The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I am glad we could meet. Little Nina speaks highly of you.”

  “Undeservedly, I am sure,” Hector replied.

  Gaetan handed him a glass and smiled. Hector thought he had a stupid smile. A rather uncharitable rumination.

  “As you may be aware, this is Nina’s first season in the city. It is an important time in a young woman’s life. Many people to meet and sights to see.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Yes. I am glad she has made a new friend, and as I said, she speaks highly of you. Yet I must admit hesitation on my part when she mentioned your name. You see, you’ve been far afield for so long, you are almost like a … well, a foreigner. A bit of a mystery, which no doubt Nina finds interesting, but I myself must be cautious. A man’s reputation is his calling card, and you have no card to speak of. I don’t think I even know where your family is from.”

  “I am from Treman, Mr. Beaulieu. My family can’t vouch for a name or estate,” Hector said, his voice harder than he’d intended.

  “What does your father do?”

  “Both my parents are dead. I began performing when I was eight and have earned a wage that way for more than twenty years. I believe I’ve done well for myself in this time. I own the flat where I reside and two houses in the western countryside, plus many bonds, I have lost count of them. I have invested extensively in a number of ventures. I need not ever walk onstage again, though I enjoy it and therefore plan to continue performing.”

  It was all true, even an understatement. He was as wealthy as any of Beaulieu’s friends. Perhaps not so wealthy as Beaulieu himself, though he was not fully aware of the man’s finances, but wealthy enough to dine in the same establishments he did, join the same gentlemen’s clubs, obtain invitations to the same parties. He’d soared to rare heights without the benefit of family or friends.

  How he’d managed this in ten scant years was explained rather easily. Hector had been possessed. He’d felt it necessary to show Valérie he could achieve what he’d said he would do. To amass the fortune, the prestige they had dreamed about. Every step he took was inspired by the echo of that long-lost love. Even now, Hector knew he was still possessed. Perhaps even more than before.

  What was he doing here, talking to this man, pretending cordiality? Étienne was right. It was a folly. But Hector did not make his way to the door. He sipped his brandy and held one hand behind his back, standing rather rigidly and looking at the numerous burgundy-leather-bound volumes lining the walls.

  “Nina might have told you the name of our family’s home. It’s Oldhouse, for a reason. The Beaulieus have resided there for more than a century,” Gaetan informed him. “This is nothing compared to my wife’s family, but if you say ‘the Beaulieus of Oldhouse’ in Montipouret, everyone knows exactly of whom you speak. I gather it is not the case for the Auvrays of Treman.”

  “I like to think I am unique and therefore cannot speak of ‘Auvrays.’ There is only one Auvray,” Hector replied.

  “That I think you are. Let me clarify. Mr. Auvray, I admire a man as successful as you, a man who clearly has wit and determination. Wit and drive, however, do not equal impeccable manners,” Gaetan said, pausing to take a sip of his brandy. “However, my wife seems to think you a perfect gentleman, and she is an excellent judge of character.”

  Hector was surprised to hear Valérie had vouched for him. He’d thought she might hinder his efforts to insinuate himself into her household. Could this mean she wanted him around? He looked down quickly at his drink.

  “We would be happy to consider you a new friend, Mr. Auvray, and we most certainly welcome you into our home.”

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  “I do want to clarify one point. Nina is at an age to be courted. I can understand if you wish to be our friend, and Nina’s friend, and would presume no other interest in her on your behalf. If you do, however, intend to court my cousin, I would like to know it now. For one, I appreciate formalities.”

  “I would not court Nina without your approval, Mr. Beaulieu,” he said, glancing up at Gaetan. “She seems to me a kind young woman, and if you are willing, I would most avidly like to court her.”

  He could visit her all spring and all summer and well into the fall without an expectation of a marriage proposal, he thought. A whole year he might court her, and regardless he might gently retreat in the end. This he knew, though he understood little else. As Étienne had jested, he was rather green in this area. His courtship of Valérie had been a wild, quick affair. It had left him breathless and dizzy with love. This would be different. He would be expected to proceed cautiously.

