The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of The Birdman's Wife.
1699. The salons of Paris are bursting with the creative energy of fierce, independent-minded women. But outside those doors, the patriarchal forces of Louis XIV and the Catholic Church are moving to curb their freedoms. In this battle for equality, Baroness Marie Catherine D'Aulnoy invents a powerful weapon: ‘fairy tales'. When Marie Catherine's daughter, Angelina, arrives in Paris she is swept up in the glamour and sensuality of the city, where a woman may live outside the confines of the church or marriage. But when close friend Nicola Tiquet is arrested, accused of conspiring to murder her abusive husband, illusions are shattered and dark secrets revealed as all three women learn how far they will go to preserve their liberty.
Restoring a remarkable woman to her rightful place in history, and revealing the dissent hidden beneath the whimsical surfaces of Marie Catherine's fairy tales, this is a deeply absorbing portrait of a time, a place, and the subversive power of the imagination.

Release date: October 29, 2019

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 393

Sample

Prologue



Nicola

30 March 1699

The fortune teller Madame Lagasse rented rooms in the attic of a three-storey wattle and daub house: pigeons in the eaves, buckled limewashed walls and exposed beams that threatened injury from every angle.

‘My skin prickles,’ whispered Nicola Tiquet.

‘Be calm,’ advised her companion, Mathe de Senonville. ‘You will enjoy it.’ Mathe’s terrier, Puck, was busy at her feet, sniffing the floorboards. Gathering him up, she deposited the dog into Nicola’s arms. ‘Here, give him a little stroke.’

Warily, she accepted the attention of Mathe’s excitable pet, smiling despite herself as he fussily arranged himself on her lap and leapt up to lick her neck.

The waiting room window offered Nicola a view of the narrow laneway below, where a hodgepodge market of quacks was selling all manner of miracle cures: unguents that dissolved wrinkles, compresses for leprosy and distemper, tinctures to sharpen wits, bewitchments to wither the virility of a former lover. At the shout of a police lieutenant, the begging orphans, oiled confidence men and bartering tarts ran hither and thither like chickens alert to a fox in their coop, dispersing in a flurry of dropped wares and curses.

When her dear friend had collected her that morning, Nicola had been determined to enjoy the diversion, absorbing the swirling street life of her Saint-Germain neighbourhood. But as the open-topped carriage had approached Île de la Cité, she had clutched Mathe’s arm in discomfort. Crossing the Seine’s bridges – not once but twice – she tightened her grip. Soon, the broad avenues and carved stone facades were well behind them. Arriving at their destination, she had stepped gingerly behind Mathe down the coach’s tiny stairs, reluctantly setting her foot on this crowded, smelly laneway in the Marais.

They were not the only customers. The door of the waiting room opened and a gargantuan fellow, stooping low to avoid a ceiling joist, ducked inside. He held the hand of a young boy dressed in a blue silk jacket and breeches, the same shade of blue worn by a clerk in the civil courts. The shade of blue Claude wore.

Nicola returned Puck to Mathe and closed her eyes, breathing as deeply as her tight stays allowed, determined not to look at the boy. She was too weary for such thoughts. Her bottle of sleeping draught empty, she had spent a long night changing positions beneath the heavy covers of her canopied bed. She dug into her pocketbook and felt for her handkerchief, winding the fabric around her fingers. The tip of her thumb throbbed purple, and she pulled at the lacy edges, making a tear.

‘Remember what I told you,’ Mathe instructed. She was not to look the soothsayer in the eye; she was not to fidget with her clothing, nor handle the objects on the consulting table. And, most importantly, any questions she was asked must be answered truthfully. ‘She will know if you lie.’

‘Then she shouldn’t need my answers at all,’ protested Nicola.

‘Come now, my dear,’ said Mathe. ‘Don’t be afraid. Madame shall divine a bright future for you. She’s most famous for it.’

Nicola’s name was called out. She followed a serving boy into an antechamber, furnished with a round table, two cane chairs and a smoky fire. Taking a seat opposite the aged fortune teller, who was bundled inside layers of dark grey linen and wool, a knitted wrap covering her hair, Nicola recalled her friend’s warning. She settled her gaze upon a zodiacal chart hanging on the wall beside the fireplace. A gnarled cross, perhaps composed of driftwood, was mounted above the mantelpiece. She stifled a shudder, wishing for the elegantly framed mirror in her private chamber, which commanded order to the room; a certain comfort.

