CHAPTER TWO #2
He stood beside the cold fireplace with the letter held loosely in one hand. “Commander Vale left Virginia of his own choosing. Whatever Cécile may imagine, she witnessed nothing to suggest otherwise.”
My fingers tightened around the doorknob.
“I did not know she imagined anything.”
His face revealed his mistake before he had time to conceal it.
Madame stepped between us. “Return to Cécile.”
I left without another word, carrying more questions out of the morning room than I had brought into it.
Cécile stood at the upper landing when I reached the second floor. She wore the blue gown, though one side of her Belgian lace collar had come loose and several curls hung around her shoulders.
She searched my face.
“Come with me,” I whispered.
She followed me into her bedchamber.
Once the door was closed, she hurried to the desk.
What did the letter say?
“I do not know.”
She looked at me sharply.
“I was not allowed to read it.”
That answer did not satisfy her.
Nor should it have.
I sat beside her.
“I did hear something.”
Her pen hovered.
“The Fairhavens were already expected at Le Champ des Fleurs.”
She frowned.
“Commander Vale apparently made the introduction some time ago. Arrangements were made for them to visit before…”
I stopped.
Before what?
Before Vale had disgraced himself?
Before society had decided he was no longer worth knowing?
Before whatever Cécile had supposedly not witnessed?
“Before his engagement to you ended,” I finished.
Cécile looked down.
“The arrangements were never withdrawn.”
Why not?
“Because people would talk.”
That earned me the smallest, bitter curve of her mouth.
We both knew people talked anyway.
Who are the Fairhavens?
“I don’t know.”
Cécile looked up.
“I heard only their name. Your parents spoke as though Commander Vale knew them well enough to recommend them as guests.”
Her brow tightened.
You never heard Nathaniel mention anyone by that name?
She shook her head.
He told me about everyone.
“Perhaps he met them later.”
She did not look convinced.
Papa is afraid.
I remembered Monsieur’s pale face and the careless statement he had made.
“Yes.”
Her eyes rose to mine.
“He is.”
Why?
“I do not know.”
That much, at least, was true.
Did Nathaniel write the letter?
“I believe so.”
Is he alive?
I took longer to answer.
“I don’t know.”
Her hope faded.
I wished I had something kinder to give her.
Instead, I reached for the loose edge of her collar and fastened it.
“There is something else.”
She waited.
“Your mother does not want you alone with Judge Dewey or Mr. George.”
Cécile became perfectly still beneath my hands.
“Do you know why?”
She gave no answer.
“Cécile?”
Her gaze shifted toward the closed door.
Then she raised one finger to her lips.
It was not the childish gesture of someone unwilling to speak.
It was a warning.
Silence had protected her before.
And someone had taught her that she might need it again.
A carriage horn sounded from the front drive, followed by the heavy rumble of wheels and the clatter of horses upon the gravel. Voices rose beneath the portico as footmen hurried outside, and a second carriage arrived before the first had finished unloading.
The Deweys had come.
Madame’s bell rang once, summoning us below.
“It is time,” I said.
Cécile reached for my hand, and together we descended the main staircase.
Judge Hollis Dewey stood in the front hall with one arm extended toward Monsieur Lebon.
He was a tall, silver-haired man with a narrow waist and the smooth, confident face of someone who had spent his life speaking last and having his version of events accepted.
Mrs. Augusta Dewey waited behind him beneath a feathered traveling hat, fanning herself furiously while complaining about the roads, and their son Warren had grown broader since his last visit, although his pale eyes remained small and watchful.
The Georges entered moments later in a confusion of laughter, luggage and loudly issued orders.
Reuben George was red-faced from the heat, with thick fingers and a voice far too large for any drawing room.
His wife, Lavinia, kissed the air beside Madame’s cheek, while their son Philip shouted for someone to take charge of his horse before the animal injured itself upon what he called Monsieur Lebon’s miserable drive.
The three patriarchs greeted one another with an excess of warmth. Monsieur clasped Judge Dewey’s hand, Reuben struck both men across their shoulders, and together they declared that the summer could now properly begin, although the tension in their faces suggested that none of them believed it.
No one mentioned the letter.
Cécile’s fingers tightened around mine as the families gathered beneath the chandelier.
“Smile,” Madame murmured without looking at her.
Cécile obeyed.
Warren Dewey approached us after greeting her parents. He bowed first to Cécile and then, with considerably less interest, to me.
“Miss Lebon, you are looking very well.”
Cécile drew a careful breath. “I—I am v-v-very—”
His smile began to change before she reached the third word, losing its courtesy and acquiring the curious, expectant quality of someone watching an animal struggle in a trap.
“She is delighted to see you,” I said.
Cécile’s fingernails bit into my palm.
Warren glanced from her face to mine. “Does she require an interpreter now?”
Heat rose into my cheeks, and before I could decide whether my position permitted the answer he deserved, Cécile released my hand and walked away.
Madame watched her daughter cross the hall. Her expression remained pleasant for the benefit of the guests, but the muscles along her jaw tightened.
“I apologize,” I said.
“You were instructed to keep her beside you.”
“I tried.”
“Try more successfully.”
She followed the other women into the drawing room, leaving me alone with Warren beneath the chandelier.
He watched Cécile disappear into the passage leading toward the garden. “I did not mean to upset her.”
“Yes, you did.”
His pale eyes widened, but I curtsied before he could answer and went in search of her.
Cécile had not entered the garden. Instead, I found her kneeling before the fireplace in Monsieur’s study, heedless of the blue skirts spreading across the dusty hearth. The door stood open behind her, although I knew her father had locked it earlier.
“What are you doing?”
She reached carefully between the iron bars and withdrew a curling scrap of paper.
Monsieur had burned the letter.
Most of it had collapsed into ash, but one corner remained, protected by the grate and browned rather than consumed. Cécile carried it to the window, where the light was strongest, and together we read the surviving lines.
The handwriting was strong and slanted, each word pressed deeply into the expensive paper.
My dear étienne,
They know what was done, and they will come when the gardenias bloom.
There was nothing more.
The fire had taken the rest.
I read the lines again.
Cécile pointed to the words again.
They know what was done.
Outside the study window, the gardenias shifted in the afternoon heat, their white blossoms heavy upon the dark leaves.
Their perfume drifted through the open sash.
Cécile looked at me.
I understood the question without requiring her to write it.
What had been done?
Before I could answer, a woman began screaming in the garden.