As she watched, Isabelle charged the scarecrow, sword raised high, and lopped his head off. She turned Nero sharply and charged again. The scarecrow lost an arm. Then his torso was hacked in two. Fate did not like what she was seeing.
Her expression darkened further as she passed by Tavi again and saw that she was using the peas she’d shelled to form equations. Her eyes lingered on the girl.
A few weeks ago, after the incident with the cheese, Hugo had come to her complaining bitterly about Tavi, asking Fate to get her mar-ried off.
Back then, Fate had thought the idea unnecessary, but perhaps it was time to act on Hugo’s suggestion now. With a few slight modifi-cations.
A wedding would be such a joyous affair.
“For everyone,” Fate whispered darkly. “Except the bride and groom.”
“Once again from the top. With feeling, please!” Chance shouted.
He was standing in front of his stage, a glass in one hand, watching his players rehearse. They were doing a terrible job. Missing cues. Mangling lines. Torchlight, playing over his face, revealed new creases engraved around his eyes.
“Louder, please!” he yelled, raising his hand, palm up. “I can barely hear you!”
The fortune-teller shouted her lines. The actress and diva joined her onstage and ran through theirs. Chance clapped out a quick tempo to speed them up.
One of the footlights, lacking a glass chimney, had been placed too far upstage. The fortune-teller’s skirt brushed it. The fabric caught. The sword-swallower shouted at her, waving his hands. He hurried to stamp the flames out. Frightened by the fire, the fortune-teller ran, but not before the sword-swallower’s foot came down on her hem. There was sound of cloth tearing, and then the fortune-teller found herself standing center stage in her petticoat.
The fire-breather, up in the rigging, peered down to see what was going on, lost his balance, and fell. His foot got tangled in a rope that was attached to a painted backdrop. The backdrop shot up and smashed in the rigging. Splintered pieces rained down, knocking off the diva’s wig and the actress’s crown. The fire-breather dangled, his head only inches from the stage floor.
Chance closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Isabelle’s map was gone. Fate was undoubtedly redrawing it to speed the girl to her doom. And what was he doing? Presiding over a disaster of a play.
Chance opened his eyes. “Someone cut him free, please,” he said, gesturing to the fire-breather, who was still hanging upside down, spinning in slow circles like a human plumb bob.
“You tell him,” hissed a voice from behind Chance.
“No, you tell him.”
“Where’s the cognac? Let’s refill his glass. Bad news always goes down better with a glass of cognac.”
“I really think you should tell him.”
Chance turned around. “Tell me what?” he asked.
The cook and the magician were standing there, solemn-faced.
“Isabelle never made it to Paris,” said the magician. “She didn’t see Ella.”
Chance swore. He turned and threw his glass against a tree. All the actors stopped what they were doing. A hush fell over the company.
Chance tilted his head back. He covered his eyes with his hands. He felt he was only one teetering step away from defeat.
“This play is it,” he said, lowering his hands. “My last move. It’s all I have left to convince Isabelle that she can make her own path. If it fails, then I’ve failed. And Isabelle is doomed.”
The actors all started talking at once. Then yelling. Pointing fingers. Shaking fists. The noise grew louder and louder.
Until the fortune-teller, still in her petticoat, took charge. “Quiet, everyone!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “Places! Start again from the top …”
“Good girl. Put your heart into it,” the magician urged her, walking to Chance’s side.
“Deliver those lines like Isabelle’s life depends on it,” said the cook, joining them.
Chance nodded gravely. “Because it does.”
“Octavia! Isabelle! Wake up!”
Isabelle sat up groggily. She’d been fast asleep. Did someone call my name? she wondered.
“Wake up, girls! I need to speak to you!”
It was Madame LeBenêt. Isabelle reached for her dress, pulled it over her head, and hurried to the edge of the hayloft, fumbling with the buttons.
Madame was standing by the ladder, hands on her hips. “Come to the house,” she said brusquely. “Bring your mother.”
