The Magician's Wife by Brian Moore Read Free Book Online

Emmeline nodded, choking back the bile in her throat.
    ‘It’s too cold,’ the Empress said. ‘It’s this November damp. We are going back now. I advise you to do the same if you’re not feeling well.’
    With that, the Empress and her-lady-in-waiting were helped up into their seats. Emmeline turned away so that they would not see. She retched.
    A chamberlain came running across the grass. ‘Madame is ill. Would you like to go back, Madame?’
    Miserable, she nodded her head, fumbling in her muff for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She heard the chamberlain call, ‘Georges!’
    A coachman came up, touching his fingers to his cap in salute. ‘If Madame will follow me?’
    He led her to a phaeton, helping her up and tucking her in under a heavy robe. Some of the watching villagers turned to look at her as the little carriage trundled off down a royal road. In the distance the angry staccato of guns sounded strangely like the cawing of crows. And then she was alone, quiet, away from the noise of carnage, hearing only the clop of the horse’s hoofs, the coachman on his bench in front of her, head nodding as the phaeton jolted towards the château of Compiègne.
    The sky went dark. Spits of rain increased to a drizzle. The coachman raised an umbrella, handed it back to her, then whipped his horse into a gallop. Emmeline sat, eyes shut, head bent, the umbrella stick clutched in her hands like a processional cross, nausea again rising within her. If this rain continues the shooting will end and they’ll come back to the château looking for some new diversion. Killing birds, hunting stags, tea parties, banquets, charades, concerts, dancing, anything and everything to get them through the boredom, snobbery and indifference of their lives. Why did I pretend the Colonel wasn’t one of them, he’s the one who brought us here, how could he ever be attracted to someone like me, whatever it is he wants from Henri, it suits him and amuses him to flirt with me, I’d be a fool to think it’s anything else. If only this carriage were taking me to Rouen. Papa would give me medicine to stop this retching, Marie would undress me, make me a tisane, and put hot-water bottles in my bed. I’ll tell Henri I’m sick, I’ll say I have a fever, I’ll say I can’t be sick here, I’ll ask him to send me back to Tours with that old servant, she’ll take care of me, he doesn’t have to come, he can stay on for the rest of the week, showing off, talking to the Emperor about whatever it is they want him to do, anyway he’s angry with me, he was furious this morning when I was late for lunch and when I didn’t want to go to the chasse à tir . No one will miss me. I’ll go to bed now. Tomorrow morning, I’ll leave.
    The phaeton rumbled through the great arches, leading to the central courtyard. As it crossed the courtyard, a major-domo who was standing in the main doorway signalled that a carriage was approaching. Two lackeys came running out to help Emmeline descend.
    ‘Madame was taken ill,’ the coachman called down. At once, the major-domo looked at a list and called out the number of the Lamberts’ apartment. The lackeys like solicitous nurses led her up the long flights of staircase and into her room. A third servant brought in firewood and laid a fire in the sitting-room grate.
    ‘Will we summon your maid, Madame?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    She went into the dark bedroom, shut the door, took off her dress and stays and got into bed. The nausea came back in a wave, then passed. Within minutes, exhausted, she fell asleep.
     
     
     
     
    ‘Madame? If you please? Could you drink this?’
    She woke to a darkened room lit only by two flickering candles. Standing over her was the old maidservant, offering tisane in an elegant porcelain cup, her hands’ slight tremor causing the cup to jiggle on its saucer.
    ‘What time is it?’
    ‘It is eight o’clock, Madame.’
    Eight o’clock. They will be finishing dinner .
    ‘I