Page 19 of The Beautiful Ones

I understood the question without requiring her to write it.

What had been done?

Before I could answer, a woman began screaming in the garden.

CHAPTER THREE

CÉCILE

My mind was a cage full of birds.

When I was alone in my bedchamber, or when I sat quietly beside my window watching the dragonflies skim the green pond, they sang effortlessly. Whole sentences, sharp observations, witty retorts, and quiet confessions took flight in my thoughts, perfect and swift. But the moment another human eye turned upon me, the door slammed shut. The birds threw themselves against glass, beating their wings until nothing reached my lips except a pathetic, mangled chirp.

Downstairs on the shaded terrace, the cage was suffocating.

The afternoon tea had dragged on for two endless hours. The heat of late July sat heavy over the river valley, thick with the damp, earthy stench of river silt and the suffocating perfume of the gardenias blooming beneath the balustrade.

Mrs. Augusta Dewey sat fanning herself furiously with a painted silk fan, her voice droning like a fat bumblebee about the dust on the Richmond turnpike, the unbearable humidity, and the appalling lack of decorum among modern young women. My mother sat beside her, nodding with practiced aristocratic grace, her spine straight as an iron rail. Yet despite her polished smile, my mother’s sharp eyes flicked toward me every few seconds—a cold, warning glance that felt like a whip waiting to strike.

Warren Dewey lounged against the stone balustrade directly across from my iron chair. He had consumed three sweet cakes, a plate of preserves, and two glasses of chilled wine, and his pale, small eyes held that familiar, lazy cruelty I had come to dread since childhood. He swung his polished riding boot against the stone, the rhythmic thump sounding like a countdown to my humiliation.

“Miss Lebon,” Warren called out, his voice dropping into that loud, theatrical pitch designed to draw the entire terrace’s attention. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, deliberately swirling the dark red wine in his glass. “My mother was just saying that the music master in Richmond charges exorbitant fees for summer lessons. Surely a young lady of your... unique condition does not require formal instruction? One wonders if the rosewood pianoforte isn't simply a very expensive ornament in your mother's parlor.”

The idle chatter around the tea table withered instantly.

My mother’s smile froze into a brittle glass mask. “Cécile practices daily, Warren,” she said smoothly, though her knuckles turned white where her fingers dug into her lace napkin. “Her ear for music is extraordinary.”

“Is it?” Warren’s thin lips curved into an unpleasant sneer. He looked straight at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth with sickening, eager anticipation. “I should love to hear her opinion on the matter. Tell us, Cécile—do you prefer Schubert or Mozart? Or is the choice too complex to explain?”

The silence on the terrace turned heavy, wet, and agonizing.

I felt every eye lock onto my face. Mrs. Dewey paused her fan in mid-air, her painted eyelids drooping with unfeigned condescension. Reuben George leaned back in his wicker chair, taking a slow puff from his cigar, watching me with droll, drunken curiosity. My mother jutted her chin out, her posture rigid, her eyes burning into mine, silently pleading with me—demanding of me—to deliver a flawless answer.

Schubert, my mind shouted cleanly. I prefer Schubert because he understands sadness. He understands what it is to be trapped inside a melody that never resolves.

My chest heaved. I drew a frantic, shallow breath. My lips parted.

“S-S-Sch...”

Warren’s sneer widened. He tilted his head, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his wine as if watching a trained dog perform a trick for a scrap of meat.

“S-S-Ch-Ch...” The thorn caught in my throat. My throat muscles locked into a violent, agonizing spasm. The air refused to move. Heat flooded my cheeks, hot and burning, and tears pricked behind my eyelids. I tried to force the sound past my teeth, but my jaw trembled, making a small, pathetic clicking sound.

“What Warren means to ask,” Elin’s clear, Swedish-accented voice cut through the stillness as she stepped forward from behind my chair, her hands folded neatly over her crisp white apron, “is whether Miss Cécile finds the German composers more expressive. She plays Schubert’s serenade with great feeling.”

The tension on the terrace snapped, but the relief was a poison all its own.

Warren scoffed, tossing his head back with a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Ah. The Swedish maid answers for the mistress again. How convenient. One begins to wonder who is truly being educated at Le Champ des Fleurs.”

My mother let out a small, disgusted sigh, rubbing her temples as if a sudden headache had struck her. She didn't look at me. She didn't have to. The disappointment radiating from her body was a cold, physical slap. I was a failure. A broken, pathetic creature who required a contract servant to shield her from a bully.

I gripped the arms of my iron chair until my knuckles turned white and my fingernails bit into the cold painted metal. I wanted to scream at Elin. I wanted to slap Warren’s wineglass from his hand and smash it against the flagstones. I wanted to tear my blue silk gown to shreds and run into the woods where no human eye could ever look upon me again.

Unable to endure another second beneath their pitying, amused stares, I stood abruptly, my iron chair screeching violently against the flagstones.

I turned and fled into the dark, quiet coolness of the house.

I did not stop running until I reached the schoolroom on the second floor.