Echoes Page 0,11
eyes was that he had to be of the same faith. Anything other than that was out of the question. And clearly the young nobleman who had invited them to lunch was in that realm. He was obviously Christian, and more than likely Catholic, with a name like Antoine de Vallerand. At least he was Swiss, and not French. Monika had developed a powerful hatred for the French in the last year, ever since war had been declared. The French were out there in the trenches trying to kill her sons.
Beata did not argue with her mother further, in fact she said not a word as she and Brigitte dressed for dinner.
“So what really happened with that man today?” Brigitte asked, looking mischievous, in peach satin underwear trimmed in cream lace, which her mother had bought her that day. Monika had found it a bit racy, but there was no harm in indulging her. No one was going to see it except her sister and her mother anyway. “Did he kiss you?”
“Are you insane?” Beata said, looking angry and upset. “What do you think I am? Besides, he's a gentleman. He actually caught my arm and kept me from falling when he nearly knocked me down.”
“That's how you met?” Brigitte looked enchanted at the idea. “How romantic! Why didn't you tell Mama that? She might have been grateful that he kept you from falling and getting hurt.”
“I don't think so,” Beata said quietly. She knew her mother better, and gauged her better than Brigitte, who was still given to childish tantrums and making scenes, which wasn't Beata's style, to say the least. “I thought it sounded more respectable to say we met over tea.”
“Maybe. Did you fall in the dirt? That would have been embarrassing,” Brigitte said, as she slipped on a white linen dress and combed out her long golden curls, as Beata looked at her with envy. Brigitte was so beautiful she almost looked angelic. Beata always felt like a mouse next to her, and hated her dark hair. She didn't resent Brigitte for it, she just wished she could look more like her. And her figure was far more voluptuous than Beata's. Next to her younger sister, she looked like a little girl. And Brigitte seemed far wiser in the ways of men. She talked to them far more often than Beata did, and loved teasing them and driving them insane. Beata was far more comfortable and at ease in the company of women. Brigitte was fearlessly flirtatious, and painfully adept at torturing men.
“I didn't fall in the dirt,” Beata explained. “I told you, he kept me from falling down.”
“That was nice of him. What else did he do?”
“Nothing. We just talked,” Beata said, as she put on a red silk dress, which set off the sharp contrast of her hair and complexion. Beata looked glum. She was going to have to tell Antoine that she couldn't see him when he called. She knew with total certainty that there was no way she could talk her mother into lunch as a group, and surely not alone.
“What did you talk about?”
“Philosophy, the Bible, his land, going to university, nothing important. He's very nice.”
“Oh my God, Beata,” Brigitte looked at her with unbridled seventeen-year-old excitement, “are you in love?”
“Of course not. I don't even know him. He was just nice to talk to.”
“You shouldn't talk to men about things like that. They don't like it. They'll think you're strange,” she warned her older sister with the best of intentions, which only depressed Beata more.
“I guess I am strange. I'm not interested in …” She struggled to find the right words, so as not to offend Brigitte. “I'm not interested in ‘lighter’ things. I like serious subjects, like the ancient Greeks.”
“I wish you'd talk about something else. Like parties and fashion and jewels. That's what men want to hear. Otherwise, they'll think you're smarter than they are, and you'll scare them off.” Brigitte was wise for her years, based on instinct if not experience.
“I probably will.” She wasn't even sure she cared. Most of the young men she met at parties seemed ridiculous to her.
Beata adored her brother, but she would rather have died than marry a man like Horst. She could have tolerated a man like Ulm, but the prospect of marriage to anyone in her world didn't appeal to her much, or at all. They all seemed dreary and boring and more often than not foolish and superficial