She did not reply, her eyes fixed on the woman reflected in the glass,standing there in her dress of ivory chiffon, the purple satin belt around her waist, pearls dangling from her ears and neck.
He was asking about another Valérie, a Valérie she could only vaguely recall.
She saw him turn away from her in the mirror, his eyes now not on fire but cooling, filling with ashes, and the motion struck a panicked chord inside her chest. Valérie turned, too, grasping his sleeve.
“You know I did,” she said. “YouknowI did.”
She felt like crying now, like the fool she had told herself she would not be, and her fingers knotted with the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer until he was appallingly near.
“Did you love him, too?” Hector asked.
“No,” she said. “But my family did.”
“What about now?”
Valérie thought of Gaetan. Her husband had disappointed her in a myriad of ways: his lack of passion, his blindness, his almost pathological devotion to his family, and his inability to provide Valérie with a family of her own as was expected—even if she might have resented him if he had given her children.
She could not muster more than a shrug.
“Gaetan is Gaetan. He is a busy man and a kind man, and often a weak man. I am as fond of him as I can possibly be.”
“And us?”
He trapped her wrist with his hands, snagging her, until her fingers were pressed against his chest. She thought of when they’d been younger, his lips against hers, their hands knotted together. She knew they still fit well, she felt it; fit like Gaetan and Valérie did not fit, grossly mismatched.
“There’s nothing to be done now.”
“If you do not love him—”
“He is Gaetan Beaulieu and I am a Véries,” she whispered, almost an automatic reflex.
“A Beaulieu of Montipouret, yes,” Hector muttered, his hands sliding down, releasing her. “An important family, I’ve been told. God knows every girl in every town would want to be married into it, and ladies in yesterday’s finery perhaps the most.”
His voice was vicious, wanting to cut her, and she was surprised todiscover it did. It hurt, the way he hurled the words at her. He did not say “whore” but he might as well have.
She colored with anger and could not sputter a single word. Then she looked down and noticed that he’d let go of the bouquet. Nina’s flowers. Valérie picked them up, holding them with care.
“Men also wish to marry into families, hoping perhaps that they might rise above their station, though truth be told, I doubt such a feat could be accomplished.”
“It’s not her family’s name that beckons me, hard as that might be to fathom.”
“Remind me, what do lilies stand for?”
“Innocence,” he said.
“She would be, wouldn’t she?” Valérie held out the bouquet for him.
“There’s something to be said for it,” he replied.
“Indeed. Innocents do not question people’s motives. You’ve come to hurt me, Hector. You’ve come to toy with us. Feel free to toy with her. But you’ll find I am not a piece you can slide across your board.”
He grabbed the bouquet with slow hands. A petal or two fell to the floor.
“Follow Antonina around and wed her and bed her and have a merry life. It is not my concern,” Valérie said, her voice like nectar as she sat down on her stone bench once more.
“If you asked me now to leave and never come back, I would,” he said.
She knew he was telling the truth. Because it would be akin to a noble deed, part of a martyrdom he might relish. But she did not want to give him that satisfaction, the knowledge that he disturbed her, that she could not bear to have him near her. To admit it would be defeat and Valérie would not be defeated.
