The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  A hint of color threatened to creep up Celine’s neck. She rolled her shoulders back, calming the storm in her chest. A bead of sweat collected in the hollow of her throat before sliding between her caged breasts. “I completely agree,” she said lamely. The words felt ashen on her tongue. Celine twined her fingers together, praying for an end to the discussion.

  Thankfully, it appeared both Pippa and Anabel were in agreement. The trio recommenced their efforts to raise money for the church with renewed vigor, standing in tandem to greet another group of potential patrons.

  Most of the passersby paused to consider the jars of mayhaw jelly and lemon pear marmalade the girls stationed in the kitchen had finished preparing yesterday. Not a soul cared to while away a moment perusing the painted cups or the elegantly folded handkerchiefs.

  Gloom took refuge on Celine’s shoulders, like a beast settling in the shadows. She glanced about, searching for a source of comfort. At least none of the people assembling before them mentioned the ghastly murder that had occurred within sighting distance of Jackson Square.

  Celine supposed that reprieve—at the very least—was something for which to be grateful.

  * * *

  After three hours of little success, Celine’s gloom had become a thing with teeth. Rays of sunlight continued to slide ever closer, the heat growing oppressive, making her long for the comfort of nightfall. Even the branches above felt burdened by the weight of the sultry air, their blossoms like eyelids, growing heavier and sleepier with each passing moment. Pippa’s blond curls began to frame her face like a damp halo. Anabel tightened the yellow ribbon about her brow and sighed loudly. It appeared her patience had run thin as well.

  The slender Scotswoman twisted an auburn curl around her index finger and yanked it straight, her freckled nose wrinkling. “Och, it’s as hot as a witch’s cauldron. And just how are we to meet any eligible young men when all our days are spent raising money and all our nights are spent in prayer?”

  There were many things Celine wished to say in response. She chose the least offensive option. “Perhaps it would be better if our nights were spent raising money instead.” Her cheerful sarcasm failed to strike a chord with Anabel. The redhead stared at her with a confused expression.

  But Pippa could always be counted on to understand her friend’s dark sense of humor. She shot Celine a look, her lips twitching. Then she turned her graceful head back toward Anabel. “Maybe finding a husband shouldn’t be our only concern?”

  “Aye, it shouldna, but I’ll tell ye, a sturdy young man would be a nice distraction from all this humdrum.”

  “Or he could make it worse.” Pippa adjusted the slender chain of the golden cross around her neck. “In my experience, sturdy young men don’t always improve upon the company.”

  Celine fought back the urge to smile. This was precisely the reason she and Pippa had been drawn to each other before setting sail. Neither of them harbored delusions when it came to the opposite sex. Of course Celine wanted to know why Pippa did not yearn to find a match, but she knew better than to ask.

  A petite blonde with a heart-shaped face and sapphire-blue eyes, Pippa drew ample notice wherever she went. Men often tipped their hat to her appreciatively. Even more importantly, she possessed a mind as sharp as a tack. It should have been the work of a moment for her to find love. But instead of settling down in her homeland, Pippa had braved the wilds of a new country, far across the Atlantic.

  The day they met, this had struck Celine as highly curious. But she kept her thoughts to herself. She had no intention of taking part in the discussion that would likely follow. If she asked, they would ask in return, and these were questions Celine did not want to answer. Any interest in her past—beyond the bare minimum—was a thing to be avoided at all cost.

  For numerous reasons.

  The afternoon Celine had embarked on the Aramis, it had not escaped her notice that all the girls on board were light-skinned, most without a hint of foreign blood among them. Antonia—the girl from Portugal—possessed a complexion that easily browned in the sun, but even she had spent most of the journey below deck to ward away any suggestion of color.

  If they knew where Celine’s mother was from. If they knew she was not fully of Anglo-Saxon heritage . . .

