CHAPTER SIX
ELIN
The dining room at Le Champ des Fleurs was suffocating despite the open terrace doors.
Beeswax candles sputtered in the silver chandelier, spilling beads of hot wax into their little brass cups.
Beyond the windows, cicadas throbbed in the magnolia trees, their dry, relentless song pressing the humid night against the house.
The servants had opened every door that could be opened, but no breeze entered.
Only the scent of gardenias came in from the dark.
Madame Lebon sat at the head of the table in dark green silk, determined to make the evening appear ordinary through the force of her posture alone.
She had placed Adrian Fairhaven on her right and Judge Dewey on her left.
Monsieur Lebon occupied the opposite end, flanked by Reuben George and Nicholas Fairhaven.
Octavia sat among the wives.
That had been Madame's first mistake.
Her second was placing Cécile opposite Warren Dewey, where the young man could stare at her without troubling to turn his head.
I stood two paces behind Cécile's chair with a silver water pitcher held against my skirts.
Dinah remained near the sideboard, her hands folded over her apron.
Whenever I felt uncertain, I looked to her.
She had taught me how a servant survived in a grand house: observe everything, reveal nothing, and never let the silver tremble.
That evening, keeping the pitcher steady required both hands.
Cécile wore cream silk with seed pearls threaded through her light brown hair. She had hardly touched her soup. Whenever Adrian spoke, her eyes lifted toward him with a brightness I had never seen when she looked at Commander Vale.
Nathaniel had made her feel safe. I had understood that much. He had spoken gently, waited through her silences, and never treated patience as a favor for which she must be grateful. Cécile had believed she could build a tolerable life beside such a man.
What she felt while watching Adrian was not tolerance.
I did not yet know what to call it, but I distrusted how quickly it had awakened.
The Fairhavens all wore white.
While the rest of the company wilted beneath wool coats, stiff collars, silk sleeves, and the heat of too many candles, Adrian, Nicholas, and Octavia remained immaculate.
No perspiration touched their temples. No flush warmed their pale faces.
Their clothing looked as cool and untouched as linen laid over winter graves.
Adrian ate nothing.
I watched carefully as the first course was removed. He had lifted his spoon. He had even drawn it through the turtle soup, leaving a thin crescent upon its surface. Yet I had never seen the spoon pass his lips.
During the fish course, he divided a piece of trout into delicate flakes and arranged them along the painted edge of his plate. During the capon, he moved a slice beneath a sprig of parsley. He raised his wineglass twice, but the dark red line never changed.
Nicholas was cleverer. His plate appeared disturbed, though I could not remember seeing him eat. Octavia concealed portions beneath folded lettuce leaves and once pressed her napkin lightly to her mouth, leaving no stain upon the cloth.
Perhaps they had no appetite.
Perhaps they had not come to Le Champ des Fleurs to be fed.
Nicholas Fairhaven did most of the talking. Within half an hour, he had discovered precisely what each person wished to believe about himself.
He treated Philip George as an authority on hunting dogs, listened to Lucien's opinions on Thoroughbreds as though fortunes depended upon them, and invited Warren Dewey to describe the affairs of the county with all the respect one might offer a governor.
Warren expanded beneath the attention.
“My father knows every merchant between Richmond and the coast,” he said. “There is not a cargo unloaded on this stretch of river without his hearing of it.”
Judge Dewey's knife stopped against his plate.
“Warren,” he said.
Nicholas smiled as if the interruption were affectionate. “A useful acquaintance for any family with commercial interests.”
“The courts come to Father before they trouble themselves with merchants,” Warren continued. He had taken too much wine and too little warning from the judge's expression. “Half the records in the county bear his signature.”
“And the other half?” Nicholas asked.
Warren laughed.
“The other half are not worth preserving.”
The laughter around the table came late and uneven.
Judge Dewey set down his knife. “My son mistakes dullness for wit.”
“Most young men do,” Octavia said.
Her voice was soft, yet every woman heard her.
Augusta Dewey looked sharply toward Warren. Lavinia George lowered her eyes to conceal a smile. Madame Lebon's mouth tightened before she remembered that Octavia was a guest.
Octavia turned to Augusta with an expression of perfect sympathy. “You must forgive me. Your son's confidence is admirable. A mother can only hope her influence remains visible after a young man begins moving through the world without her.”
Augusta straightened. “Warren has never lacked for a mother's influence.”
“No,” Octavia said. “I can see that.”
