The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(68)

By now, they should all have run for the hills.

“May I get you some tea?” Pippa asked.

Celine drew back and said nothing. She worried if she opened her mouth, a torrent of foul words—the worst of her fears given voice—would flow from her mouth. Things no one deserved to hear, least of all Pippa.

Though Celine had not responded to Pippa’s query—or even acknowledged her presence in any meaningful fashion—Pippa kept close, hovering in a way that aggravated Celine further.

Why doesn’t she know to save herself? Does she have a death wish? Celine’s thoughts turned vicious. Senseless in their rage.

A wall of black wool stepped before her, obscuring her vision. As always, Celine smelled the Mother Superior before she took in the elder woman’s face. That same scent of a wet hound in a haystack. Pippa stood at once, Celine remaining on the stairs, all sense of decorum scattered to the winds.

The wall of wool remained stalwart in its approach, watching and waiting. A dark streak of amusement sliced through Celine. She longed for a return to the day she’d believed the matron of the Ursuline convent to be her worst enemy. When the most memorable of Celine’s afternoons had been spent trying to imagine creative ways to thwart her.

For an instant, Celine pondered whether there was a single point at which she could have foiled her fate. At what precise moment had she wandered down the wrong path? Alas, there was nothing she could do about that now. But perhaps there was a way to stop this fearful turn of events from happening again in the future.

The Mother Superior cleared her throat, wordlessly demanding Celine’s attention, the wooden beads of her rosary dangling from her waist. Celine studied the small cross swaying before her. Observed the rain as it slid downward.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a grim tone. “I wanted to—”

“Why did you send Anabel to spy on us?” Celine asked, her voice hollow, her eyes leveled on the wall of black wool positioned before her.

A sharp intake of breath resounded from above. Celine looked up. The Mother Superior’s features were tight. Weary. Her habit had been tilted askew, rain trickling from its hem.

“You could have refused to let us go,” Celine continued. “You didn’t need to use Anabel as a pawn in your scheme. You sent her to her death.” Her accusation was low. Pitiless.

“Celine!” Pippa chastised softly.

In the deepest recesses of Celine’s mind, she knew how unfair it was to accuse the Mother Superior of being responsible for Anabel’s death. But her heart demanded answers. The wound around it continued to grow with each passing moment, the pain searing through her chest, burning into her lungs. She had to put a stop to it. To all of it.

“Why?” Celine repeated.

“I—” The Mother Superior hesitated, her expression oddly uncertain. Then her frown turned severe, the lines around her mouth deepening. Celine braced herself for a harsh rebuke.

“I am human,” the Mother Superior said simply. “As such, I made a mistake.”

Celine shook her head. “That’s not an answer. Please”—she stood at once, drops of rain cascading from the tip of her nose—“help me understand. I need to understand why.”

The Mother Superior considered Celine, her eyes flitting to and fro. “Because I saw in you the kind of reckless spirit that craves danger, and I desired proof. A weed left to flourish is the death of the entire garden.”

The ache in Celine’s chest intensified. “So you sent a young girl out by herself, simply to prove I was rotten to the core? Why didn’t you just ask me? Je vous l’aurait dis, Mère Supérieure!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

The Mother Superior took hold of Celine’s left wrist, gripping it tightly, pulling her closer. For a breath of time, Celine thought the matron might strike her. But then the elder woman’s grey brows gathered, her features pinching with sorrow. “You are in pain right now, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” she said gently. “I, too, am in pain. I, too, long to point a finger of blame. But it serves no purpose now. I entreat you to sit with your pain. To let it pass, not to lash out. It will do you no good.” She released her grip on Celine’s wrist. “Trust in this important lesson I learned long ago: Rage is a moment. Regret is forever.”

Celine struggled to marshal her fury. She wasn’t ready to relinquish her rage and succumb to the sadness that was sure to follow. If she did, it meant she accepted everything that had happened tonight. She didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to fight it. To shatter its truth into oblivion.

But the Mother Superior was right. What good did it do to rail against an elderly woman? Anabel and William had not died because of the Mother Superior.

They’d died because of her.

Celine blinked back the rain. Forced the tension in her shoulders to abate. “Yes, Mère Supérieure.” She swallowed. Realized she was shivering and that her temple throbbed. “I apologize for my behavior. It won’t happen again.”

The Mother Superior nodded. “Are you in need of anything right now? Is there anything I might provide for you?”

Celine shook her head.

A sigh fell from the Mother Superior’s lips. “Should you change your mind at any time—now or in the future—do not hesitate to tell me. I am here to assist you in any way.” She paused to hold Celine’s gaze, her features somber. “The next few days will not be easy ones, my child.”