The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “I’m not here to embarrass you.”

  “Why are you here, then?” she asked, sounding perplexed.

  “I have not forgotten you, Valérie,” he said quietly, and he tried to pour every inch of his soul into those few words, hoping she might see and feel and grasp how he’d loved her, how many nights he’d dreamt of her and tossed in his bed in despair, how many times he’d pictured her face. Now she was there, real and solid, and he wanted to die without her and wanted to live for her. As when they’d been young.

  “Nonsense,” she told him, and he realized, no, she did not see. She had not counted the days and nights. But, no, no, she had. Deep inside she must have.

  “Nonsense? I made you a promise once, that I’d come back. Well, I’ve returned,” he declared.

  “What do you expect? That I shall get into your carriage this instant and abandon my husband?”

  The only reason for his visit to this city was this woman. He could not spend another day away, pretending she did not exist. He had done nothing but pretend and failed miserably for ten years.

  “Not this instant. I’m sure you’ve grown fond of the Beaulieu fortune,” he said, matching her tone.

  Valérie’s face hardened again. Like a warrior, she quickly donned her armor, allowing him no access. “Fond of my husband, too,” she said, looking at him firmly in the face.

  “Truly? You seem bored out of your mind.”

  “Bored because I have to spend my days with his nitwit cousin. You’d be half-mad, too.”

  “I might be, since I intend to court her,” he said, wishing to get a reaction from her, wishing for anything.

  “How delightful! You have not forgotten me but now you turn your eyes to a silly girl who happens to have a pile of money beneath her feet,” Valérie said, clapping her hands once.

  “I have money aplenty. I am not looking to steal her fortune.”

  “Hector, don’t be ridiculous.” Valérie laughed merrily and the laughter dripped with undisguised scorn.

  “It is about time I married,” he said, pressing on.

  “You’d marry her?”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t love her.”

  “There are plenty of shining examples in the world that demonstrate love need not be a condition of a successful marriage. You might agree on this point.”

  Valérie fixed her lofty eyes on him, anger coloring her cheeks. She began walking again, resolutely. “If you want to make a fool of yourself, then be my guest,” she said. “For this is sheer foolishness.”

  Valérie was right. It was foolish, perhaps. But Nina would allow him to have access to this household. His love of Valérie was vicious. It gripped him utterly. He had to see her, had to speak to her, and if this was the way, then let it be. At turns he thought he might be able to spirit Valérie away if only they could share a little time together. Then he changed his mind; he decided that he could remain the chivalrous gentleman, merely loving her from afar. The latter appealed to his sense of romanticism.

  Hector prepared to elucidate these notions and quickly gave up when he looked at Valérie.

  He sighed and shook his head softly. “It would be good to have a friend. An accomplice, a partner. I’ve been traveling for a long time, Valérie. You cannot possibly understand how tiring it is,” he whispered.

  They had arrived at the door and he had fetched his hat and coat, so there was no reason to dally, but rather than ejecting him, Valérie simply stared at Hector. She reminded him of a lioness who has not decided if it will let itself be tamed or tear its master to shreds.

  “I can understand,” she said, her voice softening again.

  Her hands were hidden in her skirts, but he reached out and grazed her fingers. He moved one step closer to her, pressing his lips against her hand, a gesture he had withheld in the drawing room for fear of betraying himself. But they were alone now, and the wild beating of his heart did not matter. When he released her, Valérie did not drift away, instead shifting closer to him, the space between them almost disappearing.

  “Bring Nina to the Royal next Friday. You can both watch the show.”

  “I’ve no interest in the show.”

  “In some conversation after it, then.”

  “Not in any conversation with you,” she replied, her voice honeyed.

  He knew she was playing with him, as she’d done when they first met, masterfully teasing and flirting and driving him insane. He’d allow it. He was playing, too.

  Hector inclined his head.

  “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Auvray?” she asked, her hand upon the door.