Isabelle remained where she was, staring over the ledge, blinking stupidly.
“What are you waiting for? Get the hay out of your hair and get a move on!” Madame barked.
She turned on her heel and strode from the barn, and Isabelle felt as if she was walking right over her heart. Panic rose inside her. She wondered what they had done. Was it the horses she’d saved? The bowl Tavi had broken? Madame is going to turn us out, she thought. We’ve angered her once too often.
“Tavi, Maman, get up. Get dressed. Madame wants us,” Isabelle said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
When they’d finished dressing, the three women made their way down the ladder and across the yard to the house. Isabelle smoothed her hair when they reached the door, then knocked.
“Come in!” Madame yelled.
With her heart in her mouth, Isabelle stepped inside. Tavi and Maman followed her.
Tantine was at the table, setting out cups. Madame was pulling a large copper frying pan off a trivet in the hearth. She carried the pan to the table, then gave it a knock with the heel of her hand. A fluffy yellow omelet flipped out onto a platter.
“Ten eggs in that!” she grumbled. “That’s ten I can’t sell.”
“Now, now, Avara,” Fate chided.
There was a pot of hot black coffee on the table with a jug of rich cream to pour in it, sliced bread, a dish of fresh butter and another of strawberry jam. Isabelle, who—along with Tavi and Maman—had been subsisting on stale bread and thin soup, felt her stomach twist painfully. She desperately hoped that Madame would give them something to eat before she sent them packing. Gazing at so much delicious food was torture to the hungry girl; she turned away and distracted herself by looking around the room.
Isabelle had only been inside Madame LeBenêt’s house a handful of times and had never lingered. Now she had time to take it in. The room where they were standing—both kitchen and dining room—was small and low-ceilinged. There were no pictures on the gray stone walls, no flowers in a vase, no rugs on the floor, nothing warm or welcoming anywhere. She felt a rush of sympathy for Hugo, living in a cold, loveless house, with a mother who rarely, if ever, spoke a kind word.
“Sit down, girls,” Madame said impatiently, waving them toward the table with the wooden spoon she was holding.
Isabelle and Tavi exchanged confused glances.
“Sit down? There at the table?” Isabelle asked.
“You mean us?” Tavi said.
“I said you, didn’t I?” Madame replied.
“No, you said girls,” Tavi pointed out.
Madame gripped her wooden spoon as if she wanted to throttle it. Tantine, who’d finished setting cups out, ushered the three women to the table.
Isabelle had no idea what was happening. Was Madame going to let them stay? Or was she giving them a good breakfast before she threw them out to ease her conscience? She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
As everyone settled around the table, Madame counted the pieces of bread that had been sliced from the large wheaten round. “That’s two pieces per person. Two!” she said, glowering. “Tantine, you will ruin us.”
“Avara, serve the breakfast, please,” Tantine said, her teeth gritted.
Madame, lips pursed, dished out the omelet.
“I should explain why we invited you here,” Tantine said as she passed the bread. “This breakfast is a bit of a celebration. As you know, my late husband left a small legacy to Mo
nsieur LeBenêt. Since monsieur passed away, it was left to my discretion whether to bestow it upon a member of his family. I’m pleased to say that I’ve come to a decision—the money will go to the next LeBenêt male—Hugo.”
Hugo was speechless. He sat there like a trout, mouth open, unblinking, until his mother kicked him under the table. “Thank you, Tantine!” he finally said. He puffed his chest out and leaned so far back in his chair, he almost fell out of it. At a dirty look from his mother, he sat forward again, bringing the front legs of the chair down with a crash.
“This is great!” he crowed, slapping his hands down on the table. “This means I can …”
Isabelle had never seen him so animated. Neither had his mother, apparently, for her look changed from one of disapproval to one of suspicion.
“You can do what?” she asked.
Hugo hunkered down in his chair, a furtive look on his face.
Marry Odette, Isabelle thought. But he’s too scared to say so.
“I … um … I can …” he stammered. Then he brightened. “I can have some money!”
