Spring VIII

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Dearest Mother, my letter began. I didn't quite understand my own reason for writing to someone I knew to be dead from the world, but it seemed a well enough distraction as I waited for Élisabeth to come for lessons. I sat alone at the desk, scribbling down my thoughts as if I knew my mother to be alive and just away for some time. I started with asking her about herself and her health—normal things for a personal letter. Gradually, the topic moved to my father and my forced marriage. I let my anger for the man spill onto the page, and as my emotions took hold of me, my handwriting became more and more illegible. It didn’t matter though. No one would be reading this, I knew. Of course the subject of my father moved into the issue of my marriage, but once my mind wandered to Élisabeth new feelings stirred. I felt suddenly as if someone was scratching me from the inside, mostly in the base of my stomach. It was a light touch, the kind that made one giggle, like a flutter of eyelashes.
         I shifted in my seat a little, trying to keep the abnormal feeling at bay, and dipped my pen again.
         I tried my best to describe the strange woman she was, but found it extremely difficult to find the perfect words. She is the strangest creature I have ever met, I decided to start with, but my pen hesitated after the sentence. There was so much I wanted to say, and yet I could not move forward. Élisabeth is…
         “Monsieur?”
         My attention whipped to the door where Élisabeth was now standing. She had startled me. I quickly took my paper, turned it over, and stood.
         “I know what you are going to say,” she said nervously, coming to the desk and pulling out the chair. “I’m late.”
         I glanced at the clock. She was right. She was five minutes late this time, but I wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t told me.
         “I’m sorry,” she said automatically as she sat down.
         I did the same. “I suppose five minutes is better than twelve.”
         She sighed and took the pen from the ink bottle. She reached for the topmost piece of paper on the pile in front of me.
          I did not want her to see my letter to my mother, so my hand was quick to stop her.
         She gasped and withdrew.
          “I’ll get it for you,” I said as I pulled another piece from the bottom of the pile and placed it in front of her.
         “T-Thank you,” she stammered, still a little shaken.
         I cleared my throat. “Alright. Let’s move on. The next letter.” I scribbled the letter B on the top of the page.
         “Fifty again?” she asked, pen hovering.
         I thought about it for a little while. “How about thirty? Does that sound fair?”
         She nodded. “Fair.”
         The room fell silent. I watched each of her pen strokes and every new letter forming on the page. Every so often, my gaze would travel to my letter that still lay facedown under my hand. Should I continue writing it? Even with Élisabeth so close? She couldn’t read the words, but I had the strangest feeling she would somehow know the letter’s recipient and my intention.
         I shook my head. What an absurd thought! She wouldn’t know! That was no way that she could! I was just being over worried. I turned over the paper and retrieved my pen from the vial. The last words I had written stared back at me: Élisabeth is…
         “You’re writing as well?”
         Instinctively, my hand covered the words again. “I’m trying to,” I replied sharply.
         “What are you writing?” Despite my temper, her tone was still kind.
         “Nothing important,” I said.
         Her eyes kept drifting from my face to my paper. “Perhaps a poem?” she guessed. “Or a song?”
         I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. “No.”
         “A letter then?”
         My patience was wearing thin. “The less said, the more that will get done,” I returned hotly.
         She pressed her lips together, stopping herself from interrupting again. Slowly, she went back to her work, as did I. She studied and repeated, the library completely quiet once more. I waited a few moments, and then looked at her page again. Her hands were folded in her lap as if she was waiting for me to do something. I soon realized she had finished the letter and was waiting for me to give her the next.
         “You did that pretty quickly,” I told her, slightly impressed.
         She gave me a small smile as I gave her the next one in order.
         We both continued our work, but really, it was only Élisabeth’s pen that was moving and creating words. Mine only tapped against the wood of the desk as I sat staring at the two words with no ending. Élisabeth is…
         I just could not find the right match for it.
         She had finished the current letter, and again I gave her the next.
         Élisabeth is…          
         Why was it suddenly so difficult to describe the woman who was sitting beside me?
         Her pen stopped, and I gave her the following letter to learn.
         Odd… poor… I ran through all the options in my mind. Naïve… But it seemed no matter what word I found, it didn’t seem to fit well enough.
         “It’s time already,” said Élisabeth suddenly.
         My head perked up, and I looked at the clock. The hour hand of the clock had reached the one. “Already?”
         She laughed. “The time does seem to be getting spent quicker and quicker.”
