The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,9

for her name there, to ensure all words written about her were always laced with adulation. Valérie Beaulieu née Véries. This is how she demanded they refer to her within the pages of the dailies, proud of her status as a Beautiful One. Old nobility, true gentility. This is what she was.

Antonina, on the other hand, could hardly be called a lady.

What to write, then? That after three weeks in Loisail, Antonina had not memorized the names, ranks, and particularities of the most important men and women of the city? That despite Valérie’s best attempts, Antonina remained friendless? That she had done her utmost to antagonize Didier Dompierre and the other suitable young men Valérie had introduced to her?

No, Valérie wrote none of that. She clenched her teeth and replied with a brief, polite letter. Antonina was adapting to her new home. Now that the Grand Season had begun, there would be a chance for her to make new acquaintances and there would be the usual diversions that came with it: the opera, the races, the balls.

Afterward, Valérie tackled the rest of her pressing letters, and it was well after noon when she left the office. Antonina had returned by then. Valérie, carrying her thick address book between her hands, paused to look at Antonina, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs, absorbed in an idle thought. This was often the case with her. It was up to Valérie to organize advisable entertainment for the girl, to get her invited to the best parties, to choose the correct soirées, and grind through the name of every eligible bachelor she could think of. Antonina did nothing.

“We are expected at Ledaux’s at two. You do remember, don’t you?” she asked, perhaps more acidly than she intended, but then Valérie still had to come up with the name of a young man who would escort Nina to the races in two weeks. She had been counting on one of the Hamel boys to submit to that pleasure, but she’d heard from a good source that the two blasted young men were chasing after Jeannette Solé.

“I do. Yes,” Antonina said, jumping to her feet and smoothing her dress. It was a dark blue, one of the stiff outfits Valérie had picked. If Nina had had her way, she might be walking around the city in a hideous calico print more fit to be made into a sack and filled with flour than to be worn by any woman.

“Good. Did you have a nice walk?” Valérie asked.

“It was lovely. I ran into someone, in fact.”

“Oh?” Valérie said as she opened the address book, suddenly remembering that Esno had a son who was supposed to be visiting in the spring. Or was it a nephew? She must inquire about this, and quickly. “And who was that?”

“A gentleman I met at the ball thrown by the De Villiers. I’ve invited him to visit Tuesday evening. I hope that is not a problem.”

“Antonina, you should not extend invitations without my approval,” she said.

“But you told me I ought to make friends,” the girl protested.

The right friends, not any friend, Valérie thought. Who knew whom this child had been speaking with. “That is not the same as having a caller. Has he sent his card?”

“No, but I don’t think that should be an impediment. He’s nice and he—”

“Really, Antonina. Inviting a stranger to our home who hasn’t had the decency to introduce himself properly.”

“I’ve asked you before to call me Nina. Nobody calls me Antonina,” the girl muttered in that impertinent tone that irritated Valérie.

“Nina is not a name,” Valérie replied. “Attempting to shorten your name is a horrid habit, one you should outgrow.”

“I don’t like being called Antonina.”

“It is not a matter of what you like. As for this ‘gentleman,’ he has not sent a card and you should not have invited him,” Valérie said. She started walking and hoped Antonina would leave it at that.

Instead, the girl followed her like a yappy dog. “My mother never demanded silly pieces of paper when people made visits, and the children of the Delafois would often appear unannounced to play with us.”

“You are hardly a child to be playing at anything,” Valérie said. She was truly exasperated now and wished nothing more than to hit the girl with the address book, knocking her senseless. “Who is this fellow, again?” she asked.

“His name is Hector Auvray.”

Valérie had been ready to pounce on the chit, but when the name slipped