“Use it to buy a brain!” Tavi said under her breath.
Tantine continued. “The legacy is enough to secure the future of this farm and continue the LeBenêt line, which is what my dear husband wished. But …” She held up a finger. “Fortune is only good fortune if it is shared, and I mean to see that you are all well taken care of. Not just my family, but also you, Isabelle, and your family. You are three women alone in the world. You cannot go on living in a hayloft. What kind of life is that for you? What will happen to you come winter? And so I have taken steps. I have made arrangements.”
Tantine picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. Isabelle’s hands tightened on her napkin. Hope leapt inside her. What had Tantine done? Was she giving them some money, too? She’d mentioned the hayloft—had she found them something better? Isabelle was afraid to ask, lest she’d gotten her hopes too high, but she had to know. “You found us a new place to stay, Tantine?” she ventured. “A room somewhere? A tiny house?”
“Yes, child. A house and something more,” Tantine said, lowering her cup.
Isabelle glanced excitedly at Tavi and then Maman. “What is it?” she asked.
Tantine settled her cup into its saucer. Beaming at Isabelle, she said, “A husband!”
Isabelle’s blood froze in her veins. Her body went rigid in her chair; she was unable to move. “What do you mean a—a husband, Tantine?” she asked in a small voice.
“Why, just what I said, child—a man! A tall, strapping man in britches and boots! Just what every girl wants.”
“Isabelle?” Hugo said, looking surprised. “But I thought … I thought Tavi would marry first. She’s the oldest.”
Tavi said nothing at all; she was shocked speechless.
Maman, however, was overjoyed. “This is wonderful news!” she exclaimed. “Who is he? A baron? A viscount?” She looked from Tantine to Avara and back again, but they gave her no answer. “No? Well, no matter. A squire is acceptable, too. After all, these are difficult times.”
“Will the wedding be soon?” Hugo asked.
“Within a matter of days,” Tantine replied.
“Yes!” Hugo crowed. “Tell us, Tantine,” he urged, rocking back in his chair again. “Who is it? Who will Isabelle marry?”
Tantine leaned across the table and covered one of Hugo’s hands with her own. “Why, dear boy, haven’t you guessed?” she asked. “It’s you!”
Everything happened at once.
Hugo fell over backward with an earth-shaking crash, hitting his head so hard he knocked himself out. Maman slumped into a faint. Tavi jumped up to revive her at the same time that Madame jumped up to tend to Hugo. They smacked heads, then staggered back, dazed.
And Isabelle squeezed her coffee cup so hard it broke, splashing hot coffee all over her hands. She didn’t even feel it. She could hardly breathe. Her heart was pounding; it was beating out the name Hu-go, Hu-go, Hu-go over and over, like a funeral march.
Isabelle could not believe Tantine had done this. Moments ago, she’d been hopeful, believing that the old woman would help them find a new place to live. Now she felt like an animal in a trap. Why had she done this? Isabelle had never shown the slightest interest in Hugo, nor he in her.
“Tantine, I can’t … Hugo and I, we don’t … we never …” she said, struggling for the right words.
Tavi, who was chafing her mother’s wrists, came to her aid. “But Hugo and Isabelle can’t stand each other! It’s a terrible idea, Tantine. This is the eighteenth century, not the tenth. She doesn’t have to do it!”
“Girls, girls, calm down! Of course, Isabelle doesn’t have to marry Hugo. She doesn’t have to marry anyone,” Tantine soothed. “But how unfortunate it would be if she didn’t. You see, there are one or two things I may have neglected to mention. Hugo’s legacy? It only goes to him if he marries. How can he continue the family line without a wife? And really, what girl wouldn’t want to marry such a fine boy, especially one with a farm and fifty acres?” She paused. Her eyes caught Isabelle’s and held them. Isabelle felt as if she was being pulled helplessly, hopelessly, into a cold gray abyss. “Isabelle is certainly free to refuse the proposal,” Tantine continued. “She is also free to leave the farm and find herself, and her family, another place to live.”
