Chapter 13
Hell Hath No Fury
“Sneaking off to the Latin Quarter again today?” Francine asked, eyes pinned on the curls she was trying to keep together.
Celine handed her another roll.
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” she said, a little miffed. “I can’t dawdle inside for days on end.”
Over the course of the week, Celine had managed to fill out half of the pages of her new sketchbook, outlining some of her looks from memory and coming up with new ones.
Her pierced finger still hurt, but thankfully it was her right one, so she had no issue using a pen.
It wasn’t until Friday dawned, rosy bright and warm, that she decided to shuffle out of her room after living like a hermit for days.
Her mother had been nagging at her heels the entire time, wanting to schedule a day with Coco and see the dress.
Celine felt tired, weary, like those balls of yarn Milady liked to play with, tugging at them from every direction, pulling and pulling, until they were nothing but a mess of wet, wiry strings on the floor.
She was entirely undone. She had the competition to think of, the stolen sketchbook to mope over, her birthday dress to start sewing, Bastien to contend with, and…
Celine was certain there was one more thing she had to finish doing before her tasks finished her. She just couldn’t remember.
As if sensing her anxiety, Milady jumped onto her lap, nudging her head against Celine’s chin while Francine placed the last roll into her hair. “There, all done. Now go downstairs and have some breakfast before you take them out.”
“I can’t,” Celine sighed dramatically, lifting Milady up on the vanity.
Then she scraped her chair backwards, stalked to her bed, and dropped face-first into the pillows so the hair rolls wouldn’t dig into her skull.
When she spoke again, her voice was muffled.
“I sense maliciousness in the air. It’s making it impossible for me to eat. ”
“You mean it’s making it impossible for you to eat downstairs.”
Celine looked up, pouting. “I can’t stand another list of inquiries about my dress, Francine, I can’t!
I have told maman so many vague details about it that I cannot remember any of them at this point, and if the end result matches nothing of what I’ve told her so far, she will murder me right as the cake arrives.
” Celine tossed her head back into her pillows. “Ah, the cake.”
“And you won’t be able to remember anything if you don’t eat,” Francine insisted.
“It’s not as if she will let me eat anything, anyway.”
Francine raised a brow. Begrudgingly, Celine willed her limbs to move from the soft covers of her bed. “I hate it when you win.”
“I know you do, Mademoiselle.”
Undeterred, Francine draped a thin shawl over Celine’s shoulders, urging her out the door before Celine could even think of sneaking back underneath her covers.
After slouching all the way to the living room, she found her parents on their respective seats at the table—opposite each other and both facing Celine’s empty chair—quietly enjoying their breakfast.
“Ah, you’ve finally come down, my dandelion,” her father chirped. He folded up his newspaper and placed it to the side.
“Dandelion?” she echoed, a little distractedly as she took in the sight in front of her.
There were eggs in their little cups and slices of toast stacked high on a plate. Celine spied the bowls of yogurt and fruit and the warm pastries lined on a platter. Her mouth watered instantly.
Monsieur LeBeau made a vague gesture in the air above his head, hinting at something.
“Oh!” Celine realised she still had the rolls on and giggled sheepishly.
“Come sit,” he said. “Francine said you were feeling stressed, so she made a breakfast soup, or some such, to lift up your spirits. It has certainly lifted mine.”
“Yes, yes,” Madame LeBeau agreed absently, flipping through a rather dated bridal magazine. Unlike her husband, she didn’t lift her eyes from the text. “Sit. Eat. We haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been here all week.” Celine plopped down on her chair. “And it’s not like you are seeing me right now, maman.”
“Yes, well…” she trailed off. “But you’ve only left your room in the middle of the night to steal chocolate bonbons from the kitchen.
” Celine had thought she had been inconspicuous.
“At this point”—Madame LeBeau lifted her eyes from the cover to examine her daughter and swapped the roll Celine was about to eat with a smaller one—“smaller bites, chérie, or you won’t fit into your dress. ”
Celine frowned, but since she was the one making the dress it didn’t matter that much. She could tailor it whenever she wanted. As long as her mother didn’t ask—
“Since we’re on the subject, I found the most beautiful neckline in these magazines. Do tell Madame Chanel to add it to the dress, you will look so lovely.”
