If only the windows could be opened fully, to let the view of the port seep onto its sloping floors. Maybe it would fill these fallow rooms with life. The second day there, Celine had tried to do this herself, but she’d been roundly chastised ten minutes later; the windows of the whitewashed convent were always shuttered in an effort to maintain the cloistered atmosphere.
As though it could be anything else at all.
The door scraped open. Pippa sat up straight in the same instant Celine’s shoulders fell.
Even before the Mother Superior stepped over the threshold, the wool of her black habit filled the room with her presence, smelling of lanolin and the medicinal ointment she used each night for her chapped hands.
The combination was like a wet hound in a haystack.
As soon as the door swung shut, the lines around the Mother Superior’s mouth deepened. She paused for a breath, then glared down at them, her expression severe. An obvious effort to instill a sense of foreboding, like a tyrant of old.
Though it was inopportune, a smile threatened to take shape on Celine’s face. Everything about this situation was absurd. Less than five weeks ago, Celine had been apprenticed to one of the most demanding couturières in Paris. A woman whose frequent screams of rage caused the crystals to tremble in their chandeliers. A true oppressor, who routinely ripped Celine’s work to shreds—before her eyes—if a single stitch was out of place.
And this tyrannical nun with chapped hands thought she merited fear?
As Pippa would say, not bloody likely.
A snicker escaped Celine’s mouth. Pippa toed her chair in response.
What could have caused the Mother Superior’s hands to become so worn? Perhaps she labored on some clandestine craft, deep in the hollows of her cell. A painter perhaps. Or a sculptor. What if she was secretly a wordsmith by night? Even better if she wrote entirely in asides or things laced with double meaning, like Malvolio in Twelfth Night.
Be by my life, this is my lady’s hand, these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus she makes her great P’s.
Celine coughed. Creases of irritation formed across the Mother Superior’s forehead.
The idea that this nun in a starched habit would say anything untoward caused Celine to lock eyes on the polished stone floor to keep from laughing. Pippa nudged her again, this time more forcefully. Though her friend said nothing, Celine could tell Pippa was not the least bit amused by their situation.
Rightly so. Nothing about angering the convent’s matron should be funny. This woman had given them a place to live and work. A means by which to find their way in the New World.
Only an ungrateful, troublesome girl would see otherwise. A girl precisely like Celine.
Sobered by these thoughts, Celine chewed the inside of her cheek, the room growing warmer, her stays pulling tighter.
“I expect you to explain yourself, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a voice that was tinny and gravelly all at once.
Celine kept silent, her eyes cast downward. She knew better than to begin by offering a defense. The Mother Superior had not called them here with a mind to listen; she’d called them here with a mind to teach. It was a lesson Celine understood well. She’d been raised on it.
“This young woman you met in the square, why does she not come to the convent in daylight or consult a local dressmaker?” the Mother Superior asked. “If she wishes to hire you to design garments for her, it seems fitting for her to come here, n’est-ce pas?”
When Celine still did not respond, the Mother Superior grunted. Leaned closer. “Répondez-moi, Mademoiselle Rousseau. Immédiatement,” she whispered, her tone laced with warning. “Or you and Mademoiselle Montrose will regret it.”
At the threat, Celine raised her head to meet the Mother Superior’s gaze. She licked her lips to bide time as she chose her next words.
“Je suis désolée, Mère Supérieure,” Celine apologized, “mais”—she glanced to her right, trying to decide whether or not to involve Pippa in this falsehood—“but, alas, her modiste is unfamiliar with the baroque style of dress. She expressed urgency in needing the garments and a schedule that did not appear to be flexible during the day. You see . . . she volunteers each afternoon with a ladies’ organization that knits socks for children.”
Even in profile, Celine saw Pippa’s eyes widen with dismay.
It was an abhorrent lie, to be sure. Fashioning Odette as an angel with a soft spot for barefooted souls was among the more . . . colorful stories Celine had told in her lifetime. But this entire situation was ridiculous. And Celine enjoyed prevailing over tyrants, even by the barest of measures. Especially ones who threatened her friends.
The Mother Superior’s frown softened, though the rest of her expression remained doubtful. She linked her hands behind her back and began pacing. “Be that as it may, I do not feel it is appropriate for you to travel through the city unescorted past sundown. A young woman not much older than you . . . perished along the docks only yesterday.”
In Celine’s opinion, perished was a rather subdued word for being ripped to pieces beneath a starlit sky.
The Mother Superior paused in silent prayer before resuming her lecture. “During carnival season, there are many revelers in the streets. Sin runs rampant, and I do not wish for a mind as weak and susceptible as yours to be lured by danger.”
Though Celine bristled at the slight, she nodded in agreement. “I, too, do not wish to be tempted by anything untoward.” She pressed a hand over her heart. “But I believe this young woman to be good and God-fearing, Mère Supérieure. And the money she will give the convent for my work would undoubtedly be of great benefit to us all. She made it clear—several times—that cost was not an object.”
“I see.” The Mother Superior turned toward Pippa without warning. “Mademoiselle Montrose,” she said, “it appears you have little to offer on the matter. What have you to say about this situation?”
Celine closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come. She wouldn’t blame Pippa for telling the truth. It was simply in her nature to do so. And who could blame Pippa for following her natural inclination.
Pippa cleared her throat, her small hands tightening into fists. “I . . . found the young lady quite trustworthy and virtuous as well, Mother Superior,” she said slowly. “Of course your concerns are not without merit, especially given what happened along the docks. Would it make a difference if I offered to accompany her? We could take the lady’s measurements together and then be on our way. I don’t believe we would be gone from the convent for long. In fact, I see no reason why we would have to miss evening prayer.”
Time ground to a halt. It was Celine’s turn to have her eyes widen with dismay.