A Reckless Encounter

“But of course it is just yours,” Jacqueline said with a laugh when Celia asked if she was to share the chamber. “And you may have things arranged to suit you. Just tell Lily and she will have a footman come to move furniture about. A chambermaid will tend your fire for you—But where are your trunks? This one cannot be all you have. Are more waiting at the docks with your maid?”

A flush heated her face, but Celia lied smoothly. “My trunks were unfortunately lost, and the one is all I have left. A pity, for I had some beautiful gowns. Oh, and all my jewelry—But now that I am here I don’t feel the loss, for your welcome has been so warm I feel only joy at finally meeting you.”

That was true enough. Lady Leverton’s obvious welcome was much more than Celia had hoped for, and her open nature so warm that Celia felt as if she was closer to her mother just by being with this petite woman. It was also an unexpected complication. She must remain distant, or she would not be able to do what she must do.…

“And your maid?” her cousin inquired. “Tell me you did not travel without a maid!”

“I’m afraid that she grew ill and it was too late to find a proper lady’s maid.” Another lie…I’m becoming far too proficient at this!

“Oh, my dear, you traveled all this way alone? It is astounding that you were not accosted by some ruffian along the way. An unaccompanied lady is so at the mercy of rude men. But the loss of a maid is easily remedied. You are here now and shall have all that is necessary. Here. Sit beside me on the chaise while Lily puts away your things for you, and tell me of your plans.”

“Plans? I suppose I have none. I’ve just…just been so unhappy since Maman died.” There was no need for subterfuge now, for the tears still came when she spoke of her mother. “You’re all the family I know, all I have left. I hope—I hope I am welcome.”

“Of course, you poor child! How could you think you would not be? I am just sorry you waited so long to come to us! You are a St. Remy, as am I on my mother’s side. We are of the same blood. Odd, that Jarvis said St. Clair instead of Sinclair, but I knew at once who you were, of course. I recognized your father’s name.”

“Actually, I have begun using St. Clair instead of Sinclair,” Celia explained, having carefully rehearsed her intention for using a name that Northington may not easily recognize. “Maman changed it after Papa died, because she was afraid some of the English officers would attempt vengeance on us for Papa’s part in the war.” She paused, then said, “The Sinclair family lost everything in the war, and Papa was the only one left. Then he died in a skirmish with one of Napoleon’s ships. His ship was later sold, I heard, as were other seized United States ships. Maman said we must learn to adapt. So I have.”

“Léonie always was the practical one, even when we were children. You may now revert to your dear papa’s name, of course, for there is no danger to you here.”

“I’ve used St. Clair so long, it’s my name now. It is no insult to Papa, for the original usage was St. Clair, I’ve been told. Names do not matter so much in America.”

“So true…names there change to suit the bearer. Ah well. C’est la vie! We must learn to adapt to all things in time.” Jacqueline smiled. “Léonie and I learned that lesson quite early, you know. We changed our names a dozen times during the dark days, but always we knew who we were and our true heritage. That is what matters most.”

“When you speak of her, it’s as if Maman is alive for me again.”

“But of course, petite. Our childhoods were glorious. That was before the Terror, when life seemed so bright and promising and France was still so elegant. But the world changed for us, as it has for you. Now, tomorrow will be your first day here, and you will meet my daughter. My son is at Oxford, but Carolyn is more your age, a bit younger than you, but already betrothed. We shall see what we can do about your future!”

“No, please,” Celia said with a soft laugh. “I am far too content just being here with you to even consider such a thing.”

“So you say now,” Jacqueline said slyly. “But that will soon change. Here is Lily with your dressing gown. One of the footmen will bring up hot water for your bath, then you must rest while you can. You look so weary. Would you prefer having a light supper in your room?”

“I…I am rather tired. If it wouldn’t offend you—”

“Of course it won’t offend me. Just rest this evening. I intend to do all I can for you, just as Léonie would have done for my Caro.”

It was a bit overwhelming. Celia found herself whisked to an overheated room off her bedchamber where a huge brass tub was filled with scented water and thick cotton towels warmed before a cheery fire. A ladies’ maid waited patiently to assist her in undressing and bathing, but Celia shook her head.

“Please—Lily, is it? I’d rather do it myself.”