         I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I replied hesitantly. “It does.”
         Élisabeth handed me her papers, each one filled with freshly crafted letters. On the first page, I noticed the letter was an L neatly handwritten thirty times. She had gotten farther in the alphabet than I had realized. I must have been too wrapped in my own work to have noticed.
         “You got very far today,” I told her, putting the papers in a neat pile at the edge of the desk. “I am impressed.” And I was.
         “Merci,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow I hope to finish.”
         I chuckled. “Tomorrow you hope to finish the alphabet, you mean. You still have much to learn in order to read a book as Macbeth.”
         “My father used to tell me that I was a fast learner.”
         “Let’s hope it holds true.”
         Élisabeth made her way to the door, but this time I did not see her out. The letter to my mother was anchoring me to my seat. She nodded once and bid me farewell before leaving the library.
         Once I was alone, my eyes instantly dropped to the letter again. The two last words seemed to be more vibrant when compared to the others surrounding them. My hands were itching to continue, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not end such a simple phrase.
         “Élisabeth is… Élisabeth is… Élisabeth… Élisabeth…”
         I heaved a deep sigh and finally put down my pen. The ending of the sentence would come to me eventually, but for now, I would let my letter and my thoughts rest. I folded the paper in half evenly, smoothing the crease between my two fingers, and then opened one of the desk drawers. Inside were a few unimportant documents and some blank papers. I lifted them all and placed my letter underneath. When the right words came to me, I would return to it.
         I closed the drawer and got to my feet. “Élisabeth… Élisabeth… Élisabeth…” I repeated in the silence of the room. “What will I ever do with you?”
         I left the library, thankful to have another lesson behind me, but saddened to be alone once again. My days ended this way much too often. I walked down the hallway, past the many paintings of unknown country sides and farmlands against painted cream walls. My feet slowed their movements, my eyes lingering on each piece of artwork. Countless grassy knolls, cloudless indigo skies, a small wooden barn hidden behind an endless ocean of wheat surrounded me.
         I wondered if one of these places captured by the artists was what Élisabeth’s home looked like, if she lived with such serenity. It must have been pleasant to live without restricting rules. To not worry of how you appeared in society’s eye. To be free from it all.
         I sighed, shaking my head, and continued walking.
         I could hear the light jingling of silverware and the shuffling of feet coming from the dining room. I stopped in the archway and peered inside. Many of the servants were setting the places for dinner. Some were folding napkins into dainty white flowers while others were organizing the shining silverware around each china dish. The delicious smell of garlic potatoes and roasted duck leaked into the space with each entrance and exit of a servant from the kitchen.
         Mardi came through the doors behind her mother, carrying a crystal vase to the table. Her face was hidden behind many bloomed white roses and golden honeysuckles, but she followed her mother’s steps perfectly. Angeline took the vase from her daughter and placed it in the center, in between the two still unlit candelabras. Then she took a step back to admire the beautiful bouquet.
         “It is quite lovely, isn’t it, my dear?” Angeline said to Mardi as she took her mother’s hand. “The Mademoiselle always seems to find the most healthy of the bunch.”
         I looked back at the flowers and felt the corners of my lips curl up into a smile. They were beautiful—full and as bright and fresh as a spring day. They brought color to the plainness of the white draped table and the celadon colored curtains.
         “Excuse me,” I interrupted. Every pair of eyes found me instantly. “Angeline?”          
         She took a step forward. “Yes, Monsieur?” The resemblance to her daughter was even more noticeable when they stood side-by-side. They had the same pink rosebud mouth and small, downturned green eyes. The only significant difference was that her blonde locks were always pulled back into a tight bun, while Mardi’s curls were too stubborn to be contained.
         “Do you happen to know where I might find Élisabeth?” I asked but then quickly caught my mistake. “I mean, Mademoiselle Lormé. I thought she might be in here.”
         “Oh no, Monsieur. She isn’t in here,” said Angeline. “I haven’t seen her since this morning. I’m sorry.” 
         Mardi stayed close to her mother’s side, wrapping her arms around her slender waist.
         Angeline patted her back affectionately. “But maybe Mardi knows,” she offered. “Dear?”
         Mardi looked up at her mother and then at me. Her lids drooped slightly. “She was in the parlor with Monsieur Corwin a few moments ago,” began Mardi softly, “and I told them dinner would be out shortly.”
