Page 12 of Summer of Sacrifice

The woman nodded sharply. “Mademoiselle Seleste will need a room.” Leonard turned on his heel and made his way wordlessly down the corridor in the opposite direction. “A great lumbering buffoon, that one,” Madame Riley tutted as Seleste jumped to keep up with her. As they chased down the lady of the house, the presumed stewardess continued her ill thoughts of Leonard aloud. “He’s so afraid of making a mistake that he doesn’t do anything.”

Madame Riley was of slight stature and hardly reached Seleste’s shoulder, but she walked so quickly that it was difficult to keep up, let alone take in much of the house as they dashed by.

“We expect to keep a small staff this Summer,” she was saying as Seleste noted the telltale signs of wealth—perfectly embroidered curtains, gilt frames of real gold, expensive baubles that would sit in the drawing rooms of most who owned something so priceless, available for all to see, while this family had them gathering dust in dark corners of a hallway. “That means,” Madame Riley went on, “that you’ll each have your own room. Quite a treat for you lot, I’d presume, not having to double-up.”

They reached a doorway, and Madame Riley paused just long enough to inhale. Seleste couldn’t help but think this woman was somewhat terrified of her Lady of the House. Following Madame Riley in, Seleste was instantly taken with the airy room decorated in soft greens and creamy whites. The floor-to-ceiling window had been thrown open, and delicate curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. Lush bouquets of freesia and hydrangea left a fresh, floral scent lingering on the air. A beautiful painting of a garden hung over the mantle, a perfect match to the lavish garden visible beyond the window.

“Damnation,” Madame Riley muttered, looking around the room devoid of her employer. “She’s gone to fetch the tea herself.” She started to stomp toward the door, and Seleste wanted to stop her. Put a hand on her frail arm and let her know that, perhaps, the lady of the house didn’t mind helping. Perhaps it gave her something to do with her time. In her long life, Seleste had seen far too many ladies wilting for lack of stimulation aside from needlepoint monotony. Yet, she hadn’t spent enough time with either of them to say such a thing and kept the thoughts to herself, letting Madame Riley abandon her in the beautiful parlour.

She was looking out across the grounds toward a little sand and stone path through the hills that she hoped led to a slice of beach when the lady of the house came in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. Madame Riley rushed in behind her, flushed and thoroughly rattled. When the tray was set down, tea sloshed out of the spout, drenching a few of the biscuits. Madame Riley let out a muffled gasp, her eyes wide in horror, but my lady only beamed. Seleste stifled her own smile, concluding that the elegant woman in front of her had only recently taken up helping. She was most likely bored in the city—whichever she hailed from, her guess was Merveille—and the country way of life had only compounded that boredom.

She sat primly on the sofa and gestured for Seleste to do the same. Madame Riley came forward to pour the tea and serve the biscuits while the lady studied Seleste.

“What is your name?” she finally asked, trying to mask her tinge of wariness with doe eyes and an amiable upturn of her lips. She was indeed societally practised.

“Seleste, my lady,” she answered politely.

“My, what an exotic name.” Exotic. The word they always used for different. Outsider. “Do you hail from Coronocco?”

The assumption they always made next. “My father’s heritage is Coronoccan, but I hail from Drifthollow, my lady.”

“Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Seleste.” She sipped her tea daintily. “I am Lady Della.”

Seleste’s mind took that incredibly small morsel of information and ran. Della was a nickname, short for any number of names. Adeline, Adela, Adele, Cordelia… Seleste hadn’t been entrenched in polite society very often, but she did know that no one who spent the Summer at such an estate would introduce themselves by a nickname, let alone without presenting the rest of their title. Surely, no one without a title would have cause to stay in such a château.

Face serene, Seleste simply dipped her head. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Lady Della.”

“Do you have experience in being a maid, Seleste?”

Setting her teacup down, Seleste smoothed her bland skirt, wishing for a fuschia or tangerine sarong instead. “I do, m’lady. I have experience maintaining cleanliness and orderliness, as well as culinary experience. I have never been a lady’s personal maid, but I have three Sisters and know well how to plait hair and tie up gowns.” She smiled kindly, and Lady Della returned it. This time, the concealed bite behind it was lessened, if only slightly.

“Forgive my insensitivity, but this is an interview after all. Do you know how to”—Lady Della patted her perfect chignon with a hand—“work with my type of hair if you’ve only done your Sisters’?”

Seleste tried not to stiffen, tried not to reach up and touch her many coarse braids plaited into a thicker one and wound around into a coil at the base of her neck. She considered telling the woman that her Sisters had hair that was nothing like hers, that she was the only one of the Joubert Sisters to have inherited their father’s traits so strongly. But it was not this aristocratic woman’s right to know about Seleste’s family. Although she didn’t sense downright malice from the woman, she wouldn’t feed into ignorance.

Instead, she took a calming breath and nodded. “I know how to work with all hair types, m’lady.”

Genuine glee lit Lady Della’s face, and she brought her hands together, clapping happily. “Wonderful! I do believe you are hired.”

Madame Riley let out a gurgling noise behind them, something akin to a choke and a wheeze. Lady Della ignored her, tossing a “My dear husband needs his tea and medicine. Toodaloo!” over her shoulder as she bustled out of the room.

When they were alone, Seleste handed Madame Riley a cup of tea and held her own aloft. “To a wonderful Summer at Whitehall.”

Chapter

Three

GRIMM

“Ready?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Agatha’s scowl, coupled with a deep, exaggerated pout, was adorable. Grimm chuckled, much to her chagrin, and fingered the thick fabric of her elaborate gown.

“This gown might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.” She shifted erratically, pulling at the tight bodice. “But it is also the most uncomfortable.”

“Careful,” Grimm warned. “Tindle will have your head if you damage this monstrosity.”

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