  “Nothing, for the time being. I’ll send an invitation for the Royal. I trust you will be there.”

  He took his leave with that, not bothering to look back when he heard the door close behind him.

  Chapter 5

  VALÉRIE BEAULIEU OPENED HER JEWELRY box and riffled through its contents until she found the ring. Gold with a single pearl, a pattern of scallops decorating the band. It was not worth anything and it did not compare to the rest of Valérie’s jewelry. She had gold-and-enamel earrings, a beautiful double-strand pearl necklace with a sapphire, a necklace of rich garnets, and a bracelet with the most dazzling diamonds. The ring, which she kept at the bottom of her jewelry box, was ugly in comparison to the other items she owned.

  Yet she kept this ring because Hector had given it to her.

  She had met him in Frotnac. It was the hottest spring in many years, and more than one distinguished family had fled the capital before the end of the Grand Season in search of a cooler locale. Frotnac, situated to the north, was the chosen destination for most of them. Valérie stayed with her friend Miranda Oclou, and Miranda’s distracted mother.

  Valérie’s family was not what it had once been. The house, majestic at the height of the Véries’ power, had become a tired relic. Jewelry, paintings, and even furniture were sold through the years to keep the family fed. Friends and relatives provided a measure of support, yet loans remained unpaid and everyone shook their heads sadly when they saw Valérie walk by. What could be expected of her? they prattled. A young lady of meager means would have a hard time attracting serious suitors. Picture her trousseau!

  Despite everything, decorum must be maintained. Valérie’s family was strict, and her grandmother demanded blind obedience to the old rules. She learned to play the piano and to sing, how to converse and dance, all the courtesies of a woman of her station even if her station was nebulous.

  But Frotnac was far from that wretched gargoyle of a grandmother. Most important, it was more relaxed. A young city, it had grown significant in the past few decades, and it could not imagine the pomp of Loisail, its rules or ancient histories.

  The feeling that summer was one of unending ebullience. Valérie and Miranda explored the city, shopped, and attended a number of soirées, dinners, and parties. One evening they went to a café where Hector was performing for the patrons. He levitated a chair, a couple of glasses, those sorts of tricks. She had seen similar performances around the city. Musicians, actors, even poets reciting their couplets for a few coins. Hector, however, struck her as a more impressive figure.

  He was young and good-looking, and though his clothes were not the newest and most fashionable, he carried himself with an air of quiet grace and dignity that affected her. Nonetheless, she might not have spoken to him if it had not been for Étienne Lémy.

  Étienne Lémy knew Miranda, and when he saw her he immediately walked to their table and sat down, inviting Hector to join him. Étienne was a wealthy young man who had decided to wander around the country and pay his way by playing the violin. He fancied himself an artist, and for the past four months he had been traveling with the troupe of a fellow named Derval. Hector was also a member of the troupe. They had, however, been left stranded in Frotnac after an inquiry concerning late wages with Derval ended in an angry confrontation.

  Valérie was both disappointed and int
rigued when she realized that Hector, unlike his friend, was not playing the role of the nonconformist. He was a genuinely humble young man with no money and no connections. But he was also intelligent, serious, and determined. While many wealthy fellows like Étienne Lémy were simply interested in wine and women, Hector was ambitious. He was saving money to buy passage to Iblevad. A previous member of Derval’s troupe had gone there two years before. The troupe member said Hector’s telekinetic skills were sure to attract no small amount of attention and had promised he’d recommend Hector to his employer.

  Despite his admirable qualities, Valérie did not intend to become seriously involved with Hector. However, she found herself returning to the café, walking with him around the city, and suddenly she was seeing him every day.

  It was summer. The hours in a day could stretch on forever, and she did not have to whirl back to the house where she was staying until night had fallen; night fell late. And sometimes they also met at nights in secret, Miranda and Étienne and Valérie and Hector navigating the alleys of the city, laughing and singing. The boys performed at the cafés and the girls watched, and then they went dancing.