  Gaetan cleared his throat. “There is one detail I should mention. You have no doubt heard already about Nina’s situation. She has a talent, similar to your own, I would think. I mention it because it has been a source of irritation to some people.”

  “She told me she can’t always control it.”

  “It is not a constant clanging of objects, though it once was. When she was a child, it proved more vexing. It does, however, occur like an involuntary movement. A reflex, if you might allow the comparison. I thought I should mention it.”

  “As you said, it is a talent not unlike my own. She’ll probably have complete control of it in a couple of years. Even if she didn’t, it would not matter.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. My wife will be delighted, too, I am sure.”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “Nina is bright and charming, but people sometimes have the most ridiculous ideas in their heads.”

  “She told me they called her a witch.”

  “The Witch of Oldhouse,” Gaetan said, his face serious. “There was a boy in Montipouret who I thought might make a congenial match for her, but then I heard him using that name. I would not have allowed it.”

  The way he spoke made Hector realize that while Gaetan was a pompous, pretentious fool, he did care about his family. Well, he cared about Nina. Could the same be said about his feelings for Valérie? They were distant during dinner. There was no animosity between them, but he could feel no bond joining them. He wondered if he could expect the same if he married Nina, this clear separation, this gap to lie between them. Did it matter? He did not seek love in her arms. It surprised him how nonchalant he could be when it came to this girl when once he’d loved another with unadulterated abandon.

  It was perhaps impossible to love in the same manner again, and he thanked the heavens for this mercy.

  Chapter 10

  THE CONSERVATORY WAS HER REFUGE. Iron and glass protected her, as they protected her roses.

  Hector was due to arrive in an hour. Valérie sought the sanctum of the conservatory, where she could be alone with her thoughts. Or rather, where she need not think, instead fixing her eyes on petals and stems and thorns. She sat on the stone bench and let the silence of this space engulf her.

  But then came footsteps, and Hector walked into the conservatory, eyes grave. He carried with him a bouquet of flowers. Prim white lilies for Antonina from one of the best florists in the city. He’d brought the same arrangement before, and Antonina had lost herself in praise for the flowers even though anyone might have told her it was roses or tulips that symbolized love.

  Hector’s presence made Valérie’s heart beat faster, but she schooled her face and her voice, speaking in a neutral tone.

  “You are here too early,” she told him. “Antonina is in her room. I will call for her.”

  “No, not yet. I know I am far too early. I thought I’d have a word with you.”

  “With me? Whatever for?”

  He stood in front of her, looked down at her, and she did not deign to look at him, instead glancing at a rose she had plucked on a whim, her fingers running along its stem, touching the thorns with care in order to avoid injury.

  “We have not spoken, you and I, since that first day I visited your home. I want to make sure you are not upset by this co
urtship of mine,” he said.

  Her heart was racing, but honest anger overtook her, washing away what tender feelings she might have held. How dare he, she thought, how dare he imagine she would be hurt by his actions? Had he pictured her as a child, pining over her lost love?

  Of course he had. He was a romantic. He always had been. Perhaps he thought she would break down in tears, like a weak fool, and he might hold her in his arms and speak a tender word to her ear.

  “Upset? I? Would it please you if I were upset?”

  “No, not—”

  “It would,” she said, interrupting him and rising to her feet. “That is why you have returned. To torture me. You will not have the satisfaction and I will not apologize to you. Yes, I did break our engagement and that was ten years ago. What of it?”

  If his eyes had been grave, now they were incensed. She found satisfaction in the anger coloring his expression. Valérie had always known how to tease him, bend his hand, evoke strong emotions. She’d been thrust into the company of a husband who was like damp wood that could not be kindled, but Hector burned bright and fast; setting him aflame took but a gesture.

