Page 18 of Miss Desirable
“We will have few callers for at least the next month,” Catherine said, “and I’m sure our stores of wine will be adequate for the present. I haven’t sent to the agencies just yet, but I likely will soon.”
“Life goes on,” Mrs. Trask said, finishing her tea. “We’ll manage, as we always do, miss. That Frenchie who was here this morning sells wine. Makes it too. He’s the one who brought the dog around, isn’t he?”
No point denying what Mrs. Trask had likely seen with her own eyes. “Monsieur Fournier did ask me to look after Caesar for a time. You should know that Monsieur is a particular friend to my extended family. The staff is to show him every courtesy.”
Catherine had no extended family in London, other than the Dornings.
“I’ve always liked dogs,” Mrs. Trask said. “I like dogs better than I like most people, to tell you the truth. Should we anticipate any other changes to the staff, miss?”
A reasonable, if bold, question, but then, Mrs. Trask’s forthright nature was part of her charm. No disapproving glances. No sermons about the price of candles. No subtle innuendo about stray dogs or handsome Frenchmen.
“You may assure the others their posts are secure,” Catherine said. “I am grateful to have familiar faces around me as I grieve my mother’s passing.”
“You are very like her ladyship,” Mrs. Trask said, organizing the dishes on the tea tray. “She wasn’t one to suffer fools, but she was kind. The best sort to work for. I’ll take these menus down to Cook, shall I?”
“Please do, and if Deems needs assistance with his effects, we will offer him that aid.”
“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Trask rose. “To be completely honest, Deems wasn’t the most…”
“We will miss him,” Catherine said, rather than encourage unkind talk. “He was conscientious in the extreme and competent in every regard. I have written him a character to that effect in case he wishes to pursue further employment, but my mother made it plain he had earned a pension.”
Mama hadn’t done any such thing. She’d left dealing with Deems to Catherine, claiming that Deems had a furtive air. Mama of all people would understand why Catherine had heeded Fournier’s advice.
Mrs. Trask lifted the tea tray and rested it against her hip. “Perhaps the Frenchman can find you a new butler. French butlers are all the rage, and I’m told they abound on the staffs of the gentlemen’s clubs too.”
“Monsieur is merely a friend, Mrs. Trask. He is no stranger to grief himself and is truly a family connection.”
Xavier Fournier was no stranger to deception either. He’d clearly lost the love of his life when his wife had died, and yet, to all appearances, he was the nearest thing to a bon vivant. Catherine was certain he hadn’t meant to allude to his own bereavement, but she liked him better for having made that admission.
Trusted him a little more too, drat the man.
Mrs. Trask departed, taking the tray with her, and Catherine closed the library door. A fussier housekeeper would have left the tray for the maids or footmen, but by degrees and inches, Catherine was coming to realize that the house was no longer that of Lord Fairchild, diplomat and discreet international negotiator. Nobody need be fussy about much of anything, especially now that Deems had been given the sack.
Nor was the household that of his lordship’s gracious, quiet widow.
The household wasCatherine’s, and if she chose to admit friends on the occasional social call, she had that right. Nobody could object to a near spinster taking tea with a family friend, could they?
“I’m lying to myself.”
At Catherine’s words, Caesar looked up from his place on the carpet.
“The simple truth is, I like Fournier. He is hard to shock, he doesn’t judge, and his flirtation is the kind that need not be taken as flirtation at all.” More like gentle teasing.
Caesar’s expression went from inquisitive to vaguely worried.
“I know,” Catherine said. “Friendship with him must go nowhere, but can’t I enjoy his company in the odd moment? You are only on loan to me, and already, I am attached.”
Had Fournier known how lonely Catherine had become? How hard she’d had to fight the temptation to hug the dog?
“I have correspondence to see to,” she said. “More perishing letters of condolence no doubt.” A diplomat’s widow knew everybody, apparently. Some of the letters had come from Canada, Saint Petersburg, Greece… A few had come from royal courts.
“Perhaps I should go to Greece,” Catherine said, retrieving the stack of mail from the tray at the corner of the desk. “Except I won’t go to Greece, or anywhere else. I won’t cause talk, as much as I am sick to death of pretending.”
She sorted through the post, about half the missives bearing the black border indicating a card of condolence. The flood was ebbing, which was fortunate. Acknowledgments were a chore Catherine had to force herself to complete. She had sorted to the end of the stack—bills to the left, letters to the right—when she reached the limit of her willingness to deal in gracious, empty gestures.
“Come,” she said to Caesar, putting both stacks aside. “I will introduce you to Nevin. As long as you don’t mind stopping by The Boar’s Bride on every outing, you will be walked as much as you please.”
She made her way back to the garden, and rather than take Caesar to the mews, she tossed a stick for him and wished for the ten thousandth time that she had not been such a foolish young woman. What would Xavier Fournier think of her if he learned of her past?
