‘What, and send your audience to sleep? I shan’t think they’re an interesting topic.’
‘Baron d’Aulnoy is rather infamous, though.’
Angelina glanced up the street, hoping to find a carriage. ‘Mind you watch yourself. He was imprisoned in the Bastille. We never talk of it.’
‘It’s only a thought. Given that the piece I’m working on has fallen dead under my fingers,’ said Alphonse.
‘I shall help you to revive it,’ said Angelina. ‘Leave it with me. Perhaps I can make a note or two.’
Alphonse offered to ride with her to the apothecary, joking that in exchange she might recommend him something to help his sleep. He found it hard to rest after an evening’s writing. His mind jumped and bounced about.
‘It depends if you are serious, or just mocking me. A glass of wine or two should do the trick.’
She was glad Alphonse volunteered to be her chaperone. The apothecary was in a poor part of Paris and she hadn’t been looking forward to going alone. They travelled for a mile alongside the Seine, the cordial wearing off, her cares beginning to return. She worried she was taking up Alphonse’s precious writing time. For several minutes, they were stopped at a crossroads, just a little way from the apothecary. A wheel had come off a cart and was being rescued from the middle of the road.
She peered into the busy street. Her attention fell on a narrow alleyway, the half-timbered buildings bending over slightly at the fifth level, as if they might slip together. Washing hung out of the windows to dry. A row of geraniums, red and pink, bloomed from a bright blue ceramic pot.
A high-pitched noise made her start, and she put her hand to her chest.
Against the walls of the first apartment she noticed a flare of blue silk, violent in its dye, the most expensive pigments used to achieve its eye-catching hue. A Chinese-inspired mantua, rucked up, stockinged legs above pretty street shoes. A woman was pressed against the side of the building, her legs parted. Into the space was fitted, like a puzzle piece, a large man, taller than the woman by a full head, wavy brown hair fallen below his shoulders, dressed in the uniform of the city police. The envy of his comrades, she imagined. The woman’s hair spilled down the front of her dress. As the pair moved together, the woman’s mantua became further dislodged, and Angelina saw her bodice, its buttons opened, the flowers painted on the silk. Lace in her hair, rouge on her cheeks, too many face patches. The woman’s head was tipped back, the man’s face buried in her cleavage.
He pressed into the woman and she submitted, the couple performing a writhing ballet against the walls. Aware that she might be caught looking but unable to take her eyes from the pair, rutting like dogs in the street, Angelina felt her cheeks turn pink.
The trinket-sellers and orange-hawkers, the quacks and working women were all going about their business. Angelina patted her forehead. She needed to open the window; it was stuffy inside the carriage. Hurry up with the wheel, she thought, forcing her fingers not to reach out and knock on the driver’s window. No, she should be patient. She turned her head towards Alphonse and saw that he was staring at her, his lips wet and full. She wanted to trace the tip of her finger along his nose, his jaw. She wanted to take his head and pull it down, so that he was lost in the folds of her own bodice.
Alphonse looked at her, his expression open, his eyes searching hers. What did he want her to do? How should she respond? She closed her eyes and let out her breath. She felt her heart hammering, the little vein in her temple pulsing. She took the base of the curtain in her fingers and pulled it shut. There. They – she – need not be bothered by such vulgarity.
‘I wish this carriage would hurry up.’ She hoped her voice did not sound husky. She was filled, head to toe, with shame. With desire. She wished she were alone. She wished the carriage would not move. She wished she could watch the couple, take in their every frenzied move, stare nakedly at them. But Alphonse was with her, Alphonse was watching her, and she could not respond. She had lost her voice, like the policeman nearing the end of his busy thrusting. In Angelina’s mind, the scene continued: the woman grasped her hat and looked around, seemingly growing impatient. Angelina embellished the scene in her imagination, recalling the horses she had seen mating, the rooster chasing the chickens in the garden at Saint Anne’s.
The carriage began to move and she turned her thoughts to the items she would purchase at the apothecary’s, the quantities of each, and whether she had enough coin in her purse.
