Finally she tied the striped foundation skirt and its matching apron overskirt atop the linen petticoat before reaching for the coordinating bodice and beginning the arduous task of fastening all the tiny buttons up the front.
When Celine was finished, she gazed down at her dress, wishing the convent had a mirror of any kind somewhere close by. A way to determine whether she looked as foolish as she felt.
Celine supposed her gown appeared . . . serviceable. When she’d first made it more than a year ago, it was pretty and fashionable. Weeks in the sodden hold of a ship on a transatlantic crossing had altered the fabric irreparably.
Celine sucked in her cheeks.
It was fine. Serviceable was not terrible.
And her appearance did not matter to God, so why should it matter to anyone else?
Poppycock. Of course her appearance at Mass mattered. Celine couldn’t very well march through the checkered nave of Saint Louis Cathedral in nothing but her chemise and drawers.
Though that would be a spectacle indeed, behaving so brazenly within such hallowed halls. It would likely have her banned from the convent—an idea that both terrified and intrigued her.
No matter.
Celine smoothed the front of her dress, the vibrant pink stripes flattening beneath her palms. It was scarcely ten o’clock, but the day sweltered like a bathhouse in summertime. The thick heat of New Orleans never ceased to amaze her. This city in late January felt like Paris in July . . . if the streets of Paris had been drenched by the sea. Beside her foot lay the remnants of a small puddle, likely from when she’d unwound her damp hair before getting dressed.
Absentmindedly, Celine drew a symbol through the puddle with the tip of her booted toe. The same symbol that had been found beside Anabel’s body soon took shape along the stone floor. At once, Celine swiped her heel through it, banishing it from view.
What would New Orleans feel like in July? Hell on earth?
Celine winced.
She guessed it would feel a lot like a murderess at Sunday Mass.
* * *
Celine sat beside Pippa in an oak pew halfway down the right side of Saint Louis Cathedral. A bead of sweat dripped down her neck. Makeshift fans fluttered alongside expensive contrivances of silk and lacquered wood. Faded whispers carried into the frescoed ceiling above. Heads began to droop even before the start of the homily, eyes falling shut an instant before the person was elbowed awake.
“Mercy,” Celine murmured to Pippa. “It’s even hotter than last week. How are we to endure the summer months?”
Pippa sat beside her in a gown of pale blue organza. Not too long ago, it had been the height of fashion. Pains had been taken to maintain the delicate lace detailing, but several small tears could be seen along the sleeves. In some places, it had been meticulously mended.
“You look lovely,” Celine whispered.
Pippa nudged her shoulder good-naturedly. “I look like a soggy handkerchief next to you. That bright color is wonderful against your skin.”
Celine tsked. “You shouldn’t speak ill of my friend. Especially not in a church.”
Pippa smothered a grin.
Behind the immense marble altar, the monsignor moved into position to begin his homily, switching from Latin to English to properly address his congregation.
Celine scanned the crowd until her gaze fell on a well-dressed pair positioned on the opposite side of the aisle. Bastien sat in a pew at the end of the first row, Odette beside him in a cream-colored gown of duchess satin with a matching bonnet.
Admittedly this was not the first time Celine had stolen a glance in their direction.
She’d been surprised to note that Bastien appeared well acquainted with every aspect of Mass. He recited things in unflinching Latin. Knew when to sit and stand and kneel. Bowed his head with the kind of reverence Celine would swear to be genuine.
It had taken her off guard, to say the least. She’d half expected a bolt of lightning to strike him the moment he dipped his fingers in the basin of holy water beside the entrance.
“When tragedy befalls the Lord’s flock, we must look to the lessons to be learned. Tragedy is what comes of disobedience,” the monsignor droned. “As He divulged to us in the book of Revelation . . .”
Celine closed her eyes, trying to ignore his words, even as fire and brimstone rained down around her.
“. . . and we must be thankful for the acts of penance arising from such tragedies. We must offer blessings to the favored sons of our fair city, for their boundless generosity and their unswerving attrition,” the elderly man intoned, his hands open at either side of his gold vestment. “Our God is forgiving. So must we be.”
Attention in the church shifted toward Bastien, who kept his gaze averted, his head bowed in prayer.
It took Celine only a moment to understand.
That fiend had paid for his sins today. With “boundless generosity,” he’d bought the church’s absolution. This had to be the reason he’d met with the monsignor and made a point to attend Mass today.
Celine sank back in her pew and crossed her arms, fuming.
First he’d sent his minion attorney to cover his tracks with the Metropolitan Police. Then he’d traded gold for absolution like he would a coin for a loaf of bread. If these weren’t the actions of a guilty conscience, Celine would eat her hat and swallow the striped ribbon whole.
She glared at the back of Bastien’s head. Though she was loath to admit it, she had to admire him for his efficiency. Had to envy how he floated about the world so unscathed.
If Celine possessed a tenth of his power, there would be no limit to what she could do.
* * *
“Celine!” Just beyond the steps leading into the cathedral, Odette waved from her seat in a shining black phaeton matched with a pair of midnight stallions.
Inhaling through her nose, Celine made her way down the stairs toward the open-air carriage. She put a hand to her brow to shield herself from the noon sun. “Bonjour, Odette,” she said reluctantly.
“Bonjour, mon amie.” Odette opened her creamy silk parasol with a flourish, the rubies around her ivory cameo winking in the filtered light, her gaze appraising. “I adore how you wear such bright hues. It’s ever so much more intriguing than this sea of simpering pastel.” She waved a gloved hand around the square. “One day, you must tell me what inspires you.”
Celine thought for a moment, her hand still sheltering her from the uncompromising sun. “Paris often had melancholy skies. They were always beautiful—especially in the rain—but I longed for splashes of color, so I thought to wrap myself in them.”
“Bien sûr,” Odette murmured with a knowing smile. “Come sit with me.” She patted the bloodred leather beside her.