Chapter Three
There was nothing Céleste Fortier could imagine wanting more than to be hundreds of miles from her family. Those who were in Paris, leastwise. In Paris and over the age of five. That narrowed the list to only two horrible Fortiers, but those two were plenty.
“You could have been more attentive toward Mme D’Aubert.
Her son is the perfect age for you.” Marguerite, Céleste’s generally well-meaning but overbearing sister-in-law, hadn’t veered from the topic of the younger Monsieur D’Aubert through the entire carriage ride back to their Paris home.
Finding Céleste a husband had been a significant part of her brother Jean-Francois and Marguerite’s focus for nearly two years.
And she had been too trapped to escape those machinations.
But Céleste had been working on a plan, one she was nearly ready to put into action. She simply needed to tread carefully until then.
“Mme D’Aubert’s son was not present,” she said. “You needn’t worry that I didn’t show him enough attention.”
Marguerite was undeterred. “Make no mistake, Céleste. Of all a gentleman’s family, it is the mother’s opinion that matters most.”
Precisely the reason Céleste never offered any encouragement to any of the mothers in Paris with eligible sons.
It was a delicate dance though. So much of her life was controlled by her brother that she had to be careful not to reveal to him that she was intentionally undermining her family’s efforts.
“I do not think I made a poor impression on Mme D’Aubert,” she said as the carriage stopped in front of their home. “Even if she thought me a bit too quiet today, she did not seem displeased with me.”
Marguerite pondered that as they alighted onto the pavement. Céleste wasn’t worried that her reassurance wouldn’t work. She had done this countless times before.
By the time they had been divested of their outerwear and had climbed the stairs, aiming for the parlor where they generally spent their afternoons, Marguerite’s expression had settled into one of contentment.
She rested her hand briefly on her abdomen, a stance she’d begun assuming of late, though Céleste didn’t think her sister-in-law realized she was doing so.
She’d done the same during the early days of her pregnancy with Adèle.
Though neither she nor Jean-Francois had told Céleste directly, she felt certain she would have another niece or a nephew in a few months’ time.
“Mme Lapointe will be at tonight’s gathering,” Marguerite said. “She is worth continuing to make a good impression on as well. Her son is only a couple of years younger than you are.”
From inside the parlor, Céleste’s brother offered his commentary. “At this point, Céleste is old enough that nearly all the unattached gentlemen are years younger than she is. It is a miracle Monsieur D’Aubert has shown any interest at all, he being a couple of years her junior.”
It was not only unfair; it was untrue. Most men of their station didn’t marry until they were near to thirty or even beyond.
Céleste was only just twenty-five. Still, she knew Jean-Francois was frustrated with her unmarried status, and she’d learned over the past two years how miserable he could make things for her if he chose to.
Ignoring the barb, she spoke to Marguerite instead. “How long do you suppose we will be at the soiree this evening?”
“For its entirety.” Her sister-in-law looked horrified at the mere hint that they might cut their participation short.
Céleste had fully anticipated that answer; she was counting on it, in fact. “That is likely to be hours.” She slowly lowered herself into a chair. “Do you suppose Mme Lapointe will object if I choose not to stand throughout the gathering?”
“She is too gracious a hostess to object.” Marguerite eyed Céleste with the confusion she so often did.
“But, my dearest sister, standing flatters your figure so much more than sitting. Surely you could summon the fortitude to remain on your feet. We are attempting to capture some gentleman’s eye, after all. ”
“I suppose I could manage to stand throughout.” Céleste rendered her voice a little weak but not so much as to draw undue notice. “It will indeed last for hours?”
Jean-Francois crossed to her, eyeing her with more curiosity than suspicion this time. Her months-long efforts were beginning to pay off. “You grew weary last evening as well, and far sooner than I would have expected.”
“That has happened a few times of late,” Marguerite added, her studying expression matching her husband’s. “Thinking back on it, you’ve struggled to claim your usual vitality for weeks now.”
Careful to sound as though she didn’t place a great deal of importance on the situation, Céleste said, “I have felt a little lacking in vigor. If I simply lie down this afternoon, I will regain some of my elusive endurance.”
Marguerite turned a bit toward Jean-Francois. “She seems to be growing tired more swiftly. Perhaps we ought to send for Dr. Mercier again.”
“It might be another of her ruses.” Jean-Francois offered the theory without full conviction.
“I have not attempted in over a year to avoid the Society gatherings you require me to attend,” Céleste said. “And I am not attempting to do so now. I simply had hoped for a bit of rest before the next one.”
That appeased him. Excellent.
“Before you lie down, though, let us sort out what is to be done the rest of the week.” Jean-Francois led Marguerite to the sofa nearest where Céleste sat. The two of them faced her. It was an arrangement she knew well.
At least once every week in the two years since she’d struck the devil’s bargain she had with them, they had sat her down and dictated to her what was expected of her. She was told where she would go, how long she would be there, who she was to talk with, and how she was to behave.
“May I request that my schedule include the opportunity for rest?” she asked. “And I would appreciate having time to play my violin now and then.”
“Rise earlier if you wish to use up time with your music,” Jean-Francois said.
“I will likely be even more tired than I am if I do so,” she warned. “But if that is the only option available to me, I will adapt.”
Jean-Francois stiffened a little, a sure sign Céleste needed to tread even more lightly.
“Your options are determined by me,” he said. “That is what you agreed to.”
She had, actually, though she’d not fully appreciated what that meant two years earlier.
Jean-Francois had been cheating their brother, Henri, out of much of his income.
He’d insisted on continuing the fraudulent behavior, knowing Henri was too poor and too far away to force his hand.
