The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  Earlier that afternoon, she had returned to François’s apartment to pack her possessions. Her maid swept powders, jewellery and ribbons into a bag. She asked to be dressed in travelling clothes, discarding her modesty as two servants ransacked her armoire, tossing her underclothes, shoes and skirts into a trunk. Deidre sat on the bedcovers, dazedly sucking her thumb. Though it was dangerous to journey in her state, she would take the risk. She felt only relief, bidding farewell to the grand apartment she had shared with her husband. The dark panelling, the thick curtains and expensive sheets stained with the miasma of his detested presence.

  The red spots of exertion on the cheeks of her lady’s maid. Her own hands sweating. The girl had almost dragged her out of her bedchamber, down the narrow stairs and outside to the waiting carriage. Deidre crying now, Theresa turning inside her belly, kicking out a leg or arm, the horses finnicky. They left the lanterns unlit, for fear they would be stopped at the city gates and questioned. The farming boroughs wreathed in darkness on the outskirts of Paris, the invisible acres leased by Saint Anne’s convent, the high walls surrounding its stone fortifications. The whinny of a horse made her heart jump. The forged letters in her purse, the identity she had invented, finessing the scheme in Father Étienne’s office. Her first fairy story, how they had refined the plea she would make for refuge.

  It had been the priest’s idea to change her name. Together, they fabricated a new background for her. She was no longer Baroness Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy, hailed from Barneville-la-Bertran, a seigneurie in Normandy, daughter of the noble union of her late father, Nicolas-Claude Le Jumel, seigneur of Barneville, and her mother, the independently wealthy Judith-Angélique de Gudannes. Rather, she was an eight-months pregnant widow, arrived in Paris from the provinces with her year-old daughter to begin her life over following the death of her husband after a feverish malaise. She claimed to have been staying with distant family in the city, but had fallen out with them and now had nowhere to turn. Paris’s convents were full, and she had spent a night on the street. She had a little money to pay her way, if that helped. The closer to the truth the lie, the better chance it might succeed. And she had not made up the detail about imposing upon family in Paris: she had fled the Baron’s household on so many occasions that Judith-Angélique had instigated the custom of keeping the guest bedchamber made up in her Latin Quarter apartment.

  Gone. The merchants and shoppers, their carriages and carts, returned to business, the distraction of the police parade forgotten. The rain had held off, the sun shining brightly over the crowded street. The sacks and canvases thrown over the sellers’ wares were whisked away as if by some street magician in a flourish of wrists and hands. Everything was back as it had been when Marie Catherine left Deidre’s house.

  With a dread feeling in the pit of her stomach, Marie Catherine ordered the palanquin-bearers to deliver her home without delay. Why had Nicola been so obstinate? So stupid beyond measure? Perhaps it was her friend’s lack of experience with the machinations of the state, the merciless cruelty of its cogs’ relentless spinning. How did she not realise that Father Étienne’s visit was her chance for freedom? Disgust for her neighbours swirled like a sickness inside. How dare they condemn Nicola in their ignorance?

  Marie Catherine was not sure where Nicola would be held to await trial, but she could guarantee it would be a far worse place than Saint Anne’s convent.

  Angelina

  20 April

  Seated on the cushioned bench of the carriage, Angelina fought a silent battle to keep her hands folded in her lap. After greeting her with a kiss to both cheeks – her neck ran hot, and she hoped her skin had not turned pink – Alphonse had apologised for not writing to her sooner. Marie Catherine’s encouragement had made a deep impression upon him, and he had locked himself in his chamber during the past fortnight to work on a story.

  ‘A likely excuse,’ teased Angelina.

  ‘I swear on my life,’ protested Alphonse, holding her gaze, touching a finger to her knee.

  At least in theory, Angelina had submitted to Alphonse’s request that she write to him. She had taken a leaf from Marie Catherine’s book and read her mother’s copy of his story, adding a note or two in the margins when she found the writing to be at its strongest. But the exercise left her with a sense of frustration. What did she have to contribute? Her mother had already made her responses in a different coloured ink, and she had little, in terms of praise, to add. She had tried to write her impressions of Paris’s street life for him but then thrown them into the fire. What did she have to say that he didn’t already know, and with far more depth? He was a sophisticate, she, a former convent novice. Whatever she might come up with would only expose her lack of experience.

  It had been weeks since he’d visited for morning tea and she felt thoroughly disappointed. She thought there was a spark of interest in his gaze, a jot of affection behind his teasing comments. For some unfathomable reason, she found herself needing to impress him; she couldn’t seem to argue herself out of the notion. But rather than take a chance and send her thoughts in a note, she had spent her spare evenings penning her heart’s disappointments into her diary. In the mornings when she awoke, before going downstairs to Marie Catherine’s chamber to help with her correspondence, she felt less desolate, and made lists of subjects they might talk about, should they ever find an opportunity to start a conversation. There were intellectual topics, such as the quarrel of women, or the arguments of the ancients and moderns. They might discuss her mother’s wide-ranging literary achievements – though perhaps not. Perhaps the secret rituals of convent life? No. The snobbish Parisian mademoiselles whose company she could not attract?

