At first glance, a casual observer might have questioned Valérie’s distaste for the woman, since Valérie herself had come from an impoverished family. However, Valérie considered her situation to be utterly different. First of all, although her family had lost practically all their lands and money, they had kept their distinguished name. Valérie was born a Véries, and that alone was a form of currency. Second, Valérie was young, beautiful, and charming, qualities she thought made up for her financial shortcomings. The most charitable point one might make about Camille was that she was plain.
It was no wonder then that Antonina had grown to become a confusing girl. After all, her mother had lacked the proper education and refinement of the Beautiful Ones. Nobility could not be feigned.
At nineteen Antonina was without all the skills a young lady making her entrance into society should possess. She could not sing, danced mediocrely, and displayed neither wit nor seductiveness. She was not particularly pretty, having inherited the tall forehead of the Beaulieus coupled with her mother’s strong jaw and heavy-lidded eyes. But no matter, because Gaétan had decided his “darling” cousin deserved the excitement of Loisail and an engagement to a promising young man.
Gaétan was attached to Camille and her daughters, probably as a result of his mother’s death when he was but a four-year-old. When his cousin Madelena had married, he sent the girl a most extravagant diamond-and-pearl necklace in addition to a lump sum of money to help the newlyweds establish their household, even though Madelena’s father had already provided rather nicely for her. Gaétan’s affection for his cousins was likely compounded by his sterility: they could not have children, this they had discovered a few years after their wedding. This biological fault spared Valérie from the presence of crying babies, creatures she did not cherish, but it also ensured that Gaétan’s cousins acquired an even more crucial dimension. They would be his heirs.
Valérie therefore found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to introduce and cart around a girl who was not terribly fit for polite society. She, Valérie Beaulieu, chained to this lump of a child who at times proved annoyingly recalcitrant. She worried what others might say of her, how Antonina would reflect on Valérie’s reputation as the perfect hostess, the impeccable lady. She perused the pages of the papers ferociously each day, looking for her name there, to ensure all words written about her were always laced with adulation. Valérie Beaulieu née Véries. This is how she demanded they refer to her within the pages of the dailies, proud of her status as a Beautiful One. Old nobility, true gentility. This is what she was.
Antonina, on the other hand, could hardly be called a lady.
What to write, then? That after three weeks in Loisail, Antonina had not memorized the names, ranks, and particularities of the most important men and women of the city? That despite Valérie’s best attempts, Antonina remained friendless? That she had done her utmost to antagonize Didier Dompierre and the other suitable young men Valérie had introduced to her?
No, Valérie wrote none of that. She clenched her teeth and replied with a brief, polite letter. Antonina was adapting to her new home. Now that the Grand Season had begun, there would be a chance for her to make new acquaintances and there would be the usual diversions that came with it: the opera, the races, the balls.
Afterward, Valérie tackled the rest of her pressing letters, and it was well after noon when she left the office. Antonina had returned by then. Valérie, carrying her thick address book between her hands, paused to look at Antonina, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs, absorbed in an idle thought. This was often the case with her. It was up to Valérie to organize advisable entertainment for the girl, to get her invited to the best parties, to choose the correct soirées, and grind through the name of every eligible bachelor she could think of. Antonina did nothing.
“We are expected at Ledaux’s at two. You do remember, don’t you?” she asked, perhaps more acidly than she intended, but then Valérie still had to come up with the name of a young man who would escort Nina to the races in two weeks. She had been counting on one of the Hamel boys to submit to that pleasure, but she’d heard from a good source that the two blasted young men were chasing after Jeannette Solé.
“I do. Yes,” Antonina said, jumping to her feet and smoothing her dress. It was a dark blue, one of the stiff outfits Valérie had picked. If Nina had had her way, she might be walking around the city in a hideous calico print more fit to be made into a sack and filled with flour than to be worn by any woman.
“Good. Did you have a nice walk?” Valérie asked.
“It was lovely. I ran into someone, in fact.”
“Oh?” Valérie said as she opened the address book, suddenly remembering that Esno had a son who was supposed to be visiting in the spring. Or was it a nephew? She must inquire about this, and quickly. “And who was that?”
“A gentleman I met at the ball thrown by the De Villiers. I’ve invited him to visit Tuesday evening. I hope that is not a problem.”
“Antonina, you should not extend invitations without my approval,” she said.
“But you told me I ought to make friends,” the girl protested.
The right friends, not any friend, Valérie thought. Who knew whom this child had been speaking with. “That is not the same as having a caller. Has he sent his card?”
“No, but I don’t think that should be an impediment. He’s nice and he—”
“Really, Antonina. Inviting a stranger to our home who hasn’t had the decency to introduce himself properly.”
“I’ve asked you before to call me Nina. Nobody calls me Antonina,” the girl muttered in that impertinent tone that irritated Valérie.
“Nina is not a name,” Valérie replied. “Attempting to shorten your name is a horrid habit, one you should outgrow.”
“I don’t like being called Antonina.”
“It is not a matter of what you like. As for this ‘gentleman,’ he has not sent a card and you should not have invited him,” Valérie said. She started walking and hoped Antonina would leave it at that.
Instead, the girl followed her like a yappy dog. “My mother never demanded silly pieces of paper when people made visits, and the children of the Delafois would often appear unannounced to play with us.”
“You are hardly a child to be playing at anything,” Valérie said. She was truly exasperated now and wished nothing more than to hit the girl with the address book, knocking her senseless. “Who is this fellow, again?” she asked.
“His name is Hector Auvray.”
Valérie had been ready to pounce on the chit, but when the name slipped from Antonina’s lips, all the rage poured from her body. She felt weak, almost faint. She took a breath, clutching the address book tight.
Valérie spoke in a neat, sparse voice. “Consider this a singular exception. Ready yourself for Mrs. Ledaux’s, the dress you are wearing is entirely too informal for a visit.”
Antonina nodded before rushing up the stairs. Once the girl had disappeared, Valérie rested a trembling hand against the banister, needing the support. Yes, now she recalled. She had heard he was in the city. Had heard it and dismissed it, done her best to erase it from her mind. There was no point in knowing, though she had wickedly hoped she might catch a glimpse of him at one point.