Free Bond of Fire by Diane Whiteside Page B

lingered in the dining room so long the candles weren’t even lit.
    “Raoul is the best of men, and you loved him before the Revolution. You read how bravely he fought at Valmy and all you hate is his politics.” Celeste threw her napkin onto the table, tears standing in her eyes. “Please let me marry him. If you do, I will leave this house, and you will never hear from me again.”
    Maman ’s breath hissed in, and her eyes met Hélène’s across the table. Hélène suspected hers were as wide and appalled as her mother’s were. But could Papa truly keep clever, stubborn Celeste here if she didn’t wish to stay?
    In these terrifying times, nobody traveled anywhere unless forced by necessity. Hélène had moved back to Sainte-Pazanne under the pretext of caring for her mother, after her nephew by marriage had tried to rob her of her widow’s portion at gunpoint. She’d talked her way past him, but she’d practiced ever since then with guns and black powder.
    “No.” Papa’s voice was completely cold, that of a patriarch whose family had dictated the law for more than six centuries. “You are my youngest daughter, and I will not abdicate my responsibilities toward you. When de Beynac comes to his senses and agrees to serve the King, I will gladly give you to him. Until then, I will protect you as best as I know how.”
    “But…”
    A single eyebrow lifted, quelling even Celeste. She inclined her head after a long moment, tears running down her cheeks. Sobs shook her chest, another and another, ripping into her throat, until finally she hid her face in her napkin.
    “Petite,” coaxed Maman , putting her hand over her youngest daughter’s.
    The weak winter sunlight was fading faster and faster now, disappearing from the room’s windows. A great candelabrum stood ready on the table to light their repast, its candles high above their heads to avoid dazzling their eyes, as did several of its smaller mates on the side tables.
    Celeste shoved everything away, including her mother’s touch and her plate. She buried her face in her arms and wailed.
    Maman shot a glance at her husband, clearly torn between her duty to support his definition of honor and her need to comfort her daughter.
    Papa harrumphed, but his fork hung in midair, lacking the single-minded force he’d displayed earlier. He nodded to his wife, and they silently left the room, their usual practice for dealing with Celeste’s hysterics over things which would not be changed.
    Hélène hurried around the table to her sister, wishing yet again the four of them were united as a whole as they’d been for so long. The three women singing in harmony, while Papa played his violin. Or cheering on Papa’s latest racehorse. Or fussing over Celeste’s newest dress…
    “Celeste,” she cooed and rubbed her sister’s shoulder.
    La petite continued sobbing, but at least she didn’t shrug away from the contact.
    “All will be well, sweetheart. They have your best interests at heart,” Hélène tried to reassure her. Logic had never worked well with her sister, but it always was worth a try.
    “Nobody has ever loved anyone the way Raoul and I love each other.” Celeste’s voice was so choked with tears as to be almost indistinguishable. “I don’t know why he begrudges me such a love.”
    “Perhaps he believes you already have the love.” Hélène leapt on the opportunity to divert her sister. “But marriage is a different matter. He is generous enough not to have forced you to break the betrothal with de Beynac, after all.”
    “But how can I wait, knowing he could be killed any day?” Her voice broke.
    “There are other men…”
    “Haven’t you ever known one man is special?” Her tear-filled eyes met Hélène’s. “So unique that everyone else is completely invisible next to him? So perfect that only he, and he alone, will do for you?”
    Hélène hesitated, thinking of Jean-Marie St. Just. Remembering the months of laughter and