Alphonse did not feel like waiting in the carriage and instead accompanied Angelina into the apothecary. He was soon chatting to the perfumer, watching his pretty young assistant as she dabbed the stopper from a small glass bottle onto the palms of his gloves. Angelina turned towards the front of the busy shop. She waited in line for ten minutes before finally handing her order to the apothecary. As he worked, she tried to forget the scene she had witnessed. Just when she was beginning to imagine Paris as her home, starting to enjoy its frenetic bustle, she had been confronted by the sight of the alley coupling. All the work she had done to put the convent behind her threatened to unravel.
Since leaving Saint Anne’s, she had witnessed a fight, a stabbing, a theft; she had viewed women with babies at their breast, children at their hips putting their hands out to ask for money; she had seen unkempt youths covered in sickness; she had peered into the soulless eyes of drinkers and gamblers and almost choked on the filthy stench of night soil. How on earth was she supposed to feel safe? All she wished for was calm, solace, comfort. To have her heart sit on its perch in her chest, a finch in its cage, any singing that it carried out under her strict control. Not to have it flustered and smashing against the sides of its prison, frightened within breaths of its life. It was too much for her. She was used to denial, contemplation.
‘Will that be all?’ asked the apothecary. His lips curled into a friendly smile beneath his florid nostrils. He had a striped kerchief at his neck and his belly strained against a leather apron, like a butcher’s, to protect his skin from the herbs and medicines he dealt in.
Before Angelina stood a glass bottle, filled with a glaucous green liquid, a package of herbs to be steeped in hot water and mixed with ginger and honey and lemon, a tin of lozenges to ease her father’s hacking cough, and two plants – a fresh comfrey and a lavender – that she had decided would cost less to tend herself, rather than continuing to draw her supply from the apothecary. She bought packets of medicinal herb seeds imported from Amsterdam to plant in the courtyard at the back of Marie Catherine’s apartment. While she showed no interest in gardening herself, her mother delighted in fragrant teas and sweet-smelling pomades, and encouraged the idea.
Angelina was counting out coins when she caught a sharp whiff of perfume. A voice behind her protested. She glanced to her left, shocked to discover that the woman in the blue mantua was standing next to her, having pushed her way to the front of the line. She rested her elbows on the counter. ‘I shall only be a moment,’ she said to the man who had protested, flashing him a look one might give an irritating lap dog.
‘My dear Madame!’ exclaimed the apothecary, looking fondly at the woman.
The woman cast her eyes over the bottles and packages Angelina had amassed before her. ‘Someone’s faring poorly!’ She picked up the pain-relieving draught, the strongest Angelina knew about, and turned it in her hands. She put it down again, pinning Angelina with her eyes. ‘This is meant for real pain. But it doesn’t work.’
‘For my father,’ said Angelina. The words came rushing out, she didn’t know why she was speaking to the woman, but her rouged cheeks and kohl-lined eyes, her creased brow and stunning though faded beauty, commanded Angelina’s attention. ‘He’s extremely unwell. To make him comfortable.’
The woman looked at the apothecary. She leaned forward on the counter. ‘Why don’t you give her some proper medicine?’ she said, her voice a low whisper. ‘You never spare me.’ She winked at Angelina. ‘May I suggest preparation l’Chinese,�
�� she ventured. ‘I nursed my tumour-ridden husband with it until his last days.’
‘It’s expensive,’ said the apothecary. ‘But effective. One only need ask. It’s not in my catalogue.’
‘Money is never better spent when it comes to crippling pain,’ said the woman.
Arrested by the woman’s glamour and attention, by what she had seen her do not a half hour earlier in the street, Angelina nodded at the apothecary. ‘Just a small bottle,’ she said. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the woman.
