Marcel’s velocipede had the same problem with the gears—she would have to work on that soon—so it was nearly seven by the time Celeste reached her mother’s house. She could not call the tall, thin house her home. Home had been the little gabled house near the Church of Saint Eustace, where they’d returned after every flight and where she’d nursed her father. For a while, they’d had a fine mansion nearer the Tuileries, where the Emperor could call on her mother at any time. Last year, they had been asked to move to an arrondissement farther out. Now, few would guess this to be the home of a famous aeronaut. It looked no different from the other two-story brick houses on the narrow street.
“Use the back stairs,” their cook Madame LeGrande advised when Celeste came through the kitchen. “Dupont is waiting to help you dress for entertaining.”
“Who’s here?” Celeste whispered, edging for the servants’ stair.
Madame LeGrande sniffed as she hitched up the soiled apron on her broad chest. “Some fellow from the court. No one of any interest. Not like when your Papa was alive.”
For once, Celeste was thankful for their lowered status. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to do more than giggle at witty sayings and smile vapidly. Her mother certainly expected no more of her.
“Ballooning is dangerous, Celeste,” she’d say, head cocked like a little sparrow. “I want you to live to grow old and happy.”
As if she could truly be happy anywhere but in the sky.
“There you are!” Dupont hurried to meet her as Celeste slipped into the bedchamber. Iron-haired, steely-eyed, her longtime companion still managed a warm smile and fierce embrace that made Dupont feel more motherly than any other woman Celeste had met.
Celeste wrinkled her nose as she disengaged. “Sorry. Equipment problem.”
Dupont was already moving behind her to begin unpinning the back of Celeste’s dress. “Nothing dangerous?”
“Nothing dangerous,” Celeste assured her.
Dupont had held her that dark day when Papa had fallen. She had never forgotten the perils behind their passion for ballooning. Now her capable fingers worked down Celeste’s back to help her out of the dress.
“You’ll find the Comte d’Angeline downstairs,” Dupont told her. “I think he may be courting your mother.”
“She won’t have him.” Celeste stepped out of the dress as it slid from her form to puddle on the thick crimson carpet. “She’s still mourning Papa.”
“That won’t stop the Emperor from insisting on the match,” Dupont countered, seizing the evening gown she’d laid out on the bed and dropping it over Celeste’s head.
Celeste wiggled it down, the rich folds of the pink satin settling about her, and Dupont began working on the fastenings.
“The pearl bandeau, my evening gloves, and the fan painted with roses,” Celeste instructed her. “At least fussing with it will give me something to do if they start talking about the invasion.”
Dupont finished with the gown, then hurried to the dressing table. “You could speak to that. You could recite those plans in your sleep.”
“And point out the flaws we must address,” Celeste agreed, tugging on the white silk long gloves her companion had offered. “But I am not to know about such things. I am a giddy debutante.” She fluttered her lashes and giggled.
Dupont snorted as she went for the bandeau. “If your father were alive, he’d have something to say about that.”
“If my father were alive, none of this playacting would be necessary.” She wrapped the pearl-studded satin about her head and pulled a curl free here and there to complete the look. Her mother had not been amused when she’d had her dark hair trimmed into a tousled cap à la Grèque, but the arrangement was so much easier to manage.
Particularly where she hoped to go soon.
Dupont handed her the fan. “Bonne chance.”
With a smile, Celeste sallied forth.
Conversation drifted up the polished wood stairs as she descended to the ground floor. She followed the sound to the salon, where a merry fire glowed on the emerald velvet–covered settee and matching chairs, setting the gilded wood on the arms to glowing. Maman was in high style, her white silk gown a fitting canvas for the medals the Emperor had awarded her. The gold cross with its ruby at the center would be enough to bow most people. Not La Blanchard. Her dark head was high, and her gloved hands darted as quickly as birds as she emphasized a point. Celeste knew to the minute when she spotted her in the doorway, for she smiled.
Hard, brittle.
Something was wrong.
Her stomach dropped, but she sashayed into the room and dipped a curtsey. “Milles pardons, Maman. I did not realize we were entertaining this evening.”
The gentleman on the settee heaved himself to his feet. He favored the style of the previous era, with a long, yellow velvet coat embroidered with daisies and a waistcoat with so much gold thread he glowed more than the furniture. His grey hair was parted in the middle and curled around his wide cheeks. He must spend a fortune on pomade.
“Monsieur le Comte, allow me to present my daughter Celeste,” her mother said in her high, fluty voice that always sounded just the slightest bit worried. “Celeste, this is the Comte d’Angeline.”
He waddled closer and swallowed her hands in his own. “My dear Mademoiselle Blanchard. You are as beautiful as your mother.”
She could not doubt the statement. Too many had commented on their likeness. But the compliment meant nothing. Neither she nor her mother was known for physical beauty. Theirs was a beauty of the mind. Still, she knew her response.
“You are too kind,” she said. “Forgive my interruption. You were surely conversing about matters of import.”
He released her hands. “Nothing so urgent. Come, sit by me. Let me look at you.”
Celeste cast her mother a quick glance. La Blanchard made shooing motions with her hands. Not helpful. Was this a man who required charm to convince him to do something her mother wanted, or a suitor her mother wanted Celeste to frighten off?
She made herself perch on the other end of the settee from him. He beamed at her as if she had done something very clever.
