Madame LeBeau, however, insisted on viewing the glamour and the glittering excesses with distaste.
Perhaps it wasn’t her fault entirely. Celine hadn’t done her very best to show her that these changes weren’t such a bad thing. Those rebellious appearances in the gossip magazines asThe Vampireand her visits to cabarets long after midnight hadn’t helped either. In her mother’s eyes she had turned intoone of those reckless New York flappers.
“Soon you’ll start smoking and drinking like a man,” she would say. “You’ve already started going out half naked!”
She looked down at the gloves and closed her eyes.
“I don’t think I will wear them tonight. They don’t go with my dress,” she said quietly and averted her eyes to the mirror again, gazing at her mother through the reflection as Madame Lebeau hummed discontentedly and exited the room.
• • •
The moment Celine stepped out into the hall, Francine was already climbing up the stairs, a crisp, white envelope in her hand. Celine rushed to meet her halfway.
“Is that it?” she urged excitedly. “Theletter?”
“That foolish boy had misread the address,” Francine said. “Open—”
“What is this business about secret letters?” A voice asked from the landing.
Celine’s eyes went wide. She shoved the letter back into Francine’s hands, stepping aside to let her pass through. Then she put on the most dazzling smile she could muster and rushed down the stairs to greet Jacques.
“Do you have any secret admirers I should know about?” he teased, leaning in and brushing his lips against her cheek. “No one whispers on the stairs about mail unless it’s love letters.”
“And why would I admit to my boyfriend that I was whispering about love letters?”
Jacques chuckled. Tonight he looked the embodiment of all the adorations the gossip columns reserved for him:TheGolden Boy,Prince Charming, Star Equestrian.Although, something seemed different. Celine couldn’t put her finger on it exactly; he was still tall, still blond, still handsome. And yet...
“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “What were you whispering about then?”
“Ladies’ business, you gossipmonger,” Celine chided. “Speaking of…”
“Anaïs isn’t coming tonight,” he supplied. “She’s off working on one of her mischievous articles for the scandal sheets. Apparently family dinners are low on that subject. Why?” he trailed teasingly. “Am I not enough? Do you need more Ménards to fill your line of vision?”
“You are all that I need,” Celine replied without missing a beat. Because despite her reluctance to love him, Celinedidenjoy his company. Though she doubted he loved her back. Jacques had been in love with someone else before his grandfather had pushed him towards Celine.
Celine wished she had paramours from her past that she was clinging to, if only to excuse her lack of love for him the same way. But there were none. Not any serious ones, anyway. She knew what young men whispered about her, calling hertoo bold,too opinionated,too rebellious, sometimes eventoo cold. Those stern, thin brows her mother had, she had them too, which didn’t help her case even when she tried to be friendly. And the young men who didn’t shy away from flirting with her, despite the rumours or because of them, would quickly walk away disappointed when they’d find out the magazines hyperbolised everything they wrote about Celine. A high society girl wearing a backless dress—surely she must be game for everything.
Celine leaned against the staircase railing, taking his hand in hers and playing with the ring he wore on his index finger. “How did your training go? The big race is coming up.”
“Do not even remind me of it. I had to finish early today. Grandfather called for a family meeting.”
“Bastien got in trouble again?”
Jacques provided only a dry huff. “As always.”
That wasn’t good. Whenever Bastien got in trouble he blamed Jacques for it. Celine’s eyes flickered anxiously to the grand clock up in the living room mantle. It was almost time for dinner. “Is he coming tonight?”
“Who knows with him,” Jacques replied, his voice scornful.
Celine tried to smooth the worry from her brow, though she was doing a terrible job at it. Jacques had already noticed, and he was about to brush his lips on her forehead, when a voice interrupted them from the hallway.
They turned around as one to find Monsieur LeBeau, hands on his hips, peering at them over the rim of his glasses.
Celine bit down on her lip.
“Jacques,” he cleared his throat, and Celine felt him tense at her side. “Do you know if your grandfather brought those imported cigars?”
Jacques smiled. “Left coat pocket.”
