“You will cease this foolishness,” he demanded. “How dare you bring shame upon yourself like this!”
She refused to listen. “But he is miserable, Father! He doesn't love her like he loves me.”
Her father refused to hear it. He locked her in her room at night and had her chaperoned during the day. Not seeing her lover tore a hole in her heart, and she poured over his letters, broken by the loss of him.
It was weeks before she finally managed to dodge her chaperone, meeting him on the cliff overlooking the beach behind her home. But his demeanor toward her had changed. He went stiff in her embrace.
“Please,” she begged. “You must take me with you. My father won’t let us be together.”
He shook his head. “No. I told you that there is no us without money. You promised me something you could not give. We can no longer continue this way.”
“But I love you!” she cried. “I want us to be together, just like you promised.”
His expression did not change. “I do not have the money, and neither do you.”
“But we can make do! Surely you have some meager savings.”
“Enough!” Anger flashed across his face. “It is time for you to move on.”
She took a step back, startled that he had shouted at her. She did not like the look in his eyes. The sound of the waves rushed up behind them—a storm was brewing. Her lips trembled, but not from the chill of the breeze. She felt small, and her next words spilled from her lips without a second thought.
“I’ll tell your wife,” she cried. “I’ll show her your letters! I will tell her everything.”
Perhaps it was the way his face twisted into something hard, unfamiliar. He became someone else entirely, and it frightened her. But when he grabbed her shoulders, she couldn’t have known he would throw her over the edge.
She couldn’t have known her brother would be at the bottom.
She couldn’t have known that love could be so painful.
A STORM IS BREWING
REMI
THE BLEUE ISLE / MAY, 1898
Remi blamed her mother’s pearls the morning they found her husband dead in his office.
“You shouldn’t wear pearls on your wedding day. It’s bad luck,” Tante Beline had said, her brows furrowed with practiced worry. “A dear friend of mine wore a string of them to her wedding some years ago, and the next day, her husband was nowhere to be found.”
Remi had heard the story before, but she was always skeptical of its assumed truth. Yet it was easier to agree with Beline, for it would have been unwise to confess her true opinion. Ignorance was bliss for the folk on their island.
She understood its comfort now. She wanted to let herself sink into the blinded crowd, to believe that some unobserved superstition had killed her husband—not something else.
Remi sighed deeply, covering her face with her hands.
“Madame?” A small voice chirped. “Les gens d’armes are here, as is your family.”
“I will meet with them.” Remi looked up from her seat in the parlor, meeting her maid’s questioning gaze. “Thank you.”
Truthfully, meeting with anyone was the last thing she wanted to do. She was too out of sorts for the morning, dressed only in her shift and a heavy dressing robe. Still, duty called; she pushed back her blonde braid and baby hairs with purpose, swallowing the bitter taste of saliva as she stood. Water did little to wash away the bile her stomach had emptied out earlier.
“You’re quite pale, Madame. Shall I—?”
Remi quickly interrupted. “No. I’m well enough, thank you.”
Sylvie nodded, her lip quivering. She was just as despondent due to the morning’s events.
“Are you well, Sylvie? Perhaps you should find some respite.”
“Are you sure, Madame?” Sylvie’s eyes widened.
Remi nodded. “Yes, please. It will help to ease my nerves.”
“Much obliged.” Sylvie bowed her head, halfway out the door as she did so.
In truth, Remi was glad to give her time alone. Sylvie was the one who discovered Edgar, after all, and she was in worse shape by far. Her pale, doe-eyed expression burned itself into the back of Remi’s mind, synonymous with the memory of the entire morning.
All the more reason I must be steadfast, she thought to herself. She was the Madame of the House, after all. It was her responsibility to set an example, though she felt lacking in that regard. Remi wondered how Tante Beline managed to keep her attitude as neat and precise as her cuticles.
The walk to the study was a short trek, and Remi did her best to hide the misery that lingered beneath her sunken mask. Already, she could smell the ripe, pungent scent of death in the foyer. It lingered, staining the air with its thickness. With a steadying breath, she clung to the vestiges of her composure as she approached a small group by the stairs. They were a bright spot in an otherwise darkened room. The foyer was dim, washed in dark wood, and decorated with ornate rugs and dying plants in ceramic pots. Remi only hoped no one would pay any mind to the cobwebs in the corners.
Or the dust on the mantle, she thought woefully.
“Oh, Remi, darling.” One of the waiting guests was her Tante Beline; the other was her cousin, Elise, who held a bright kerchief to her nose. They both looked up from the gentleman speaking to them, diverting his attention. Remi felt her knees quake beneath her, one wrong step from collapsing altogether. The older gentleman with them was dressed differently from les gens d’armes, but he was all business just the same.
“You must excuse me,” Remi started shakily. “I did not mean to make you wait.”
“At least you’re here now,” Beline said, clearly irritated. “Monsieur, this is my niece, Madame Leone.”
