Chapter 3 #2
Celine wasn’t too sure about that herself.
Short of it being a deal between their families, it represented little else.
And certainly not that great love between Celine and Jacques their families enjoyed talking about.
Celine had never been in love with Jacques.
Not when her parents had introduced the idea to her; not when they had started going to dinner together almost every night; not even now that Jacques was going to propose.
And she knew he was going to propose, because that, too, had been planned.
They had known each other since their early teens, when Jacques and Ana?s had enrolled at the same school Celine and Bastien attended.
Ana?s had immediately become her friend, insisting that Celine spent every second of their afternoon at the Ménard mansion.
But she and Jacques had never shared anything more than a friendly greeting and a side-hug.
They had never expected that in six short years they would be forced into an engagement.
“That is not exactly what I meant,” Celine said.
“What is it then?”
Backed up against the vanity table with her mother’s cold gaze scrutinising her, Celine suddenly felt like a butterfly being pinned for display.
She cleared her throat quickly, and before she could lose her nerve, said, “I could help restore our family’s name by making a name for myself. In the fashion world.”
Up until that point, Madame LeBeau’s face had held a semi-neutral expression. Her thin brows levelled, her full lips relaxed, her blue eyes—the same as Celine’s—filled with idle curiosity. Then everything started to come together towards the centre of her face, leaving behind angry crinkles.
“What?” Madame LeBeau hissed. “Do you even hear yourself sometimes, Celine? I truly wonder that. ‘Make a name in the fashion world,’ she says. ‘Help the family—”
“How do you know it won’t work?” Celine shot up from her chair. “If you would just let me try—”
“We have discussed this, Celine, do not vex me further,” her mother returned bitterly. “Girls of your social scale do not work.”
It was the same argument again and again. Celine was tired of hearing it, but she wasn’t too tired to make her mother see her side for once.
“I couldn’t care less what those girls do. I don’t wish to be a socialite my entire life. If you would only take a minute and see my designs. Maman, please! Why do you think marrying me to Jacques is a better idea? Don’t you want our family to be known for something we did ourselves?”
Madame LeBeau held up her hand. The strings of pearls on her wrist slid down her arm, clicking together. “That is not for you to decide. Now finish up. The Ménards will be here any minute, I’d rather they’re not greeted by our screaming.”
Keeping up appearances had always been more important to her mother—and even her father at times—than anything else going on around them.
They had always preferred to sweep their quarrels and issues under the rug and present only the best. And when the guests would leave, when the party would be over and Celine would hope the rug would be rolled up and stored away to display their issues once more, her parents would simply walk over it and forget about everything.
“Don’t you care that you are forcing me to do this against my will?” Celine whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. It was the last excuse she had left to make her mother see. “Don’t you care that I’m going to marry someone I don’t love?”
Madame LaBeau pinned her a disappointed look. She took Celine’s chin between her delicate fingers and lifted it sharply to meet her eyes. “Love matters very little, my girl. You will learn that marriage is only business for families like ours.”
Quietly, she leaned in and swept a kiss on her daughter’s forehead to hush her up.
“And you will thank us one day. Jacques is a caring young man. There is nothing more you could want. Besides, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your father. He is counting on this.”
And just like that, Celine could do no more than shake her head.
“Good. Don’t forget to wear these.” She dropped a pair of white satin gloves on Celine’s lap. “Since you insist on doing that to your fingers.”
Celine peered down at her hands. Each of her nails was painted blue—darker than midnight—and glinting disobediently back at her mother. Another thing Madame LeBeau refused to accept.
The turn of the decade had brought changes along with it.
Before, the years differed by increments.
Now, 1921 felt like a whole new world compared to 1911.
Maybe it was just the remnants of the war and the need for renovation that had made people move forward at such a speed that the old ways had been buried along with the dead.
Carriages had turned into motorcars; letters into telephone calls; Art Nouveau into Art Deco—or le style moderne.
Celine had come to understand that the whole point of these changes was to present a liberal lifestyle, unshackled by the oppressive propriety of the 19th century.
And in fashion it meant less restrictions; more room for experiments. More room for expression.
Madame LeBeau, however, insisted on viewing the glamour and the glittering excesses with distaste.
Perhaps it wasn’t her fault entirely. Celine hadn’t done her very best to show her that these changes weren’t such a bad thing.
Those rebellious appearances in the gossip magazines as The Vampire and her visits to cabarets long after midnight hadn’t helped either.
In her mother’s eyes she had turned into one of those reckless New York flappers.
“Soon you’ll start smoking and drinking like a man,” she would say. “You’ve already started going out half naked!”
She looked down at the gloves and closed her eyes.
“I don’t think I will wear them tonight. They don’t go with my dress,” she said quietly and averted her eyes to the mirror again, gazing at her mother through the reflection as Madame Lebeau hummed discontentedly and exited the room.
· · ·
The moment Celine stepped out into the hall, Francine was already climbing up the stairs, a crisp, white envelope in her hand. Celine rushed to meet her halfway.
“Is that it?” she urged excitedly. “The letter?”
“That foolish boy had misread the address,” Francine said. “Open—”
“What is this business about secret letters?” A voice asked from the landing.
Celine’s eyes went wide. She shoved the letter back into Francine’s hands, stepping aside to let her pass through. Then she put on the most dazzling smile she could muster and rushed down the stairs to greet Jacques.
“Do you have any secret admirers I should know about?” he teased, leaning in and brushing his lips against her cheek. “No one whispers on the stairs about mail unless it’s love letters.”
“And why would I admit to my boyfriend that I was whispering about love letters?”
Jacques chuckled. Tonight he looked the embodiment of all the adorations the gossip columns reserved for him: The Golden Boy, Prince Charming, Star Equestrian.
Although, something seemed different. Celine couldn’t put her finger on it exactly; he was still tall, still blond, still handsome. And yet...
“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “What were you whispering about then?”
“Ladies’ business, you gossipmonger,” Celine chided. “Speaking of…”
“Ana?s isn’t coming tonight,” he supplied. “She’s off working on one of her mischievous articles for the scandal sheets. Apparently family dinners are low on that subject. Why?” he trailed teasingly. “Am I not enough? Do you need more Ménards to fill your line of vision?”
“You are all that I need,” Celine replied without missing a beat. Because despite her reluctance to love him, Celine did enjoy his company. Though she doubted he loved her back. Jacques had been in love with someone else before his grandfather had pushed him towards Celine.