Stepsister(78)

“She probably needs to collect herself. Shed a tear of joy or two in private,” Tantine said knowingly. “Brides-to-be are such emotional creatures.”

Isabelle wrenched the door open, ran outside, and vomited her breakfast into the grass.





Eighty-Six


“A week,” Isabelle said hollowly, leaning against the barn wall. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tavi said. She was sitting on the same bench as Isabelle. “There has to be a way out of this.”

Hugo, who had regained consciousness, was sitting between them, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, groaning.

Breakfast was over. The dishes had been cleared away. Maman, inconsolable that Isabelle was marrying a farm boy, not an aristocrat, had taken to the hayloft. Madame was tending a sick hen. Tantine had retired to her room. Isabelle, Tavi, and Hugo were busy veering between panic and despair.

“There’s no way out,” Isabelle said miserably. “Either I go through with it or we starve to death.”

Hugo picked up his head. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. Why did you two ever have to come here? Why?” He groaned again.

“Stop it. You sound like a calf with colic,” Tavi said irritably.

“You could at least show some sympathy. I’m in a terrible spot,” Hugo huffed. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

Tavi’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, happen this way?” she asked.

Hugo looked alarmed. And guilty. “Nothing,” he quickly said.

But Tavi didn’t buy it. “You know something about this. Tell us.”

Hugo looked trapped. “I—I told Tantine that you had to go. I asked her to matchmake. To find a husband for you, Tavi,” he admitted. “I thought if you got married, you’d leave and take Isabelle and your mother with you. I wanted you to leave because I can’t stand you, but also because I thought I might have a better chance of convincing my mother to let me marry Odette if you were gone. She’d be more agreeable if there were fewer mouths to feed.” Hugo glanced from Tavi to Isabelle. “That’s, um … that’s what I thought.”

“So this is your fault!” Isabelle said angrily. “You were going to ruin Tavi’s life, but you ruined mine instead!”

Tavi rubbed her temples. “Do us a favor, Hugo, don’t think any more. Just don’t,” she said.

“I won’t,” Hugo said fervently. “I promise. Just get me out of this mess, Tavi. Please. I can’t marry Isabelle. I want Odette. I can’t stop dreaming about her. I have that feeling.”

“What feeling is that?” Tavi asked.

“The feeling that you want to own someone body and soul, spirit them away from everyone else, have them all to yourself forever and ever and ever,” Hugo said dreamily. “It’s called love.”

“No, it’s called kidnapping,” said Tavi.

A pit of hopelessness opened in Isabelle’s chest as she listened to Hugo. She lowered her head into her hands.

Tavi saw her. “I’ll do it, Isabelle,” she said impetuously. “I’ll marry him.”

“Oh, Tav,” Isabelle said, leaning her head on her sister’s shoulder.

“I’d do it. I would. I’d sacrifice myself for you,” Tavi bravely offered.

Hugo turned to look at her, offended. “Sacrifice?” he said.

Isabelle was deeply touched. She knew her serious, sober sister didn’t talk just for the sake of talking. If she said something, she meant it. “You would do it, wouldn’t you? You’d take on a fate worse than death for me.”

“Worse than death?” said Hugo.

“It is. Just picture the two of us married,” Isabelle said to him. “Milking cows and making cheese for the rest of our lives.”

Hugo paled. “Together. In the same house. In the same kitchen,” he said grimly.

“In the same bed,” Tavi added.

“Good Lord, Tavi, stop!” Isabelle said, mortified.

“I’m just adding that aspect of things into the equation.”

“Well, don’t!”

“I bet you snore, Isabelle. You look like the type,” said Hugo.

“Oh, do I, Hugo? Well, I bet you fart all night long.”

“I bet you drool on the pillow.”

“I bet your breath stinks.”

“I bet your feet stink.”

“Not as much as yours do. Only three-quarters as much, in fact.”

“Eating breakfast together. Dinner. Supper. Staring at you across the table for the next twenty years. Thirty. Fifty, if we’re really unlucky,” said Hugo.

“Fifty years,” Isabelle groaned. “My God, can you imagine it?”

Hugo, his face as white as lard, said, “There must be a way out of this.”

Isabelle expected him to say something awful here, to deliver some stinging insult. But he didn’t. Instead, he gazed down at their two hands and said, “You terrify me, Isabelle. I’ve never met a girl like you. You’re a fighter, fierce as hell. You never quit. You don’t know how. I’ve never seen anyone cut cabbages so fast just to get a bowl of my mother’s horrible soup. You don’t need anyone. You certainly don’t need me.” He looked up. “I don’t want to marry you, either, Tavi. You’re not scary. You’re just weird.”