  It was a secret she and her father had kept from the moment they’d first arrived in Paris thirteen years ago, when Celine was scarcely four years old. Though France was not as infamous for its racial divide as America had been in recent years, it nevertheless harbored a seething undercurrent of tension. One that often implied how inappropriate it was for the races to mix. This notion proved true the world over. In areas beyond New Orleans, there were even laws forbidding people of different colors from congregating in the same room.

  Celine’s mother had been from the Orient. Upon completing his time at Oxford, her father had followed his passion for languages to Eastern shores. He’d crossed paths with Celine’s mother in a small village along the southern coast of a rocky peninsula. Celine had never known where, though she’d often inquired as a child, only to be rebuffed.

  “It doesn’t matter who you were,” her father had argued. “It matters who you are.”

  It rang true then, like it did now.

  As a result, Celine knew precious little about her mother. The recollections she had of her first few years of life along a Far East coast were fleeting. They flickered across her thoughts from time to time, but never fully took shape. Her mother was a woman who smelled of safflower oil and fed her fruit each night and sang to her in a distant memory. Nothing more.

  But if anyone looked closely—studied Celine’s features with a practiced gaze—they might notice the edges of her upturned eyes. The high planes of her cheekbones, and the thick strands of dark hair. The skin that stayed fair in winter, yet bronzed with ease in the summer sun.

  “Your name is Marceline Béatrice Rousseau,” her father would say whenever she asked about her mother, his brow stern. “That is all anyone need know about you.”

  Celine had molded this into a motto by which to live. It did not matter that it left half the pages of her book empty. It did not matter one bit.

  “Is this for sale, mademoiselle?” a young woman asked loudly, as if she were addressing an imbecile. Her light brown eyes darted to one of Celine’s lace-embroidered handkerchiefs.

  Startled, Celine responded in a curt tone, the words falling from her lips before she could catch them. “I should hope so, or else I have no idea what in hell I’ve been doing here for the last three hours.”

  To her left, she heard Anabel gasp and Pippa swallow a snicker. Celine grimaced, then tried to smile while angling her head upward, only to be blinded by a flash of sunlight.

  Undeterred by Celine’s rudeness, the girl standing on the opposite side of the rickety table grinned down at her. A jolt of discomfort passed through Celine’s stomach when she took in the full breadth of the young lady’s appearance.

  In a word, the girl looked exquisite. Her features were like those of a doll, her brunette head high and proud. Eyes the color of rich honey gazed down at Celine with steady appraisal. At her throat—pinned to a fichu of Valenciennes lace—was a stunning ivory cameo surrounded by rubies. Across her shoulder lay a delicate parasol with a fringe of seed pearls, its rosewood handle engraved with a fleur-de-lis set in the mouth of a roaring lion. It matched well with the girl’s Basque-style bodice, though the entire effect proved a bit outmoded.

  The girl let her lace-gloved fingers graze over a handkerchief’s scalloped edging. “This is superb work.”

  “Thank you.” Celine inclined her head.

  “Reminds me of something I saw the last time I was in Paris.”

  It was impossible to miss the excitement on Pippa’s face. “Celine studied under one of the premier couturières there.”

  Celine pressed her lips together, cursing
her pride. She never should have shared that particular detail with Pippa.

  “Which one?” The girl raised her eyebrows at Celine.

  “Worth’s,” Celine lied.

  “Along Rue de la Paix?”

  Celine swallowed. Then nodded. Already she could feel the urge to run from her skin take hold, and she had not even disclosed anything of significance. Nothing that would tie her to the events of that fateful night in the atelier.

  “Is that so?” the girl said. Her dainty features set with conviction. “I’ll take them all.” She waved a hand over the handkerchiefs, as though she were casting a spell.

  “All?” Anabel sputtered, the ends of her yellow ribbon fluttering in the heavy breeze. “Well, far be it from me to dissuade ye . . . Time and tide waits for no woman, and all that.”

