The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Those are all ours. That’s our flock,” she told him, pointing down.

  “There’s a sheep carved above the entrance of the tower. Is that a heraldic symbol of some sort?”

  “We’ve never been nobility, no,” she said. “It’s supposed to be lucky. I know a lot of rhymes about lambs—we learn them by the dozen when we are children.”

  “Appropriate, I suppose.”

  He had learned the bawdy songs of taverns; there was precious little time for rhymes. At the age she was being first fitted with corsets, he was making a living going from town to town, his voice thin as he announced himself and took off his cap, promising to show the audience miracles for a few coins.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked.

  “I do. It’s peaceful.”

  “Have you ever been to Bosegnan?”

  “No.”

  “It’s by the sea. It’s warmer there and the sun bakes the sands until they are white, whiter than any lady’s linen. The fishermen have tiny boats, all painted red and lacquered as is tradition, and everything tastes like salt. You’ll eat fish every day and drink sweet wine every evening with the Lémys.”

  She had a way of talking that he enjoyed because there was often merriment in her words.

  “Will you write once you leave with your friends next week? I’ll miss you if you don’t,” she told him.

  Nina moved from the window, her right hand brushing the stone walls of the tower and looked at Hector.

  “You won’t miss me, not for a moment,” he said, smiling.

  “You could stop by on your way back.”

  She rested her back against the wall. It was cold, as if summer had been erased, the wind blowing and carrying droplets of rain into the tower.

  “I don’t think I can,” he said.

  She sighed.

  Hector had not thought her beautiful in the city, under the light of large chandeliers with her hair up and gloves on her hands. But her loose black hair, thick and long, contrasted well with the rough stones behind her, and there was a charm about her hazel eyes, which never bore the same color in this land. She was looking at him now with eyes that were more golden than green, stung by his refusal, and he felt moved to place a cool, chaste kiss upon her forehead.

  The girl seemed amazed and he himself was embarrassed by the gesture, but before he could apologize for it, he felt her hands slipping up and pulling him down for a kiss on the mouth. There was a comical element to it. A lady coaxing a man into a kiss, and she did not know how to do it properly, anyway.

  Nina pressed her mouth to his, though, and he found his hands knotting in her hair, brushing down her side. And all of a sudden it wasn’t funny and he was tipping his head forward, kissing her again, like a lover, not the delicate kiss she’d given him.

  She grabbed the lapels of his waistcoat, drawing him near, until there was no space between them. Her hands were distressingly soft when they touched his face, sliding down between his chin and the collar of his shirt.

  He stroked her hair and looked into her eyes. For once, there was no teasing in them; she was not playing. He’d thought the whole world was one unending game for Nina, chasing dragonflies and speaking her facts and attempting card tricks, but abruptly she’d grown serious and full of longing.

  She was beautiful, her eyes brimming with intent. He pressed his face against her neck, his hands racing down her body, and he felt himself caught on the edge of something, as he had not been in a painfully long time.

  The boom of thunder startled them both, making them jump, and the flash of lightning brought him back to his senses.

  He was both mad and stupid.

  Nina managed a tremulous smile and this sent him three steps back from her, though he ought to have put an ocean between them, the way he felt right that second.

  She’d been, until that moment, an abstract concept, a bunch of jumbled lines that did not amount to a clean figure. She had been rendered flesh and blood, alive and supple.

  Hector did not live the life of a monk. He understood desire. But desire was not passion and passion was not love. He might give himself to desire while keeping the vault of his passion and his love for Valérie intact. She was like a saint he venerated at her altar. There’d never been any space for another. But now he felt as though a thief had stolen into the vault, desecrating all the noble romantic dreams he’d built.

  He’d allowed himself to feel passion for someone else.

  This was a betrayal.

  “That was not proper of me,” he told Nina. He did not recognize his own voice, raspy with dread.

  “I did not mind,” she said.

  “We should go.”

  He went quickly down the stairs and did not bother to slow when she called his name. Outside, Nina managed to catch up with him, pulling at his arm.

  It was raining hard and he welcomed the cold water sliding under the collar of his shirt because the rain nested in her hair like minuscule jewels, it crowned her in summer glory, and he dearly wanted that desperately lovely girl. Thank heavens then for the rain, which cooled his spirit.

  “Hector, we must speak,” she told him.

  He knew what she wanted to say, it was written clear on her face: she loved him. How stupid he had been, telling himself he was no cad yet being a cad all the same. He’d crossed the border he promised himself he would not cross with her, the shield of his polite distance disintegrating.

  She loved him and it stung. Before, he could have neatly snapped his ties with her, stepped away, and let another fellow court her. She would have forgotten him in a fortnight. She was young.

  Yet.

  She loved him and he knew he’d done this, and he ought not to. He should have known better how easily the sentiments of a young woman could be swayed. He should have known she was not the experienced coquette who flutters her eyelashes at one fellow and another, nor the calculating rich merchant’s daughter who measures the weight of a man in gold. He should have known that she loved him already.

