The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  Unlike Claude, Gilbert was kind, considerate and stalwart. And, unlike her commoner husband, his background was aristocratic. He responded with careful consideration to her troubles. Always, he advised her to count her blessings, to remember to face the world with a full heart.

  The blast of a trumpet sounded from the street outside and Nicola sat up in her chair, the hairs on her arms rising. ‘What’s all the fanfare?’

  ‘A procession?’ ventured Mathe.

  ‘Open the curtains,’ Nicola commanded, digging her feet under the table to locate her shoes. She had slipped them off.

  She stood and moved to the window. Outside, she saw a squadron of police, some fifty men, marching up the street; their blue jackets criss-crossed with leather belts, right hands on their scabbards, the feathers of their tricorn hats bobbing in unison. The commissioner of police rode in front in an open-topped carriage, the door emblazoned with the crest of the city. The profusely sweating horses trotted in all directions, giving the driver the devil’s trouble.

  Mathe’s fingers squeezed Nicola’s shoulder. A serviette was tucked into her palm, the wine glass set back on the table. ‘Wipe your lips,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s me,’ whispered Nicola, turning to catch Mathe’s eyes. ‘They’ve come for me.’ She should have listened to the priest … but that was ridiculous. No, it must be something else. Perhaps an execution was scheduled, and in her distracted state she’d forgotten to read the news.

  A loud clanging sounded at the gates.

  ‘Answer the door,’ Nicola instructed her maid. She gathered her shawl about her shoulders. Why had she declined Father Étienne’s offer to ferry her beyond the gates of Paris? She had been a fool.

  Mathe followed the maid down the stairs to the entranceway then returned with quickened steps. ‘He’s puffed up like a leather ball,’ she warned.

  Nicola listened to the sound of boots on the stairs and she felt as if she were remembering a bad dream. The chief lieutenant of police entered the dining room. A pair of guards, vile pikes nearly scraping the doorway, stood on either side of him.

  He needed the support. For Lieutenant Lapin was short – shorter than Nicola – with brushed curls falling to his shoulders. His figure was lean, as if he observed frugal habits. Nicola knew his hands, the rake of his touch. Many years earlier, when she had been utterly desperate battling Claude’s iron will, she had corresponded with the lieutenant. Determined to win the argument with her husband, she had invited the police commissioner to her salon for a drink. They had too much cognac and she had permitted herself an indiscretion. Eager to secure the separation of her fortune from that of her spendthrift husband, she had overplayed her hand.

  Lapin held the warrant from the city police in his hands, which he began to fussily unroll. What posturing self-importance. Did their rendezvous render her position favourable or doomed? He spoke in a reedy voice, a smudge of victory crept into his eyes. Or, was she imagining things? For the life of her, she could not decide.

  ‘You needn’t have come so well attended,’ she interrupted, not bothering to hide her contempt.

  But Lapin would not be dissuaded from his speech. ‘On the ninth of April, Monsieur Claude Tiquet filed a complaint, prompting me, Lieutenant General of Police, to authorise an investigation. The testimonies of your neighbours, and of Monsieur’s cousin and servants, have been recorded, and you are hereby charged with the attempted murder of your husband.’

  ‘I am not leaving my home,’ Nicola began, after some pause. A quiet rage had entered her voice. She turned to Mathe. ‘Has the world gone stark, raving mad?’ She glared at Lapin. ‘You are working for my husband. You wish me to leave so that he might steal my house from under my very feet. But I shall not go with you. I am innocent.’

  ‘Madame Tiquet,’ Lapin spoke with patience, ‘we must proceed with the law. You are to come with us to the Petit Châtelet. Do not make me use force.’

  ‘It’s best you go with them,’ whispered Mathe, searching her eyes. She reached for Nicola’s hands. ‘Pour her a drink of water,’ she instructed the maid.

  ‘But I’m innocent!’ protested Nicola. ‘You know that.’ She rushed over to the fire, grasping the picture of Clotilde and kissing it fervently. She turned to Lapin. ‘I’ll not be forced out of my home by that evil man. It’s too much. I have suffered too much!’

  Nicola glanced at Mathe for confirmation, but her friend had turned ashen white. Mathe’s fingers trembled. She looked as if she wanted to be anywhere in the city but there, witnessing her companion’s last moments as a free woman.

