Part 6: Fundamenta Botanica

"Leave him, Anne-Louise!" fumed the Comtesse de Gace. She had seized her friend's hands as Anne-Louise reached across the low table to take hold of the chocolate pot, and now she would not let go as she pushed back the flowing lace of Anne-Louise's sleeves to reveal the purpling bruises that covered her soft, white arms. A heavy application of cosmetics could not fully disguise still more bruises on the Comtesse d'Agnier's plump, pretty cheek and graceful white neck.

"I cannot, Victoire, and you know I cannot. You know that Lugeac left me nothing, and I married him, and then Rigaud, against my family's wish. They will not help me." Anne-Louise tugged her hands out of Victoire's grasp and took hold of the chocolate pot. It was of the most delicate Limoges porcelain, palest pink and traced with gold, and so fine as to be translucent. She poured the rich brew into a pair of minute demitasse, and sighed.

"He will never let me go. He cannot remarry without a divorce, and he cannot divorce and remain in the church. He wants an heir."

"Then give him one!" Victoire set down her cup without taking a sip. "And leave!"

Anne-Louise shook her head. "Really, Victoire! To think that I would give a child of mine into the care of such a man, even if I could afford to go! And you know, my dear, that I loved Lugeac. I never wanted anything the way I wanted a child of his. But in ten years of marriage, for all my prayers to the Virgin, I never once conceived. And it has been five years with Francois-Adolphe. I think I must be barren."

Victoire frowned and picked up her cup. "Does Francois-Adolphe not know this? Why then will he not let you go?"

"He is a stubborn and a spiteful man," was the reply. "Perhaps he still hopes. Perhaps he merely wishes to punish me now. Who knows?"

"It is absurd. What will you do, petite?"

The Comtesse d'Agniers leaned back in her chair, silver-gilt and upholstered in white silk velvet, the back stuffed and tufted and buttoned to a luxuriant cloudlike softness into which she sank with a sad little smile.

"Lie in the bed I have made for myself," she said, "Certainly, it could be worse." She waved her hand at her surroundings, the pale pink and silver sitting room, with its ankle deep Aubusson carpets, its silver gilt furnishings, the very walls lushly upholstered and padded in blushing pink and silver striped damask. The tall windows were draped in layers of magnificently patterned India cloth, and looked out on a landscape of deep green lawn with so much box hedge Rigaud had hired half the village to clip it into scores of fantastic shapes: swans and unicorns, dragons and fleur de lis. In the kitchens and cellars he employed the other half, cooking and cleaning, laboring, fetching and carrying.

She sighed again, tiredly. "I suppose if a child of mine were to inherit all of this, then there would at least have seemed to be some purpose to what I must endure. I had hopes, once, that Monsieur would come to recognize Lucien as a son, and perhaps name him as his heir. To link his name to a line as old as Moncoutant, I thought, would be just the sort of thing he would desire. But, they despise each other." She shook her head slowly. "I do not know what is to become of us all, my dear Victoire. I simply do not know."

*****

Deep in the wood beyond the painfully manicured gardens of the Chateau d'Agniers Imogene knelt on the moist, moss covered earth, having found at last what she had been seeking. Sunlight filtered through the trees, just enough to nourish the low, spreading growth of this shrubby plant with its small, dark green oval shaped leaves and blackish purple berries.

Her maid, Annette, had a particular complaint, and had confessed it to her mistress at last when Imogene had made repeated inquiries. Imogene had asked her what she wished to do about it, and the girl had dissolved in tears, saying that she did not believe there was anything to be done, and that she supposed she must now burn in Hell.

Burn she might. Imogene had her doubts. But a woman need not suffer in this life with the consequences of an act for which men endured no such penance.

Couvrir l'honte---"Cover Shame"---was the secret name of the herb savine.  It was a painful method, and would cause terrible cramping and bleeding, and utmost care must be taken not to overdose and cause a fatal hemorrhage, but at least there was not the far greater risk of infection that came with other means that involved the introduction of implements into the womb. Soeur Veronique would always say that the pain must be commensurate with the sin, but again, Imogene could not see the justice in this. She would adjust the dosage to cause as little discomfort as possible and yet still have its effect. She would prepare the dram with an careful infusion of willow bark to further dull the pain.

