VALÉRIE LAY IN BED, STARING at the ceiling and trying to find a measure of sleep, which, as usual, eluded her. Her thoughts meandered and tangled together, like strange plants might tangle in the depths of the ocean.
She had not imagined the anxiety the constant presence of Hector would bring her, nor the wretched anger Antonina might evoke. Valérie saw them each morning, talking during breakfast or laughing with each other, as if caught inside a glass bauble, in a private space of their own making, and she hated them.
Antonina was young and carefree, and Hector was solicitous, kind to her.
It disgusted Valérie. And now they’d piled another injury on her.
How dare he speak to Valérie like that! And over whom? Over Antonina! Precious, stupid “Nina,” gilded girl who could have anything she wanted and apparently that included anyone.
She closed her eyes. She opened them. She tossed a book she had been attempting to read at the window shutters.
Valérie rose from bed and decided she could not stay in that room one minute longer. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked toward the stairs, hoping she might find solace if her body were not at rest.
She had not gone far when she saw a figure move ahead of her and turn a corner. For one second she thought it a ghost, an apparition in white, but then she shook her head and recognized her. Antonina, barefoot in her nightgown. Was the girl sleepwalking?
Valérie followed her quietly and realized Antonina was headed toward the section of the house where the men slept. What was this wretched child doing?
She kept her distance and peeked around a corner, watching as Antonina stood before Hector’s door and bent down, dropping something. The girl rushed away, a scared, wild animal.
Valérie waited for a few minutes before tracing Antonina’s steps. She stood in front of Hector’s door and bent down to retrieve whatever object Nina had left behind. It was a letter. In her haste, Antonina had not slid it completely under the door, and Valérie pocketed it.
Back in her room, Valérie lit two candles and sat at the desk. In the city, there was the wonder of gaslights and even electrified light fixtures, but in Oldhouse, wax and oil had to suffice.
Antonina’s writing was more a scrawl than true words, but Valérie was able to read the letter all the same.
Dear Hector,
I find it hard to put my thoughts into sentences, but I must do it or I think I will go mad.
Hector, I love you. I count the hours when I cannot see you and treasure every word you speak to me.
I thought myself happy to simply bask in your presence, but when we embraced I knew the true extent of joy. I want nothing more than to be in your arms again and to kiss you. If what we did was improper, then I confess myself a wretched and foul creature, because I want nothing more than to touch you again.
Should you want me only for one hour or one day, I would gladly take it. I would gladly take whatever you offer. I am not ashamed to admit this.
And should you love me as I love you, then I would be the happiest woman in the world. But for now, I dwell in uncertainty and hope your heart holds at least a fraction of the affection mine holds for you.
In the end, all I can say is: I am yours,
—Nina
When she was done reading, Valérie folded the letter back in place, her fingers tracing its creases carefully. If she did not scream right that second, it was only because she closed her hands into fists, her nails biting half moons into her palms.
Afterward, she lay in bed and pulled the covers up onto her chin. It was ridiculous pap, the letter, but it filled her with dread.
In the morning Valérie rose late, dressed with the utmost care, and quietly inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Auvray. A servant told her he’d seen him heading toward the library.
The servant was correct and she found Hector standing by a bookcase, perusing its contents. He was alone, which suited Valérie’s purpose; she went directly toward him. Valérie had decided there was no point in being subtle, a solid approach was necessary.
“I will ask you this but once and ask that you answer truthfully. Have you had the audacity to seduce Antonina under this very roof?”
His shoulders had been relaxed, but he snapped up to attention, grave, glowering.
“What?” he said, sounding more than a little affronted. “I have not. What has she told you?”
Valérie did not reply. It was he who must speak, and she gave him ample time to furnish an answer, knowing he’d elaborate quickly enough.
“We kissed, nothing more has passed between us. You thought differently? Do I seem like the man who’d behave immodestly?”
He spoke the truth, she could tell, and he’d always had honor and noble intentions aplenty. Nevertheless, the answer did nothing to soothe her. There was a taste of bile in her mouth that she knew she could not wash away.
“It does not matter. If she has not ruined herself, she will soon enough. She has no shame,” she exclaimed.
“In heaven’s name, what are you talking about?” he asked.
“Be merry, Hector. You have won. I concede to you. I thought to grant you my indifference, but I cannot. You are hurting me. A nail in my heart each day you pursue that girl, and now I see this will not end until you have ruined us all. I beg you now, leave. You’ve wounded me, you’ve won. Take that as your badge.”
Valérie had a mind to speak calmly, but tears stung her eyes, forcing her to turn her head and press her hands against her face. He tried to pry her hands from her face, but she would not allow it and turned from him in a fury, resting her back against a bookcase. She would not weep for him.
“Valérie, it was not my aim to hurt you,” he said gently.
“It was. All along. Do not lie. I knew you’d return one day. I knew you’d return and punish me.”
“I only wanted to see you, once.”
“Oh, but you came back. Twice and thrice and all those other times for her.”
She drew her hands from her face and looked at him. His eyes were not the same as they’d been in his youth, darker perhaps, drawn with pain. And his mouth, it was stiff and recriminating.