         “Thank you.” I glanced over my shoulder, across the foyer, to the door of the parlor. Élisabeth was with Rupert. Of course.
         Angeline and Mardi curtsied.
         I let them return to their chores, and headed to the parlor. When I reached the doorway, I spotted them sitting on the couch, bodies turned slightly toward each other. I hovered there and remained silent, listening. I wondered how intimate their conversation was getting. Rupert’s voice was the first to come to my ears.
         “Andre and I would sometimes see the same performance many times while it was in the theater,” he said.
         “The same show?” asked Élisabeth. “Whatever for?”
         I could not see Rupert’s face for my place, but I knew him well enough to know he was grinning. “To create mischief, of course.”
         She laughed.
         “Like this one time,” he began, “we went to see La Chute de Toujours, which was a magnificent play, by the way. One of my favorites now that I think about it. Nothing could compare to the violin in the composition. It was just magical. Thomas Freden is perhaps the most talented—”
         “Rupert,” Élisabeth interrupted with a light chuckle. “The story?”
         “Oh yes! The story!” He shifted in his seat so that he was closer to her. “Andre and I had snuck away from his mother and hid ourselves in an empty box. Any pamphlets we found along the way, we collected.”
         I remembered that day as well. We had gone to celebrate my thirteen birthday, and to make it more interesting, we had decided to bother some of the audience for a laugh.
         Rupert’s hand animated the tale as he spoke. “We ripped up the paper in the tiniest pieces we could manage and waited. We knew from seeing the performance many times before that in the last Act there was a winter scene. As it played out, we sprinkled the pieces of paper over the people below.”
         “What a wicked trick!” Élisabeth exclaimed.
         “It was! But it was genius! Everyone thought it was part of the performance!”
         They had. We had convinced over half of the audience that snow was falling from the ceiling. Every eye lifted to the high ceiling and every hand tried to catch the flakes. Rupert and I had laughed so hard, my voice was hoarse the following day. I tried to persuade my mother that I was sick. She somehow knew that wasn’t the case.
         Rupert took Élisabeth by the hand suddenly. She flushed, and I felt my face grow hot.
         He leaned into the space between them, only inches from her pleasant heart-shaped face, and whispered, “I know it may be difficult to imagine Andre as being free spirited, but I assure you, the true man is still there… somewhere.”
         I cursed silently at their closeness. I was growing tired of their flirting and Rupert’s advances.
         I watched Élisabeth slowly withdraw her hand from his and sit back. “I think Monsieur DeMonté’s company can be quite enjoyable,” she said coolly.
         Rupert appeared slightly wounded by her recoil, and his attention drifted to the fireplace. “That is true, but as of late, I can see the changes in him more and more.” He paused briefly. “I promise you, Mademoiselle, Andre never use to be this tightly wound.”
         I was not tightly wound. It took every ounce of strength in me to not trudge into the room and make a scene. I ground my teeth instead.
         “We all are guilty of it at one time or another,” she replied. Her gaze drifted in my direction, and I stepped further into my corner to not be seen. “Even I have had my moments.”
         “You?” said Rupert with a chuckle.
         She gave him a small smile, eyes moving their way across the room and then back to him. “I am human.”
         “I refuse to believe it,” he started, his voice smooth. “With the face of an angel and the soul of a saint, I think of you in a much higher regard.”
         She stood up quickly, blue eyes wide. “What a flatterer, you are!”
         He rose too, laughing. “Some may call me such.”
         “Unfortunately for you, Monsieur, I am not a woman easily swayed by silken words.”
         “And fortunately for Andre,” he added lightly.
         I was growing angry at my friend and his continuous flirting habits. He was pursuing an engaged woman, one that was about to be married to his closest friend. I moved from the corner and stood fully in the doorway. Whether his intentions were pure or not, I was going to stop this.
         “Fortunately for me, what?”
         Rupert’s head whipped around, and he paled. Élisabeth’s eyes met mine directly, and her lips lifted into the most pleasant smile.
         “Monsieur, come join us,” she said kindly.
         I gave Rupert a harsh look and then took a few steps forward. “Am I interrupting?” I asked, brows raising at him for an answer.
         “No, no.” He came to the opposite side of the couch where I stood, stuffing his hands into his pant pockets. “Nothing important.”
         “Mademoiselle, could I have a private word with my dear friend for a moment?” I did not take my eyes off him. “It shouldn’t be too long.”
