“That has happened a few times of late,” Marguerite added, her studying expression matching her husband’s. “Thinking back on it, you’ve struggled to claim your usual vitality for weeks now.”
Careful to sound as though she didn’t place a great deal of importance on the situation, Céleste said, “I have felt a little lacking in vigor. If I simply lie down this afternoon, I will regain some of my elusive endurance.”
Marguerite turned a bit toward Jean-François. “She seems to be growing tired more swiftly. Perhaps we ought to send for Dr. Mercier again.”
“It might be another of her ruses.” Jean-François offered the theory without full conviction.
“I have not attempted in over a year to avoid the Society gatherings you require me to attend,” Céleste said. “And I am not attempting to do so now. I simply had hoped for a bit of rest before the next one.”
That appeased him.Excellent.
“Before you lie down, though, let us sort out what is to be done the rest of the week.” Jean-François led Marguerite to the sofa nearest where Céleste sat. The two of them faced her. It was an arrangement she knew well.
At least once every week in the two years since she’d struck the devil’s bargain she had with them, they had sat her down and dictated to her what was expected of her. She was told where she would go, how long she would be there, who she was to talk with, and how she was to behave.
“May I request that my schedule include the opportunity for rest?” she asked. “And I would appreciate having time to play my violin now and then.”
“Rise earlier if you wish to use up time with your music,” Jean-François said.
“I will likely be even more tired than I am if I do so,” she warned. “But if that is the only option available to me, I will adapt.”
Jean-François stiffened a little, a sure sign Céleste needed to tread even more lightly.
“Your options are determined by me,” he said. “That is what you agreed to.”
She had, actually, though she’d not fully appreciated what that meant two years earlier. Jean-François had been cheating their brother, Henri, out of much of his income. He’d insisted on continuing the fraudulent behavior, knowing Henri was too poor and too far away to force his hand. Céleste had agreed to let Jean-François dictate her comings and goings, even go so far as to deny her the opportunity to travel to England to see the brother she actually liked, if Jean-François would restore Henri’s means of survival.
The arrangement had quickly become a prison. But Henri and his wife, Céleste’s best friend, had been granted the ability to marry and build a life.They had gained that, and she was now working to gain a bit of freedom herself.
“I will not object to those things you want me to participate in,” she assured Jean-François. “I learned very quickly not to do that.”
He looked quite pleased at the memory of those torturous first six months after she’d struck this bargain with him. She’d attempted then to push back against his demands. There’d been arguments about the social calendar, about the encouragement she was meant to give various suitors, about things as simple as Céleste visiting the millinery shop without his approval and Marguerite’s accompaniment. The harder she’d pushed back against his tyranny, the tighter his grip had grown.
The day he’d brought his man of business to the house to give instructions that Henri be cut off entirely unless Céleste’s “rebellion” came to an end, she knew she had to comply. Or at least appear to.
“The soiree tonight,” Marguerite said. “Tomorrow, I need to visit my milliner.”
“I could play my violin while you are away at the hatmaker’s shop instead of rising early tomorrow to do it.”
Jean-François didn’t let that suggestion stand. “You will go with her.” He took such pride in the power he had over her.
One of the male servants stepped inside the room and unobtrusively presented Jean-François with a sealed letter. He flipped it over and broke the wax.
Seeing her opportunity for departure, Céleste rose. “I will go lie down now.” She was required to tell her brother or sister-in-law before she went anywhere, even within the house.
Jean-François looked up from his letter. “We have not finished our discussion.”
That meant “Stay.” Sometimes she felt like the family dog, given commands and very little dignity.
“I will remain in the room.” She liked to, now and then, state her adherence to his demands in ways that recaptured some of the idea that she had a choice. It helped her remember that she would not remain trapped forever.
She wandered a bit away from them but did so with slow movements. She needed to give the impression of diminishing health and strength. She had secured the cooperation of Dr. Mercier, who had agreed to offer an expert evaluation of her condition that matched what she needed her family to believe. He had, weeks earlier, declared her fatigue to be unexpected.During his most recent examination, he had told them, in strained tones, that she was growing decidedly worse. In another week or two, he would declare himself sufficiently concerned to recommend Céleste’s removal to the family estate in Picardie.
Jean-François and Marguerite would never quit Paris while Society was still there. Standing and connections and perceptions were of paramount importance to them. The marriage they were focused on finding for Céleste was motivated entirely by those three things. Her feelings mattered very little. Her happiness even less. That she had thwarted their efforts to marry her off as long as she had was a miracle she didn’t expect to last much longer.
She wasn’t necessarily holding out for a love match. Céleste had been in love exactly one time in her entire life, and the object of her affection had proven painfully and embarrassingly uninterested. While she could see how happy marrying for love had made Nicolette and Henri, she was aiming for a match with a man who wouldn’t rule her life with a cruel and iron fist as her father had and as her brother was now doing.
She need only hold out for a fortnight more, and she would be away from Jean-François and Marguerite’s schemes and dictates.