It was novel, this pampered existence, and she thought again of her mother, and how she had once lived in a lovely château in the French countryside, the pampered, petted daughter of aristocrats. Upheaval and tragedy had displaced her, but she’d finally found happiness, however briefly. Nothing lasted. Everything changed.

Hadn’t her own life changed so drastically? Yes, and now it was changed again. After years of watching from the other side while people moved in a privileged world, she was at last part of it. The years of scrimping and saving, planning for this, had come to pass. Could she do it? Could she fit into his world long enough to exact some kind of retribution against Northington? God knows, I’ve wanted it long enough, she thought fiercely.

And it wasn’t just for herself. It was for Maman and Old Peter. They deserved justice.

2

“Pistols at Chalk Farm? Hardly worth the trouble, I’d think.” Robert George Colter Hampton—Lord Northington—regarded Harvey with a cynical smile that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes.

“So I thought.” Sir John Harvey gave his companion a glance of hopeful appeal. “Unfortunately I’m not the marksman you are. ‘Pistols for two, breakfast for one’ will be my likely fate. Sir Skeffington’s liable to call me out about this little tart. Any chance you’ll be my second?”

“And take your place when you suddenly fall ill?” Leaning back in his chair, he stretched lazily. “You’ve played that game before. I have no desire to meet anyone at dawn unless it’s a buxom wench with light skirts and a willing smile.”

Harvey sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”

“No, you knew I’d refuse. I don’t interfere in other men’s quarrels.” Northington downed the last of his brandy to indicate his desire to leave the club.

Raggett, the proprietor of White’s, came to sweep ashes and crumbs from the top of the green baize table, obliging and efficient in the art of catering to his patrons—and always on the watch for a stray coin.

Northington stifled a yawn. It was late. Or early, depending upon the point of view. His interest had begun to wane several hours before, but it was bad form to bankrupt a man at cards and not give him at least a small chance to recoup.

The night had been profitable. Not only Harvey, but the young Wharton had lost several thousand pounds on the turn of the cards. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, and no doubt would one day ruin himself.

Wharton was another matter. He was young, with only a pale downy stubble on his jaw, a green youth at both cards and life. Christ. They seemed to get younger every year. Had he ever been this young? Yes, but not this foolish.

More brandy appeared at his elbow, amber fire in cut crystal. He regarded Wharton over the rim of the snifter.

“Are you done, sir?”

Wharton gave a start, pale cheeks flushed with an emotion Northington recognized as extreme distress.

“Done up is more like it, my lord.” He attempted a smile that wobbled on his mouth. “I’m under the hatches, I fear. Will you accept my vowels?”

Northington leaned forward, raked the counters toward him with a lazy swipe of one hand. “A man should never bet what he cannot pay, Wharton.”

Harvey, who had leaned his chair back on the two rear legs, sat forward with a loud thump.

“Sermons? From you? Good God, we must both be foxed!”

Northington spared him a glance. “I assume you speak for yourself. I always pay my debts.”

“Yes, and much more quickly since your grandfather’s death and your father’s newly acquired title—and since you became Viscount Northington,” Harvey replied with a wry twist of his mouth. “Now, if only my family would be so cooperative as to die off and leave me with a substantial fortune and a bloody title, I’d not worry about a few thousand pounds here and there, either.”

“No doubt.” Colter’s eyes flicked to young Wharton, studied his flushed face, the dissipation that had already begun to distort youthful features.

“I’m done up,” Wharton said again, and reached for the cards. He riffled them almost desperately. “You seem to have the devil’s own luck, my lord.”

“Yes. I do, don’t I?” Colter’s lazy smile altered to a sharper expression. Impatient now, he raked his fingers through his dark hair, then put out a hand for the deck of cards, sweat-stained from the long night’s play.

“One more round, Wharton. You cut.”

Wharton stared at him in disbelief. “I doubt I can pay all I owe you now! If I lose…if I lose, my life won’t be worth a shilling.”

“It’s hardly worth that now if you judge yourself by what you owe instead of how you pay.” It was said with a mocking twist of his mouth, but he saw that Wharton took his point.

After the barest hesitation, the young man placed the deck of cards in Colter’s palm. Shuffling in expert, easy movements, Colter let the soft whisper of paste-board flow fluidly from hand to hand as Wharton’s obvious uncertainty increased.