         “Oh,” said Élisabeth. “Of course.” She nodded once to Rupert as a silent goodbye and hurried out of the room.
         When we were finally alone, I looked back to Rupert. “Do you care to explain to me what this is all about?” I asked stormily.
         “What?” he said, his shoulders falling.
         “Don’t give me that,” I snapped. “You know very well what I mean.”
         He went back to the front of the couch and threw himself onto it, legs sprawled and arms draped lazily over the arm rest. “We were just talking, Andre. It is not a crime.”
         His nonchalance was making me itch. “In your case, I wish it was.”
         “I don’t understand what has you so bitter.”
         I rubbed my hand over my face and shook my head.
         Rupert sat up suddenly, green eyes narrowed. “Maybe it is it because you are worried?”
         “Worried?” I almost laughed at his ridiculous assumption. “Worried about what?”
         “Well, that Élisabeth may take an interest to me,” he said simply. “What other reason could it be?”
         Then is when I laughed. “She is engaged, Rupert. You shouldn’t be courting an engaged woman. You seem to forget this.”
         He swung his legs to the edge of the couch and stood. “And you have feelings for her. You seem to forget this.”
         My mouth opened but instantly shut.
         “Why else would you be feeling so hostile toward me? If you didn’t care for her, like you claim, then it would not matter if I speak to her, now would it?”
         I turned my back to him and folded my arms about my chest. “Rupert, you are talking madness.”
         I heard him sigh. “Andre, it is not as horrible as you think. Opening your heart to her may be just what you need.”
         “I feel nothing for Élisabeth,” I said shortly. “If anything, I am just beginning to tolerate her.”
         “I don’t know why I bother trying to speak sense to you,” he replied.
         I turned again to face him. “Because I’m so tightly wound.”
         His one eye squinted as if he was in pain. “You heard that?”
         I nodded. “Oh, yes. I did.”
         “I’m sorry, my friend, but it’s true. I feel like I’ve lost you over these few years.” The worry lines around his mouth softened, and he reached out for my shoulder.
         I stepped away from him.
         His gaze fell to the floor. “I don’t understand it,” he went on, hand dropping to his side. “You never use to be this way. Surely it isn’t only the idea of marriage that has hardened you?”
         I was silent. Instantly, my thoughts went to my mother, and I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head. I didn’t want to show Rupert how much the subject affected me.
         As if he had read my mind, he said, “Is it your mother?”
         I cringed at the truth of it.
         “I noticed the shift in your letters after you wrote me about her leaving.”
         I swallowed the bile that had been gathering in the back of my throat.
         “Andre, you cannot dwell on these things. Sadness can consume if you allow it.”
         Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to tell him about Donovan and what he had told me about my mother. It was on my tongue, ready to share, but I quickly rethought it. I couldn’t tell him, I realized. I couldn’t tell anyone. I wasn’t quite ready to share it. Especially now that he was telling me that mother’s disappearance shouldn’t be dwelled on. He wouldn’t understand. 
         “Monsieurs?” Little Mardi stepped into the parlor and seemed to hesitate when she looked at us. Élisabeth was close behind her watching me.
         I cleared my throat. “Yes, Mardi.”
         She curtsied a little too quickly. “Dinner is ready,” she said.
         Rupert’s grin returned as he stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Élisabeth “Brilliant!” he said happily. “My stomach was rumbling so loudly it was beginning to sound like an animal!”
         I rolled my eyes as we proceeded into the dining hall. The food was already laid out, the candles lit. My father was already in his place at the head of the table waiting for us to join him. I instinctively went to the chair at the opposite end of him, wanting to be as far from him as possible. To my surprise, Élisabeth placed her hand on the chair to the right of me. Rupert was quick to her side, about to pull the chair out for her to sit.
         I stared at him angrily, knowing exactly what his intent was. I cleared my throat and stepped forward. When his green eyes found mine, he raised a brow and took a slight step back.
         Élisabeth glanced at us both, sensing the tension in the air.
         “Andre,” my father said in warning, and I quickly took the chair and pulled it out for Élisabeth. She sat.
         Rupert decided to take the chair across from her, to my left.
                I sat as well.
         The wine was poured into glasses and the napkins were laid on laps. I watched Angeline cut the crisp roasted duck into thin slices and place an equal share on everyone’s dish. The potatoes were divided as well, along with the vegetables. Once everyone had received their meals, the servants took their places against the walls. My father was the first to lift his fork and knife and begin cutting his meat. Rupert soon followed, scooping a larger than polite amount of potatoes onto his fork and then into his mouth.
