Page 17 of The Beautiful Ones

I wished I had something kinder to give her.

Instead, I reached for the loose edge of her collar and fastened it.

“There is something else.”

She waited.

“Your mother does not want you alone with Judge Dewey or Mr. George.”

Cécile became perfectly still beneath my hands.

“Do you know why?”

She gave no answer.

“Cécile?”

Her gaze shifted toward the closed door.

Then she raised one finger to her lips.

It was not the childish gesture of someone unwilling to speak.

It was a warning.

Silence had protected her before.

And someone had taught her that she might need it again.

A carriage horn sounded from the front drive, followed by the heavy rumble of wheels and the clatter of horses upon the gravel. Voices rose beneath the portico as footmen hurried outside, and a second carriage arrived before the first had finished unloading.

The Deweys had come.

Madame’s bell rang once, summoning us below.

“It is time,” I said.

Cécile reached for my hand, and together we descended the main staircase.

Judge Hollis Dewey stood in the front hall with one arm extended toward Monsieur Lebon. He was a tall, silver-haired man with a narrow waist and the smooth, confident face of someone who had spent his life speaking last and having his version of events accepted. Mrs. Augusta Dewey waited behind him beneath a feathered traveling hat, fanning herself furiously while complaining about the roads, and their son Warren had grown broader since his last visit, although his pale eyes remained small and watchful.

The Georges entered moments later in a confusion of laughter, luggage and loudly issued orders. Reuben George was red-faced from the heat, with thick fingers and a voice far too large for any drawing room. His wife, Lavinia, kissed the air beside Madame’s cheek, while their son Philip shouted for someone to take charge of his horse before the animal injured itself upon what he called Monsieur Lebon’s miserable drive.

The three patriarchs greeted one another with an excess of warmth. Monsieur clasped Judge Dewey’s hand, Reuben struck both men across their shoulders, and together they declared that the summer could now properly begin, although the tension in their faces suggested that none of them believed it.

No one mentioned the letter.

Cécile’s fingers tightened around mine as the families gathered beneath the chandelier.

“Smile,” Madame murmured without looking at her.

Cécile obeyed.

Warren Dewey approached us after greeting her parents. He bowed first to Cécile and then, with considerably less interest, to me.

“Miss Lebon, you are looking very well.”

Cécile drew a careful breath. “I—I am v-v-very—”