  “Are you my Valérie?” he would ask her.

  “Who else’s?” she would say.

  It was summer and she was young. The heat made it difficult to think; the city made her careless. He kissed her, whispered in her ear, and she whispered back, tangled her fingers in his hair. She fell in love and when the summer ended, he told her he was heading to Iblevad to make his fortune. He’d come back for her. Would she wait?

  She said yes.

  The last time they met was at the docks in Loisail. Before he left, he gave her the ring. Valérie wept. He promised he would write and she promised the same. And never-ending love. She promised that, too.

  She intended to keep her promise. The days grew cooler and snow fell upon the city. She wrote with ecstatic fervor. Ink and tears spilled upon the page. She missed him!

  Grandmother complained she was not eating properly and looked pale. No one knew about Hector. She had not breathed a word about him.

  That winter she met Gaetan Beaulieu. He was less dashing than Hector and terribly wealthy.

  She wrote to Hector and he wrote to her, yet her letters were more paced now. It was a busy time. The Grand Season was starting and she was assured an invitation to the best parties, thanks to the attentive care of Gaetan.

  Fall arrived and with it the rains. A year had passed. Hector assured her he was making progress. On the other hand, Gaetan had proposed. Her family pushed her forward. Here was their salvation!

  She tried to stall. Grandmother summoned her. The woman sat in her favorite chair, which was more throne than chair, all in black with the ebony choker around her ancient neck. She had not donned a stitch of color since her husband died decades before. Valérie suspected the old cow enjoyed widowhood and the grim aura it gave her.

  “What is this that you will not give Gaetan Beaulieu an answer?” she asked.

  “I need time to think, Grandmother.”

  “Time! A woman does not have time. A man has turned his eyes toward you, but he might as quickly turn away and find a more tractable fiancée. Time and choice are not luxuries you can allow yourself. Do you know about your aunt Cibeline?”

  “The Duke de Lammarck broke his engagement to her. It was a scandal.”

  “Yes, a scandal. He had to pay her father a sum for all the trouble, as one does in these cases, but then came an epidemic of smallpox. Her face was disfigured. She became such a nuisance, she had to be dragged off to the asylum at Rangel. Had she married him the previous spring, as I had suggested, this would not have happened. No woman needs a three-year engagement.”

  “But a long engagement, Grandmother, it gives one a chance to know the groom better.”

  “What must you know about Gaetan? That without him you will end up an old maid, penniless, living off the charity of friends?”

  The withered woman reached forward and grabbed Valérie’s hands.

  “Soft, pretty hands. They won’t be soft and pretty in a few years. You’ll end up a governess for one of your old friends. How will you like to take care of Miranda Oclou’s little ones? I won’t live forever, and once I die the jackals will take what they can, this house, the bits of valuables left behind. You’ll be cast out and alone. What will happen to your soft, pretty hands then, Valérie?”

  She had not replied, trembling with rage, unable to speak. She wanted to spit at the hag’s face. But she knew her grandmother spoke the truth.

  Valérie did not demur after that.

  She could never remember penning the actual letter, the moment lost to her, though years later she could recall the exact words.

  Consider yourself relieved of your promise.

  I have wed someone else.

  Valérie.

  She kept the ring. She ought to have tossed it away. An idea held her back, silly as it might be, that if she kept it, she might keep a part of him. And there was a part of her in that ring, too. A younger, more carefree shard of Valérie.

  Once in a while she would take the ring out and hold it for a minute or two before quickly putting it away. That night, however, Valérie held the ring for a long time.

  “Nina informs me that she has a new admirer,” Gaetan said.

  She looked up at her mirror and her husband’s reflection. He was a dull man with an air of satisfaction about him that she thought came from his wealth. The world, she thought, had been kind to Gaetan, and it had made him soft, undefined, placid. He paid for her bills, bought her expensive presents, yet she resented him for his lack of spirit and for his devotion to his family. She also thought ill of him for the things he refused to provide her: funds for the Véries, that post her cousin might have had in the army if only Gaetan had bought it.