  While Anabel collected the handkerchiefs to tally the total, Celine gazed at the girl standing before them, perplexed by the sudden turn of events. Something about her unnerved Celine. Like a memory she should recall. A word lost midsentence. A thought unraveling midair. The young woman allowed Celine’s perusal, her grin growing wider with each passing second.

  “If you studied with a couturière, are you able to design gowns?” the girl asked.

  Again, Celine nodded. “Mais oui, bien sûr.”

  “Merveilleux!” She leaned closer, her eyes glinting like warm chalcedony. “I’ve been struggling with my current modiste, and I’m in desperate need of a costume for the masquerade ball on Mardi Gras next month. The Russian Grand Duke is to be the special guest this year, and I will need something memorable to mark the occasion. Something bright white and reminiscent of the French court before the revolution, I believe.” She wrinkled her nose, as though she were about to share a delicious secret. “Really—despite all the ridiculousness with the pig chasing and the perfume—I do think it was one of the finest times for women’s fashion in recent history, panniers and all.” The girl drummed her gloved fingers along the edge of the wooden table, her head tilted in consideration. “I suppose you would need to measure me in order to begin the process?”

  Another pert retort barreled from Celine’s lips. “Yes, mademoiselle. That would be wise.”

  The center of the girl’s eyes sparkled as though she could hear Celine’s thoughts. “You’re absolutely delightful. Like Bastien in a dress.” She laughed to herself. “That snide fiend.”

  Lines of confusion gathered across Celine’s forehead. Was the young woman insulting her or complimenting her?

  “En tout cas . . .” the girl continued, her free hand waving through the air as if to disperse smoke. “Would it be possible for you to meet me later this evening?”

  Celine thought quickly. The day after they’d arrived in port, the Mother Superior had cautioned them about venturing alone into the city at night, especially during carnival season. She’d spoken as though they were all foolish little lambs, and the Vieux Carré nothing but a hunting ground for wolves. Not to mention the fact that a violent death had occurred recently along the nearby pier.

  Given all these facts, it was unlikely the Mother Superior would permit Celine to go.

  With this realization came a surprising rush of disappointment. Though Celine did not feel comfortable in the presence of this rambling, oddly attired girl, she nevertheless felt . . . intrigued. Even a tad bit reckless.

  When the girl sensed Celine’s reluctance, her lips puckered with displeasure. “Of course I will pay you handsomely.”

  Celine didn’t doubt it. The ivory cameo alone was worth a fortune. But it was not about the money. It was about the rightness. She owed herself this second chance. And angering the Mother Superior seemed unwise.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle.” Celine shook her head. “I just don’t think it would be possible. The Mother Superior would not permit it.”

  “I see.” A long sigh passed the girl’s lips. “Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

  “Pardon?” Celine’s eyes went wide. “Are you quoting . . . Shakespeare?”

  And Hamlet, at that.

  “The one and only.” The girl grinned. “But, alas, I must be on my way. Is there no chance you might change your mind? You have but to name your price.”

  A flicker of amusement passed through Celine. Hours ago, from a place of insolence, she’d suggested it might be better to earn money beneath the light of the moon. Here was an offer to do so. One without limit.

  In that moment—listening to this strange girl quote Shakespeare and tantalize her with possibility—Celine realized she wanted to go. Badly. It was the first time in recent memory she’d felt this particular spark of anticipation ignite within her. She wanted to create something and be a part of the world instead of merely observing it. Already she’d begun envisioning ways to fashion the wide-hooped, baroque-style panniers. To construct a manteau with dripping pagoda sleeves. Her hesitation now was a last effort to hold firm to her convictions.

  To obey. Be a model of humility. Earn a measure of God’s forgiveness.

  “If money does not entice you”—the girl leaned closer, and Celine caught a whiff of neroli oil and rosewater—“I can promise you an adventure . . . a trek through a den of lions.”

  That. That was it.

  It was as though the girl had found a window into the darkest corner of Celine’s heart.

  “It would be my pleasure to design a dress for you, mademoiselle,” Celine said. As soon as the words left her mouth, her pulse was set apace.