Angelina did not mention that she knew all about preparation l’Chinese.Indeed, she had not considered it for her father, despite the multitude of his illnesses, but she knew from what she had seen in the convent that it was a powerful drug. The third sister in charge had been addicted to the solution, and it had fallen to Sister Agatha to take care of her. But Sister Agatha had been ill one weekend and forgotten to include the order for the drug on the list she sent out to the apothecary. The nun had run out of the supply she administered herself. Angelina had been called into the infirmary to look after her, for she was fitting and thrashing and turning about in her cot, as if the devil were trying to choke her. She writhed and foamed at the mouth, attacking another nursing sister. Prayer, brandy, tying her to the bed had not worked. The woman would not stop begging for the physician, insisting he oblige her with another dose of the drug. Against conventual practice, Angelina had called the physician out. She watched him administer a dose to the nun and then marvelled as she quickly calmed herself down. The following day, Sister Agatha had taken her aside, had her give over the nun’s medicine and told her she would take care of the case from then on. She refused to speak with Angelina about what had happened. The impression it had left on Angelina, aside from one of shock, was that it must have been an effective drug indeed. She studied the nun for the next few weeks, and her behaviour was normal. From then on, whenever she caught sight of the high-ranking sister, she was reminded of the incident in the infirmary. But the nun seemed in good health, and Sister Agnes never spoke of the matter, or the drug, again.
Perhaps her father had a tumour, like the woman’s husband. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to keep the medicine on hand, should his suffering become unbearable.
Alphonse helped her to sidestep the garbage in the street. Sitting in the carriage, her purchases at her feet, he placed a small, plain-wrapped package in her lap. ‘For you.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur Aperid.’ She touched his arm, and he did not shrink back. She moved, opening the package tied with ribbon, her elbow brushing his, deliberate. Again, he did not pull away. She looked at him, and he met her eyes, a wordless intimacy passing between them.
Inside the package was a handkerchief, red silk, a posy of lavender and thyme carefully wrapped in its folds. ‘Here, let me pin it to your wrist.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely.’ She brought her wrist to her nose. ‘And so considerate. There’s no getting used to the stink of this part of town. Here, breathe it in.’
Folding the handkerchief, she glanced through the carriage’s window, savouring the scented air, a feeling of pleasure opening inside her body. When the carriage arrived at Marie Catherine’s apartment, Alphonse had his footman help with her packages. He kissed her hand, tipping his hat before climbing back up the small set of stairs.
Watching as the carriage disappeared around the corner of her street, making its way alongside the Seine to Alphonse’s home, Angelina felt a vein in her neck begin to throb. Opening the door to her mother’s apartment, she slipped inside, closing it quickly behind her. The maids had not heard her come in. Her packages dropped to the floor and she closed her eyes, let her weight slump against the heavy oak, put her hands to her hot cheeks.
Marie Catherine
18 May
Angelina crouched in the strip of dirt in the tiny courtyard behind the kitchen, inspecting the leaves of a comfrey plant. Earlier in the week, she had borrowed a maid’s apron and set to work, digging out the weeds and turning over the soil, making holes with a spoon and pouring dried seeds from a multitude of paper packages into the depressions. Marie Catherine sipped her tea, marvelling at this creature who was her daughter. She hadn’t realised how willingly Angelina had been trained in herbs at Saint Anne’s. How was it that instead of helping her along with her struggling manuscript, she had been spending her days preparing medicines for the Baron and her evenings reading the drafts of Marie Catherine’s protégé? Angelina did not seem to comprehend – or if she did, found ways to not dwell upon the fact – their pressing financial circumstances. Indeed, if Marie Catherine was not mistaken, her daughter appeared to be in her element. Whatever was her secret, she wondered?
Standing at the back door, she called out to Angelina, wishing her a good morning. ‘When you’re finished, clean up please, and find a smart dress to wear.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Angelina, a smudge of dirt on her nose. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I promise we won’t be long,’ said Marie Catherine. ‘I don’t feel like travelling alone today. I’m too upset.’ She took the letter that had arrived that morning from her pocket and unfolded it.
‘Who’s been writing to you?’ asked Angelina, frowning.
‘Your father,’ said Marie Catherine. ‘He’s looking into the background of Nicola’s associates.’
Angelina threw her trowel into the dirt. She stomped through the back door, pushing past Marie Catherine. Standing at the ewer, she washed the dirt from her fingers.
‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Marie Catherine.
But Angelina did not answer. Wiping off her hands on a cloth, she marched out of the kitchen. Marie Catherine stood listening to her daughter’s footsteps, which echoed up the stairwell, all the way to the top floor of the apartment. She heard her chamber door open and close. Shaking her head – what mercurial moods her daughter was having – Marie Catherine turned her attention back to the letter.