  The limits of Valérie’s power and influence chafed her. She begrudged Antonina for this reason and also because she was by nature a jealous, possessive creature. She had to have every bit of everything, and that included every bit of everyone. Gaetan’s love for others struck her as a personal insult, and if he could not love her absolutely with no room for another, she did not believe he could love her at all.

  “I wouldn’t call him an admirer. He did ask her to the theater,” Valérie said. She placed the ring back in her jewelry box, straightened her shoulders, and reached for her hairbrush.

  “I know. She told me yesterday and begged me to intercede in her favor,” Gaetan replied.

  The gossipy idiot. Valérie should have known she’d go running to Gaetan.

  “That girl,” Valérie muttered, “is trying to go behind my back. She knows full well you’ll do whatever she wants. It’s always like this with her.”

  Her brush caught in her hair and she pulled it down, sharply, to untangle it. It hurt.

  “Valérie, you mustn’t be angry. She’s … excitable.”

  “I told her I would think about it. I have not made a decision.”

  “I understand. I must say I was a bit shocked. An entertainer new to the city talking to Nina?” Gaetan said, sounding surprised yet pleased. Likely he saw this as a mark of his cousin’s attractiveness, the nonexistent Beaulieu charm. “But I spoke to René Rambulen this morning, and he assured me Hector Auvray’s bank account is substantial and he is polite. Unlike other entertainers, he is not found frequenting cabarets and drinking establishments. They say he is, in truth, a bit too serious. Of course, that is not a complete assurance of his character.”

  “No, it’s not,” Valérie said. “But it is like Antonina to utterly lose perspective the first time a stranger says a word to her, and for you to go along with her in order to keep the girl happy.”

  Gaetan appeared contrite, but not contrite enough to stop pressing his point. “Valérie, it is … Nina is a sweet girl, but she is also somewhat misunderstood. When she was but a child, I remember how she used to make furniture move, pots clang. It scared the other children. They cal
led her the Witch of Oldhouse. And now that she has grown up, even now they remember these things, and she’s not had many suitors in Montipouret.”

  Any wonder why? Valérie thought. Antonina botched everything. When it was necessary that she speak, she grew quiet. When she must be modest, she was loud. When she must smile, she smiled, but too eagerly. She made a fool of herself when they visited the Deforniers, ensuring every young man in attendance quietly chuckled and thought What a dolt! and went in search of a more sophisticated young lady.

  “She’s not in Montipouret anymore. She has had many chances to socialize with people her age, to speak to charming young men.”

  “She’s spoken to this one, at least. What did you think of him when he visited here?”

  She held the silver brush in the air for a second, frozen, then slowly ran it down her hair. Her throat felt dry and she thought her tongue would not move, but she found herself forming words, her voice light.

  “He seems an educated man, well groomed. It is difficult for me to say anything else, having met him but briefly.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Gaetan said, pacing behind her in his favorite robe, the dark crimson one that suited him poorly. “I am torn, Valérie. I do not want to make her unhappy and rob Nina of the chance to make a new friend. On the other hand, who knows if he is a proper acquaintance. An entertainer, a performer. I do not wish to be closed-minded and fastidious. What do you think?”

  Valérie bit her lip and set the brush down. Her fingers rested against the edge of her vanity for a minute as she considered what to say next. She could feel her heart beating fast in her chest, and she was afraid Gaetan might notice something was amiss even if he would not have noticed a conflagration in the room next door.

  “Perhaps it wouldn’t be bad if I accept his invitation to the theater. It would give us a chance to interact a bit more. We could make up our mind on him.”

  “That is excellent,” Gaetan said. “Yes. You must go with Nina to the theater and converse with Mr. Auvray. And if you deem it prudent, we can invite him for dinner at a later date.”