  “I’m thrilled.” Beaming, the girl withdrew an ecru card with gold calligraphy in its center. The script read

  Jacques’

  Beneath it was an address in the heart of the Vieux Carré, not too far from the convent.

  “Come here this evening, around eight o’clock,” she continued. “Disregard the queue outside. When a beautiful man with a voice like sin and a ring through his right ear demands to know what you are doing, tell him to bring you to Odette, tout de suite.” She reached for Celine’s hand. Through the lace of her glove, her touch felt cool. Calming. The girl’s eyes widened for an instant, her grasp tentative at first. She canted her head, a half smile curving up her doll-like face. “It’s lovely to meet you, Celine,” she said warmly.

  “It was lovely to meet you as well . . . Odette.”

  With another simpering grin, the girl named Odette sashayed away, the train of her bustle gliding in her wake. The next instant, Anabel turned toward Celine. “I ken I’m the last to go on about making mistakes, Celine, but I’m not sure what came over ye when ye agreed to meet this Odette creature tonight. Are ye touched? Ye canna leave the convent after dinner. The Mother Superior expressly forbade it. She said the happenings in the Quarter after sunset—”

  “Promote the kind of licentious behavior that will not be tolerated beneath her roof,” Celine finished in a weary voice. “I know. I was there.”

  “There’s no need to be testy.” Anabel blew back a tight red curl from her face. “I’m only worried what’ll happen if you’re caught.”

  “I thought you were tired of all the humdrum,” Pippa teased.

  Celine smiled, grateful to her friend for disarming the tension. “Ready to meet a sturdy young gentleman.”

  “In my mind, he doesn’t even have to be young,” Pippa continued.

  “Or a gentleman,” Celine finished.

  “Och, you’re terrible!” Color flooding her face, Anabel made the sign of the cross. “Enough to make me take to church.”

  Celine feigned ignorance, a black brow arching into her forehead. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be the wee hen that never laid away. Not with me, Mademoiselle Rousseau.” Her eyes shifted to Celine’s chest. “And certainly not with that bosom.”

  “What?” Celine blinked.

  “Don’t play
the innocent,” Pippa translated with laughter.

  “What does that have to do with my . . . bosom?”

  Pippa bit her lip. “It was said in jest, dear. You must know you have a lovely figure.” She patted Celine’s hand like she would a child’s. The motion grated on Celine’s nerves. “Don’t take it to heart. Gifts were bestowed on you.”

  Gifts?

  They thought her figure was a gift? The ridiculousness of it almost caused Celine to burst into laughter herself. There’d been a time when she’d appreciated her body for its beauty and resilience. But that time had passed. What she wouldn’t give to be lithe and lean like Anabel. The “gifts” these girls chortled about now had brought Celine nothing but trouble.

  And they’d left her far from innocent.

  A flush rose in Celine’s cheeks. It flared across her skin, hot and fast, as though—even in jest—these two girls could see the truth she labored to conceal every day of her life. The worst of her past washed through her memory. Blood seeped across her vision, the smell of warm copper filling her nose, leaching the light from the air.

  But this was absurd. How would Pippa and Anabel know what she had done? Why she’d fled her home five weeks ago? Celine struggled to calm her nerves.

  They wouldn’t. No one would. As long as she didn’t breathe a word.

  Your name is Marceline Béatrice Rousseau. That is all anyone need know about you.

  “I would never play the innocent, ladies.” Celine winked and smiled brightly. “It just wouldn’t suit.”

  MALVOLIO

  Anabel betrayed Celine at dinner, barely an hour after they’d returned to the convent.

  It took the Mother Superior the work of an instant to draw out the truth from the loose-lipped girl. As soon as Anabel told the gathered young women that Celine’s embroidered handkerchiefs had been purchased full price in one fell swoop, the hawk-eyed nun—with her perfectly pressed habit—had delved for details.