  He’d been selfish and ignored this truth. This more than anything dampened any ardor.

  Nina tried to touch his face and he was forced to turn his head.

  “I shall not use you in this way,” he said.

  “What?”

  She was confused, but he could not explain. Not then and not there. Perhaps later, once he’d managed to unravel his thoughts, he’d calmly sit down and speak his mind. Or not. Hector could not tell her about Valérie, for one. He might be able to make her understand that he was entirely unworthy of her and that she would be better off setting her sights on a good man, someone who was not a fool longing after a woman he could not have.

  He should have left long ago, should have abandoned her at the foot of the stairs that time back in the city.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered.

  She looked terribly forlorn, her long hair now a wet mess and her dress soaked through. He felt the weight of guilt as he hurried into Oldhouse, but there was nothing more he could say.

  Chapter 17

  VALÉRIE LAY IN BED, STARING at the ceiling and trying to find a measure of sleep, which, as usual, eluded her. Her thoughts meandered and tangled together, like strange plants might tangle in the depths of the ocean.

  She had not imagined the anxiety the constant presence of Hector would bring her, nor the wretched anger Antonina might evoke. Valérie saw them each morning, talking during breakfast or laughing with each other, as if caught inside a glass bauble, in a private space of their own making, and she hated them.

  Antonina was young and carefree, and Hector was solicitous, kind to her.

  It disgusted Valérie. And now they’d piled another injury on her.

  How dare he speak to Valérie like that! And over whom? Over Antonina! Precious, stupid “Nina,” gilded girl who could have anything she wanted and apparently that included anyone.

  She closed her eyes. She opened them. She tossed a book she had been attempting to read at t
he window shutters.

  Valérie rose from bed and decided she could not stay in that room one minute longer. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked toward the stairs, hoping she might find solace if her body were not at rest.

  She had not gone far when she saw a figure move ahead of her and turn a corner. For one second she thought it a ghost, an apparition in white, but then she shook her head and recognized her. Antonina, barefoot in her nightgown. Was the girl sleepwalking?

  Valérie followed her quietly and realized Antonina was headed toward the section of the house where the men slept. What was this wretched child doing?

  She kept her distance and peeked around a corner, watching as Antonina stood before Hector’s door and bent down, dropping something. The girl rushed away, a scared, wild animal.

  Valérie waited for a few minutes before tracing Antonina’s steps. She stood in front of Hector’s door and bent down to retrieve whatever object Nina had left behind. It was a letter. In her haste, Antonina had not slid it completely under the door, and Valérie pocketed it.

  Back in her room, Valérie lit two candles and sat at the desk. In the city, there was the wonder of gaslights and even electrified light fixtures, but in Oldhouse, wax and oil had to suffice.

  Antonina’s writing was more a scrawl than true words, but Valérie was able to read the letter all the same.

  Dear Hector,

  I find it hard to put my thoughts into sentences, but I must do it or I think I will go mad.

  Hector, I love you. I count the hours when I cannot see you and treasure every word you speak to me.

  I thought myself happy to simply bask in your presence, but when we embraced I knew the true extent of joy. I want nothing more than to be in your arms again and to kiss you. If what we did was improper, then I confess myself a wretched and foul creature, because I want nothing more than to touch you again.

  Should you want me only for one hour or one day, I would gladly take it. I would gladly take whatever you offer. I am not ashamed to admit this.

  And should you love me as I love you, then I would be the happiest woman in the world. But for now, I dwell in uncertainty and hope your heart holds at least a fraction of the affection mine holds for you.

  In the end, all I can say is: I am yours,

  —Nina

  When she was done reading, Valérie folded the letter back in place, her fingers tracing its creases carefully. If she did not scream right that second, it was only because she closed her hands into fists, her nails biting half moons into her palms.

  Afterward, she lay in bed and pulled the covers up onto her chin. It was ridiculous pap, the letter, but it filled her with dread.

  In the morning Valérie rose late, dressed with the utmost care, and quietly inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Auvray. A servant told her he’d seen him heading toward the library.

  The servant was correct and she found Hector standing by a bookcase, perusing its contents. He was alone, which suited Valérie’s purpose; she went directly toward him. Valérie had decided there was no point in being subtle, a solid approach was necessary.

  “I will ask you this but once and ask that you answer truthfully. Have you had the audacity to seduce Antonina under this very roof?”

  His shoulders had been relaxed, but he snapped up to attention, grave, glowering.

  “What?” he said, sounding more than a little affronted. “I have not. What has she told you?”

  Valérie did not reply. It was he who must speak, and she gave him ample time to furnish an answer, knowing he’d elaborate quickly enough.

  “We kissed, nothing more has passed between us. You thought differently? Do I seem like the man who’d behave immodestly?”

  He spoke the truth, she could tell, and he’d always had honor and noble intentions aplenty. Nevertheless, the answer did nothing to soothe her. There was a taste of bile in her mouth that she knew she could not wash away.

  “It does not matter. If she has not ruined herself, she will soon enough. She has no shame,” she exclaimed.