Madame Lagasse demanded Nicola’s hand and she laid it open for inspection. The fortune teller grunted, pulling Nicola’s palm toward her purplish nose. She was half-blind. Disconcerted, for the examination seemed to take a long time, Nicola counted the oranges in a bowl by the window. Six.

Under the woman’s scrutiny, Nicola’s hand felt exceedingly warm. She supposed Madame was making deductions about her home life, judging her by the softness of her skin. Anyone could tell that Nicola barely lifted a finger to do anything aside from study the fashions in le Mercure galantand wave a frustrated fist at her husband, or reprimand her son about his German lessons. She felt a blush rise at the thought.

‘In two months,’ announced Madame Lagasse, ‘your great trouble will be over, your enemies vanquished.’

Nicola started, snatching back her hand. The temperature in the chamber seemed to have dropped several degrees. She felt disquieted, noticing, embroidered into the cuffs of the fortune teller’s shirtsleeves, crescent moons and a death’s scythe. The cross above the struggling fire, upon closer scrutiny, was square, some pagan perversion. She felt a shiver curl down her spine, as if inside the dimpled skins of the oranges were the foetuses of malformed urchins, the shrivelled bodies of bats and toads, the familiars of a wizard or witch.

Nicola touched the bruise at her ribs. It had healed under the physician’s compress, and she was able to bend and sit without pain. In her discomfort, she pressed her fingers into the sore spot again and again, making herself wince while she waited for Madame Lagasse to elaborate upon her mysterious prediction.

‘I have a husband,’ began Nicola, unthinking. ‘I don’t see how my troubles could possibly be over while he lives.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Madame Lagasse.

Nicola’s tongue had been loosened, as if she had taken too much wine. ‘He’s mean-hearted. Jealous. He keeps me to my rooms.’

It was happening more frequently. Claude visiting her chamber, sullen and sarcastic. Then when he left, the sound of the key turning in the door. So many evenings spent alone and in silence, not even a servant to speak to.

‘I see,’ said Madame Lagasse, drawing her brows together. ‘Your palm records an unusual twist. Let me cast my tarot.’

‘Please,’ said Nicola.

Madame opened the drawstrings of a red velvet sack. She removed a deck of painted cards and began to shuffle them. Spreading the cards over the table, she instructed Nicola to select four. A hangman, a fool, a maiden, death.

Madame Lagasse’s large brown eyes regarded Nicola. The old woman cleared her throat with a brisk cough. ‘Not more than two months from this day’s date,’ she declared, ‘your life will be changed. Forever.’

Nicola’s pulse began to quicken. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Remember our Lord,’ intoned the fortune teller. Efficiently, her face masked as if she were dealing a second hand to a common gambler, she gathered up the hideous cards. ‘He protects his flock beyond the last moment of breath.’

‘You mean that I’m cursed,’ Nicola said, breathless. She wiped her hands on her skirt – they were grimy and sweaty – and stood, stepping hurriedly towards the door.

‘If you don’t wish to pay, it’s your affair,’ Madame Lagasse called out behind her. ‘Consider the reading my Christian duty. Forget not your God.’ She pulled the cord on the sack tight.

Nicola realised she had neglected the fee. She dug into her purse and returned to lay several sous on the table. Taken with an ill foreboding, she patted her hot cheeks as she left the tiny chamber.

In the waiting room, she grasped Mathe by the elbow. ‘We’re leaving.’

‘What about my reading?’ asked Mathe. Puck, clutched to her chest, let out an excited, protesting bark.

‘Now,’ insisted Nicola. The fortune teller had shattered her peace of mind into a thousand sharp and tiny shards. How far she had fallen, allowing herself to be subjected to such an undignified torture.

Angelina

30 March

Angelina stood alone by the door, rehearsing the names her mother had mentioned earlier that morning, studiously trying to connect them to the women – and they were mostly women – who were now filling the room. Madame du Surat had arrived early and was sitting close to the makeshift stage due to her fading eyesight. The ageing poet was occupied by filling her gloved palm with sunflower seeds, which her pet Alexandrine parrot nibbled. A maid tapped her shoulder and offered a soft cushion for her bottom.