After a long moment of silence, Wharton made a hoarse sound. “Damn, but it hardly matters if I’m hung for a sheep or a lamb…deal another hand.”

“No. The high card takes all.” Colter’s long fingers arranged the deck in the middle of the green baize table. He tapped it lightly with one finger. “But if I win, your debt to me is satisfied once you give me your oath you’ll not play cards here again.”

“Not play—you jest!”

“I’ve never been more serious. Don’t look so stricken at my offer. I could always insist upon prompt payment.”

Wharton flushed. His jaw set, his mouth a slash that made him look suddenly older.

“Don’t gammon me, Northington.”

“Cut the cards or make arrangements with the bank to pay me what you owe, Wharton. It’s as simple as that.”

Indecision clouded his face briefly, but he gave a jerk of his head. “Very well. I’ll cut. High card takes all.”

A trembling hand reached out, separated the deck and turned it over. A four of spades gleamed in the pale light. Despair quivered on Wharton’s mouth, but he looked up to meet Colter’s gaze with a steady enough stare.

“It seems you have an excellent chance to win, my lord.”

“So it does. I’m used to winning. It’s a damn sight better than losing.”

Wharton paled even more, but his face was resolute as Colter deftly cut the remaining cards.

“Seven of hearts,” someone behind them breathed softly, and Colter was aware they had gathered a crowd. “Northington won, by God!”

“So I did.” Colter stood up, pushed his chair back and lifted a brow. “Your debt is satisfied, but you must heed your oath, Wharton. If I ever see or hear of you being here again I shall assume that means you have the means to repay your debt to me, and I shall take steps to collect it.”

The youth looked shocked, shaken, but managed to lurch to his feet. “I say! I…I say!”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am through playing for the evening.”

Harvey rose as well and shot Colter a jaundiced glance as he accompanied him to the front of the establishment. “Well, Northington, I’ve never known you to cheat at cards before.”

Colter shrugged into his coat, flicked lint from the sleeve and looked up at his companion. “Men have been called out for less inflammatory words, Harvey.”

“Yes, and I’m well aware you’re a dead shot. But I am also a fair hand at cards, and not drunk enough to miss you palm that seven. Why?”

“Why let him cry off? Or why cheat?”

“Both. Either. Wharton’s old enough to learn better. He doesn’t need a wet nurse.”

“No, he doesn’t, but a bit of guidance won’t hurt him. One chance is more than enough for some.”

“I’ve never known you to be so philanthropic. What in the devil did you drink tonight?”

“A cup too many, it seems. Or maybe I just dislike ruining green boys. Wharton has no business here.”

“It could be said that none of us do,” Harvey said dryly.

“Yes, it could.” Colter blinked against the cold sunlight that struck him as they stepped outside. It was much later than he’d thought. Tradesmen had already made early deliveries and traffic along St. James Street was heavy. A beer cart narrowly missed splashing mud on them as it lumbered past.

“It will be all over London by nightfall that you evicted Wharton from White’s, you know.” Harvey kept pace, though a bit wobbly. “Bad form, Northington. You should have just ruined him.”

“That would be far too easy. I enjoy a challenge.”

Puddles of water still stood along the paving stones from the recent rains. A fetid odor lingered in the air. He stepped over a brackish pool and left Harvey trailing behind him as he crossed St. James and turned the corner.

His mind was already on the beguiling prospect of a hot meal and warm bed when Harvey grabbed his arm to pull him to a halt.

“Damn, but that’s a prime article! Who is she? Do you know her? I’m sure I know her companion—”

Colter shook loose his hand, impatient and weary, and certainly in no mood to make polite conversation with any female of Harvey’s acquaintance. They were usually brainless society belles or women of loose character and looser morals. Not that he had any particular objection to the latter, but Harvey was too damned enthusiastic.

“Leverton. That’s her name! Married to Jules Leverton, Lord Sharpton’s youngest son and a financial genius. But who is that luscious bit with her?”

“Satisfy your curiosity alone or at some other time.” Colter hailed a hack, and it rumbled to a halt at the curb. As the door swung open, he put a foot on the narrow rung to step up and glanced down at his companion. “Do you wish a ride to your lodgings?”

“No.” Sir John’s attention was trained on the approaching women. “I think it may be time I renewed my acquaintance with Lady Leverton.”