  Nicola drew in a deep breath. A feeling of resignation began to unfold inside her mind, as if, all along, in some other part of her thoughts, she had been waiting for this day. ‘Have your way then,’ she addressed Lapin. ‘I shall accompany you. But I know the truth. That man wishes to get his hands on my money, a design he has held since the day we first met. Justice will be served. I shall die defending what’s mine.’

  She had to bid Jean Paul farewell. ‘I must request a favour.’

  Lapin rolled up the scroll, handing it to one of the guards. ‘Yes?’

  ‘First, might I have a moment with my son?’ she said, her voice exquisitely controlled.

  ‘Be quick about it,’ said Lapin.

  Lapin accompanied her to the top floor. She walked, her heart thumping with fear, barely able to breathe, along the wide, panelled hallway. Jean Paul’s nursery was just past the doors to her own, large chambers. She knocked on the door, waiting a moment and then turning the handle.

  Jean Paul was sitting on the rug, playing with a toy chariot. ‘My darling boy,’ she said, rushing to wrap him in her arms. ‘Maman has to go away for a few days. But I will be back soon. You are to be a good boy. You must eat all your meals and do everything nurse asks of you.’ She caught his gaze. ‘Do you understand, my love?’

  ‘Yes, Maman,’ said Jean Paul. He glanced at the police chief. His lip trembled, but he did not attempt a spoilt outburst.

  Her eyes were clear as she walked from the nursery along the corridor, her agony at leaving her son buried deep. She had a plan. The commissioner waited in silence as she drew Jacques’s key from her bodice and unlocked the double-doors to her chamber. She turned to him, affecting intimacy, and asked him to hold out his hand. Taking several silverécu from her purse, she folded her fingers around his gloved palm. She told him there was plenty more. ‘You need only make a request.’

  She proposed that Lapin post two police guards at the gates to her home, that he seal off the house, forbidding Monsieur Tiquet from entering the grounds of the property. She had the right to ban his entry, the title deeds had been signed in her name. He agreed. A small victory.

  She farewelled Mathe with a kiss. Such a thrill her neighbours would receive watching her being escorted into the marked carriage. Madame Sevigne would steal a long glance through her curtains, taking care to preserve every detail of the spectacle, to be retold with lashings of relish and embellishment at some later date. Nicola knew the ins and outs of Paris gossip only too well: their tongues would speak no mercy.

  Marie Catherine

  18 April

  Pierre de Clermont selected a blue hat with silver trim, inspecting it in the hall mirror. ‘Do you approve?’ he affected a little pose, tilting his head and holding his fingers under his chin, tapping his lips.

  ‘Promise to behave yourself.’ Marie Catherine kissed her son-in-law good day as she stepped into the entranceway of Deidre’s home. The Clermonts were an old Normandy family, and their eldest son carried himself with the negligent confidence of one born to tremendous privilege. He was thin and tall, with a bump on his nose and large, hooded brown eyes, a cleft chin and the most enviably expressive hands. Rings gleamed on several fingers, drawing Marie Catherine’s eye as they tipped and touched the buttons of his lilac coat.

  Despite her determination not to control her daughters’ lives, Marie Catherine had decided it was necessary to invol
ve herself in the couple’s marriage negotiations. Pierre’s father, well-aware of his son’s frivolous tendencies, had provided a generous yearly allowance, though strictly limited, to prevent them spiralling into out-of-control debt. The potential was certainly there.

  ‘Let me help,’ said the maid, hanging up Marie Catherine’s cape. ‘Madame’s in her apartments.’

  The door to Deidre’s plush chamber was open, and Marie Catherine caught her in a moment of unguardedness, her feet stretched out on the chaise longue, listlessly turning the pages of le Mercure galant. She wore a red-silk dressing gown and had not had her hair dressed; it fell limply to her shoulders. ‘Maman!’ exclaimed Deidre, slowly rising to her feet. Clutching her large belly, she gingerly walked towards her. ‘I appreciate you visiting.’ She kissed Marie Catherine’s cheeks and then grasped her around the shoulders, falling, for the briefest moment, into her arms.

  She led Marie Catherine to the chaises set before the fire. ‘Everyone’s preparing to leave for the summer. I feel abandoned already. Theresa’s busy. The children exhaust me. I can barely find the strength to cuddle them. It’s worse than ever this time.’

  ‘Whatever is that smell?’ asked Marie Catherine, sniffing the room. ‘Chinese tea?’