Celine craned her neck to look at it. Her mother was right, it was lovely. The neckline stretched horizontally, drooping off the shoulders and curving a little in the middle to give it a faint heart shape. “Can you rip off that page for me?”
Madame LeBeau obliged with a warm smile.
It was moments like these when Celine couldn’t resent her parents. Everything they had done and worked for had been for her. All they were asking of Celine now was to marry Jacques—the perfect young man. And she could look at the bright side. There would be Ana?s—
Celine blinked.
Ana?s!
“Ah!” she exclaimed abruptly, rising so fast she checked the table with her knee.
“What’s gotten into you?” Madame LeBeau asked. She lifted her cup of coffee before it could topple over the food. “You startled the life out of us. I know you are stressed, but darling this is too much.”
“I have to go,” Celine announced. She had completely forgotten her meeting with Ana?s. And her friend had insisted they get around today.
Her mother rose from her seat, ready to block her path. “Celine Heloise LeBeau, the one time we have breakfast as a family—”
“Désolé, maman, but I really have to go. I will make it up to you, I promise.”
Their driver Charles entered through the foyer at that moment, carrying with him their fresh laundry. Celine dodged the bags precariously, nearly knocking into him.
“Désolé, Charles!” She was almost out the door too when her father cleared his throat, bringing her to a screeching halt right in the middle of the foyer.
If she looked down, she was certain there would be scuffs all over the floor.
Celine winced as she turned around in slow motion, afraid that her father would join in the attempts to keep her glued to the family table.
Monsieur LeBeau only mouthed something: dandelion.
“Right,” she grimaced awkwardly. Giving her head a slight shake, she watched the rolls drop to the floor and scatter everywhere.
“Celine!” her mother shouted. “At least let Charles drive you. Do not take that bicycle, do you hear me?”
But Celine had already rushed out into the sun-soaked driveway, balancing on her two wheels as she pedalled out of the cul-de-sac.
· · ·
Celine tied her bicycle to a lamp post and strolled down Rue Royale.
The sun was high in the sky, tossing its warm rays across silver-topped buildings and shiny motorcar roofs.
The traffic was idle, but pedestrians filled the street on both sides, some on a stroll, some coming in and out of House of Molyneux, one of the biggest ateliers flanking the street.
Celine paused before the boutique’s windows, under the shade of the white awnings. Ana?s was nowhere in sight.
Sighing, she turned her gaze to the clothes displayed behind the glass. As far as her opinion went, Edward Molyneux produced the ritziest fashion articles for women. Perhaps…she could step in for a moment, take a curious look inside. Ana?s was known for being late to plans anyways.
Her fingers were inches from the door handle when she brought herself to a halt and tilted her nose upwards. There was the whisper of a familiar scent in the air; it had been trailing her ever since she left her bicycle at the end of the street.
A mixture of tobacco and mint.
Bastien.
Celine tossed a glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, Bastien was there, arrogantly striding towards the boutique.
“Oh, not today,” she groaned, quickly entering the store and slamming the door shut. Bastien was quicker. He caught it before it could collide with his nose, pushing it open against Celine’s struggles to keep it closed.
Her arms gave out treacherously; he grinned.
“It’s true what they say. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Nimbly, he took her wrist between his fingers, eyes dropping to the bandage around her finger. “Or pricked, as the occasion happens to be.”
He looked unusually neat. The morning had dawned rather cold, so he was wearing a cream knit sweater, with his shirt collar sticking out.
No part of his attire, for the first time, was rumpled.
Au contraire, he looked almost as put together as—as Jacques.
Celine suppressed a shiver at the second thought that crossed her mind. That sweater made him look huggable.
“It hasn’t healed yet?” Bastien tugged her fingers closer to his lips. “Maybe you ought to let me lick your wounds. It might heal faster.”
Celine snatched her hand away and pivoted before he could notice the goosebumps covering her arm. “What do you want, Bas?”
He kept close at her heel as she marched into the store, browsing through glass displays filled with sparkling jewels and beaded shawls.
The rest of the boutique spanned numerous elevated cabinets exhibiting hats, gloves, and House of Molyneux’s newest collections that a couple of employees were still arranging.