  “In heaven’s name, what are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Be merry, Hector. You have won. I concede to you. I thought to grant you my indifference, but I cannot. You are hurting me. A nail in my heart each day you pursue that girl, and now I see this will not end until you have ruined us all. I beg you now, leave. You’ve wounded me, you’ve won. Take that as your badge.”

  Valérie had a mind to speak calmly, but tears stung her eyes, forcing her to turn her head and press her hands against her face. He tried to pry her hands from her face, but she would not allow it and turned from him in a fury, resting her back against a bookcase. She would not weep for him.

  “Valérie, it was not my aim to hurt you,” he said gently.

  “It was. All along. Do not lie. I knew you’d return one day. I knew you’d return and punish me.”

  “I only wanted to see you, once.”

  “Oh, but you came back. Twice and thrice and all those other times for her.”

  She drew her hands from her face and looked at him. His eyes were not the same as they’d been in his youth, darker perhaps, drawn with pain. And his mouth, it was stiff and recriminating.

  “There’s comfort in being cherished by someone, even if it is not the person you want,” he said. “If you loved me but for a moment, I would—”

  “Do not dare to ask me to love you. I never stopped doing it,” she said, and wished to roar the words but they came out in a whisper.

  He took a shaky breath and stared at her. If only he had changed more. If only. But she could still see the boy he’d been in his face, hardships and anger unable to drown him completely. And it was this detail that drew her closer to him.

  “Valérie, I told you once I’d take you away, and I can keep that promise. We can leave right this instant, you and I,” he said with smothering sincerity; it made her shiver and she had to sit down on a sturdy chair.

  He approached her slowly, as if he was afraid she’d bolt, kneeling by her side, holding her hands between his own.

  “Why should we despair? The world is vaster than Loisail. We can board a ship and sail away. I shall buy you a house of your choice, wherever you want. We’ll be lost in the crowds, we’ll make a new life. We can be together as we planned all along.”

  “In a foreign land,” she said. “Under an assumed name because I could not call myself by my family’s name without dying of shame.”

  “You can have my name.”

  She could not make her hands be still, the fingers trembling, and she had to shove his hands away because his touch only made them tremble more.

  What a pretty fantasy he spun, as only Hector might spin, but she knew at once it could not be. She could not vanquish the chains of reality, could she?

  “I will always be a Véries,” she said, but her words were almost tentative.

  He rose then, cursing her under his breath. His anger gave her the fuel she needed to spark her own rage, and she was grateful. Engulfed with blazing fury, she felt she stood on firmer ground. The words, the reasons, everything came to her easily now.

  “You think it is that simple? To bring dishonor to my family? You think I can throw away everything I have ever worked for? You have no understanding of the world. You are as you always were, with your head in the clouds. You do tricks for adoring crowds onstage and forget that it is not all artifice and sleight of hand when you step off. The pauper does not get the princess, Hector Auvray.”

  He was comely in his intensity and even comelier as her words struck him, making him lose his grip.

  “Artifice, when you are the liar! God, of course you are a liar,” he said.

  He paced in front of her, all bitterness and spite. She rested her hands against the arms of the chair, holding tight to it. She wanted to reduce the room to ashes and had to content herself with biting her lips.

  “You did not intend to run away with me,” he said, turning to her with
narrowed eyes. “You said the words but did not mean them. It was a silly affair for you. You would not have gone with me, would you? Even if I had returned with all the gold in the world, you would not have gone with me.

  “You liar,” he said, leaning down suddenly against her arms, against the chair, and looking down at her.

  There was untold cruelty in those words, they sliced against her like scissors tearing through paper, and Valérie could not help herself—she spoke.

  “I would have gone with you. If you had returned without a single coin in your pockets, I would have gone with you all the same. That is why I married Gaetan. Because I was ready to throw everything away for you. My name and my honor and my family. No one—no one, you hear me—can have that power over me.”

  He stared at her, disbelieving. She stared back. She knew he wanted to deny it, to blot out the truth, but it could not be denied, and he believed. He finally understood. She saw him crumble before her, his eyes bright with tears, his pain so clear she thought she might touch it. It was real, solid. His voice, when he spoke, was a murmur.

  “You are a vicious, mad creature,” he said.

  She wanted to cry and could not. She wanted to weep for that proud girl who had broken her own heart and tossed it to the dogs, and she wanted to weep for the older woman who had been left behind with a gaping hole in her soul. But if she could do it again, she knew she’d still retrace her steps. She was not Antonina Beaulieu, who offered herself like a sacrificial lamb, who gave everything of herself to the world for the world to devour. She was Valérie Véries. She hated herself sometimes for it, but she was Valérie Véries.

  “And I am a fool,” he muttered. Perhaps he might cry for the both of them, dear Hector.

  “Yes, you are,” she said.

  He yanked her to her feet and placed a harsh, desperate kiss on her mouth. It had been like this, too, when they were young. This desire, the stubbornness of her theatrical, calculated refusal, the pleas, until she broke against him and kissed him back.