Lavinia's smile escaped.
Octavia turned toward her. “Mrs. George, that is a charming cameo. Italian, is it not?”
Lavinia touched the brooch at her throat. “My husband brought it from New York.”
“How adventurous of him. Many gentlemen would hesitate to choose jewelry without their wives present.”
Reuben George glanced at the cameo as if he had never seen it before.
“It was selected by my sister,” he said.
Octavia's dark eyes widened by the smallest degree. “Then your sister has intimate knowledge of Mrs. George's taste.”
Augusta raised her napkin to hide her mouth.
With two compliments, Octavia had wounded three women and implicated a man who had done nothing more treacherous than purchase a brooch.
She did not seem malicious. That was what unsettled me. She pulled at people's vanities with the idle precision of a girl plucking petals from a flower.
Across the table, Cécile had noticed it too. Her eyes met mine briefly.
Be careful, I tried to tell her.
Then Adrian spoke, and she looked away from me.
“You do not care for the capon, Miss Lebon?”
The question was simple, but the table quieted around it. People always became attentive when a stranger addressed Cécile. They waited for her difficulty as eagerly as children waited for a dropped glass to break.
Cécile's fingers tightened around her fork.
“N-no, I—”
Her breath caught.
Madame Lebon leaned forward. “Cécile has never had a generous appetite.”
Adrian did not look at Madame.
He continued looking at Cécile.
“I did not ask whether your appetite was generous,” he said. “I asked whether you cared for the capon.”
A faint color rose beneath Cécile's skin.
She tried again. “I d-d—”
Warren shifted in his chair. The movement was slight, but I saw the smile beginning at the corner of his mouth.
Adrian reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a narrow ivory card and a silver pencil.
He placed them beside Cécile's plate.
“You may answer in whatever manner pleases you.”
No one moved.
Cécile looked first at the card and then at Adrian. Her expression changed so quickly that it hurt me to see it. Surprise came first, followed by gratitude, and beneath both something tender and unguarded.
Madame Lebon gave a thin laugh. “Mr. Fairhaven, if we allowed Cécile to write every answer, she would never make the effort to speak.”
“Then we would have the benefit of her thoughts without demanding a performance.”
The word fell neatly between them.
Madame's face remained composed, but a patch of color appeared above the neckline of her gown.
Cécile took the pencil.
The capon is excellent, she wrote. I am not hungry.
Adrian read the card and inclined his head as though she had given a formal reply in flawless French.
“Thank you.”
Warren's smile had disappeared.
Cécile should have returned the card. Instead, she held the pencil above it for a moment and wrote another question.
Did Nathaniel ask you to come?
Monsieur Lebon's hand closed around the stem of his wineglass.
I could not read the words from where I stood, but I saw Adrian's eyes move across them. His expression did not change.
“He asked me to remember,” he said.
Cécile wrote again.
Remember what?
Adrian looked toward the far end of the table.
“That honest men are often called mad when dishonesty becomes fashionable.”
This time Monsieur Lebon set down his glass hard enough to spill wine across the cloth.
A servant hurried forward, but he waved her away.
“Commander Vale's troubles were of his own making,” he said. “I will not have my family subjected to his accusations at dinner.”
“I have made no accusation,” Adrian replied.
“Not directly,” Judge Dewey said.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Direct accusations are rarely necessary among friends. A fact usually causes more discomfort.”
Reuben George wiped his forehead with his napkin. “And what facts did Vale provide you?”
The warmth had gone from Nicholas's smile.
“Very few,” Adrian said. “A ship arriving after midnight. Cargo omitted from its manifest. Records altered after they had received the proper signatures.”
Silence spread across the table.
Even the cicadas seemed to recede.
Judge Dewey's face hardened. “You speak carelessly, sir.”
“Do I?”
“Shipping records are complicated documents. A military man accustomed to giving orders may easily misunderstand them.”
“Nathaniel misunderstood very little.”
It was the first time Adrian had used the commander's Christian name.
Cécile lowered her eyes to the card. Her thumb moved slowly over the place where she had written Nathaniel.
“He was not well,” Monsieur Lebon said. “Toward the end.”
Madame placed one hand upon his sleeve, but he shook it off.
“He saw plots everywhere,” Monsieur continued. “He accused friends. Insulted men who had defended him. He destroyed his own standing and expected respectable families to follow him into disgrace.”
Cécile's head rose.
The silver pencil trembled in her fingers.
Adrian saw it.