The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(65)

Pippa shook her head. “I met Phoebus Devereux’s mother for tea.” She stirred a drop of cream into her tea, the pale color swirling about the cup.

“I almost forgot about that,” Celine said, as she daubed coarse grain mustard on a piece of bread, then layered slices of Gruyère and salted ham on top. “How was it?”

Pippa pursed her rosebud lips to one side. “Odd. She said her son has been a bit ill these last two days. The doctors are struggling to determine what might be ailing him. Thankfully he’s on the mend. She wants me to meet with him soon. Phoebus will issue an invitation when he is well again.”

“If all goes according to his mother’s plan, how do you feel about being courted by him?” Celine bit into the bread, savoring the sharpness of the mustard and the salt of the cheese.

Pippa broke off a piece of honeycomb, letting the golden honey dribble into her tea while she considered how to respond. “In all honesty, I’m more concerned about what will happen to me if I fail to find a match. When I can no longer reside in a convent without being a nun.” She licked the honey from her fingertips, her expression morose.

Her friend’s bleak honesty angered Celine. “And if you didn’t have to worry about such things? Would marrying a boy like Phoebus suit your sensibilities?”

“I suppose so. It would be nice to have something of my own. A space to draw. Paint. Play music. Be myself. The Devereux family appears to be of comfortable means.” Pippa paused. “I would be well cared for if I married Phoebus, should he choose to ask.” Resignation tugged at the edges of her lips.

Celine sipped her tea, wishing she could speak plainly about how much this situation troubled her. That a girl as wonderful as Pippa would have to forgo her desires in order to have comfort and protection. “I suppose this all sounds reasonable and prudent.” And disheartening, she added to herself.

“I know this frustrates you.” Pippa paused again in consideration. “I’m just—I don’t have the temperament to wait and hope for something better. I worry all the time what will happen to me. Even reasonable goals can be unattainable when you’re a young woman without prospects,” she said simply, the light dulling in her eyes. “I learned this back home in Yorkshire, when it became clear that no amount of effort on my part or the part of my mother could atone for my father’s failings.”

Atonement. A concept that also haunted Celine of late. “Do you think it’s possible your father could ever atone for his sins?”

“To me or to God?”

“To you.”

Pippa didn’t reply, a frown settling into the lines of her face, as if the thought troubled her.

Celine took in a careful breath. “I suppose I’m asking if it’s possible for anyone to truly atone for their sins. To ask for forgiveness and truly be forgiven.”

For a beat, Pippa lingered in contemplation. “For quite some time now, I’ve thought sin isn’t as black and white as they’d like us to believe,” she replied in a pensive tone. “I suppose there are times in which sin lies in the eyes of the beholder.”

“When we first met, I would not have thought you capable of saying such a thing.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Pippa grinned good-naturedly.

“It’s a compliment. I’m thankful you feel comfortable sharing such thoughts with me.” Celine chewed at the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps what one might consider a sin, another might consider . . . survival.”

“Like when Jean Valjean stole a loaf of bread to feed his family in Les Misérables.” Pippa nodded in agreement, then prepared a ham-and-cheese tartine for herself. An easy silence settled between them as they finished their midnight meal.

Just as Celine swallowed the dregs of her lukewarm tea, Pippa angled her head to one side. “Celine . . . there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for quite some time. I might muck it up, but I hope you’ll bear with me while I try.”

Celine’s stomach tightened with dread. “Of course.” She forced herself to smile.

“I think all of us who came to the convent are here because we didn’t have a better choice,” Pippa began. “It’s possible some of us are trying to . . . escape something from our pasts.” She wavered for an instant. “But I believe you’re a wonderful person, with a good heart and a warm soul. Whatever you may have done in your past life, I think that—no, I know that—God can forgive you.”

A knot formed in the base of Celine’s throat. “Pippa, I—”

“Wait, wait, there’s more.” Pippa took in a deep, steadying breath. “If God forgives you, so can I.” Determination etched across her brow. “So should we all.” She swallowed, her lips gathering sheepishly. “I made a hash of that, didn’t I? It sounded much better in my head. Ever so much more poignant and meaningful.”

Celine’s mouth had gone dry. “You didn’t make a hash of it. I . . .”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.” With a tender smile, Pippa placed the last of the honeycomb on the edge of Celine’s tea saucer.

For a time, Celine’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She blinked them back and averted her gaze, fighting to collect herself. “Thank you,” she said in a thick voice. Then she brought the piece of sun-drenched honeycomb to her lips.