There was a very real chance they were in a degree of danger. One of the letters had referenced Paris specifically. Perhaps Céleste ought to consider speeding up her efforts in getting herself and Adèle sent to the countryside.
Marguerite had taken note of the threat to the family in the most recent letter. If she thought Adèle was in danger in Paris and could leave with Céleste without it being an inconvenience to them, she might agree to it. There was a degree of indifference in these parents toward their daughter, but Céleste didn’t think they were entirely heartless. She hoped they weren’t.
They stepped onto the pavement, but the carriage was not there. Odd, that. She couldn’t imagine her sister-in-law wishing to walk all the way back to their house or to expend the funds to hire a fiacre. Jean-François had been more flush in the pocket this past year or more than he had been previously, but expenditures that would benefit Céleste were usually avoided.
Marguerite seemed to sense her confusion. She explained, with a single shrug of a shoulder, “I need to visit the ribboner. The carriage will meet us there in another half hour.”
“Is the ribbon shop very far away?”
Marguerite prickled on the instant. “It’s not for you to dictate what errands I undertake.”
“I had not intended to dictate. I’m simply tired and attempting to determine how slowly I ought to walk in order not to run short on endurance before reaching our destination.”
Marguerite eyed her quizzically. “Tired? You sat in the carriage all the way here, then spent the entirety of this visit in a chair, reading. How could you possibly be tired?”
Céleste held her hands up in a show of helplessness. “I can’t seem to summon my usual vigor of late. I have wished more often than anything in recent weeks to simply lie down.”
“Lie down?” Again, her words were repeated in a tone of exasperation. “The social whirl will continue for quite some time in Paris. How can you possibly participate if you need to lie down all the time?”
Exactly.
“I’ll manage somehow.” She walked alongside Marguerite, allowing her steps to shuffle the tiniest bit.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
Céleste involuntarily flinched at the sound of the gratingly familiar voice. Pierre Léandre had been a thorn in the side of Nicolette and Henri and, as a result, Céleste for years. He had very nearly prevented Henri and Nicolette’s marriage. The suit he had brought against Nicolette’s brother for breach of promise had made him wealthy. The courts had agreed that Nicolette was at fault for her decision not to go through with the engagement he himself had run from and had granted his petition to be given her dowry as recompense.
Nicolette’s family had retreated to the country, the financial blow their court loss had dealt proving more painful than they’d anticipated. They would eventually return, once their fortunes had been rebuilt a bit. It was terribly frustrating that a family as good as the Beaulieus could be treated so horridly. Life was, at times, painfully unfair.
“I fear we haven’t time to stand about,” Marguerite said to Pierre, her expression haughty but also strained. “We’ve a bit to do before returning home.”
“I will walk with you,” he said. “Then you needn’t be delayed.”
“You do not need to accompany us,” Céleste said.
He eyed her up and down. “Why, Mlle Fortier, you look a bit haggard.”
“I’m a little weary is all.”
She and Marguerite continued walking, but Pierre didn’t allow them to do so alone. He kept pace with them, looking frustratingly self-satisfied. “I understand your friend Nicolette is in town. Strange that she hasn’t been by to offer me her greetings.”
His sneered observation was answered not by Céleste or Marguerite but by a voice that still managed to send shivers of awareness through Céleste even after seven years, even after acute heartbreak. Aldric.
“I was under the impression that addressing a married lady by her given name without permission was as uncouth in Paris as it is in England.” He spoke French like a Frenchman.
All three of them stopped and looked back. Aldric eyed Pierre with a look one generally reserved for the remains of a spider.
Pierre had lost a little of his bravado, but not the entirety of it. “You are in Paris as well, Lord Aldric.”
“What an astute observation,” Aldric drawled.
Céleste held back her amusement, not wishing to give Pierre reason to remain. She would far rather he be on his way.
“I heard your father recently passed.” Pierre watched Aldric closely, no doubt wishing to ascertain what his feelings were on the loss. “My condolences.”
“And my condolences onyourrecent loss.” Aldric stepped past him and offered an arm each to Céleste and Marguerite.
“What loss is that?” Pierre asked.
