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.
Alas, Anabel proved to be a terrible liar. For all the stories Celine had heard about Scots, she was profoundly disappointed to have met the only Highlander incapable of spinning a tale.
Now Celine was stuck reviewing the scenery in the Mother Superior’s office, her dinner of bland stew going cold on the kitchen table. She searched the space for a distraction. All the while, she tried to devise a believable lie for why she should be permitted to wander into the city past nightfall.
It was all so dramatic. So unnecessary.
Why was it that everyone Celine encountered insisted on telling her how to live her life?
Pippa sat in guilty silence nearby, wringing her hands like a character from a cautionary tale. Celine inhaled deeply, aware that Philippa Montrose could not be counted on to support anything resembling perfidy. Pippa was simply too good. It was a truth universally acknowledged by all those residing at the convent, even the nuns themselves:
Pippa Montrose was trustworthy and obedient. Nothing like the impetuous Celine Rousseau.
In fact, why had Pippa been summoned here at all? She wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. Was her presence an effort to highlight Celine’s misdeeds? Or perhaps intimidate Pippa into betraying her as well?
Her gaze darkening at the thought, Celine scanned the room. On one side of the wall was a large wooden cross that had been donated by one of New Orleans’ oldest Spanish families, from a time before the French had taken ownership of the port city. Beyond the partially opened shutters, a slit of waning sunlight bathed the outer reaches of the Ursuline convent.
If only the windows could be opened fully, to let the view of the port seep onto its sloping floors. Maybe it would fill these fallow rooms with life. The second day there, Celine had tried to do this herself, but she’d been roundly chastised ten minutes later; the windows of the whitewashed convent were always shuttered in an effort to maintain the cloistered atmosphere.
As though it could be anything else at all.
The door scraped open. Pippa sat up straight in the same instant Celine’s shoulders fell.
Even before the Mother Superior stepped over the threshold, the wool of her black habit filled the room with her presence, smelling of lanolin and the medicinal ointment she used each night for her chapped hands.
The combination was like a wet hound in a haystack.
As soon as the door swung shut, the lines around the Mother Superior’s mouth deepened. She paused for a breath, then glared down at them, her expression severe. An obvious effort to instill a sense of foreboding, like a tyrant of old.
Though it was inopportune, a smile threatened to take shape on Celine’s face. Everything about this situation was absurd. Less than five weeks ago, Celine had been apprenticed to one of the most demanding couturières in Paris. A woman whose frequent screams of rage caused the crystals to tremble in their chandeliers. A true oppressor, who routinely ripped Celine’s work to shreds—before her eyes—if a single stitch was out of place.
And this tyrannical nun with chapped hands thought she merited fear?
As Pippa would say, not bloody likely.
A snicker escaped Celine’s mouth. Pippa toed her chair in response.
What could have caused the Mother Superior’s hands to become so worn? Perhaps she labored on some clandestine craft, deep in the hollows of her cell. A painter perhaps. Or a sculptor. What if she was secretly a wordsmith by night? Even better if she wrote entirely in asides or things laced with double meaning, like Malvolio in Twelfth Night.
Be by my life, this is my lady’s hand, these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus she makes her great P’s.
Celine coughed. Creases of irritation formed across the Mother Superior’s forehead.
The idea that this nun in a starched habit would say anything untoward caused Celine to lock eyes on the polished stone floor to keep from laughing. Pippa nudged her again, this time more forcefully. Though her friend said nothing, Celine could tell Pippa was not the least bit amused by their situation.
Rightly so. Nothing about angering the convent’s matron should be funny. This woman had given them a place to live and work. A means by which to find their way in the New World.
Only an ungrateful, troublesome girl would see otherwise. A girl precisely like Celine.
Sobered by these thoughts, Celine chewed the inside of her cheek, the room growing warmer, her stays pulling tighter.
“I expect you to explain yourself, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a voice that was tinny and gravelly all at once.
Celine kept silent, her eyes cast downward. She knew better than to begin by offering a defense. The Mother Superior had not called them here with a mind to listen; she’d called them here with a mind to teach. It was a lesson Celine understood well. She’d been raised on it.
“This young woman you met in the square, why does she not come to the convent in daylight or consult a local dressmaker?” the Mother Superior asked. “If she wishes to hire you to design garments for her, it seems fitting for her to come here, n’est-ce pas?”
When Celine still did not respond, the Mother Superior grunted. Leaned closer. “Répondez-moi, Mademoiselle Rousseau. Immédiatement,” she whispered, her tone laced with warning. “Or you and Mademoiselle Montrose will regret it.”
At the threat, Celine raised her head to meet the Mother Superior’s gaze. She licked her lips to bide time as she chose her next words.