  Was it any wonder he had not sought her out again? She had put herself into a bind by rudely ignoring him, but it was only self-protection. Had she shared her paltry thoughts with him, he would have seen all that she lacked and quickly made up his own mind that there was nothing to be gained from embarking upon a friendship. She had merely saved him the trouble.

  But that morning, a note had arrived with breakfast. Alphonse was hiring a carriage to pick her up for a stroll in the Place des Vosges. The note was marked urgent. Alphonse’s valet waited downstairs, having rushed over from his master’s apartment to personally deliver it to Angelina with instructions to obtain her prompt reply.

  She had been thrown into a fluster. She needed more time before seeing him again. She had been planning to wend her way into his thoughts slowly with fine and clever sentences – though admittedly she had not had much success with that plan. And she had not washed her hair. Not that it mattered. Why would she think such a thing? She was not interested in him for romantic intrigue. It was something else, though she couldn’t put her finger on what that was. Nevertheless, her thoughts, like little birds after crumbs, fluttered to the way she looked. She had a dress in her closet from Theresa, which she had not yet had occasion to wear. She had a perfume, bought at the apothecary, her first ever feminine indulgence. Perhaps she could rub a little on her wrists.

  She had not been able to finish her bread and egg. Lise had clipped a new comb into her hair and drawn the waist of her bodice tight with expert lacing.

  Now, adjusting her position in the carriage, moving herself slightly closer to the door, she glanced out of the window. Her heart had beaten so fiercely after their brief greeting that she had been unable to speak coherently for the remainder of the journey. Stepping out of the carriage, Alphonse offered her his arm, and she felt herself beginning to grow calmer. She reminded herself that this was what young men and women did in Paris.

  A murmuration of starlings moved in formation above the quadrangle of rich red houses that surrounded the Place des Vosges. The shrubs in the centre of the park were shaped into geometric forms, here and there a bench for a pair of friends to sit on and share a diverting conversation.

  It was the first time she had promenaded the city with somebody who was not a blood relative. Theresa had in
vited her out for a stroll only last week, stopping every few paces to speak to her myriad friends, which had reminded Angelina of those she had left behind at Saint Anne’s. The unsettled feeling that plagued her each evening when her secretarial engagements were over, when she cuddled her pillow in those last moments before sleep, had returned.

  ‘Those girls look like flamingos,’ said Angelina, determined to distract herself from such thoughts. She pointed to three mademoiselles walking arm in arm with a large parasol held above their heads. Behind them sauntered three gentlemen dressed in brushed silk suits. ‘Not that I have seen one outside a book. Have you?’

  Alphonse’s eyes swept her face, as if her remark was rather curious. ‘Only once, at a party thrown by a Marquis. They are very pretty, almost the size of a swan. But a little docile, I fear.’

  ‘See how they teeter.’ Angelina said, giggling.

  Alphonse laughed. ‘I know! We should try to find a bird for every woman in the park.’

  ‘Over there, a jay,’ replied Angelina, directing Alphonse’s gaze to a woman with a large blue bow tied to her waist.

  ‘And three little sparrows,’ said Alphonse, as a group of convent girls walked past.

  Angelina’s smile fell from her face. She felt foolish. What was she if not another dull little sparrow? And the slightest attention from a pretty bird, an exotic flamingo such as Alphonse or Henrietta, and Angelina became its most ardent admirer. Whenever Henrietta had entered a room it was as if the air had shifted and resettled. If she were the one strolling in the park with Alphonse, she would not draw comparison to a dull brown bird. She would be telling a riveting tale about Versailles, which she had visited more than once, describing the spectacular uniforms of the King’s Guard, imitating the tone of Louis’s morganatic wife, Madame de Maintenon, when she scolded her ladies-in-waiting.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ said Alphonse, affecting disappointment. He stopped walking, blocking her path. ‘I was enjoying our bird-watching game.’

  ‘Why did you invite me here?’ asked Angelina.

  ‘There was a reason,’ said Alphonse, watching her. He had dropped the note of playfulness from his voice. ‘Marie Catherine told me a little of your trouble at Saint Anne’s. I thought I might take your mind off things.’

  ‘She did?’ Angelina frowned, puzzled. What was Marie Catherine’s plan, she wondered, in revealing her problems to Alphonse? It was hardly the kind of information that would captivate a potential suitor, if indeed that was what her mother had in mind.

  ‘I truly am sorry for taking so long to write you again, after the sweet remarks you made about my story,’ Alphonse added.

  Angelina blushed, stammering. ‘I did little more than copy what my mother said. I was out of my depth, if you really want to know.’

  ‘That’s not what Marie Catherine told me. She claims you’re her first reader. That she sent you all her fairy tales before anyone else. You must have an excellent eye.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Angelina. ‘I apologise for being gauche. I’m—’ she touched her cheek, considering how much to reveal, ‘—I’m overwhelmed. I’m not used to male company.’ She laughed. ‘And now I’m so pink in the face I want to hide away.’