Colter followed Harvey’s intent gaze. His brow rose. Jacqueline Leverton was a lovely woman who had kept her beauty through the years. The young lady at her side had her head bent, her hat shadowing her face, but it was her form that drew attention. She was lovely, though not so unusual as to warrant such rapt admiration, in his opinion.

“Harvey, you’ve always been an easy mark when it comes to women. Have a go at her. Spare me all the details when next I see you. Curzon Street, driver. And take the shortest route, not the most profitable.”

The driver slammed the hack door closed, and Harvey stepped away from the vehicle, his attention already returned to the women down the street.

“A prime article, don’t you think?” Harvey said again, and grinned up at Colter. “An introduction can’t hurt.”

“As so many fools before you have also said, to their collective destruction. Keep your head.” Colter waved a dismissive hand as the hack lurched forward, then leaned back against the worn squabs that held strong hints of previous occupants. He was getting too old for this. Long nights were the mark of a jaded man. At thirty-one, he knew better.

Harvey was incorrigible; he could see him out the window as the hack drew closer, its progress obstructed by a draft wagon blocking the road. Propping a boot against the far seat, Colter watched idly as Harvey approached the two women accompanied by their maid. They paused to speak to him, crisp morning light at last revealing their faces.

He frowned, struck by a sudden memory. Lady Leverton’s companion was the woman from the ship—the Liberty. He’d seen her staring at him, and then he’d seen her talking to James Carlisle. So, she was acquainted with Leverton, was she? A curious coincidence. But he wasn’t a man who believed much in coincidences and this one seemed far too unlikely.

Yet she was a striking woman, with pale hair beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet and elegant bone structure. Tall and slender, she moved with languid grace as she turned to regard Harvey with polite attention.

Colter watched closely. She’d kept dangerous company for a woman new to London. Carlisle was not an innocuous acquaintance. How well did she know him? It was a question that begged an answer. She’d come from America, and he’d noticed her aboard ship. How could he not? While he’d kept a close eye on Carlisle, the woman had seemed to keep an eye on him in return.

Now she was staying in Jules Leverton’s home, a man known to be a fervent Tory, a contradiction at best if she was acquainted with Carlisle. Perhaps there was much more to what had appeared to be a casual shipboard acquaintance than he’d first thought. This situation required a closer investigation.

Like Harvey, he wanted to know more about her—but not for the same reasons.

3

Celia eyed Sir John with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. He was handsome enough, she supposed, with fair hair and a rakish charm, but he reeked of cigar smoke and brandy. She had no intention of allowing herself to be even slightly involved with him despite his boyish appeal.

A gentle pressure of her fingers on Jacqueline’s arm was a broad hint that she wished to move on, and her cousin took the cue at once, ending the conversation.

“It is so very pleasant to see you again, sir. Do leave your calling card. As I wished to show my cousin London, we made an appointment at the dressmaker’s instead of having her to the house as usual. I insist upon being punctual.”

Harvey said hastily, “Yes, yes, of course, Lady Leverton, but I do wish to say again how fortuitous this meeting is for me. I am planning a soirée, you see, and need expert advice. Your affairs are legend for being the most popular, and if it is not too bold, I thought perhaps you would be so kind as to make suggestions.…”

He let his sentence trail hopefully, and Celia hid a smile. This Sir John was much too obvious. He’d not taken his gaze from her since hailing them, and now his hazel eyes were intent as he regarded her.

“How flattering, Sir John,” Jacqueline said. “Of course, I will be most pleased to lend my aid. When do you plan your affair?”

“When? Oh, I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Shall I come round tomorrow morning, perhaps, and we can discuss details? I am certain Miss St. Clair will have some superb suggestions as well.”

“You are a brash, forward young man, aren’t you?” Jacqueline’s voice held a hint of reproof that finally penetrated Harvey’s intensity, and he gave her a startled glance, then a disarming smile and impudent honesty.

“Not always. Only when I see a beautiful young woman I wish to know.”

“I see.” Jacqueline lifted a disapproving brow. “And you hope to make a good impression, I presume.”

“It had occurred to me.”

“Then you will be most dismayed to learn that you have not, sir. My petite cousine is not impressed with men who behave boorishly.”

