle’s meringue is oversweet.’
‘Nobody needs me.’
Marie Catherine swallowed, narrowing her eyes. ‘What’s brought this mood upon you? Where’s my assistant disappeared to?’
Nicola toyed with her fork, resting it beside her plate. She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her lips. She leaned closer to Marie Catherine, blinking dramatically. ‘I spent this morning conversing with Lucifer himself.’
Marie Catherine flicked at a crumb on her bodice. ‘We should all be so lucky.’
‘Mathe tried to cheer my spirits. She took me to her soothsayer. The best in Paris. It was supposed to be a treat.’
‘And what did this fortune teller predict that has you out of sorts?’ said Marie Catherine indulgently. Poor Nicola was far too easy to tease.
Nicola regarded her friend Mathe de Senonville, seated several tables away, fending off the advances of two notoriously loose-lipped matrons. As if intuiting her scrutiny, the trio glanced over, averting their eyes quickly and tightening their huddle. ‘She foretold that in a few months I shall have the better of my enemies. That I’ll be beyond the reach of their malice.’ She grasped the tablecloth in her fingertips, a pair of pale house spiders either side of her plate. ‘What a cruel lie to dangle before me.’
‘It sounds like the standard fare of such charlatans. And good news at that. What’s unsettled you?’
Nicola collapsed her finger-webs. ‘Monsieur Tiquet’s health is too strong for me to reckon upon a happy ending.’
‘I thought you brokered a truce?’
Nicola shrugged. She dipped a finger in a puddle of caviar and brought it to her lips.
‘You must count your blessings, my dear. Think of your pretty son, who brings such delight. You, of
all wives, have managed to thwart the state, even when the odds are so stacked against us. Between you and me, Madame du Noyer also has a husband who runs up debts, and she hasn’t the funds to challenge him as you did. Your wealth is in your own hands. Do you know how rare that is? You are free, my dear. What licence you’re granted to distract yourself from your husband’s petty furies! Yes, he’s flighty and unpredictable, but he lacks the means to your purse.’
Nicola held Marie Catherine’s gaze. ‘My inheritance doesn’t prevent his encroachments on my freedom. He’s turned my staff against me. He’s taken to locking me in my rooms at night. I wish I were more like you, with an iron shutter guarding my heart. Had I your courage—’
Marie Catherine glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, a monkey orchestra set out beneath the brass hands. The supper break was almost finished and she needed a moment to gather her thoughts before the salon recommenced. She’d lost count of the conversations they had shared about brutish husbands. She repeated the advice she always delivered at their end: you are more capable – of creating meaning, of finding pleasure – than you allow yourself to believe.
‘Look around you, Nicola,’ she insisted. ‘Each of us here has the capacity for invention, and you’re no slouch. You surround yourself with beauty, you have a gift for it. Perhaps you need to go a little further in your efforts to make peace in your home. Why not imagine he no longer exists? Surely that would relieve your suffering. His barbs will fall short of their target.’
‘Yes,’ replied Nicola, sitting back in the chair, tapping the base of her wine glass. ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s easy to forget.’
‘Pay no heed to that predictor of fortunes; you must forge your own. Take it as a warning that you must always act to improve your circumstances. Perhaps that’s all that has been foretold.’ Marie Catherine paused. ‘Though I’m not pleased to hear Monsieur’s locking you up. Remember you have me if you ever need counsel. You cannot live in such a manner forever.’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 2