         Élisabeth looked at me.
         The setting reminded me of the dinners long passed with my mother. I would always know when my mother and father had been arguing because her seat would change in each instance. When there was no conflict between them, my mother sat in her rightful place beside my father and I was the one to eat alone. And when they had bickered, my mother sat beside me, talking only to me so that my father could steam by himself.
         I looked to where she used to sit but only saw Élisabeth. I then glanced down the long length of the table and saw my father at the end. I sat up a little straighter and smirked. His isolation made me look almost superior to him, and I liked the idea very much.
         “Care to tell us what has placed such a smile across your lips?” my father said, looking at Élisabeth briefly and then back to me.
         My smirk fell instantly. “It’s nothing.”
         “No,” he persisted. “What is it?” His eyes trailed to Élisabeth once again.
         I pushed some of the garlic potatoes onto my fork and tasted a small bite of it. They were warm, smooth, and melted the moment they touched my tongue. “It’s these potatoes,” I said plainly. “They are exquisite.”
         “They are!” mumbled Rupert in agreement, shoveling more into his mouth.
         Élisabeth pretended to wipe her mouth with her lap napkin, but I heard her laugh quietly behind it. To recover, she quickly picked up her own fork and began to eat herself.
         No one spoke for some time. It was only the casual dings of silver on china that kept the room from complete silence. Every now and then I would look up at Élisabeth, who refused to lift her gaze from her plate, much like our first dinner. Then I would look at Rupert who was watching her like a starving man, which I thought was peculiar since he was finishing his meal much faster than the rest of us.
         Finally, my father put down his fork and knife, and pushed out his chair a little. Angeline quickly came over to take away his empty plate and used silverware. “So Rupert,” he began as his place setting was cleared, “have you been keeping up with the races still?”
         Rupert took a long sip of his red wine. Mardi came to his side and he handed her his plate instead of having her reach for it. “The races? Oh, no. Not since I left for home.” He then patted the top of her blonde head before she hurried off into the kitchen.
         “Well then, you’re in luck. I believe I saw a race coming up very soon in this morning’s paper,” he replied.
         “Oh really? How soon?”
         As soon as Angeline and Mardi walked through the kitchen door, my father beckoned them over. “Could one of you fetch this morning’s paper for me? From my desk?”
         Immediately, Mardi grinned. “I will, Monsieur!” Before she had finished the sentence, she was already on her way out of the dining room. I could hear her hurried, light footsteps on the stairs and then in the hallway above us. We were all silent, listening to the study door creak open then close, and her footsteps again in the hall and down the stairs. She rushed to my father’s chair, holding the folded paper with both of her hands. Her round cheeks were flushed, and I could hear her staggered breathing from my place. But despite it all, she still smiled and curtsied after my father took the paper from her.
         “Very good, Mardi,” he said. “You are quite a quick one.”
         She curtsied again, and my father chuckled.
         “Maybe we should enter little Mardi in a race,” Rupert added lightly. “With that display, I believe she could win against any horse!”
         Everyone but I laughed.
         Mardi went to her mother who was now standing beside the wall with the other servants. Angeline wrapped her arms around her and held her close. As I looked upon the small, broken family, I tried to remember the first night we had found them. I was younger than Mardi was currently. About eight or so. My mother had convinced my father to spend a weekend in the city, what I found out later to be an attempt at forgetting their struggles and reconciling. It had gone well enough in the beginning. Until we left for home that rainy and cold night. We were in the carriage, riding slowly on the flooding city streets. I was sitting beside my mother, and she had wrapped her shawl around both our shoulders and held me close.
         I recognized the protective yet loving embrace of a mother as I stared at Angeline and Mardi. I remembered the warmth of the touch that seemed to seep so deep that it chased out any chill, any fear.
         I remember, that night, my mother glancing out her window and yelling for the driver to stop the carriage. We lurched forward as the wheels stopped abruptly. Angered by the sudden jolt, my father demanded to know what it was for. My mother claimed there was a woman outside the carriage. It appeared she had been running from something and had fallen.
         “And?” said my father stormily. “What do you expect me to do?”
         “We must help her,” my mother said, moving to the edge of the seat, her attention never leaving the window. “She could be hurt.”
