Page 2 of The Beautiful Ones

“Foolish woman,” I scolded myself.

The lock clicked.

The smell of gardenias rolled out of the trunk.

I drew back so quickly that I nearly cried out. My heart fluttered against my ribs, quick and frightened as a trapped bird.

No flowers waited inside. There was only the folded contract bearing my old name, a small bundle of letters, a singed coral ribbon and a thin book of music tied with blue thread. Beneath them lay a pair of white gloves, yellowed with age and stained dark along the fingertips.

I had washed those gloves many times.

The stains had never faded.

I lifted the music book and traced the name written across its cover.

Cécile Lebon.

The letters were small and careful. She had written them herself during one of the long afternoons we spent together in the schoolroom at Le Champ des Fleurs. Her hand had not suffered as her voice did. On paper, Cécile never hesitated. Her words flowed freely, one after another, without a single cruel pause.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” I whispered. “I am sorry for what happened to you. I truly am.”

For a moment I could hear her playing in the schoolroom. Music rose through the hot Virginia air while white blossoms trembled beyond the windows. At the pianoforte, Cécile never hesitated. Her hands spoke with a freedom her tongue had never known.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

“Elin?”

I closed the music book.

Lars sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His pale hair stood up on one side, making him look younger than his thirty-seven years.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked.

“I could not sleep.”

“So you decided to unpack America?”

There was no suspicion in his voice. That made the lie harder.

“I wanted to find something.”

“Did you?”

I looked down at Cécile’s book. “I am not sure.”

Lars leaned forward, resting his arms upon his knees. The firelight shone warmly across his face.

“Was it the old dream again?”

He believed my silence began with the voyage home. I had suffered lung-fever aboard the ship and arrived in Sweden thin, weak, and nearly voiceless. Whenever I woke trembling or touched my lips in the darkness, Lars blamed the fever.

I had allowed him to believe it.

“It was not a dream,” I answered.

His expression changed. “What was it, then?”

The gardenia perfume lingered between us. Could he smell it? I searched his face for some sign of recognition, but he merely looked concerned.