I was equal parts tempted and terrified to ask what else the woman had disclosed about me. Did they know about Adriane? About the animosity between Gabriel and me? Before I could ask, the same maid from before entered and announced supper.
The dining room was as sensibly elegant as the drawing room. Were the table of lesser quality, it would have sagged under the weight of all the food. Roasted duck, macaroni a la reine?*, custards, chicken pie, and more covered every available inch.
I could not recall the last time I had been seated at such a table. The mouthwatering scents overwhelmed my senses. It was nearly enough to distract from the pang of distress that arose when Celine released my hand to be seated across from me.
“Monsieur Hart, tell me about yourself. What of your family?” Madame Bosarge asked.
“My father was steward to the late Duke of Rosehill. My mother was a governess to the children. They passed before I left for France.”
“Oh, of course, so you know the family?”
“I did, yes.”
“And you were familiar with Celine’s late husband, Gabriel?”
“I was.”
Celine took a hearty sip of wine, shooting me a sympathetic glance over the rim of the glass.
“Was he an unrepentant rake in his youth? Or did that come with age?”
I choked slightly on a bite of pie before Celine rescued me from that line of questioning. “Marie… You know as well as anyone that Gabriel came out of the womb an unrepentant rake. Do not force William to disparage the deceased.”
“And yet you wed him…” Madame Bosarge pointed out.
“And yet I wed him. You wed an octogenarian so you could spend as little of your life with him as possible. I hardly think either of our choices are appropriate conversation for the table.”
“Very true, Celine. William, I understand you are unwed?” Madame Cadieux said, diffusing some of the tension.
“I have never been married, no.”
“Do you suppose it was a lack of opportunity or a lack of interest?” Madame Bosarge cut in again.
“Marie…” Celine warned.
“I was never given the opportunity to properly question the last, and look how that turned out,” Madame Bosarge countered.
“It’s quite all right, Celine.” I cut in. It was something of a shock that a family friend would so freely disparage Celine’s beloved late husband—and in company. “A bit of both, I believe, Madame. I formed an attachment when I was young. Unfortunately, it was not to be. And, well, I was in France forsome time. Then I spent a few years caring for an unwell family friend before finishing my schooling and setting up my practice.”
“This attachment, what happened?”
“Her family did not approve of my position.”
“And where is she now?” The woman fired questions, hardly allowing me breath, let alone a bite of my meal.
“She passed away several years ago.”
“Of w?—”
“I believe that is enough interrogation, Marie,” Madame Cadieux interrupted. The women shot each other looks that were indecipherable to my ignorant masculine brain.
Celine’s mother turned back to me. “What do you do to amuse yourself, monsieur?”
“My occupation does not leave me much time for relaxation, but when my situation allows for it, I read or fence. Occasionally I am invited to the country estates of clients, and I enjoy a good walk on a fine day.”
“Celine loves to fence. I know it is not an appropriate occupation for a lady, but I cannot see the harm in it,” her mother explained, a hint of pride in her tone.
“Oh, I know. She is quite good.”
