Page 7 of The Beautiful Ones

Madame returned her attention to Cécile. “Again.”

Cécile looked down at her hands. A long silence filled the room.

“Very well,” Madame said coldly. “Elin will answer for you if it becomes necessary. But you must make some effort, Cécile. People cannot be expected to accommodate this deficit of yours forever.”

She swept from the room. Her skirts brushed the doorframe, leaving behind the faint scent of rosewater.

Neither of us moved until her footsteps disappeared.

Cécile snatched the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall and fell behind a chair.

“That was your mother’s,” I said.

“I h-h-hope it b-b-broke. I h-h-hate her!”

The words emerged painfully, but the anger behind them was perfectly clear.

I retrieved the brush. One side had been dented, although the mirror remained intact.

“It survived.”

“P-p-pity.”

I placed it on the table.

Cécile stood and marched toward the bed. She picked up the blue dress, threw it to the floor and kicked it beneath the bed.

“I suppose we are wearing cream,” I said.

She glared at me.

“Rose?”

Her expression weakened. She covered her face with both hands and began to cry.

I crossed the room and sat beside her. Cécile leaned against me, resting her forehead upon my shoulder.

“I am sorry,” I whispered. She shook her head. “I should not have answered for you.”

Another shake.

“What, then?”

She pulled away and walked to the small writing desk near the window. A slate rested upon it, but she ignored it, choosing instead a piece of good paper her mother would accuse her of wasting. She dipped her pen and wrote quickly.

I cannot bear them all looking at me.

“They will look at everyone.”

She added another line.

Not as they look at me.

There was no comfort I could offer that would not become a lie.

The county knew about Cécile’s difficulty, although Madame behaved as if vigilance might preserve the secret. Some called the girl shy. Others said she was simple-minded or willful. A few imitated her behind their fans.

Cruelty required very little imagination.