Isabelle felt the gray depths close over her and pull her down. She fought her way back up. She had to find a way to navigate between the two impossibilities Tantine had presented.
“Madame,” she said, turning to Hugo’s mother. “I am nowhere near good enough for your son.”
“True enough,” Madame allowed, through a mouthful of omelet. “But as your own mother said, these are difficult times and one cannot be choosy. You are not a pretty girl, but cows don’t care about looks and neither do cabbages. You’re a hard worker, I’ll give you that, and that’s what counts on a farm. Plus, you’re strong and sturdy, with a good pair of hips to carry sons and a fine bosom to suckle them. You’ll breed well, I think.”
Isabelle flushed a deep red, unaccustomed to hearing herself talked about as if she were a broodmare.
“There! We’re all settled, then, aren’t we?” Tantine said cheerfully, shoveling more omelet onto Isabelle’s plate. “Now, eat your breakfast, child,” she admonished. “You’ll need your strength. You have a wedding to prepare for. I’m thinking next Saturday. A week from today. That’s time enough to make the necessary preparations. What do you think, Avara?”
Isabelle didn’t care what anyone thought. She looked at the cold wobbly omelet on her plate. Nausea gripped her. She got to her feet. “Pardon me, please,” she said, hurrying toward the door.
“She probably needs to collect herself. Shed a tear of joy or two in private,” Tantine said knowingly. “Brides-to-be are such emotional creatures.”
Isabelle wrenched the door open, ran outside, and vomited her breakfast into the grass.
“A week,” Isabelle said hollowly, leaning against the barn wall. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“We’ll think of something,” Tavi said. She was sitting on the same bench as Isabelle. “There has to be a way out of this.”
Hugo, who had regained consciousness, was sitting between them, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, groaning.
Breakfast was over. The dishes had been cleared away. Maman, inconsolable that Isabelle was marrying a farm boy, not an aristocrat, had taken to the hayloft. Madame was tending a sick hen. Tantine had retired to her room. Isabelle, Tavi, and Hugo were busy veering between panic and despair.
“There’s no way out,” Isabelle said miserably. “Either I go through with it or we starve to death.”
Hugo picked up his head. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. Why did you two ever have to come here? Why?” He groaned again.
“Stop it. You sound like a calf with colic,” Tavi said irritably.
Hugo turned and looked at her. “You’re kind of a bitch
, you know that?”
“Old news, Hugo.”
“You could at least show some sympathy. I’m in a terrible spot,” Hugo huffed. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
Tavi’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, happen this way?” she asked.
Hugo looked alarmed. And guilty. “Nothing,” he quickly said.
But Tavi didn’t buy it. “You know something about this. Tell us.”
Hugo looked trapped. “I—I told Tantine that you had to go. I asked her to matchmake. To find a husband for you, Tavi,” he admitted. “I thought if you got married, you’d leave and take Isabelle and your mother with you. I wanted you to leave because I can’t stand you, but also because I thought I might have a better chance of convincing my mother to let me marry Odette if you were gone. She’d be more agreeable if there were fewer mouths to feed.” Hugo glanced from Tavi to Isabelle. “That’s, um … that’s what I thought.”
“So this is your fault!” Isabelle said angrily. “You were going to ruin Tavi’s life, but you ruined mine instead!”
Tavi rubbed her temples. “Do us a favor, Hugo, don’t think anymore. Just don’t,” she said.
“I won’t,” Hugo said fervently. “I promise. Just get me out of this mess, Tavi. Please. I can’t marry Isabelle. I want Odette. I can’t stop dreaming about her. I have that feeling.”
“What feeling is that?” Tavi asked.
“The feeling that you want to own someone body and soul, spirit them away from everyone else, have them all to yourself forever and ever and ever,” Hugo said dreamily. “It’s called love.”
“No, it’s called kidnapping,” said Tavi.
Stepsister Page 23