  “What of it, Valérie? That first winter away I lived in a flophouse with no fireplace to warm me and a few ratty blankets to sleep underneath. Sometimes it was so cold, my fingers would bleed. I had little to eat, and opportunities for work were scarce, but every coin I managed to get my hands on, I’d save,” he said, reciting his woes with a quiet, steely anger as he paced in front of her. “Because I was going to buy passage for the fair-haired girl I’d left behind, the one who said she’d wait for me. But she lied. She was a spoiled rich girl who did not give a damn about me.”

  “A spoiled rich girl?” she said. “Neither rich nor spoiled. A girl wearing yesterday’s finery, having to live off the mercy of her father’s old friends. You have no idea what it was to be me. All the family’s expectations upon my shoulders.”

  She was not speaking idle words. Her family had invested in her. Whatever money they had was spent on dancing and music and etiquette lessons. Old heirlooms were dusted so she might wear a pretty necklace to impress young men, and other ones were pawned to buy her dresses and shoes that were not distressed. Because Valérie was their hope and their future. They all said it; they all knew it. Her grandmother eyed her as she would a goose being fattened for a feast, and the feast had come, and Valérie had bowed her neck in sacrifice.

  She’d known no other answer.

  Valérie tossed the rose away and pressed a hand against the bodice of her dress, her fingers flat against her stomach.

  “Grandmother said I was the only one who could save us from ruin and then the engagement was over so quickly, I could hardly catch my breath. I could not object.”

  “Yes, you could have objected. You might have told them you were already engaged.”

  Valérie chuckled and looked up at Hector. Was he truly that naive? But then, she’d been seduced by this same innocence, this blindness of the heart.

  “How do you think that might have gone?” she asked. “If I had told Gaetan, the scandal would have destroyed us all. Had I told my grandmother, she might have murdered me. I might be a pauper now, washing the flagstones you stepped on.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you said you’d marry me.”

  “We say a great many things when we are young. Eventually, we grow wiser.”

  She turned her back toward him.

  They were both quiet, the murmur of the fountain the only sound inside the glass walls of the conservatory. The stone child, face upturned, appeared to be praying. Behind the fountain, in the mirror, she saw herself and Hector. He was staring at her reflection, his gaze burning her.

  “Did you even love me, Valérie?” he asked.

  She did not reply, her eyes fixed on the woman reflected in the glass, standing there in her dress of ivory chiffon, the purple satin belt around her waist, pearls dangling from her ears and neck.

  He was asking about another Valérie, a Valérie she could only vaguely recall.

  She saw him turn away from her in the mirror, his eyes now not on fire but cooling, filling with ashes, and the motion struck a panicked chord inside her chest. Valérie turned, too, grasping his sleeve.

  “You know I did,” she said. “You know I did.”

  She felt like crying now, like the fool she had told herself she would not be, and her fingers knotted with the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer until he was appallingly near.

  “Did you love him, too?” Hector asked.

  “No,” she said. “But my family did.”

  “What about now?”

  Valérie thought of Gaetan. Her husband had disappointed her in a myriad of ways: his lack of passion, his blindness, his almost pathological devotion to his family, and his inability to provide Valérie with a family of her own as was expected—even if she might have resented him if he had given her children.

  She could not muster more than a shrug.

  “Gaetan is Gaetan. He is a busy man and a kind man, and often a weak man. I am as fond of him as I can possibly be.”

  “And us?”

  He trapped her wrist with his hands, snagging her, until her fingers were pressed against his chest. She thought of when they’d been younger, his lips against hers, their hands knotted together. She knew they still fit well, she felt it; fit like Gaetan and Valérie did not fit, grossly mismatched.

  “There’s nothing to be done now.”

  “If you do not love him—”

  “He is Gaetan Beaulieu and I am a Véries,” she whispered, almost an automatic reflex.

  “A Beaulieu of Montipouret, yes,” Hector muttered, his hands sliding down, releasing her. “An important family, I’ve been told. God knows every girl in every town would want to be married into it, and ladies in yesterday’s finery perhaps the most.”

  His voice was vicious, wanting to cut her, and she was surprised to discover it did. It hurt, the way he hurled the words at her. He did not say “whore” but he might as well have.