Céleste had agreed to let Jean-Francois dictate her comings and goings, even go so far as to deny her the opportunity to travel to England to see the brother she actually liked, if Jean-Francois would restore Henri’s means of survival.
The arrangement had quickly become a prison. But Henri and his wife, Céleste’s best friend, had been granted the ability to marry and build a life. They had gained that, and she was now working to gain a bit of freedom herself.
“I will not object to those things you want me to participate in,” she assured Jean-Francois. “I learned very quickly not to do that.”
He looked quite pleased at the memory of those torturous first six months after she’d struck this bargain with him.
She’d attempted then to push back against his demands.
There’d been arguments about the social calendar, about the encouragement she was meant to give various suitors, about things as simple as Céleste visiting the millinery shop without his approval and Marguerite’s accompaniment.
The harder she’d pushed back against his tyranny, the tighter his grip had grown.
The day he’d brought his man of business to the house to give instructions that Henri be cut off entirely unless Céleste’s “rebellion” came to an end, she knew she had to comply. Or at least appear to.
“The soiree tonight,” Marguerite said. “Tomorrow, I need to visit my milliner.”
“I could play my violin while you are away at the hatmaker’s shop instead of rising early tomorrow to do it.”
Jean-Francois didn’t let that suggestion stand. “You will go with her.” He took such pride in the power he had over her.
One of the male servants stepped inside the room and unobtrusively presented Jean-Francois with a sealed letter. He flipped it over and broke the wax.
Seeing her opportunity for departure, Céleste rose. “I will go lie down now.” She was required to tell her brother or sister-in-law before she went anywhere, even within the house.
Jean-Francois looked up from his letter. “We have not finished our discussion.”
That meant “Stay.” Sometimes she felt like the family dog, given commands and very little dignity.
“I will remain in the room.” She liked to, now and then, state her adherence to his demands in ways that recaptured some of the idea that she had a choice. It helped her remember that she would not remain trapped forever.
She wandered a bit away from them but did so with slow movements.
She needed to give the impression of diminishing health and strength.
She had secured the cooperation of Dr. Mercier, who had agreed to offer an expert evaluation of her condition that matched what she needed her family to believe.
He had, weeks earlier, declared her fatigue to be unexpected.
During his most recent examination, he had told them, in strained tones, that she was growing decidedly worse.
In another week or two, he would declare himself sufficiently concerned to recommend Céleste’s removal to the family estate in Picardie.
Jean-Francois and Marguerite would never quit Paris while Society was still there.
Standing and connections and perceptions were of paramount importance to them.
The marriage they were focused on finding for Céleste was motivated entirely by those three things.
Her feelings mattered very little. Her happiness even less.
That she had thwarted their efforts to marry her off as long as she had was a miracle she didn’t expect to last much longer.
She wasn’t necessarily holding out for a love match.
Céleste had been in love exactly one time in her entire life, and the object of her affection had proven painfully and embarrassingly uninterested.
While she could see how happy marrying for love had made Nicolette and Henri, she was aiming for a match with a man who wouldn’t rule her life with a cruel and iron fist as her father had and as her brother was now doing.
She need only hold out for a fortnight more, and she would be away from Jean-Francois and Marguerite’s schemes and dictates.
Further, she meant to ask if her niece, Adèle, could return to the countryside with her.
The little girl spent nearly every moment of the day away from her parents, ensconced in the nursery with the nursemaids.
Though it ached Céleste’s heart to acknowledge the coldness that had grown in her oldest brother over the past years, the sweet, tenderhearted five-year-old girl would not be overly missed by her parents. Her absence might not even be noticed.
“Is it another of those horrid letters?” Marguerite asked in a strained whisper.
“Yes.” Jean-Francois’s voice matched hers. “And I am growing rather weary.”
“Weary? What you ought to be is worried.”
Céleste turned ever so slightly, just enough to see her brother and sister-in-law out of the corner of her eye without them realizing she was watching them.
“Until this letter writer identifies what I am meant to do in order to end his threats, I refuse to find his blustering anything but bothersome.” Jean-Francois didn’t look as unconcerned as he was clearly attempting to sound.
What were these threats he had been receiving?
Marguerite leaned enough to read over Jean-Francois’s shoulder. “I cannot like that he has mentioned your family. That feels . . . significant.”
Jean-Francois folded the letter once more and tucked it into a pocket. “There are people in France just now who take delight in causing consternation. We won’t allow this troublemaker to upend us.”
Marguerite nodded but looked disconcerted.
“We have increased our fortune, and our standing in Society has never been better. These letters are, no doubt, simply the result of resentment.” Jean-Francois wore a stern expression, but there was worry in his eyes.
A footman stepped into the parlor. “Visitors, monsieur and madame.”
Visitors? Céleste hadn’t heard anyone was expected. Based on the surprise she saw on Jean-Francois’s and Marguerite’s faces, these visitors were a surprise to them as well.
“Show them in,” Jean-Francois instructed.
The footman moved aside, clearing the doorway.
A golden-haired gentleman walking alongside a lady with a hint of red in her brunette hair stepped into the room.
Céleste knew them both on the instant, having met Lord and Lady Lampton during the very house party in England at which she’d struck her bargain with Jean-Francois.
What had brought them to Paris?
Before she could take more than a step in their direction, another familiar face entered. Familiar. Unexpected. Upending.
Lord Aldric Benick, of all people.
Lord Aldric Benick, who hadn’t been interested at all in her heart when he had managed to capture it years ago. Infuriating man.
Two more arrivals stepped over the threshold.
Céleste pulled in a breath, instantly forgetting her annoyance with Aldric. “Henri!” She rushed across the room and threw her arms around him.