“Your mother has little time to keep a home,” he said, gaze dropping decidedly lower than her face.
He was ogling her! Not the sort of fellow she wanted in a stepfather. She shifted just the slightest, so the drape of her arm masked the curve of her bosom. “Alas, it is true. But I am certain the Emperor would rather she continue to use her skills on his behalf.”
He shoved himself closer. “And you? Do you long to serve our great Napoleon?”
Was this a test, then? She did not dare look to her mother for confirmation. She leaned away from him and widened her eyes. “Why, of course! We must all do our duty. Vive la France!”
“Vive la France,” her mother echoed.
Now he rested his hand on her leg, as if she were a trained parrot performing for his pleasure, only no parrot had even been treated to quite so possessive a pat. “Excellent, excellent. And you understand how to direct servants, to manage a household?”
Conversing with him was like flying a balloon in a storm—she could be sure of neither direction nor purpose. Did he expect her to stay here and manage the house while he followed her mother on her travels? Dupont had performed that function, and brilliantly, for more than a decade. That was why she had been hired—to care for Celeste, to see to their affairs, so that they need not worry about the mundane.
“Certainement,” Celeste allowed. “But there are so many other things a young lady might do with her time these days.”
His head bobbed in a ponderous nod. “True, true. And what interests you, Mademoiselle Blanchard? Do you sing? Play?”
And that was clearly the sum total of the abilities he was willing to ascribe to her. She kept her smile in place with difficulty. “My voice is passable, as are my skills at the pianoforte.” And only because Papa had claimed her playing soothed his spirit; otherwise, she would have given up on the thing after taking it apart to see how it worked.
“Excellent,” he repeated. Again he edged closer, until Celeste was pinned against the arm of the settee. Couldn’t her mother see how horrid he was? Why didn’t she throw him out?
“And I understand you are good with children,” he said, breath fanning her face. He’d had onions, garlic, and likely red wine recently. She brought up her fan in self-defense and waved it so fast he was forced to retreat a little.
“My daughter has taught at l’École des Aéronautes for several years,” her mother said when Celeste did not answer.
Mostly students closer to her own age. There were no little ones at the school. Why did he care about children anyway? Did he think her mother might yet bear him a son? Celeste could not imagine it. Maman was a wonder, a national treasure, the Emperor had said so himself. But, almost since the day Celeste had been born, her mother had wisely turned her daughter over to the keeping of others.
“Do you like children, Monsieur le Comte?” Celeste asked dutifully.
“I would like several,” he allowed, flabby lips pursing. “As many as my wife and my fortune can bear.” He chuckled as if he had been very witty, then turned to her mother.
“I can see the Emperor’s wisdom in this choice,” he said with a slow nod. “We will get on well, I think, though your daughter will need to wear a wig until her hair grows out.”
Celeste pressed her teeth together to keep from saying the words that threatened to pop out.
Her mother must have seen the storm brewing, for she hopped to her feet. “Thank you for coming this evening, Monsieur le Comte. Allow me to see you to the door.”
Once more, he climbed to his feet. Celeste only had a moment to catch her breath before he seized her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. Never had she been so glad for her gloves.
“Au revoir, my dear,” he said with a fond smile. Her mother hurried him out the door.
Celeste rubbed her glove, but that didn’t help wipe away the sensation of his touch. The front door closed, and her mother returned.
“He is an imbecile,” Maman proclaimed, plopping down in her seat as if she was just as relieved to have him gone. “But you will accustom yourself to him.”
Celeste put some distance between her body and the arm of the settee. “The question is whether you can accustom yourself to him, Maman. Surely you can do better.”
“I would have liked the opportunity to try,” she said with a shrug that set the medals on her chest to winking in the candlelight. “But the Emperor remains displeased with me. I cannot give him what he wishes most.”
Celeste nodded in understanding. “The invasion of Britain. We will find a way, Maman.”
Her mother rose and began to pace, silk skirts whispering against the carpet. “He asks the impossible. Your father, the Montgolfiers, de Rozier—none of them discovered the secret. He has given me a task that cannot be accomplished, so he demands I prove my loyalty.”
“By marrying the Comte d’Angeline?” Celeste asked with a shudder.
Her mother jerked to a stop and stared at her. “Non. By marrying you to the Comte d’Angeline.”
Celeste leaped to her feet. “Maman, non! You wouldn’t. I won’t.”
“You must.” Her mother came to take her hands and peer into her face. “He is not what I would have wished for you. I always dreamed you would find a love match, as I had with your father.”
Her throat was tight. “So did I.”
“But he is wealthy, and he is a friend of the Emperor,” her mother persisted, giving her hands a shake. “Both facts will serve you well, particularly when Napoleon realizes I will never succeed. By marrying the comte, you could well keep us both safe.”
“I will keep us safe, Maman,” Celeste promised. “Give me a few days, a week at the most, and I will show Napoleon that La Blanchard is not a failure.”
Her mother dropped Celeste’s hands and cocked her head. “What have you done, my little star?”
Celeste raised her chin. “It is not what I have done but what I will do that matters. Soon, all of Paris will see what the Blanchard family and l’École des Aéronautes can do. When we rise, even Napoleon will bow. And I will not have to marry the Comte d’Angeline or anyone else so detestable.”