“There’s comfort in being cherished by someone, even if it is not the person you want,” he said. “If you loved me but for a moment, I would—”
“Do not dare to ask me to love you. I never stopped doing it,” she said, and wished to roar the words but they came out in a whisper.
He took a shaky breath and stared at her. If only he had changed more. If only. But she could still see the boy he’d been in his face, hardships and anger unable to drown him completely. And it was this detail that drew her closer to him.
“Valérie, I told you once I’d take you away, and I can keep that promise. We can leave right this instant, you and I,” he said with smothering sincerity; it made her shiver and she had to sit down on a sturdy chair.
He approached her slowly, as if he was afraid she’d bolt, kneeling by her side, holding her hands between his own.
“Why should we despair? The world is vaster than Loisail. We can board a ship and sail away. I shall buy you a house of your choice, wherever you want. We’ll be lost in the crowds, we’ll make a new life. We can be together as we planned all along.”
“In a foreign land,” she said. “Under an assumed name because I could not call myself by my family’s name without dying of shame.”
“You can have my name.”
She could not make her hands be still, the fingers trembling, and she had to shove his hands away because his touch only made them tremble more.
What a pretty fantasy he spun, as only Hector might spin, but she knew at once it could not be. She could not vanquish the chains of reality, could she?
“I will always be a Véries,” she said, but her words were almost tentative.
He rose then, cursing her under his breath. His anger gave her the fuel she needed to spark her own rage, and she was grateful. Engulfed with blazing fury, she felt she stood on firmer ground. The words, the reasons, everything came to her easily now.
“You think it is that simple? To bring dishonor to my family? You think I can throw away everything I have ever worked for? You have no understanding of the world. You are as you always were, with your head in the clouds. You do tricks for adoring crowds onstage and forget that it is not all artifice and sleight of hand when you step off. The pauper does not get the princess, Hector Auvray.”
He was comely in his intensity and even comelier as her words struck him, making him lose his grip.
“Artifice, when you are the liar! God, of course you are a liar,” he said.
He paced in front of her, all bitterness and spite. She rested her hands against the arms of the chair, holding tight to it. She wanted to reduce the room to ashes and had to content herself with biting her lips.
“You did not intend to run away with me,” he said, turning to her with narrowed eyes. “You said the words but did not mean them. It was a silly affair for you. You would not have gone with me, would you? Even if I had returned with all the gold in the world, you would not have gone with me.
“You liar,” he said, leaning down suddenly against her arms, against the chair, and looking down at her.
There was untold cruelty in those words, they sliced against her like scissors tearing through paper, and Valérie could not help herself—she spoke.
“I would have gone with you. If you had returned without a single coin in your pockets, I would have gone with you all the same. That is why I married Gaetan. Because I was ready to throw everything away for you. My name and my honor and my family. No one—no one, you hear me—can have that power over me.”
He stared at her, disbelieving. She stared back. She knew he wanted to deny it, to blot out the truth, but it could not be denied, and he believed. He finally understood. She saw him crumble before her, his eyes bright with tears, his pain so clear she thought she might touch it. It was real, solid. His voice, when he spoke, was a murmur.
“You are a vicious, mad creature,” he said.
She wanted to cry and could not. She wanted to weep for that proud girl who had broken her own heart and tossed it to the dogs, and she wanted to weep for the older woman who had been left behind with a gaping hole in her soul. But if she could do it again, she knew she’d still retrace her steps. She was not Antonina Beaulieu, who offered herself like a sacrificial lamb, who gave everything of herself to the world for the world to devour. She was Valérie Véries. She hated herself sometimes for it, but she was Valérie Véries.
“And I am a fool,” he muttered. Perhaps he might cry for the both of them, dear Hector.
“Yes, you are,” she said.
He yanked her to her feet and placed a harsh, desperate kiss on her mouth. It had been like this, too, when they were young. This desire, the stubbornness of her theatrical, calculated refusal, the pleas, until she broke against him and kissed him back.
A game they played.
But when they were young they were free, and afterward they could make vows that they intended to keep. Now there were no promises to be made, nor any measure of soothing tenderness.
Valérie kissed him nevertheless. Knowing the hopelessness of it all made her want to hold on tighter to him. She also wanted to hurt him, and she knew well enough that her caresses would wound more than any blows.
His mouth burned her and she knew he wanted to brand her, his fingers were digging too deep in her flesh, and she relished the touch. She thought of biting his tongue, drawing blood.
There came the loud thump of a book falling upon the floor.
They both turned their heads.
Antonina stood at the door. One of her books had slipped from her hands, but she still held on to the other one tight. Her lips were trembling.
Finally, she let go of the book she had been clutching, and at the same time several volumes jumped from the shelves and fell against the carpet, as if echoing her motions. Then the girl turned around and ran out of the library.
Hector meant to follow Antonina, but Valérie held on to his arm, forcing him to turn and look at her.
“It’s all over,” Valérie said.
Hector did not reply, rushing out, looking faintly ridiculous in his distress. She chuckled at this. She rubbed her fingers against her mouth and she chuckled, and then she bit her hand because tears were streaming down her face.