The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  had stitched a cheeky set of letters into the edging of each

  handkerchief she’d fashioned.

  GTTAN

  A nod to her favorite Shakespearean tragedy, Hamlet.

  “Get thee to a nunnery.”

  Celine studied the five letters of script hidden in the compli-

  cated swirls of lace, a flicker of joy warming through her. Then

  she glanced across the rickety wooden table, her heart growing

  heavier with each passing second.

  Was this all she could expect of life?

  Her features hardened. Celine sat up straight, the whale-

  bone of her corset catching her breath as it stretched across

  her chest. She should be grateful to be here. Grateful to have a

  place among decent people. Grateful for another chance at life.

  Determination took root inside her. She smiled brightly to a

  potential patron, who failed to acknowledge her presence. Celine

  swallowed her looming scowl before shifting her attention to a

  pair of young women critiquing the glazing on a porcelain cup

  Pippa had completed days earlier.

  “Lovely, don’t you think?” the girl on the left murmured to

  her friend.

  The other girl glanced about distractedly. “It’s not bad, if you

  favor that sort of thing,” she drawled, tucking a strand of way-

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  ward brown hair beneath her straw hat. Her voice faded to a hush. “But did you hear what the dockworkers discovered at

  the pier yesterday morning?”

  The first girl nodded once. “Richard told me. Her name was

  Nathalie or Noémie something-or-other.” Unease marred her

  expression. “He suspects the Court might be responsible, since

  it happened near their domain.”

  Court? Celine wondered. As far as she knew, there had never been an American monarchy.

  “Like an animal had mauled her!” The brunette shuddered.

  “Poor soul,” she tsked, though her eyes gleamed with unspoken

  thoughts, “left to rot in the sun alongside the day’s catch. If the Court had anything to do with it, they’ve become even more

  ruthless than before. Not that it matters. They’ll curry the right favor, as they always do.”

  Despite Celine’s better judgment, her interest was piqued.

  She craned her neck toward the pair.

  The brunette continued, her words breathless. “Did Richard

  tell you what happened to her head?”

  “N-no.”

  “I heard it was completely severed from the poor young

  woman’s body.”

  The first girl gasped, a lace-gloved hand covering her mouth.

  “Dear Lord.”

  With a solemn nod, the brunette picked up one of Celine’s

  embroidered handkerchiefs. “Her face was all but unrecogniz-

  able. Her father had to identify her based on her earbobs alone.”

  At this, Pippa cleared her throat in an unmistakable attempt

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  to dissuade the two women from continuing such salacious talk. A frown cut across Anabel’s face, her look turning peevish.

  “Ladies, can we be of any assistance?” Celine offered the pair

  of young patrons a pointed smile.

  The brunette’s eyes narrowed as she dropped the handker-

  chief with a careless flick of her wrist. “No, thank you.” She

  reached for her friend’s elbow, looping her arm around it,

  directing them away from the rickety table.

  Once they were beyond earshot, Anabel harrumphed. “Gos-

  siping about a murder in the shadow of a church . . .” she mut-

  tered. “Dinna they ken better than to provoke the spirits in

  such a brash manner?” Her Scottish brogue deepened with her

  disdain, her fingers batting away a fat honeybee buzzing about

  her brow.

  Pippa sighed, then caught Anabel’s hand, preventing her from

  swatting at the hovering insect. “That poor girl.” She sat up

  straighter, her petite features gathering. “I hope her suffering

  wasn’t prolonged. Who could do such a thing?” Lines formed

  between her brows. “What kind of monster could take a human

  life like that?”

  Anabel nodded crisply. “I hope the fiend responsible burns in

  Hell for all eternity. ’Tis the only justice for a murderer.”

  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 slid-

  ing 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.

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  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 sight-

  ing distance of Jackson Square.

  Celine supposed that reprieve—at the very least—was some-

  thing for which to be grateful.

  j

  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 be-

  gan 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

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  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 sar-

  casm 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 set-

  ting 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

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  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 Ce-

  line 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 never-

  theless 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

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  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.

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  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 stun-

  ning 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.

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  “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 dis-

  closed 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 convic-

  tion. “I’ll take them all.” She waved a hand over the handker-

  chiefs, as though she were casting a spell.

  “All?” Anabel sputtered, the ends of her yellow ribbon flut-

  tering 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 handkerch
iefs 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

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  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 ta-

  ble, 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, made-

  moiselle. 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