  ‘You’re safe with me. Though I act the fool, I’m a decent sort. Just be your natural self. It’s refreshing.’ Alphonse touched her arm and met her gaze, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘I didn’t tell you in the carriage because I wanted it to be a surprise, but I’ve bought us tickets to a musical performance in the cloisters.’

  A quartet was set up in a corner of the quadrangle and chairs arranged along the length of each side. Alphonse led her to their seats. She remembered the fan she had in her pocketbook and took it out, fanning her face and watching the overdressed Parisians. The musicians, their faces heavy with white powder, were leaning over their instruments, plucking a string here and there.

  A note from the violinist sounded and Angelina began to relax. The mild spring day calmed her nerves and for once she felt as if her attire was appropriate for the occasion. She sent a sideways glance to Alphonse, surprised to discover that he had been studying her. She smiled, hopefully a little coquettishly, waving her fan across her face. She would learn to be a Parisian woman, it would just take time. She closed her eyes, letting the music travel up and down her spine, enlivening her skin, tingling the back of her neck, giving her pretty pictures and geometrical patterns to follow, perhaps inspired by the gardens, the starlings, the harlequin patterns of the women’s dresses.

  A singer joined the musicians, her voice making Angelina’s breath catch in her throat. The woman was close to Deidre in age. She had plump forearms, her sleeves reaching just below her elbows and festooned with white ruffles. She tapped her feet in time to the music, in an almost vulgar fashion. Angelina was fascinated; the woman performed with her whole body. It was apparent that she wasn’t only entertaining the crowd, that she wasn’t simply rehearsing the notes in her songbook, but that every inch of her trembling body was involved.

  The singer wore thick black ringlets and heavy rouge; her striped bodice was tightly drawn about her breasts, so that they heaved and spilled, pushing against the fabric. Angelina shook her head and closed her eyes again, trying not to stare at the woman’s chest, which expanded each time she drew a breath.

  Angelina could no longer float along with the rising notes, she had to forcefully distract herself. The fellow seated next to her had a torn stocking and a feather missing from his tricorn hat; a lady wearing a high wig had an ant crawling about in it; a child started to cry and was comforted by its nurse. Alphonse’s legs were parted, he seemed relaxed. She wished she could return to the feeling that had begun to spread throughout her body several moments earlier.

  What was the matter with her? It was worse than the times with Henrietta.

  When the musicians had downed their instruments and the last of the applause died out, she asked Alphonse if they might walk.

  ‘Did you not like the music?’

  ‘I enjoyed it very much, thank you. It’s another matter.’

  ‘You may speak of your friend, if it helps, the one from the convent?’

  ‘I can’t think of what to say. It would not make any sense, I fear.’

  Henrietta had not been at Saint Anne’s for long before rumours began to circulate about her behaviour. She tried to make alliances with compliments and gifts, but it was obvious she did not belong. Yes, her spirit burned too brightly, but it was not that – that could be dimmed. She used to pinch herself at dinner, refuse to eat her supper and burst into tears in the middle of vespers. She was sent to the Abbess several times for corporal discipline and spiritual counsel, but nothing seemed to work. The nuns did not know what to do with her. After a while she began to shake her head and rock herself in the middle of lessons, her arms wrapped around her shoulders as if only she were there. Well before anyone else, Angelina had sensed her fragility, her need for protection.

  ‘I think of her too much,’ Angelina said, ‘but my thoughts are full of confusion.’

  ‘Can you write to her?’

  She turned to Alphonse, her throat tightening. ‘I cannot, I’m afraid. She died last winter.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Alphonse, regret in his voice. He touched her chin and looked into her eyes.

  Overwhelmed by the intimacy of the gesture, Angelina quickly glanced away. Her throat felt dry. She threaded and unthreaded her fingers.

  ‘I did not know,’ Alphonse said. ‘Forgive me for prying. I—’ he clasped his hands behind his back. ‘I was under the impression you were especially fond of her. Your mother only said there’d been some trouble with a close friend. I thought it was a romance between girls. I was intrigued. I see it was a different matter.’

  Angelina froze, shocked at his forwardness.

  ‘I’m sorry, your mother—’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Angelina. ‘She doesn’t know the half of it.’ She forced a note of brightnes
s into her voice. They were heading toward the carriage, the stroll along the breezeway under the palaces settling her jumbled emotions. She tucked her arm into Alphonse’s. ‘I’m afraid I’ve dominated the afternoon, carrying on about my sad past. I know nothing about you. You must have many exciting experiences to tell me about.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alphonse. ‘Though I am best at inventing them in my room – all alone.’

  ‘I know your kind very well,’ Angelina said.

  ‘On that note, I wish to ask a small favour,’ he said as they arrived at their carriage.

  ‘If I might request one first: that we pass by my sister’s house on the way home? I promised to visit her.’

  ‘Of course. Just ask the driver.’ Inside the carriage, Alphonse reached into a bag and drew out a package. ‘Would you mind passing this on to Marie Catherine? It’s why I’ve been so quiet. You may glance at it too, if you’re bored one evening. But I’d really like her opinion.’