Also familiar to Angelina were her sister Deidre’s friends, spread across two tables, commanding the full attention of the wine-bearing waiters. Though Deidre herself was confined to her bedchamber in advanced pregnancy, her friends were already unruly, chortling and talking over one another, as if consignment to the nursery had robbed them of the ability to make meaningful conversation. They appeared to be making up for lost time.

Angelina had spent all morning preparing for this event, helping the servants to clean the apartment on Rue Saint-Benoît and directing the kitchen staff about the afternoon’s menu. It was the last Tuesday of the month and, as usual, Baroness Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy had opened her private chambers to hold her exclusive literary salon.

Across the room, the spry Madame du Noyer, who was hosting the salon, wagged her finger to attract Angelina’s attention.

‘Where is Marie Catherine?’ she whispered when Angelina reached her side.

‘You know how Maman likes to time her arrivals,’ Angelina replied, making a wry face. ‘Shall I ask Sophie to find her?’

‘It can wait,’ replied Madame du Noyer. She smiled at Angelina, revealing large, straight teeth, her eyes lit with calculating intelligence as she moved further into Marie Catherine’s crowded chamber, checking the arrival of the most important guests.

A beautiful young woman sailed into Angelina’s view, along with a pair of twittering friends; her extravagant gown was the same pale green as the ducks’ eggs Angelina used to collect from the convent garden. Her name, Angelina knew, was Mademoiselle Peronelle. She was sixteen, her skin soft as mouse fur, beauty patches on her cheek and curling lashes framing her brown almond-shaped eyes. Angelina observed the starched white lace and combs in her wig – how did she keep her head from drooping? She was like one of the sugared pastries on the serving tables, enticing Angelina to stare, daring her to take a bite.

A giggle cut through Angelina’s thoughts. ‘That jacket! She must have offended her maid!’ someone said in an affected whisper.

She realised that the words came not from Mademoiselle Peronelle but from one of her galleon of lesser vessels, Mademoiselles Jocelyn and Anja, if Angelina remembered correctly, who flanked each side. The group was moving toward her, watching her, their painted lips bunched in derision, heads bent together behind a carved fan to exchange their delicate morsels of gossip. She must have appeared too obviously impressed by the pretty young woman.

‘Which of you is regaling us this afternoon?’ asked Angelina, pretending she’d not heard their comment about her handsome but out-of-date jacket, borrowed from her other sister, Theresa. In her bedchamber looking glass she’d been satisfied, but perhaps the mesdames were correct. Since her arrival in Paris she had discovered that she had little intuition about face powder and hairpieces and jewelled mules. Baubles on shoes? The Abbess would have a fainting fit.

‘I have a poem,’ ventured Mademoiselle Jocelyn. ‘If my name is drawn, I’ll be prepared.’

‘I shall listen out for it,’ replied Angelina.

Mademoiselle Peronelle, elbows tucked into her friends’ voluminous sleeves, made a hidden signal, and like a troupe of street performers they about-faced as one, moving with tiny mouse steps towards the wine table and its orderly arrangement of crystal goblets.

Angelina would not let those idiots upset her. With luck, she thought, their pretty shoes would make their toes bleed. She could almost hear the Abbess reprimanding her: ‘You should not indulge unkind thoughts.’ Perhaps the Abbess was right – what did they matter? Take away their wardrobes and maids and allowances and what lay beneath? Puppies climbing over one another for milk.

She moved back towards the wall, her eyes once more searching the crowd. It would be refreshing to meet a young woman with interests other than competitive toilette, or with ambitions more original than snaring a beau or feigning excitement over an arranged marriage. When her mother had suggested that Angelina become her secretary, leaving behind the convent in which she had lived since the age of four, she’d been assured that she would find friends easily. ‘There are many clever young people in Paris,’ Marie Catherine had said, ‘you’ll accustom yourself quickly enough.’ As the daughter of the great Baroness d’Aulnoy, Angelina would gain entry to the city’s highest literary circles – an ideal introduction for a woman of her interests. She was not yet twenty, her mother had reasoned. Perhaps the convent was not the best place for her, and life as a nursing sister not her true calling – how would she know if she did not explore the world a little? But to Angelina’s disappointment, it appeared there was little she shared with her mother’s young admirers.

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 scratched 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 lo. . .