How ironic, Imogene thought, that the source of one woman's shame should be one and the same as another's dearest hope and greatest joy. She finished filling a little muslin sack with the savine leaves and drew taut the strings before placing it in her basket. She was careful to wear gloves for gathering the leaves as the oils of the plant could be absorbed through the skin and have the same effect as the prepared medicine. As she rose slowly, she placed a hand flat upon her still perfectly flat belly.

"This one will live," she told herself.  This time she would be so careful. It had been her fault, she knew, that the others had died. She had not been eating, or she had been running, or she had exhausted herself, staying up far too late to paint, breathing the bad smells of the turpentine and paints that cannot have been good for a baby. The bleeding had started, the blood first bright pink, and then red, and then brown, and Tante and the midwife had not wanted her to see what had finally come, but Imogene had insisted. They looked nothing like babies, of course. She had seen it before, but still she could not believe this was happening to her, once, and then again.

This time she would be so careful. She would make sure that Lucien was careful, too. Maybe she should not even let him come inside her. Maybe she would just do the thing with her mouth that he loved so much.

She'd had a letter from him that morning. The new little dauphine, Marie Antoinette, had been married by proxy in Vienna, and they would depart on the morrow to begin the progress to France. The real wedding would take place in a month's time, at Versailles. In a month's time, she thought, she would be nearly five months gone. If she could keep her baby safe from harm until then, then she could tell Lucien. The occasion of the royal wedding would be a joyful and auspicious time. Yes, she would tell him then.

Emerging from the wood she stepped out into a blaze of sunshine. She was not wearing a hat, and in a matter of moments she could feel its warm intensity as the deep blackness of her loose hair absorbed the heat of the sun. She closed her eyes, and arching her back, raised her face to the sky. She felt bathed in warmth, as if she might stretch out right here on the ground like a little black cat and have a good, long sleep. Lucien was always telling her she felt cold. When he had one of his headaches, or one of his terrible dreams, he would always want her to press her cool hands to his face and forehead. She had never been bothered by the cold; it was true. She supposed she was used to it, having grown up in the couvent where there was never a fire in the room where she slept, and the common rooms were only kept warm enough to keep the inhabitants from freezing. Still, she luxuriated in warmth. When Lucien was in bed with her she would curl herself against his back, tucking her knees up under his, feeling the radiant heat of his body seeping into her bones like a lizard on a hot rock.

With her eyes closed, feeling the warm sun on her face, and with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of Bordeaux pine, she could almost imagine she was home. In her mind's eye she pictured the windswept, empty moor, the tall golden grasses of the marsh, the gleam of the sun on the river. Lucien slept, his head in her lap, and she ran her fingers through his beautiful, soft black hair, while in the sky above them, Le Fantome Gris soared, floating in lazy circles, searching for a kill.  

Here was not home. She did not like Paris. Noisy, crowded, dirty, the streets ran with sewage and the very air seemed thick and yellow and contagious. Anne-Louise had taken her to attend the court at Versailles, and even there, for all the thousands of potted orange trees, and for all of the flowers in the many gardens, the stink and the noise was such that Imogene had felt a rising sense of panic, as if she was unable to breathe. It was the smell of ten thousand courtiers and five thousand servants who were all in competition for not enough bathtubs and too few privies. Close by the royal chateau was the royal abbatoir, where day in and day out the squeals of pigs and the bellows of cattle having their throats cut mingled with the constant playing of the King's musicians. On the edge of Versailles was a great midden, and on a hot summer's day, when the wind blew in the right direction, the smell drifted all the way to the Chateau d'Agniers.