  ‘Isn’t it delicious? It’s the firewood. It’s been treated so it gives off a fragrance when it burns.’ Deidre made a show of enjoying the scent. She pointed to a mantilla, magenta velvet, lying across the chair at her dressing table. ‘Do you like it? I’m determined to attend the theatre this season. I do not mind if I suffer – what’s a little discomfort?’

  Marie Catherine murmured her agreement. Her daughter had superb taste, she thought, looking at the treasures tucked into various alcoves and nooks around the room. Rather than housing books – Deidre preferred to read magazines – her glass cabinets were filled with curiosities from across the seas: spiked shells and faded corals; glistening stones with hearts of blue and yellow crystal; stuffed birds whose tapering iridescent plumage almost made her eyes water.

  ‘This rascal must be a girl. I’ve such a pain under my ribs. The only food I can keep down is cake!’ Deidre dangled her hand over a plate of sweets, swirling her finger as if playing a game. She had inherited her father’s looks, her neck long and smooth, broad cheekbones, a pert nose and pointed chin. When not expecting a child, she liked to show off a trim waist. But Marie Catherine had unfortunately passed on her appetite for sweets. ‘This gown’s a godsend.’ Deidre patted her hips. There were secret ties hidden in its folds, she explained, which her maid loosened as her pregnancy progressed.

  Marie Catherine had been under the impression that the closer Deidre came to the due date, the more languid she became. But her brown eyes were flashing beneath her arched brows. ‘Pierre’s tending his mistress. She’s also with child.’

  Marie Catherine frowned. ‘How ever do you stand it?’

  Deidre chewed on a macaroon. ‘To the contrary, I encourage him. It gives me free rein here. And,’ she wiped her fingers on her dressing gown. ‘much as I imagined having a large family was my dream – do not make a face! – it does not quite match the picture I had in mind. I fear I shall not survive another.’

  ‘It’s the pains of the last few weeks,’ reassured Marie Catherine. ‘Your vitality will be back once it’s all over. Please, do not jest about your health.’ She was suddenly reminded of Deidre’s vulnerability. Of the boredom and sleeplessness of childbearing.

  Unperturbed, Deidre selected a second cake. ‘You must distract me, Maman. Is there news of Madame Tiquet? I need diversion. I had Louisa Bonville for supper last night and it was all we could talk about. Neither of us can agree if she’s guilty or innocent.’ Deidre motioned for the maid to pour tea, watching like a hawk as she set the heavy pot back on its warming tile. ‘That shameful affair she carries on with her poor chevalier – they say he never married because of her. I cannot fathom the damage to his reputation.’

  Marie Catherine paused to arrange her thoughts. ‘I believe she is innocent. It’s tempting to gossip, but be careful of falling into crude speculations. Nicola’s had her fair share of trials with her husband. We are confidants, if you must know, and I take her at her word.’

  ‘But you must have something for my lunch companions.’

  ‘As to who attacked Monsieur Tiquet?’ Marie Catherine resisted the temptation to snort. ‘One of her servants has disappeared. Perhaps if you hear something of his whereabouts you might let me know. He’s wanted for questioning.’

  ‘By whom, you or the police?’ Deidre asked with a frown. ‘It isn’t your way, interfering in someone’s affairs. Have I missed a detail?’

  Marie Catherine paused, glancing at Deidre with resignation. ‘I offered to have her carried out of Paris, if you must know. But she’s chosen to stay put.’

  Deidre glanced over to the windows, the heavy curtains drawn back. ‘Isn’t that fitting? Five minutes of drizzle and now a rainbow.’ She studied Marie Catherine. ‘Really. Why would you do that?’

  Marie Catherine looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter. She refused, and wouldn’t give my messenger a reason. I haven’t heard a word from her since.’ She rubbed her thumb with the fingers of her other hand. Angelina had found her a new ointment, which seemed to be working, but she had forgotten to put it on. ‘While I remember, I’ve a message from your papa. Before he repays his debt, he wishes to see you.’

  ‘I don’t like being involved in your squabbles. Can I lend you anécu or two instead?’

  ‘I shan’t have a daughter supporting her mother.’ Marie Catherine leaned forward in her chair, stroking Deidre’s cheek. ‘Forget I mentioned it.’

  ‘I can invite him for tea. But you know Papa. You’re aware he’s ill?’

  ‘Angie mentioned something.’

  A loud cry sounded from the nursery in the adjacent chamber. An elderly nurse, her hair tucked into a white cap, her waist severely tied, rushed through the open door, bearing in her hands a broken china doll. ‘It’s the girls’ story time,’ she interrupted crossly. ‘They’re asking for you.’