  She colored with anger and could not sputter a single word. Then she looked down and noticed that he’d let go of the bouquet. Nina’s flowers. Valérie picked them up, holding them with care.

  “Men also wish to marry into families, hoping perhaps that they might rise above their station, though truth be told, I doubt such a feat could be accomplished.”

  “It’s not her family’s name that beckons me, hard as that might be to fathom.”

  “Remind me, what do lilies stand for?”

  “Innocence,” he said.

  “She would be, wouldn’t she?” Valérie held out the bouquet for him.

  “There’s something to be said for it,” he replied.

  “Indeed. Innocents do not question people’s motives. You’ve come to hurt me, Hector. You’ve come to toy with us. Feel free to toy with her. But you’ll find I am not a piece you can slide across your board.”

  He grabbed the bouquet with slow hands. A petal or two fell to the floor.

  “Follow Antonina around and wed her and bed her and have a merry life. It is not my concern,” Valérie said, her voice like nectar as she sat down on her stone bench once more.

  “If you asked me now to leave and never come back, I would,” he said.

  She knew he was telling the truth. Because it would be akin to a noble deed, part of a martyrdom he might relish. But she did not want to give him that satisfaction, the knowledge that he disturbed her, that she could not bear to have him near her. To admit it would be defeat and Valérie would not be defeated.

  “I’m not going to ask anything of you,” she said.

  “Very well,” he replied tersely.

  Hector left the conservatory with his lilies under his arm, his steps loud upon the stone floor. She sat in the solarium for a long while, finally rising and sweeping into the salon, where she found Hector and Antonina. She was putting the flowers into a white vase.

/>   “Look, Cousin. Hector has brought me lilies again,” the girl said, her smile wide.

  “I know,” Valérie said. “I saw them.”

  She patted Nina’s hand, a dismissive gesture, glancing at Hector with detachment.

  * * *

  HE WAS NOW A REGULAR fixture, dropping by three days a week, and the zeal earned smiles from Gaetan, who thought his cousin had finally netted herself a sweetheart. Valérie had thought he’d end the charade after the third, fourth visit. She’d quietly bet on it. But there came the tinkle of the bell, which never failed to draw a shiver from Valérie, and then the sure steps of Hector upon her polished floors.

  Most days, she ignored him, wearing a stoic mask. Seldom did she permit him to glimpse a stray glance of affection. But one day, well, it had been a long day. Last week, her cousin had stopped by to ask for money. It was the same old conversation. They had nothing, only the stones of Avelo, which had once been a great fortress and was now a ruin, and the house in Loisail where she’d grown up, which was falling to pieces with each passing year. Wouldn’t Gaetan advance them money? They needed another loan.

  Valérie despised this mendicant’s dance. She had accounts at the best stores in the city, but her family didn’t need gloves and hats and silver pins for their hair. She required cash, and that meant having to ask Gaetan. She put it as best she could, using her sweetest tone. Gaetan followed her lead in most things, but when it came to her family or his bank account, he was cautious.

  “It’s a little nothing of a loan,” she said.

  “Valérie, I have given him three loans in two years,” Gaetan protested.

  “You could have bought him that army post, and then it would be no concern. But since you refused—”

  “Buying an army post. Valérie, what a thought. That would have been in poor form.”

  It was tradition that military officers who had not attained certain ranks at appropriate times were forced out of service, and this is what had happened to her cousin, who was rudely divested of his crimson uniform. It did not have to be like this. Merit was the usual coin in the army, men rising by skill and not due to their fortune alone, but although the system of commissions had been mostly abolished, it was not entirely gone: the king’s personal corps maintained the practice. There had been a chance for the cousin to find himself in a comfortable position, but Gaetan had refused to provide the required sum of money for this purpose. Now Valérie’s cousin faced the fate of all men like him: doomed to mingle at taverns frequented by soldiers, his clothes growing more threadbare, trading stories and drinking cheap wine.