Here at Agniers, at least there was space and air and peace, but the house itself, although large, was so dense, so full of things, that it gave Imogene a sense of closeness and confinement. Rooms led into more rooms that led into still more rooms. No wall was without paintings in heavily gilded frames. No room was without marble, or mirrors, or intricate paneling and swags of carved this and that—cupids, violins, flowers, animals. On every surface were fancy glass and gold clocks, vases of hothouse flowers, bric-a-brac, china dogs, cats, and shepherdesses.

There was one room, however, that belonged to Imogene alone. It was a small chamber on the third floor that had never been finished. South-facing, the large windows let in abundant, pure light that bounced and reflected off smooth, white plastered walls. Here was where she painted, and where she kept all of her own special things: her specimens, her collections, and where she dried her herbs and made her preparations and medicines. Lucien said that he would never return to the Chateau de Moncoutant, but Imogene hoped one day, where there was money, they might return to Muzillac and build a house of their own. She imagined a strong, square house of pure white stone, and every room in it would be like this one: plain and open and washed with light. The walls would be hung with her own paintings, and there would be quiet places to work and study. There would be no harsh noises, only be the pleasant sounds of Lucien's voice and her babies' laughter.

As she walked towards the house, she saw that the carriage of the Comtesse de Gace was being taken around. She must have only just arrived. Imogene thought of the Comtesse's little dog. He had been old, and when Imogene had looked into his eyes she had known his pain. She had closed her eyes and seen the growth inside him, the disease of rampant flesh that spreading, crablike and insatiable, devoured him from within. "C'est le cancere," she remembered Veronique's hushed words as they prepared the body of an old man from the village for burial. She had shown Imogene the man's insides, overrun by the obscene invasion of evil, burgeoning flesh.

Imogene had learned that if she was patient, and waited and watched very carefully, the answers to her difficulties would always present themselves. And so it was when the little dog became excited and wanted to chase Rigaud's horses. Suddenly, Imogene saw the circle closing, and it was such a simple matter, after the lead of plaited silk had slipped from her wrist, to bring things to a conclusion that was best for all concerned. The little dog had no more pain. Madame La Comtesse was now her friend. And Imogene's husband was back where he belonged.

If only the answer to the problem of le Comte d'Agniers would make itself known.

*****

"Ah, petite!" Anne-Louise cried joyfully as Imogene entered the sitting room. Imogene took her aunt's hands and kissed her lightly on both cheeks.

"Madame," she crossed to greet the Comtesse de Gace in the same manner, and Victoire noticed as the skirts of the girl's expensive looking gown of pale gray silk belled around her ankles, that her feet were bare, and very dirty. Her extraordinary black hair fell all around as she leaned forward to kiss, and there were tiny leaves caught in it here and there. She smelled of earth. "Odd little creature," thought the Comtesse, not for the first time. And just to torment herself, she wondered what she must be like for Lucien in bed.The girl was beautiful, she conceded, in her own unique way, and Victoire had her theories as to what it was that so bewitched Lucien about her. For one thing, they were extraordinarily alike: the black hair, the clear green eyes, both small and fine featured. Lucien did have a certain attractive delicacy about him for a man. Victoire wondered if there was not a degree of vanity in the attraction. And there was the mystery, the originality of Imogene. Victoire had enough experience with men to know how they dearly loved an enigma.

"Sit, my dear," urged Anne-Louise, " Have some chocolate."

"Oh, non, ma Tante," said Imogene, sinking onto a tufted foot stool, "My stomach…the chocolate does not agree with the baby." She set her basket on the floor beside her. "I've found some raspberry leaves to make a tea that will help…perhaps just some hot water?"

"Of course, petite," Anne-Louise looked at her tea table and frowned. "Odile did not bring the water. Where is the girl?" She picked up her little silver bell and rang it frantically, and then, impatiently, leaped to her feet. "Must I do everything myself?' she fussed. She came forward and kissed the top of Imogene's head. "Un moment, ma petite maman," she murmured indulgently before bustling off in search of Odile.

"Your husband knows that you are enciente?" asked Victoire.

Imogene slipped off the footstool and knelt in front of the tea table. "No, Madame. It is too soon to tell him." She reached into her basket and took out a small square of muslin, some thread, and her scissors, and began to make a sachet, snipping the raspberry leaves into tiny bits. "I do not wish him to be disappointed…again."

