“I do. But my mother says the city will do me good. I cannot believe you hadn’t lived in Loisail before. How is that possible?”
“Must everyone live in Loisail?” he asked, and his voice was tinged with this delightful sarcasm she found refreshing.
The crushing blackness of his suit gave him a tragic air, and all put together she was impressed by the flesh-and-blood version of this man whom she had spied in posters throughout the city, spending an inordinate amount of time staring at his face on one occasion.
She decided then and there that she liked him.
“They tell me anyone who is anyone should,” she said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been much of anyone.”
“You jest! Why, you have no equal except maybe for Abel Rezo. Levitation of a horse? I’d like Reisz or Pressner to attempt that.”
Hector frowned. “And you gleaned all this from The Gazette for Physical Research?”
“Not entirely. As I said, I’m interested in psychokinetics. Your name tends to pop up in that field. I’ve read a bit about you. More than a bit, perhaps,” she said, and wished she’d brought a parasol. It would have given her something to hold on to. She feared any second now she was going to send pebbles splashing into the water with the sweep of her eyes.
Hector gave her a half smirk and took out his pocket watch, sliding the lid open. “Psychokinetics. You’ll have to explain your interest in the subject when next we meet, but I should set off now if I want to make my appointment. It has been delightful speaking to you again.”
“Delightful as your time at the ball or truly delightful?” she asked, spotting Lisette, who looked irritated. Their conversation was about to be cut short one way or another, and she wanted to know.
“Truly delightful,” he replied.
“We may become friends, then.”
He looked at Nina, seeming to take the measure of her. Valérie complained that Nina lacked tact, always talking too much or too little. She wondered if he agreed with the assessment and was about to make a quick escape.
“Without appearing to impose myself, Miss Beaulieu, would it be acceptable if I paid you a visit on an afternoon of your choice?” he asked.
A visit. A gentleman calling on her! People called all the time on Valérie and Gaétan, but not on her. To be the focus of attention delighted Nina.
“I would not mind at all. You could call on us on Tuesday after two.”
“Though my psychokinetic powers may indeed be impressive, I have not yet grasped the art of reading minds. Where is this house that is a museum of yours?”
“At Lambal and Avil. It’s the blue house. You’ll recognize it rather quickly,” she said, extending her gloved hand so he might shake it. He kissed it instead. Of course he did. This was the proper way to greet and bid good-bye to a lady. Nevertheless, it seemed to her a wonderful gesture and she wished she had misplaced the gloves, as also happened often. She might have felt his lips against her skin instead.
“Thank you. I shall see you Tuesday, then.”
He gave her another one of those half smirks before turning around and walking away. Lisette arrived with a bag of crumbs and recriminations. Nina did not hear a single one of them.
CHAPTER 3
Valérie woke early not by inclination but by force of habit. It was in her nature to remain languidly in bed until the sun rose high in the sky, but being a busy woman, she could not afford these luxuries on most days. There were always matters to attend to, and not only the amusements and diversions—shopping, eating, entertainment—a lady of her stature was expected to partake in, but also the myriad social gestures the wife of an important man must know. There was the running of the household, which should not be undertaken lightly, and as of late, the supervision of Antonina, Gaétan’s little cousin.
That morning, though, Valérie had a chance to indulge herself, dozing in bed until it was late, and missed her walk in the park. Slowly she dressed, slowly she placed pins in her hair, slowly sifted through her jewelry box.
Readying herself was a long and elaborate process. Valérie was beautiful. She was blond and blue-eyed, and her skin was pale, unblemished by freckles or scars. She possessed a divine neck and the slender figure most favored by society. But nature’s gifts may take a woman only a certain distance. It was not a matter of looks, but of picking the dresses that were the most flattering, the ornaments that drew the eye, in order to rise from mere beauty to perfection.
She was the kind of woman who started and ended trends, who made heads turn when she walked into a room, whose name dripped all over the society pages. She was a feature of Loisail, as imposing and dazzling as the new opera house. And so Valérie dressed slowly and took meticulous care in her appearance.
Once she was satisfied with the results, she went downstairs, to the conservatory. Valérie was proud of this feature of her home because, more than anything, it signaled the wealth and position she enjoyed. The city was as it had always been: rather crowded. Space was a luxury, homes rapidly shrinking in size. Important families had to do with reduced quarters, for example, renting the top flat of a building and stomaching a view of an alley. Thus, even though conservatories were all the rage, when a household could afford one, it was a modest affair, a piddling thing the size of a closet. Valérie’s conservatory was massive, its walls rising high, iron and glass and greenery dazzling visitors. At one end of the structure stood a fountain with the figure of a kneeling stone boy next to it, a gigantic mirror placed behind it, reflecting the water. Baskets with plants dangled from the roof, and there was a bench where one might sit and contemplate the foliage.
Taste was the most important consideration in Valérie’s conservatory, not practicality. There was no point in toiling with geraniums in this space. She had dedicated herself to the cultivation of striking plants. Ferns, palms, heliotropes, azaleas, these offered the refinement she sought. Lately she had been taken with the notion of orchids, but these might require the construction of an orchid house, an idea she was still mulling over.
For now, Valérie bent over her roses, running a finger over the delicate white petals. She employed a gardener who took care of her plants, but Valérie believed in the value of proper supervision, and since her new roses—a delightfully fragrant variety, highly ornamental—were the most precious flowers she owned, she thought it prudent to look after them carefully. These white ones had budded, opening to the onslaught of spring.
After Valérie was satisfied with the state of the conservatory, she went to her office. Valérie received an infinite number of invitations, thank-you missives, and letters, which must have a response. Ordinarily she did not mind this activity, but there was a letter from Antonina’s mother that had arrived two days prior and that she had been putting off.
With a sigh, Valérie sat down before the desk and opened the letter. It was, as she expected, the usual bit of nonsense from Camille Beaulieu. The woman worried endlessly about her daughter, asked how Antonina fared.
Valérie hardly knew how to answer. The truth of the matter was she considered Antonina half a savage, though her vulgarity was not truly her fault and must be laid at her mother’s feet. The Beaulieus were a wealthy family, and their original home was in the south, in the region of Montipouret. Gaétan’s father had been the eldest child, followed by another boy—Benedict—and two daughters. In an act that Valérie would never be able to comprehend, Benedict had married a nobody, the daughter of a local schoolteacher. As Benedict was the younger, sickly son, his possibilities were more reduced than those of his brother, but he ought to have done better than Camille.