Page 13 of Miss Desirable
What did it say about Catherine’s life that her half-brother dwelled a few streets away, and her knowledge of him was limited to a handful of sentences?
“May I?” Fournier gestured to the wing chair.
“Please do have a seat.”
“I did not presume so much as I exercised strategic deference to a man in a better position to gain Belcher’s attention. Dorning issued Belcher’s orders in a manner Belcher understood. That little letter should confirm that a pension account has been set up for Deems at the Wentworth bank, payments to be sent wherever Deems pleases. You have only to explain his good fortune to him, and he’s off to enjoy a well-earned reward.”
“And what am I to do for a butler until I can hire one from the agencies?”
“Do you need a butler?”
Not a question Catherine would have thought to ask. Many households made do without, particularly households having few social obligations.
“I have two footmen, an underfootman, a potboy, a gardener who doubles as our man-of-all-work, plus a groom, undergroom, and coachman. That is eight male staff who must look to somebody to settle their squabbles and hand out their pay packets. Somebody must count the silver and inventory the wine. Somebody must ensure the footmen apply themselves to their tasks rather than to dicing away the afternoon at The Boar’s Bride.”
“And you,” Monsieur said, “are itching to be that somebody.”
Catherine looked about the parlor, the one room in the house where she’d insisted on imposing her will. No crepe covered the mirrors, no black silk bands adorned the silhouettes of Mama and Papa hanging over the sideboard. The clock ticked along rather than remain frozen at the hour of anybody’s death, and a vase of daffodils graced the quarter shelves.
“When we lived on the Continent,” she said, “I grew accustomed to organizing my father’s household. A diplomat entertains a great deal, and we had to rely on what local staff were willing to work for an Englishman. Mama was sick for some time before she admitted anything was wrong—probably for years, now that I think back on it—and I took over her duties to the extent that I could.”
A tap sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Catherine called. The tea tray had been entrusted to Harry, the first footman. He was young, blond, and on the tall side. A credit to his livery, as Mama had said. He set the tray before Catherine without even looking at Fournier, though Fournier was doubtless taking in every detail of Harry’s person.
“Thank you, Harry, that will be all.”
He bowed and withdrew.
“That one is in love with you,” Fournier said.
“You shall cease making shocking declarations for the sheer deviltry of it. Harry can’t be but eighteen years old. He falls in love on the hour, to hear my housekeeper tell it.”
“Then your hour has come, and you might as well enjoy it. Shall I pour?”
“Please.” Enjoy a footman’s infatuation? Catherine was beyond such folly, though she did enjoy Fournier’s audacity. While he navigated the tea tray with careless grace, Catherine read Belcher’s letter.
“Sycamore made an impression,” she said, putting the letter aside. “I am reminded that in future I need only send along a note, and my devoted solicitors will deem it their greatest privilege to see to my needs.”
“Unctuous words,” Fournier replied. “How much honey do you prefer?
“Just a drop to smooth out the bitterness.”
He fixed her tea in silence and passed over the cup and saucer. Another brush of warmth, accompanied by a glance that took far too much notice of Catherine’s word choice.
“Are you bitter, Miss Fairchild? A double loss such as you’ve suffered could have that result.”
Oh yes, she was bitter, but her parents’ deaths had nothing to do with her grim outlook. She took a sip of her tea—good and strong—and thought about her reply. Fournier had a nose for falsehoods, so a version of the truth would have to serve.
Then too, she did not want to lie to him. She lied enough in the course of a normal day as it was.
“I took too long to realize Mama was ill. Papa knew, but he respected Mama’s wishes to say nothing. He was somewhat older than she and had lived a vigorous life. His death took me quite aback. I had assumed…”
Catherine took another sip of tea, the only dilatory tactic at hand.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you having any tea, monsieur?”