This last was spoken so softly, so haltingly, that Victoire's heart gave a little sigh. The girl was so tiny. There was really nothing to her. She hardly looked capable of sustaining her own life, never mind enduring a pregnancy and the birth of a child. Perhaps she should not be having children at all, and the miscarriages were God's way of telling her so. It was heartbreaking; Lucien so loved this girl. Victoire resolved to light a candle and say a rosary at evening Mass for the protection of her lover's wife and unborn child.

Not knowing what to say next, Victoire merely watched for a moment. Imogene laid her scissors down on the table, and began to tie up her sachet with the thread.

"How very unusual!" the Comtesse remarked. "May I?" She leaned forward in her chair and picked up the little scissors. Victoire fancied herself something of an expert on fine silver and jewels. She held them up close to her eye, examining the intricacy of detail, the finely etched feathers of the hawk that made up the body of the piece, the graceful upturn of the wings that formed the handle, the winking golden jewel that marked the bird's eye. "Lovely. The workmanship is Venetian, yes?"

Imogene did not look up. "I don't know Madame."

"Were they a gift from your husband?" Victoire had seen the hawk emblem on the hilt of Lucien's sword, inherited from his father.

 " No," answered Imogene," I am told they belonged to the woman who bore me. They are the only thing I have of hers."

Victoire thought it a most unusual choice of words. "You did not know your mother?"

"No, Madame. Not even her name. She died, I think. The man who was my father gave me into the couvent. I think, too, he must have died."

"Poor child," Victoire looked up as Anne-Louise bustled back in, followed by a sullen-looking Odile, who carried the silver hot water pot.

"What are we talking about?' asked Anne-Louise cheerily as she plumped herself back into her chair, and gestured for Odile to pour the water into Imogene's cup.

"Babies, ma Tante," answered Imogene, smiling slightly. Victoire wondered why the girl had not told the truth. She dropped the scissors back into Imogene's basket.

Imogene got to her feet, picking up her basket and teacup. "Please forgive me, ma Tante, Madame. Would it be all right if I take my tea up to bed?  I would like to have a rest."

"Of course, petite. Odile, carry Madame's things for her," ordered the Anne-Louise

"Rest well, my dear," said the Comtesse de Gace, thinking the child did look tired and pale," I remember when I was pregnant! I could have slept all day!"

*****

"Who is she?" whispered the Comtesse de Gace after Imogene had left the room.

Anne-Louise shrugged. "All I know is that Lucien was determined to have her, and that she brought a dowry of fifteen thousand livres. She is the Marquise de Muzillac now."

Victoire poured more chocolate and helped herself to a truffe de Perigord, "I am afraid for her."

"I might have helped him find a likely girl, had I been given the chance," sighed Anne-Louise. "She is a dear thing, but not a breeder, certainly, and I share your apprehension, Victoire. Lucien does need sons. He is the very last of them!"

"His father was an only son?"

"Emmanuel? Yes. There was only the sister, Elodie." Anne-Louise looked significantly at her friend over the rim of her cup. Then, feeling suddenly superstitious, she crossed herself. " I should not speak of that one. My poor sister. What she must have endured. May God rest her soul."

*****

When Imogene awoke, the room was dark. It seemed very late. No one had come to wake her for dinner. Her stomach churned. Why was it called the mal de matin, when she felt sick all of the time?

The bed ropes creaked, and she felt the mattress dip, as if someone was sitting on the edge of the bed. Lucien. She rolled onto her back, a little smile on her lips.

A hand covered her mouth, heavy, strong, the skin as dry as paper.

Not Lucien. Of course not, how could it be? Him.

"Quiet," he said calmly.

Her mind raced. She had been so careful, bolting her door every night, but this time, of course, she had gone to sleep in the middle of the day. Ever since Lucien had gone, she'd had an apprehension. The way Rigaud looked at her, the way he stood too close when he spoke to her and found excuses to touch her, had put her on her guard.

