Page 14 of Miss Desirable
He poured a second cup, the steam curling up through the midday sunshine. “You assumed you had a secure place as your Papa’s unpaid secretary, from which you could make a graceful transition into spinsterhood,non? Your mother apparently endorsed that plan, and I ask myself why. You are well educated, likely fluent in several languages. You have a fine grasp of world affairs. You are well-read and sensible. You are lovely—also wealthy now—and yet, your mother held out no wish for you to marry well. This puzzles me.”
Catherine set down her tea cup rather than fling it at Monsieur’s handsome,puzzledhead. “I am not lovely. I am too tall and too”—she waved her hand over her person—“not-willowy, and my eyes are the wrong color. I do not wish to take a husband, monsieur. If your interest in my situation is motivated by matrimonial ambitions, you may leave now.”
Fournier did a better job of dithering over a sip of tea than Catherine had. She watched while he silently rearranged arguments, chose tactics, and formed a battle plan all in the time it took him to drink, study the flowers on the porcelain saucer, and set his cup aside.
“France has been a mess for decades,” he said. “Before the revolution, for most of Louis’s reign, we were in a state of upheaval. Bad harvests, corrupt government, a king who turned up practical, to the frustration of his nobles, and fanciful, to the frustration of his subjects. Then the Reign of Terror, then the first White Terror. Bonaparte’s greatest attribute was that he drew us out of chaos for a time, though now chaos has descended again.”
“That chaos touched you.” It had to have, and in a personal way. The French ultraroyalists were determined to wipe out any legacy of the revolution and the empire, but even they could not turn the clock back thirty years for an entire country.
Fournier rose and went to the window, standing so that he could see into the garden while Catherine could yet study his face.
“Napoleon understood that the wineries had value,” Fournier said, “so my family fared better than most. We did what we could, but it was never enough, and sometimes…On a des regrets.”
One has regrets.
Yes, one did, and those regrets could make a woman churlish and ungracious.
“Finish your tea,” Catherine said. “Have a sandwich, or the kitchen will mutter about presuming Frenchmen and food going to waste.”
He lingered by the window, probably for form’s sake. One did not tell Xavier Fournier what to do, a quality Catherine both understood and approved of.
“You should trust me,” he said, resuming his seat. “Jousting with you is enjoyable, and I do respect your caution, mademoiselle. Nonetheless, you may be assured that, like you, I have no interest in matrimony. Like you, I have sufficient means that I look askance at anybody who seeks to curry my favor. Like you, I cannot tolerate the company of fools. I have nothing to gain by taking an interest in your situation, and besides,”—he passed Catherine a plate and held out the tray of sandwiches—“the Dornings would ruin me were I to serve you a bad turn.”
Catherine chose two sandwiches of watercress, butter, and soft cheese. Now that food was before her, she was hungry.
“They cannot call on me, but they can ruin you?”
“Most assuredly. Sycamore Dorning is married to the sister of one Colonel Orion Goddard. Goddard runs Dorning’s fancy club, and he also owns vineyards. Goddard is assisting me to learn the new technique for making champagne. His champagne sparkles, mine has bubbles. My English is not adequate to describe the difference, but his champagne is far superior to the eye, if not the palate. Should Goddard take me into dislike, I am finished as a London wine merchant. His clarets cannot compare to mine, but he is an English war hero connected by his sister’s marriage to a large and titled family. I am merely a homesick Frenchman.”
Catherine ate her sandwiches and considered that speech, which appeared to adhere to relevant facts.
“Are you truly homesick?”
He topped up her tea. “In the manner you miss your mother, I suppose. Her passing leaves a terrible void, but you would never have wished to prolong her suffering. I miss France, but I do my part here, building a London business that helps me rebuild what was lost in France.”
An interesting analogy. “Except that you can travel to France anytime you please.” Or could he? Royalists, republicans, and revolutionaries had each taken turns in and out of power in France, meaning everybody was somebody’s enemy.
Fournier rose. “Enough gloomy talk, mademoiselle. I brought along somebody I would like you to meet. He awaits us in the mews, and surely you trust me enough to stroll with me in your own garden on such a pretty day?”
Catherine had learned not to trust charming men who professed to offer friendship. Still, Fournier had spoken honestly—the Dorningscouldruin him—and she was sick to her soul of her own house.
“Let me fetch a cloak and bonnet,” she said. “And you have my thanks for resolving the situation with Deems.”
“Thank him profusely for years of loyal service, pass him a bank draft, and tell him a room has been reserved for him at your expense at Whitaker’s Hotel.”
“Has it?”
“Of course, though I doubt he will tarry long in London. I will await you in the foyer, Miss Fairchild.” He bowed politely, while Catherine took another sandwich from the tray and used the back stairs to get up to her room. She did not trust Fournier, but she liked him.
She hadn’t ever thought to like an unmarried adult male again. How odd that it should be a somewhat arrogant, homesick Frenchman who challenged her assumption.
CHAPTERFOUR
A man who would not see thirty again, who hadn’t seen thirty for some time, had no business allowing a female to knock him off-balance. Fournier lectured himself on this topic as he waited for Miss Fairchild to descend from her bonnet-fetching expedition. He lectured himself at greater length as he escorted her into a garden with prodigiously high walls—seven feet at least.
Fournier approved of high walls. Better for privacy and for safety.
Though privacy and safety could become so much dreariness. Catherine Fairchild was the opposite of dreary. She was quick, forthright, and smarter than she wanted the world to know.
