The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Twenty - You May Now Bow Down to My Brilliant Schemes

“I didn’t believe you could be any more of an imbecile,” Jacqueline said, “yet here we are.” 

I scoffed. “Excuse you. My plan is brilliant. You’re just angry because you didn’t think of it first.” 

Jacqueline made a disapproving grumble and glanced over to the de Coligny’s home, separated from the bustling Faubourg Saint-Germain by a walled garden. We crouched behind a copse of yews right outside the stone walls, watching a young female servant resume her hanging of the freshly laundered family livery. The rain-soaked air was suspended above us like heated soup, but the clouds had cleared, and the sky shone blue and bright, wisps of steam rising from the wet streets and swirling into the sunlight. 

“So, you propose we climb over the wall once the servant leaves?” Jacqueline asked. Now that we were no longer in the church, her face took on its usual frown, tugged down in the corners like every word out of my mouth was more disagreeable than the last. 

“Yes, that is exactly what I’m proposing.” 

Her frown deepened. “And how are we to do that without being seen?” 

I pointed to a corner of the wall, shielded by overhanging willow trees, their green leaves glistening with rainwater. “The wall over there has a bunch of chipped stones that provide the perfect handholds for climbing.” 

“Do I want to know how you became aware of this?” 

“Mathieu de Coligny used to fancy Renée. When she rejected his advances, he told everyone she built an altar to him in her bedchamber and prayed to it every night before she went to sleep.” 

“Goodness.” 

I grinned. “Naturally, this upset Renée when word got out, and I retaliated by sneaking over this wall to dig up the de Coligny’s garden with spoons.” 

Jacqueline blinked. “You dug up the garden with. . . spoons?” 

“Indeed.” The servant disappeared through two cream French doors, and I started for the wall. “Onward we go!” 

In my memory, climbing over the wall had been a far easier task. I grunted and cursed and struggled my way to the top, blaming my shoddy progress on the wet stones and not on the tightness in my chest or my sudden desire to prove to Jacqueline I was less of a cowering weakling than she presumed. At the top, I hurled myself over, pausing for a long moment to catch my breath, and glanced up to oversee Jacqueline’s progress. 

She—to my chagrin—had reached the top with no trouble at all, but now sat frozen, one leg dangling over the side and the other bent at an odd angle under her satin skirts. 

“Jump!” I whisper-yelled. “The drop isn’t too high.” 

She tightened her grip on the wall. “Give me a few seconds.” 

Then it dawned on me. “You’re afraid of heights,” I said, clapping my hands in delight. 

“No.” She scowled. “I’m afraid of falling. They are two entirely different things.” 

“I really don’t think they are.” 

“This dress is heavier than what I’m used to wearing,” she snapped. “That’s all.”