Jacqueline took Celia’s arm and led her around him, turning back only when Harvey said lamely, “I would still like to leave my card tomorrow.”

“Only if your manners improve, sir.”

As they left him standing staring after them, Celia said faintly, “Oh my! That was rather ruthless of you.”

“Do you think so? But Harvey will not overstep his boundaries now, and word will be out that no liberties are to be taken with you. Believe me, it is a much better lesson than one could hope for, and to have Harvey at our beck and call could be beneficial. Too bad Northington did not join us.”

“Northington?” Celia’s hand shook slightly, and she curled her fingers more tightly around the strings of her small reticule. A chill wind smelled of the streets, rife with debris. She put a hand to her nose as if to ward off the stench while Jacqueline continued blithely.

“Yes, I saw him get into a hired hack, but he moved on. A pity. It would have been delightful to introduce you to him.”

A feeling of nausea swept over Celia, and her fingers were clumsy as she fumbled in her reticule for a linen scarf to press to her nose. Northington! He’d been that close and she hadn’t even known it.…

“Harvey is an intimate of Lord Northington, who is far too elusive, I fear,” Jacqueline was saying, oblivious to Celia’s reaction.

She cleared her throat. “Why is this Northington so elusive?”

“Probably because he’s weary of being pursued by so many marriageable women.” Jacqueline laughed softly. “His reputation leans toward rakish, but if a hostess manages to get him to attend an affair, success is assured. He is quite sought after—an unmarried viscount usually is these days. You’d be amazed at the lengths some hostesses go to in order to secure his presence at a ball or soirée. But a man who is heir to an earldom can take his time to wed, it seems.”

Celia sidestepped a clod of debris on the walkway, her tone calm. “So he will be an earl one day.”

“Yes, and perhaps sooner than one would think, as his father has been an invalid for several years now…a most unpleasant man—Do be careful ma petite, and beware of where you step. What was I saying? Oh, yes, Northington is very closely acquainted with Harvey. They seem to attend many of the same functions.”

“Is he?” She cleared her throat. “And you aspire to have Northington in attendance?”

“It would be a social coup. But never fear. I have already taken steps to ensure his attendance. Ah, here we are. Madame Dupre is most strict about punctuality. She’s much sought after as a seamstress and will be able to fashion you some flattering gowns. Oh, this is going to be so amusing, Celia! I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. I needed a new venture to occupy my time now that Carolyn’s future is assured.”

Celia smiled, and during the next two hours endured the prodding and poking of the seamstress as she measured her for new gowns, exclaiming over her unusual height and slender proportions.

“But you are so tall, mademoiselle! And such long legs. Rarely have I seen a woman with your proportions. It is a pleasure to fit you for gowns. So many of these English misses have figures like boards, so petite and with no female curves. Made like boys, they are, But you! Ah, you are magnificent!”

Feeling awkward, Celia managed an appropriate murmur in reply, and caught Jacqueline’s amused gaze on her.

“She is not accustomed to such praise, Madame Dupre,” Jacqueline said briskly. “But it is good for her to hear it. She must realize her worth.”

Celia’s chin came up. “I know my worth,” she said quietly.

Jacqueline laughed. “Yes, I believe you do. Very good! No unnecessary modesty, I’m pleased to see. But she is correct, you know, Celia. You are most unusual. I predict you will be a success.”

“Are you certain you wish to do this? I had not thought it important.” Celia frowned slightly. “It seems a great deal of trouble just to introduce me to your friends.”

“Ah, but it is not just to introduce you to my friends, my dear. We intend to snare you a wealthy husband, just as my own Caro has done. Of course, her marriage was arranged years ago, but before she settles into married life, I wish her to enjoy herself. But you—you have so much promise! Already there is interest. You saw your effect on Sir John, did you not? He was absolutely tripping over his own feet to talk to you. And as I said, he has extensive connections of the right sort. In London, it is imperative to be well connected.” She paused, glanced at Madame Dupre and said a bit wistfully, “In France, it was much the same. But we did not worry about appearances so much as they do here, for we were all secure in our proper places. And, of course, we all knew we were lovely and well dressed!”