She could barely make him out in the grainy darkness. He was a bigger man than Lucien, powerfully built. He hurt Anne-Louise. She knew he could hurt her. She lay very still.

"Good girl." Slowly, he let his hand slide away from her mouth. It came to rest, lightly, on her throat. His thumb lay directly over her pulse, and Imogene knew he must be able to feel how wildly her heart was beating.

"Please, Monsieur." The words came in a raspy whisper. She did not think she could scream, even if there had been any hope that doing so would save her.

"Please, Monsieur?" he mocked her. "I did not think to be asked so politely."

Her only thoughts in the next grim minutes were to keep from being hurt, to keep him from hurting her baby, but her fear and revulsion were so strong, her body closed so tight against him, she could not shut out the pain, and in the end, she could not keep from fighting, even though her resistance seemed somehow to please him. She heard him laugh in the darkness as he forced himself into her. She fought desperately, snarling, scratching, twisting her body, trying to throw him off her. He smothered her with the flat of his hand across her mouth, easily holding her arms above her head with the other. He seemed to batter against the very edge of her womb, an alien force that violated her to the core. At last she felt his seed rush into her, heard his grunting satisfaction as he pulled out of her, falling heavily to one side.

Shaking with shock, Imogene crawled backwards to the head of the bed, and pulling her shift down to cover her legs, curled herself into a tight little ball against the headboard. He was standing beside the bed, tying his dressing gown around him.

"Oh, for God's sake, you're all right!" he sneered, looking at her.

"My baby," was all she could think. She realized she had spoken the words aloud when she heard him snort.

"With any luck, you'll lose this one, too," he said, and then her heart leapt into her throat again as he sat down on the bed once more and reached for her. She shivered and shrank as he stroked her hair. She felt her gorge rising, and pressed her fist against her mouth.

"You should be nicer to your Oncle Agniers, Imogene," he said lightly, "I might have a mind to make your little prick of a husband my heir. I know you are thinking that he will kill me when you tell him what has happened between us tonight, but somehow, I do not think you will tell him, will you, petite? You are much too intelligent a girl. You know that he wants what I have, and if he kills me, what will he have then? Anne-Louise is still young and beautiful. The suitors descend on a rich widow like flies on a corpse, and you know as well as I the stupid woman has no force of will. Why should the next husband look kindly on the nephew who killed the last? Just nod your head, cherie, I know you are agreeing with me."

Imogene had never felt so cold in her life. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She closed her eyes and willed him to be gone. Then she felt the bed shift as he got to his feet once more.

"Give it some thought, cherie," he was leaving, the darkness closing around him, only his voice still touched her. "His heir and my heir could be one and the same, don't you see? Everyone has what they want, yes?"

*****

Five days after suffering her third miscarriage in less than two years, Imogene sat in the gardens of the Chateau d'Agniers. On her knees was a well-worn copy of the "Fundamenta Botanica" of Linnaeus, and in her hand she clutched the thick, fuzzy stalk of a flower that had many common names: Witches' Gloves, Dead Men's Bell's, Foxglove. "Digitalis purpurea", was its name in her book.

Imogene had long known its uses. In careful preparations, it was a cure for apoplexy, useful for lowering the pressure of the blood, and for steadying the rhythm of an inconsistent heart. It was also a marvelously effective poison, and depending on its administration, could kill slowly, over the course of many months, or quite swiftly, in a matter of minutes. In either case it imitated the natural demise of the diseased heart.

She had a great many things to consider. Plans to put in order. This morning over coffee she had noticed once more the bruises on Anne-Louise's throat and arms.

She got to her feet and shook the grass clippings from her skirt, and tucking Linnaeus under her arm, headed for the house.

Anne-Louise greeted her with a smile as she walked into the white and gold salon. She was arranging an enormous spray of white lilies and Imogene could smell their honey-thick fragrance from all the way across the enormous room.

"Petite," said her Aunt. "You are looking so well!"

"Madame," said Imogene. "I would like to talk to you about your husband."

Go to Part Seven