Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
*****
Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Céleste's body begged to stay awake as she slipped under her warmed covers. Every fiber of her mind was desperate to steer clear of the dream world she feared.
Her soft sheets soothed her bruises—internal and external—as she settled against her mattress. She clutched the royal invitation in her hand, trying not to formulate millions of theories to figure out what the King and Queen would announce.
With a grunt, she realized she forgot to extinguish the candles on her vanity and those in the sconces near her door. Though she dreaded the darkness, she'd never sleep if she left them to flicker away into midnight.
She slid a leg out from under her covers, but the adjoining door to Marguerite's room creaked open, freezing her in her motion.
In one swift movement, she tugged the leg back in and squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to speak with Marguerite. She was still bitter at what she'd found out, and her disappointment was too raw.
Her heart thundered in her rib-cage, and she did all she could to steady her breaths. Stilling herself, she gritted her teeth; the door opened wider, and her hand twitched at the sound of Marguerite's footsteps.
"An announcement! What could they announce? Oh, we acted like we were so mad at the rumors, but in truth we are joyful and in love!" Céleste heard her snort. "Did you get it? The invitation?"
Her tone was trembling, tearing through Céleste's peaceful silence.
"Céleste?"
It took heaps of Céleste's willpower to not cringe at Marguerite's voice, to pretend to be asleep, and not petrified at the fact that her former Director was a mistress. A scheming, sneaky snake of a mistress.
A lump formed in Céleste's throat and she wished she could gulp it down without rousing suspicion.
The footsteps approached, cautious, light-weight. "Céleste?"
The woman's coffee breath splashed over Céleste's cheeks as she leaned closer. Her hands pressed into the mattress, and Céleste bit her tongue to not shove her off, to not scream at her to leave her alone.
Did Marguerite see her heart banging out of her chest, thrashing about, trying to rip through her rib-cage?
Marguerite's steady breaths grew weaker, signifying she'd moved away.
She let out a muffled sigh. "I am sorry." The rustle of her skirts faded as she headed in the opposite direction, and Céleste listened to her blowing out the candles she'd forgotten to douse. "You must be exhausted from your lessons," Marguerite whispered, her tone carrying from the adjoining door. "Sweet dreams."
The door closed, and Céleste waited one, two, three seconds before opening her eyes.
Only the flames in the hearth provided light, crackling and popping as she threw her covers off. She sneered, then glared at the note she'd scrunched in her palm.
"Of course I got the damned letter," she muttered, chewing her words as if they were made of soggy leather. "Of course I know about the damned announcement."
She balled the invitation and launched it across the room, hearing it bounce against the door and fall to the floor. Sitting up, she grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pulled, digging her teeth into her lower lip to hold in a yelp.
Her reaction to the impromptu festivities hadn't been much different from Marguerite's. It didn't make sense; everyone claimed Adelaide was riddled with sorrow, torn into pieces. And Céleste had caught the troops of ladies and healers hastening to her rooms earlier. So why would she throw a dinner party with the husband who'd betrayed her?
A part of Céleste wondered if, in some twist of events, the feast was a ruse. A way to draw out the mistress, or if they all knew who she was already, and this would be their night to shame her. Would they dare out Marguerite like that? Would Antoine allow it?
Whatever consequences Marguerite's actions caused were no longer her concern. Her bitterness towards the woman hadn't subsided in the hours she'd had alone to ruminate over it all. She'd cried, yelled, knocked face products and ink and paperwork all over her room and kicked at her furniture. She'd scribbled notes of disappointment and others of fury that she decided she'd never show Marguerite, and sent them into the fire, watching them burn with an eerie pleasure.
Hurling objects around had helped Céleste feel a little better, but it hadn't changed her mind. It didn't explain why Marguerite hadn't trusted her, hadn't let her in on her sordid, stupid plan to sleep with Antoine. Céleste wouldn't have tolerated such idiocy and would have reprimanded her, asked her what on earth was wrong with her, but were they not friends?
Perhaps there was a reason for the secrecy. Perhaps she hadn't shared Antoine's bed for real, and it was only some sort of scam to throw Cornelius off her trail, to send him packing back to Giroma. She could have been sworn to secrecy, promising to not divulge anything to anyone.
But Céleste wasn't anyone; she was Marguerite's closest ally, biggest admirer, and, at one point, her most fervent defender.
She'd wept so much her eyes itched, dry as sandpaper as she tried to close them, to erase the pictures of herself scolding Marguerite. Condoning her disgusting acts, her cruelty towards the Queen—no matter how she may deserve it—and her ungodly behavior. This was not the Duchess Céleste looked up to, not the Director who'd brought her to Torrinni court to learn from the best.
Scrunching her nose, she flipped to her side, facing the fire. Pulling a pillow to her torso, she pressed her nose into the fabric and inhaled the delicate, freshly laundered scent, praying it would ease her mood.
She hoped to pardon Marguerite's transgression, move past it, resume their friendship while ignoring this blip. Many young and easily influenced ladies frolicked about with men, kissed them in dark corners, let them fondle beneath their skirts and gawk at their ankles. But an unwed Duchess lying in the nude beside a married monarch who was once her fiancé? Unthinkable. Impossible. Immoral.
Had Marguerite not preached for her students to never give away their virtue before marriage? Had she not overseen educators who gave them lessons about women who'd soiled themselves and remained without prospects forever? Céleste had seen it in her books, too; spinsters, they were called. Women who had no care for their reputation, and ended up on their own and disgraced. Was that what Marguerite wanted to become?
She'd avoided Marguerite tonight; but she wouldn't manage to feign slumber during the day. And she wasn't anywhere near prepared to face her, to pretend to accept what she'd done, or to not know about it.
She hugged the cushion tighter, its comforting caress relaxing her, calming her. Her agitation prevented her from sleeping, but continuing to dwell on things would only worsen her predicament.
I need not add to Marguerite's embarrassment.
The orange and yellow glow from the fireplace captivated her as she imagined the Duchess' figure in them. Her apologies, her excuses—Céleste wasn't sure she wanted to hear them. So she'd keep away from the woman for as long as possible; at least until the dinner, where she'd have no choice but to see her. Keeping her composure then, in front of all, would take all her energy.
Princesses didn't throw tantrums, and she'd have to understand how to mask her anger like a proper noblewoman would.
She shoved her negativity to the back of her mind, lidded her eyes, and drifted off into a restless sleep.
