Once they were beyond earshot, Anabel harrumphed. “Gossiping about a murder in the shadow of a church . . .” she muttered. “Dinna they ken better than to provoke the spirits in such a brash manner?” Her Scottish brogue deepened with her disdain, her fingers batting away a fat honeybee buzzing about her brow.
Pippa sighed, then caught Anabel’s hand, preventing her from swatting at the hovering insect. “That poor girl.” She sat up straighter, her petite features gathering. “I hope her suffering wasn’t prolonged. Who could do such a thing?” Lines formed between her brows. “What kind of monster could take a human life like that?”
Anabel nodded crisply. “I hope the fiend responsible burns in Hell for all eternity. ’Tis the only justice for a murderer.”
A hint of color threatened to creep up Celine’s neck. She rolled her shoulders back, calming the storm in her chest. A bead of sweat collected in the hollow of her throat before sliding between her caged breasts. “I completely agree,” she said lamely. The words felt ashen on her tongue. Celine twined her fingers together, praying for an end to the discussion.
Thankfully, it appeared both Pippa and Anabel were in agreement. The trio recommenced their efforts to raise money for the church with renewed vigor, standing in tandem to greet another group of potential patrons.
Most of the passersby paused to consider the jars of mayhaw jelly and lemon pear marmalade the girls stationed in the kitchen had finished preparing yesterday. Not a soul cared to while away a moment perusing the painted cups or the elegantly folded handkerchiefs.
Gloom took refuge on Celine’s shoulders, like a beast settling in the shadows. She glanced about, searching for a source of comfort. At least none of the people assembling before them mentioned the ghastly murder that had occurred within sighting distance of Jackson Square.
Celine supposed that reprieve—at the very least—was something for which to be grateful.
* * *
After three hours of little success, Celine’s gloom had become a thing with teeth. Rays of sunlight continued to slide ever closer, the heat growing oppressive, making her long for the comfort of nightfall. Even the branches above felt burdened by the weight of the sultry air, their blossoms like eyelids, growing heavier and sleepier with each passing moment. Pippa’s blond curls began to frame her face like a damp halo. Anabel tightened the yellow ribbon about her brow and sighed loudly. It appeared her patience had run thin as well.
The slender Scotswoman twisted an auburn curl around her index finger and yanked it straight, her freckled nose wrinkling. “Och, it’s as hot as a witch’s cauldron. And just how are we to meet any eligible young men when all our days are spent raising money and all our nights are spent in prayer?”
There were many things Celine wished to say in response. She chose the least offensive option. “Perhaps it would be better if our nights were spent raising money instead.” Her cheerful sarcasm failed to strike a chord with Anabel. The redhead stared at her with a confused expression.
But Pippa could always be counted on to understand her friend’s dark sense of humor. She shot Celine a look, her lips twitching. Then she turned her graceful head back toward Anabel. “Maybe finding a husband shouldn’t be our only concern?”
“Aye, it shouldna, but I’ll tell ye, a sturdy young man would be a nice distraction from all this humdrum.”
“Or he could make it worse.” Pippa adjusted the slender chain of the golden cross around her neck. “In my experience, sturdy young men don’t always improve upon the company.”
Celine fought back the urge to smile. This was precisely the reason she and Pippa had been drawn to each other before setting sail. Neither of them harbored delusions when it came to the opposite sex. Of course Celine wanted to know why Pippa did not yearn to find a match, but she knew better than to ask.
A petite blonde with a heart-shaped face and sapphire-blue eyes, Pippa drew ample notice wherever she went. Men often tipped their hat to her appreciatively. Even more importantly, she possessed a mind as sharp as a tack. It should have been the work of a moment for her to find love. But instead of settling down in her homeland, Pippa had braved the wilds of a new country, far across the Atlantic.
The day they met, this had struck Celine as highly curious. But she kept her thoughts to herself. She had no intention of taking part in the discussion that would likely follow. If she asked, they would ask in return, and these were questions Celine did not want to answer. Any interest in her past—beyond the bare minimum—was a thing to be avoided at all cost.
For numerous reasons.
The afternoon Celine had embarked on the Aramis, it had not escaped her notice that all the girls on board were light-skinned, most without a hint of foreign blood among them. Antonia—the girl from Portugal—possessed a complexion that easily browned in the sun, but even she had spent most of the journey below deck to ward away any suggestion of color.
If they knew where Celine’s mother was from. If they knew she was not fully of Anglo-Saxon heritage . . .
It was a secret she and her father had kept from the moment they’d first arrived in Paris thirteen years ago, when Celine was scarcely four years old. Though France was not as infamous for its racial divide as America had been in recent years, it nevertheless harbored a seething undercurrent of tension. One that often implied how inappropriate it was for the races to mix. This notion proved true the world over. In areas beyond New Orleans, there were even laws forbidding people of different colors from congregating in the same room.
Celine’s mother had been from the Orient. Upon completing his time at Oxford, her father had followed his passion for languages to Eastern shores. He’d crossed paths with Celine’s mother in a small village along the southern coast of a rocky peninsula. Celine had never known where, though she’d often inquired as a child, only to be rebuffed.
“It doesn’t matter who you were,” her father had argued. “It matters who you are.”
It rang true then, like it did now.
As a result, Celine knew precious little about her mother. The recollections she had of her first few years of life along a Far East coast were fleeting. They flickered across her thoughts from time to time, but never fully took shape. Her mother was a woman who smelled of safflower oil and fed her fruit each night and sang to her in a distant memory. Nothing more.
But if anyone looked closely—studied Celine’s features with a practiced gaze—they might notice the edges of her upturned eyes. The high planes of her cheekbones, and the thick strands of dark hair. The skin that stayed fair in winter, yet bronzed with ease in the summer sun.
“Your name is Marceline Béatrice Rousseau,” her father would say whenever she asked about her mother, his brow stern. “That is all anyone need know about you.”