Page 20 of The Beautiful Ones

It was a small, forgotten room at the end of the east gallery that smelled of old ink, dried lavender, and beeswax. The rosewood pianoforte sat in the corner beneath the tall sash window, its dark wood dull with a thin layer of dust, its lid closed. It had been left behind by tutors who had long since given up on me.

I threw myself onto the narrow wooden bench, buried my face in my hands, and let my shoulders shake with silent, breathless sobs.

I hated my throat. I hated my tongue. I hated the weak, pathetic body that betrayed every brilliant, fiery thing I felt inside. Why had God given me a mind that understood beauty, poetry, and grief so clearly, only to lock the door and throw away the key?

In my anger, my elbow struck the small sheet-music cabinet beside the bench. The door swung open with a creak, knocking a loose leather folder onto the floorboards.

Single sheets of handwritten music scattered across the heart-pine floor.

I wiped my wet eyes with the back of my hand, drawing a ragged breath, and reached down to gather the loose pages before my mother could find them and scold me for clutter.

My fingers stopped over a page written in crisp, dark black ink.

At the top right corner, written in a strong, elegant, and slanted hand, was his name: Nathaniel Vale.

A heavy, aching wave of memory washed over me, carrying me back to an afternoon twelve months ago.

It had been July then, too. The afternoon heat had been just as suffocating, but the air in this little schoolroom had felt light, cool, and safe.

Nathaniel had sat right here on this wooden bench beside me. He had been dressed in his dark blue naval coat, the polished silver buttons gleaming in the slanted sunlight, smelling faintly of cedarwood, salt air, and clean linen. He was not a handsome man in the dramatic, romantic way storybooks described—his jaw was square, his skin sun-browned and weathered from his years at sea—but his eyes were dark, steady, and utterly kind.

I had been trying to tell him about a bird’s nest I had discovered hidden in the tangled vines of the glasshouse. It was a simple story, a foolish, childish story, but I had wanted so desperately to share it with him.

I had struggled for five agonizing minutes, trapped on the simple word swallow. My face had turned burning red, my hands had trembled in my lap, the silence between us growing longer, heavier, and more suffocating until I felt as though I would die of sheer shame.

In the middle of my struggle, my father had thrown open the schoolroom door.

“Étienne,” my father had barked impatiently, pulling a heavy pocket watch from his waistcoat. “The overseer is waiting at the lower barn. And for heaven’s sake, stop tormenting the girl, Commander. She clearly has nothing to say.”

My father had reached out, grabbing Nathaniel’s sleeve to pull him from the bench.

Nathaniel had not moved. He hadn't pulled away aggressively, nor had he looked away from me. He hadn't shifted uncomfortably, nor had he offered my father an embarrassed, conspiratorial male smile.

Instead, Nathaniel had placed one large, calm hand over the open sheet music on the piano, looking up at my father with quiet, unyielding authority.

“I believe Miss Lebon was speaking, Étienne,” Nathaniel had said softly. His voice held no anger, no impatience, and no condescending pity. Just an absolute, calm dignity that commanded the entire room. “And I should very much like to hear the end of her thought.”

My father had blinked, astonished by the naval officer’s quiet defiance, then turned on his heel and left the room with an annoyed huff, snapping the door shut behind him.

When the sound of my father's heavy boots faded down the hallway, Nathaniel turned back to me. He didn't offer a patronizing word of encouragement. He didn't tell me to take a deep breath, nor did he offer to finish the word for me. He simply sat there on the bench, his steady dark eyes fixed on mine, waiting.

He waited for a full, unbroken minute in absolute, peaceful silence.

And because he waited without judging me, the glass in my throat gave way. The word slipped out, whole, quiet, and unblemished.

“Swallow,” I had breathed.

Nathaniel had offered a tiny, gentle smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “A fine bird, Miss Cécile. Tell me where it built its nest.”

Sitting alone in the dusty schoolroom a year later, clutching his handwritten music to my chest, fresh tears spilled over my eyelashes and soaked into the heavy paper.

I had not loved Nathaniel with the feverish devotion described in novels. I had never lain awake imagining his kisses or written his name in the margins of my books. When our engagement was announced, I felt no lightning strike through me. I felt something quieter.

Relief.

My parents had spent years speaking of my future as though it were a damaged piece of furniture they might still persuade someone to purchase. Every young man invited to Le Champ des Fleurs had been made to sit beside me at dinner, escort me through the garden or suffer through one of Mother’s painfully arranged afternoons at the pianoforte. Some were kind until I tried to speak. Others became kinder afterward, which was worse.

Nathaniel treated me the same before and after he heard my stammer.