Fergus was more than adept at his profession, and nearly every day brought in a new selection of His Highness’s correspondence; sometimes I was hard pressed to copy everything before Fergus’s next expedition, when he would replace the items abstracted, before stealing the new letters.

Some of these were further coded communications from King James in Rome; Jamie put aside the copies of these, to puzzle over at leisure. The bulk of His Highness’s correspondence was innocuous – notes from friends in Italy, an increasing number of bills from local merchants – Charles had a taste for gaudy clothing and fine boots, as well as for brandywine – and the occasional note from Louise de La Tour de Rohan. These were fairly easy to pick out; aside from the tiny, mannered handwriting she employed, that made her letters look as though a small bird had been making tracks on them, she invariably saturated the paper with her trademark hyacinth scent. Jamie resolutely refused to read these.

“I willna be reading the man’s love letters,” he said firmly. “Even a plotter must scruple at something.” He sneezed, and dropped the latest missive back into Fergus’s pocket. “Besides,” he added more practically, “Louise tells ye everything, anyway.”

This was true; Louise had become a close friend, and spent nearly as much time in my drawing room as she did in her own, wringing her hands over Charles, then forgetting him in the fascination of discussing the marvels of pregnancy – she never had morning sickness, curse her! Scatterbrained as she was, I liked her very much; still, it was a great relief to escape from her company to L’Hopital des Anges every afternoon.

While Louise was unlikely ever to set foot within L’Hopital des Anges, I was not without company when I went there. Undaunted by her first exposure to the Hopital, Mary Hawkins summoned up the courage to accompany me again. And yet again. While she couldn’t quite bring herself to look directly at a wound yet, she was useful at spooning gruel into people and sweeping floors. Apparently she considered these activities a welcome change from either the gatherings of the Court or the life at her uncle’s house.

While she was frequently shocked at some of the behavior she saw at Court – not that she saw much, but she was easily shocked – she didn’t betray any particular distaste or horror at the sight of the Vicomte Marigny, which led me to conclude that her wretched family had not yet completed the negotiations for her marriage – and therefore hadn’t told her about it.

This conclusion was borne out one day in late April, when, en route to L’Hopital des Anges, she blushingly confided to me that she was in love.

“Oh, he’s so handsome!” she enthused, her stammer entirely forgotten. “And so… well, so spiritual, as well.”

“Spiritual?” I said. “Mm, yes, very nice.” Privately I thought that that particular quality was not one which would have topped my own list of desirable attributes in a lover, but then tastes differed.

“And who is the favored gentleman, then?” I teased gently. “Anyone I know?”

The rosy blush deepened. “No, I shouldn’t think so.” She looked up then, eyes sparkling. “But – oh, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I can’t help myself. He wrote to my father. He’s coming back to Paris next week!”

“Really?” This was interesting news. “I’d heard that the Comte de Palles is expected at Court next week,” I said. “Is your, um, intended, one of his party?”

Mary looked aghast at the suggestion.

“A Frenchman! Oh, no, Claire; really, how could I marry a Frenchman?”

“Is there something wrong with Frenchmen?” I asked, rather surprised at her vehemence. “You do speak French, after all.” Perhaps that was the trouble, though; while Mary did speak French very nicely, her shyness made her stammer even worse in that language than in English. I had come across a couple of kitchen-boys only the day before, entertaining each other with cruel imitations of “la petite Anglaise maladroite.”

“You don’t know about Frenchmen?” she whispered, eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, but of course, you wouldn’t. Your husband is so gentle and so kind… he wouldn’t, I m-mean I know he d-doesn’t trouble you that way…” Her face was suffused with a rich peony that reached from chin to hairline, and the stammer was about to strangle her.

“Do you mean…” I began, trying to think of some tactful way of extricating her without entangling myself in speculations about the habits of Frenchmen. However, considering what Mr. Hawkins had told me about Mary’s father and his plans for her marriage, I rather thought perhaps I should try to disabuse her of the notions that she had clearly picked up from the gossip of salon and dressing room. I didn’t want her to die of fright if she did end up married to a Frenchman.

“What they d-do… in… in bed!” she whispered hoarsely.

“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “there are only so many things you can do in bed with a man, after all. And since I see quite a large number of children about the city, I’d assume that even Frenchmen are fairly well versed in the orthodox methods.”

“Oh! Children… well, yes, of course,” she said vaguely, as though not seeing much connection. “B-b-but they said” – she cast her eyes down, embarrassed, and her voice sank even lower – “th-that he… a Frenchm-man’s thing, you know…”

“Yes, I know,” I said, striving for patience. “So far as I know, they’re much like any other man’s. Englishmen and Scotsmen are quite similarly endowed.”

“Yes, but they, they… p-p-put it between a lady’s l-l-legs! I mean, right up inside her!” This bit of stop-press news finally out, she took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her, for the violent crimson of her face receded slightly. “An Englishman, or even a Scot… oh, I didn’t m-mean it that way…” Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment. “But a decent man like your husband; surely he would n-never dream of forcing a wife to endure s-something like that!”

I placed a hand on my slightly bloated stomach and regarded her thoughtfully. I began to see why spirituality ranked so highly in Mary Hawkins’s catalog of manly virtues.

“Mary,” I said, “I think we must have a small talk.”

I was still smiling privately to myself when I walked out into the Great Hall of the Hopital, my own dress covered with the drab, sturdy fabric of a novice’s habit.

A good many of the chirurgiens, urinoscopists, bonesetters, physicians, and other healers were donating their time and services as a charity; others came to learn or refine their skills. The hapless patients of L’Hopital des Anges were in no position to protest being the subjects of assorted medical experiments.

Aside from the nuns themselves, the medical staff changed almost daily, depending upon who found themselves without paying patients that day, or who had a new technique that needed trial. Still, most of the free-lance medicos came often enough that I learned to recognize the regulars in short order.

One of the most interesting was the tall, gaunt man whom I had seen amputating a leg on my first visit to the Hopital. Upon inquiry, I determined that his name was Monsieur Forez. Primarily a bonesetter, occasionally he would attempt the trickier types of amputation, particularly when a whole limb, rather than a joint, was involved. The nuns and orderlies seemed a bit in awe of Monsieur Forez; they never chaffed him or exchanged rude jokes, as they did with most of the other volunteer medical help.

Monsieur Forez was at work today. I approached quietly, to see what he was doing. The patient, a young workman, lay white-faced and gasping on a pallet. He had fallen from the scaffolding on the cathedral – always under construction – and broken both an arm and a leg. I could see that the arm was no particular challenge to a professional bonesetter – only a simple fracture of the radius. The leg, though, was something else; an impressive double compound fracture, involving both the mid-femur and the tibia. Sharp bone fragments protruded through the skin of both thigh and shin, and the lacerated flesh was blue with traumatic bruising over most of the upper aspect of the leg.