         I tried to move myself to see over my mother’s shoulder. Even when I had reached a place where I could, I realized that it was almost impossible to see out the window at all. The rain was coming down so hard that even the buildings and streetlamps were all a blur.
         “I will not go out there in that storm for some vagrant,” he snapped. He knocked twice on the window by the driver to signal him to take us away. I heard the reins crack and the horses whinny.
         My mother glared at him as the cart rocked and we began to move forward. Suddenly, she drew in a sharp breath and pushed open the carriage door. The wind rushed inside the small space.
          I gasped and reached for her instantly, afraid she would fall out. My fingers slid through the silky fabric of her shawl as she stepped down. 
         “Renee!”yelled my father. “Get back in here!”
         “Mother!” My voice cracked.
         The driver stopped the coach again, and I stared out looking for her familiar blonde hair. I saw only the curtain of rain falling, and could only hear her heels clicking against the stone.
         My father and I called out to her several times—my high-pitched wail collided with his echoing, angry shouts. I was terrified that she might never find her way back and began to shake with the thought of living alone with my father.
         “Mother! Mother, please!”
         Moments later, her face appeared in the door as well as a stranger’s. The woman’s face was as white as the pearls around my mother’s throat and her blonde hair was clinging to her forehead. Her eyes were wide and full of fear as she glanced at my father and then me. My mother helped her into the carriage, and she sat where my mother had been sitting. I quickly moved my seat and sat beside my father.
         “Renee, get her out of here this instant,” my father said as she climbed into the carriage and sat by the woman. “I will not have her smelling up my carriage with her filth.”
         My mother ignored his threats and took her own shawl from her shoulders and draped it over the woman’s. My mother was wet, but not nearly as soaked as her. She had a thin black sheet wrapped around her shivering body and it was sopping wet. Her blue lips quivered as she tried to speak, but my mother shushed her. Then the woman looked down at the small bundle she had been carrying and moved away a piece of the dark fabric. When I saw the tiny closed eyes of a slumbering child, I gasped. My father cursed.
         When my eyes focused back onto the two female servants, I sighed. My mother had persuaded my father to keep them here, to give them a home. They had stayed with us, loyal and thankful to be given a chance. My father had even grown a liking to them.
         “Here it is,” said my father, pointing to a place in the paper that he had opened across the table. “There’s a race this Saturday at the Longchamp.”
         “What luck! Does it say anything about old Morrie running?” asked Rupert.
         “Old Morrie? Don’t tell me you are betting on that old mule!”
         He nodded. “Always did.”
         “Oh, no!” my father said. “He will never win another race! Much too old.”
         “If you can recall, dear Elroy, he has won many titles. Still holds the record for fastest mile race.”
         My father waved a hand at him. “You’re throwing your money away. Here!” he tapped the paper with his index finger. “Titan! Now there’s a champion!”
         “You cannot trust those new breds. They aren’t reliable.”
         “Oh really?” My father cocked one black eyebrow. “We should see which stallion is more reliable.”
         “We should!” Rupert grinned. “That would be great fun, wouldn’t it Mademoiselle?”
         When I looked at Élisabeth, I saw the excitement I had seen at the opera light her eyes. “Oh, it would! I have never seen a race before.”
         Rupert drew in a deep, dramatic breath. “You haven’t? Well, this will be an experience for you then!”
         “Yes,” said my father. “We will all go.”
         I glanced around at all their happy, smiling faces and sighed again.
         “What’s wrong, Andre?” Rupert asked, his teeth still flashing. “You don’t care for a good, friendly competition?”
         There was something in his words that made me pause. I studied his satisfied expression, my mind going back to our just recent conversation. “Maybe you’re worried Élisabeth might take an interest to me,” he had said. Which competition was he referring to, I wondered. “Could we trade?”
          “The competition I have no problem with.” I picked up my glass and held it to my lips. “It’s watching you drink too much and make a spectacle of yourself that I am dreading.”
         I watched the grin slowly disappear and his face redden. He glanced at Élisabeth and said shakily, “It’s all in good fun.”
         I sipped the bitter liquid and let it coat my tongue and numb my throat. “What fun,” I said dryly.
         Suddenly, there was a loud bang and the table shook, causing all the silverware to clatter and the glasses to clink. We all looked up to my father who had his fist next to his plate. His gaze passed from me to Rupert, and he cleared his throat. “I think we are ready for dessert,” he said tensely. “Angeline?”