Priceless Read Free Page B

shone through her embarrassment. “Tall, elegant, cool, with long black hair like Olivia’s, but hers has a white streak at the temple. Her skin is pale and pure. For her, for my sisters, the family resemblance is strong.”
    “You, my dear, are a changeling, but nevertheless frap-pant . Striking.”
    “My father calls me ‘Pixie’ because I’m so short and I’m always going out in the sun and turning brown. See?” Bronwyn pointed to her nose.
    “A charming contrast with your wild curls and your startling eyes.” Rachelle turned Bronwyn’s head. “What color are they?”
    “Brown, for lack of a better word. Da says they’re pretty.”
    “I think I like your father.”
    The flowers in the upholstery design attracted Bronwyn’s attention again. “Most women do. He’s an Irish charmer.”
    “Perhaps I shall invite your parents to join one of our gatherings some evening. It would be fascinating to speak to the mother and father of such pillars of society.”
    “My mother? You want my mother to come?”
    “Would she not?”
    “I don’t know. I never thought—” Bronwyn gulped. “Madame Rachelle—”
    “Just Rachelle, s’il vous plait .”
    “I have wondered…what kind of place is this? I’ve heard that sometimes…” Bronwyn plucked at her skirt, creating little pyramids. “Well, not that anyone tells me about anything, but there are rumors of places where only men…”
    Rescuing her, Rachelle patted her hand. “Too many Englishmen think as you do. This is a salon. My friends, the girls who live with me, are jeune filles de bonne famille .”
    “Gentlewomen?”
    “ Oui , gentlewomen who have met with hard times. Oneof them studies the skies, seeking the answers of life in the movement of the stars. One sings with a pure and beautiful voice. Daphne—you saw her—studies the human body, wishing all the time she could become a docteur .”
    “You…do this for friendship’s sake?”
    “So suspicious,” Rachelle chided. “I have money. Who else would help these girls? In France, salonières assist the worthy with pensions. In France, salons are an institution, a place where men and women of the intellectual, social, and artistic elites can converse freely.”
    Dazed with relief, Bronwyn sighed. “Then the Edana reputation is still unblotted.”
    “Perhaps not. I am a widow of a French nobleman, a chaste woman. Yet there are always les saintes nitouche who assume any platonic relationship between a man and woman is destined to fail. There could be talk if it is discovered you were here.” Rachelle laughed with a catch in her voice as Bronwyn’s face fell. “I will send you back to the inn in a covered carriage.”
    Recalled to her duty, Bronwyn stood. “I’m afraid we should be returning. My parents don’t know where we are.”
    “I do not mean to criticize them, but they should not have left their most precious treasures alone in such a place.” Remembering her own treasure, so recently stolen, tears brimmed in the corners of Rachelle’s brown eyes.
    “My parents are a law unto themselves,” Bronwyn assured her, “but none of my sisters have ever been the object of violence.”
    Rachelle took her arm and led her into the hall. “Perhaps your sisters have not your kind and impetuous nature.”
    “If you mean they aren’t given to mad impulses, I’m afraid that’s true.” They turned into a tiny chapel at the back of the house, rich with the scent of flowers and candles. The women of Rachelle’s household knelt there with Olivia in their midst.
    As accustomed to her sister’s beauty as Bronwyn was, she started at the sight of that pure profile. Olivia’s serenity seemed sublime, her devotion frightening. Bronwyn hurried forward and touched Olivia’s arm. “Come,” she whispered. “It’s time.”
    “Of course,” Olivia said. “But first, won’t you light a candle for Henriette?”
    The memory of Bronwyn’s days in Ireland remained. There she had learned the