Her estranged husband had mustered his last reserves, after the messenger sent over Angelina’s medicines, and put the word out about Nicola’s case:
I cannot say what it is worth, but I discovered several gleaming little nuggets of intelligence for you. In the tavern that one of my sources frequents, the fellow came across news that a certain Cattelain, an all-purpose chap who hangs around the docks cutting deals and running errands for galley criminals, has been peddling stories about his involvement in a conspiracy organised by Madame Tiquet. The man is a thorough degenerate, so you should consider yourself warned as to the veracity of his claims. Apparently, he is prone to bouts of regret for his criminal activities and goes on searches for redemption, during which time he confesses to myriad crimes. He has sought nuns, priests, prostitutes and fellow ruffians to listen to and absolve him of his sins. But, it seems he cannot learn a thorough lesson – or earn a steady income – because, come the next season of hardship, he returns to his unrewarding life of crime.
Cattelain has been bragging in a tavern at the docks that Madame Tiquet’s valet came to him, several years ago, with a handsome proposition. He was asked to gather together a band of ruffians and carry out a favour, for which he would be handsomely rewarded. The valet from the Tiquet household showed him a purse full of coin, promising that it was but an instalment, the remainder of the sum of which was to be tallied and paid once the deed had been carried out.
No matter how my informant tried to cajole the fellow, he failed to reveal the nature of the favour, except to say it was a capital crime. He grinned at my man, showing his several remaining teeth, and drowned out the evening in a pot of brandy. The fellow was both an idiot and a fool, but I have an ear on the scoundrel. It is all very well and good, but the business the chap has been ranting about occurred more than three years ago, and hardly applies to the charges Nicola Tiquet currently faces.
Do as you like with these words, advised François. He went on to write that he had another piece of information, come to him by his own manservant. This rumour was doing the rounds
, not of the taverns but of the back rooms and corridors of Paris’s palaces and manor houses, on the tongues and in the ears of the housekeepers and servants who were connected to one another in a warren of generations-long relationships. They kept their own counsel and gossiped behind tight lips, avoiding the law. Nobody wanted to lose their job. François offered his dunce of a footman money for information, and this was the story the fellow delivered:
Quite curious indeed. The events took place at an earlier time than the affair with Cattelain, some five years hence. An uncle’s cousin’s sister recalled the incident and relayed it on the great serpent of Chinese backroom whispers to my footman.
A young fellow, employed in the role of valet-de-chambre to Monsieur Claude Tiquet, had developed a fear of his master’s wife. When pressed, he could not explain how or why, just that it was a feeling, the flesh creeping beneath his skin – the woman was very beautiful, but calculating and cold – whenever he was in her presence.
You may interpret the material as meaningful or irrelevant. Whatever you like. Perhaps don’t pay it too much heed, in matters to do with the justice system.
Regardless, relations between Madame and Monsieur Tiquet were frosty indeed, according to the fellow, who suffered trembling fits serving at dinner. There was a great fight one evening that led to the severing of cordialities at suppertime. Instead, Monsieur Tiquet requested that his meals be brought to him in his room. Not long afterwards, the youth was given instructions from Madame to bring his master a porringer of broth. It was his favourite. He had not spoken directly to his mistress, rather the message had come down through the foul-mouthed old cook, and there was a gleam in his eye, when he gave the boy the bowl. This aroused the suspicions of the fanciful young man. As he climbed the stairs to his master’s apartments, he passed Madame, red-faced and distracted, as if she had been crying. She asked what he was doing with the bowl of broth. The fellow relayed the cook’s message and a knowing look passed across the woman’s face. The boy got into a fluster, apparently, as he crossed the threshold into his master’s chambers, affecting at tripping over the rug. The bowl and its contents were tossed onto the floor. His master shouted at him, and he was too overcome to respond. He instead fled that very night, for he was convinced that the strange-smelling broth was laced withpoison. And that was the last the Tiquet family heard of the lad, or his relatives, for he disappeared. It is said he left Paris for Amsterdam.
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 18