Page 17 of Miss Desirable
She had his notice, and that was not a good thing. “One does not want to intrude.”
“You excel at intruding. You are rather like Sycamore Dorning in that regard.”
Fournier paused at the gate and mustered his reserves of charm. “I am tall and dark-haired, but that is where my resemblance to your brother ends. To suggest otherwise will provoke me to strutting and dramatic proclamations, which will only prove your point. Take good care of Caesar, and he will take care of you. I wish you good day.”
He bowed over her hand, her fingers cool in his grasp.
“Will you call again?” she asked, keeping a grip on him. “Without a butler, I will be forced to purchase my own wine. You might as well agree to pay the occasional call, monsieur, lest I ambush you among your Merlots.”
She had already ambushed him—among the Merlots, over the tea service, and all over again before the discus thrower.
Fournier was reminded that she’d chosen the Cahors for reasons he still did not understand, that she’d been loath to sack a butler who far overstepped his authority. Formidable Catherine Fairchild might be, but she was also without allies.
“I will call again,” he said, “and we will tour your wine cellar, and there will be no need for you to lurk among my Merlots.”
He bowed again and let himself out through the gate before he did something truly stupid, like kissing her in her own back garden, where any servant could witness him being once again lured into utmost folly.
* * *
“And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Trask extended a hand to Caesar. “He has the look of a lad who’d enjoy Cook’s soupbones.”
Harry followed Mrs. Trask into the library, a tea tray in his hands, wariness in his eyes.
“Caesar is on loan to me while his owners travel,” Catherine said. “Thank you, Harry. Tray on the desk, please. You may leave the door open, and if you’d welcome any callers, I’d appreciate it.”
Catherine wanted this exchange with Mrs. Trask to be overheard, and leaving the door open would accomplish that end. Deems had left the library on a frigid bow not a quarter hour past and had gone directly to his quarters, where he was doubtless packing his effects.
Harry set down the tray, bowed, and sent Caesar another dubious glance.
“Caesar is very well trained,” Catherine said, “and I’m sure Nevin will be happy to take him for the occasional outing.” Particularly if Nevin, the undergroom, could use walking the dog as a pretext to stop by the corner pub.
“My Nevvie likes dogs,” Mrs. Trask said, slipping into the chair facing the desk. “He and yon canine will manage splendidly.”
Harry withdrew rather than argue with Mrs. Trask. She was Nevin’s aunt, and he was the apple of her eye, much to the frustration of those who had to work with him. Nevin was cheerful, good with the horses, and willing to work as long as somebody stood over him the whole while and kept him from wandering away from the job.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Trask said, laying a ledger on the desk. “Nevin’s a slacker. He’s not, but he’s imaginative and has wanted for guidance. Puts me in mind of his mother. A featherbrain when she was young. You’re very good to keep him on when I know you won’t be using the carriage much for some time.”
“He’s young,” Catherine said. “He has time to settle to his duties. Let’s have a look at the accounts, shall we?”
Catherine’s mother, during her husband’s frequent protracted absences, had instituted this practice of reviewing accounts, as well as menus, with the housekeeper over a cup of tea. Catherine had endured the same exercise with Deems on a monthly basis—no tea—and found the undertaking more grueling than an archbishop’s annual sermon on temperance.
Every expense, explained to the penny, every month.
Mrs. Trask, by contrast, passed over her ledger book and left it to Catherine to raise questions. They shared a tea tray and chatted about menus and the household staff in general.
“I’ve retired Deems,” Catherine said when the accounts had been dealt with. “He’s earned his pension and then some, and I’m sure my parents would want him to have some time with family after all his years of service.”
He’d not actually been with the Fairchilds that long—only since their return from Vienna—but he was old enough to be put out to pasture.
“Deems is a pensioner now?” Mrs. Trask looked neither pleased nor dismayed, but then, she was Scottish and practical to her sturdy bones. She was also a handsome woman, her red hair fading to ivory at her temples and her smile often in evidence. “He’ll find another job, that one. Idleness is the devil’s workshop. If he said it once, he said it twelve times a day.”
“And yet,” Catherine replied, “even the Deity idled away at least one whole day out of seven. A theological puzzle, I suppose.”
They shared a smile, and all over again, Catherine felt the relief of having ousted Deems from her household. He’d truly been a blight, making all the burdens of mourning doubly oppressive.
“Will you hire another butler?” Mrs. Trask asked. “Harry would love to step into Deems’s role, but our Harry was never permitted to assist Deems with the inventories and decanting and accounts. Harry would have a lot to learn.”
And without a butler on hand, Mrs. Trask would become the undisputed senior domestic.