Madame Dupre joined her in soft laughter, and Celia let her mind wander. If Sir John was close companions with Lord Northington, she fully intended to expand upon their brief acquaintance. Through Harvey, she could learn much about her quarry. And quarry he was, though Northington may not know it. Would he remember her? Would he even recognize the woman in the girl he had once known? Did he ever think about Léonie Sinclair, or had she been only one more woman he’d used and cast aside as unimportant.

Anger burned deeply, a low, smoldering blaze that never eased, never altered, and she thought of how delicious it would be to ruin Northington. He would pay, in whatever way she could manage, for Old Peter’s death as well as her mother’s. Everyone in London would know what he had done. If she could, she would see him hanged for murder. But that was unlikely. Vengeance would have to be tempered with practicality.

“Child,” Madame Dupre said with a puzzled look on her face, “you are so stiff, like a board! Please, you must not worry that I will stick you with a pin. I’ve not wounded many of my clients.”

Celia managed a laugh. “Forgive me, madame. I was thinking of something else. A sudden memory.”

“It must be something dreadful, to make you so stiff.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Poor child,” Jacqueline said. “You have suffered so much sorrow.”

“Not so very much,” Celia said. “Not as much as many others have suffered.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Jacqueline lapsed into a sorrowful silence that was shared by Madame Dupre, another French emigré who had fled Paris during the terrible revolution.

So many, Celia had learned during her short time here, had survived horrors. It was no wonder her mother had shied away from discussing those dark days, but spoke instead of the happier times—her love for her husband and their meeting in London.

“But come,” Madame Dupre said briskly after a moment, “we must not dwell on those things. They are past now, and we must think only of the coming Season. It will be most exciting this year, I believe, as the Prince of Wales has already begun making preparations for a grand fête.…”

As the two women chattered in French about the coming galas, Celia lifted her arms obediently as she was measured and turned this way and that, while the talk turned to silk versus satin for evening, and of course, how low should the décolletage be this year without inviting scandal.

“But I think, with her height, that she should wear the newest fashion,” Madame Dupre announced. “Waists are dropping, but necklines are still low enough to tempt the eye without being too risqué. A pointed bodice perhaps. Off the shoulders, of course, with long gloves to the elbow. No oversleeves are necessary, for she has such lovely slender arms. For this ball, tulle over white satin, do you not think? Four rouleaux?”

“No,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “I think perhaps flounces edged with a rollio, and the underskirt with a rouleau…definitely white for her first ball, though not that glaring white against her pale skin. And a sash of celestial blue would be so lovely…a complement to Caro’s gown as well. What a striking pair they will be!”

Jacqueline’s daughter had already been fitted for her gowns, and she had declined to accompany them for Celia’s fittings. Though not antagonistic, Carolyn was very reserved in her welcome, and there had been a certain restraint between them at first.

It had been Carolyn who dictated the rudiments of proper address, the tangle of titles so confusing that Celia made her laugh with her errors.

“No, no,” Caro had said when she mistakenly referred to a duke as Sir Charles. “Dukes are always your grace, or the duke of Marlborough, never Sir. His son would be called my lord, as would a viscount, marquess or earl. And never call anyone Lord John unless he is a younger son of a duke or marquess. It’s simple, really, if you can remember that the only nobles are princes and dukes. Everyone else, even earls, are commoners. All male peers except dukes are called Lord whatever their title name is, do you see?”

“No,” Celia said frankly, and Carolyn had laughed, easing some of the first tension between them.

“We shall continue our lessons until you know it all very well,” Caro had assured her, and the past week had been devoted to lessons in protocol as well as titles.

Oh, it was all so much to learn, and nothing could have properly prepared her for the vast differences. Soon it would all be put to the test.

After her first resistance, Celia was now glad she had yielded to the inevitable. It would give her access to Northington.

“And it is, after all, only the small Season, so you need not feel overwhelmed,” Jacqueline had said gaily. “It is quite entertaining with everyone arriving back in London after the summer heat.”

So it would be endured to achieve her goal. After that, obscurity, no doubt, and a return to America where her services would always be in demand as a French tutor. As long as she allowed no scandal to follow her…

The fickle vagaries of human nature allowed a man like Northington to ignore murder yet condemned a woman who was innocent of all crime. The memory of Maman’s shame would haunt Celia for the rest of her life.

A pregnant widow of two years was not allowed in decent homes, regardless of the circumstances. At times Celia thought bitterly that what had really killed Maman was the humiliation she had suffered.