Daughters of the King (Completed)

06 | A Good Wife

Celeste rushes through the entrance, skidding across the hardwood floor and seating herself beside Ami.

Her unkempt dress and appearance are too conspicuous to escape notice, and Madame Gauthier's eyes widen in shock, her thin lips parted in disgust.

"You are late." Madame Gauthier states, forming the sentence slowly.

"I was ill." Celeste justifies.

"You shall not be tardy again, or I will have to suspend your privilege of evening rations." Madame Gauthier warns.

Celeste grants a half-hearted shrug of her shoulders, crossing one leg over her knee. Madame Gauthier decides to further ignore the infraction and continues with her speech.

Following the lesson, I have to sprint to catch up with Celeste, who stumbles from the dining hall the moment a dinner of sea biscuits and dried, salted beef is concluded.

She was quiet during supper, and I worry she might be ill.

She strides up the stairway, almost knocking over a sailor, and then resumes her climb up to the ship deck.

Ami and I trail her as I perceive her slender silhouette, forgotten in the shadows. Another figure—a taller, more masculine one, falters in the dim moonlight and then ambles towards Celeste, who whirls around and greets him.

As we journey closer, I notice that Celeste and the man are speaking close to one another, Celeste looking up at the male figure.

What could she be doing speaking to a male deckhand unchaperoned?

"Bonjour, Celeste," Ami runs to greet them before I can stop her, "Oh! Who is with you?"

The man doesn't seem phased by our sudden approach, and leans down and kisses Ami's small hand in greeting. She giggles in excitement, charmed by his act.

When he turns to me, I shake my head in disapproval, rejecting the slight gesture of acknowledgement.

He is disconcertingly handsome, with dark hair, almost the same black shade as Celeste's, sparkling emerald green eyes, and lips pulled into a smirk.

His gaze is framed by a set of lashes any woman would envy, and his complexion is darkened by hours presumed to be spent above deck. His gold-trimmed blue uniform complements his muscular frame, setting him apart from the rest of the men on the vessel as a member of the French Navy.

He appears to be a little older than Celeste and me by the smile marks around his eyes and mouth. I guess his age to be twenty, though he grins like a clever boy.

"Jacques Deschamps." He says, grinning, "I believe we've met."

"I suppose we have informally, although it isn't reputable for a young male sailor to be mingling with the daughters," I consider, willing the statement to come across as a polite observation rather than a haughty remark.

He ignores my accusation and is rescued by Celeste.

"What are you two doing here, above deck?" Celeste coaxes, raising her gaze to the horizon.

I want to ask her the same question.

"We haven't seen you all day, and we were worried about you," I reply. "Perhaps we should return. It is not proper to be above deck, unaccompanied, with a man. Besides, evening prayers begin soon and we should not neglect the last of our daily chores."

My eyes rest on Jacques, his face turned in what I presume is embarrassment.

Celeste sighs. When she faces us and realizes that we will not leave without her, she acquiesces.