  Deidre sighed. ‘I should like to take my bath. A woman’s coming to rub me all over with perfumed oil and then I’m to swallow my draught and sleep.’ She turned to Marie Catherine, imploring with her large, brown eyes. ‘Might you recite a quick tale?’

  Marie Catherine stifled a grimace of irritation. Much as she loved her granddaughters, they had been brought up irregularly. The moment their nurse was out of sight – she would take herself off to the kitchen for a sit-down if Marie Catherine agreed to attend them – they changed personalities. Last time she visited, the youngest had kicked her ankle.

  ‘If you promise to speak with your father,’ Marie Catherine bargained. She would tell an abridged version of ‘Finette Cendron’, the girl who swept the cinders – perhaps it would frighten her granddaughters into obedience.

  Shutters closed; pigeons flapped their wings and fluttered for cover. Sacks were tossed over mounds of oranges, figs, apples. Smoke plumed beneath the low raincloud. Marie Catherine had bought a bouquet of peonies and roses from a hawker outside Deidre’s apartment. Hurry, hurry, she said to herself, willing the woman to finish arranging the apricot and pink blooms. She was anxious to return home to the comfort of the notebook she planned to fill with an idea just discovered.

  Paused at an intersection to hail a palanquin, Marie Catherine studied a group of girls playing a clapping game. Nearby, several boys practiced throwing hoops. Turning into Rue Saint-Germain she saw that a crowd had gathered, the street lined on either side by excited merchants, market-women, fishmongers, waifs, noblemen and women. A blast of a police trumpet sounded. She swivelled her neck in the direction of the commotion; the traffic slowly began to part, horses and carts and carriages moving to the side of the road to allow the passage of a procession.

  A phalanx of guards, their medieval pikes pointing to the half-hidden sun, marched with pomp and purpose between the street merchants and their c
ustomers, obstructing business. Horses whinnied and drivers clutched the reins of delayed carriages. Coifed ladies and wigged gentlemen craned their necks, anticipating a glimpse of whatever travelled in the wake of the grand showing of the city’s police. It could not be the King, for his pennants would be flying.

  Marie Catherine strained to see what was causing the commotion. The guards moved in perfect conformity. Feathers bobbing, blue jackets, doublets and breeches brushed and buttoned. Marie Catherine jumped at a heckle from a group of chimneysweeps standing behind her.

  Suddenly, there was silence, the squabbling and bartering quelled. She saw four black horses on tight rein before an open carriage with uniformed drivers. Seated in a quilted leather chair, looking straight ahead, was Monsieur Lapin, the chief lieutenant of police. Beside him, shackles enclosing her wrists and ankles, a defiant tilt to her chin, sat a well-dressed woman.

  Marie Catherine waited, as close to the passing parade as possible without being caught under a horse’s hoof or finding the receiving the end of a whip.

  The woman wore a pale blue bodice and skirt, a pink hat decorated with a single dove’s feather. As if Marie Catherine had drawn her attention by her thoughts, the woman turned her head, meeting her gaze, an invisible skein forming a momentary connection between them.

  Marie Catherine felt her neck prickle. She stood in the street, frozen, staring as the carriage moved within inches of her. Nicola’s face changed at the sight of her friend, her haughty expression collapsing into panic, pleading.

  And suddenly, as the carriage moved past and Nicola turned in her seat, leaning out so as not to lose sight of her friend, Marie Catherine remembered. She was nineteen again, returned to the night she had arrived at Saint Anne’s, terrified the bumpy journey would cause her to miscarry. The carriage had been permitted through the gates to the abbey, led to the stables where the horses were fed and watered. She was hungry, and there was pain low in her belly. A nun holding a lantern beckoned her through a warren of cold, dark gates and corridors, up winding staircases and along polished floorboards until she was brought into a warm, well-lit library. The Abbess, who was reading in a chair, put her book face-down on the side table and nodded at the sister who had delivered Marie Catherine and her year-old daughter into the room. Deidre curled into Marie Catherine’s skirt, the rough fabric hiding her face. The Abbess bade them sit before the fire and enquired if they needed food. Marie Catherine did not recall their conversation from that point. All her concentration was directed to remembering to speak the name she had invented, rather than her own. She would glance with feigned humility into the Abbess’s face, keeping her eyes clear and steady. But the fear that pierced her heart was not invented.