Page 19 of Miss Desirable
She did not voice that question even to Caesar, even in the relative privacy of the walled garden.
“Nothing good could come of airing old linen,” Catherine murmured, and yet, she looked forward to Monsieur’s next call. Foolish of her, but she had the sense that as much as she longed for friendship and affection, Fournier did as well. She had little enough of either to offer him, though the truth was, she felt safer when he was on hand.
* * *
“I have it from no less authority than Mrs. Sycamore Dorning that you need to get out.” Fournier injected an apologetic note into his statement. “I must agree with her.” Miss Fairchild looked a trifle wan compared to when he’d seen her earlier in the week.
Not tired, exactly, but daunted. Her smile was gently forced, she relinquished Fournier’s hand at the earliest instant, and she was wearing the same dress she’d had on three days ago.
Less work for the staff, to simply don the wrinkled attire. Fournier had told himself the same thing after he’d lost Gabriella. The British practice of condolence calls starting three months after a bereavement was probably an attempt to foil that self-indulgence.
“You need not check up on me,” Miss Fairchild said. “I gave Deems his congé, and he went more or less without a fuss.”
Deems was kicking his heels at Whitaker’s Hotel. He’d had no callers and sent no mail. Until the man was ensconced in the household of some sister or cousin in the shires, Fournier would keep an eye on him.
“And has the household descended into chaos?” Fournier asked. “You are answering your own door, which even I can assure you is not the done thing.”
“I was retrieving the post from the sideboard,” Miss Fairchild replied a little too brightly, “and you seem to enjoy paying calls well before proper visiting hours.”
A considerable pile of letters did indeed sit in a tidy stack on the sideboard, perhaps several days’ worth. “The mail will have to wait, Miss Fairchild. I have been tasked with escorting you to Richmond.”
Miss Fairchild’s extraordinary eyes lit with some fleeting reaction. Confusion? Distrust? The emotion was gone too quickly to be accurately labeled, but Fournier’s invitation was clearly unwelcome. How well he knew that resentment, that stubborn unwillingness to depart from safe, sad spaces and numbing routines.
“I am in mourning,” Miss Fairchild retorted. “One does not go picnicking in the countryside when one is in mourning.”
“If one did picnic in the countryside at such a sad time, one might find one’s grief more bearable. As it happens, I do not offer you a picnic. I offer you greetings from Mrs. Dorning, née Jeanette Goddard, former Marchioness of Tavistock, who has some experience with bereavement.”
He passed over a sealed missive. Miss Fairchild accepted it, though again, that hint of wariness imbued her actions.
“Come,” she said, turning on her heel. “I can ring for a tray, and if Mrs. Dorning’s epistle merits a reply, you can convey it to her for me.”
“My sainted mother would be so proud,” Fournier observed. “I am an English post boy now. The realization of my life’s ambitions is a dizzying achievement. I maintain my dignity in the face of this overwhelming joy as best I can. I beg for your understanding should I begin spontaneous saltation and whoopering, if that is the English word.”
“You know it is not.” Miss Fairchild pushed open the door to her parlor. She was smiling, so Fournier ceased his nonsense. “Sit if you like, sir. Shall I order tea?”
“We have no time for tea. We have an appointment to keep with your sister-by-marriage. Mrs. Dorning was quite clear that I am not to allow you to decline her summons. I told the lady that ‘allowing’ doesn’t come into it, as you are very much your own person, but her ladyship—one still thinks of her as such—is formidable. Married tocet homme, she has to be.”
“That manapparently did not know I was his sister until recently. Of all the Dornings, Sycamore is the one I can least expect to take an interest in my situation.”
“He is the most exuberantly fierce of the lot. The others are formidable in different ways, as are their spouses, though I have not met the youngest sister or the Dorset farmer.” Goddard had provided many of those introductions, at social events, hacking in the park, or in business contexts.
For a man who professed to be a gruff old soldier, Goddard could exercise surprising tact, but then, he was half French.
Miss Fairchild slit the seal and scanned the note’s contents. “Mrs. Dorning says a marquess’s widow knows all too well the pitfalls and temptations of early mourning. I am permitted to call on family, and she is my family. The day is lovely, ergo, to her Richmond abode I must go. I barely recall meeting this woman at some house party or other…”
“Well, there you have it,” Fournier said, prepared to take the gloves off if necessary. “Sycamore Dorning’s bad influence has inspired his wife to friendliness, and her a former marchioness. You would think the erstwhile Lady Tavistock would know better. I’ve met her step-son. The present marquess is young, but he knows an excellent Merlot from a presuming one. This is the hallmark of a true gentleman, and Mrs. Dorning was largely responsible for his upbringing. More evidence of her waywardness, for, as is known to all, English marquesses should be wretched bounders.”
From all reports, Jeanette Dorning’s first husband had been exactly that.
“I might have crossed paths with the current marquess in Paris,” Miss Fairchild said, “but I am barely acquainted with Sycamore, and a drive to Richmond will taketwo hours.”
“Then the sooner you change into a carriage dress, the sooner we can get you out of this stinking metropolis and into greener surrounds. Come, Miss Fairchild, the day is fine, my company is irresistibly charming, and you need to change your dress.”
She smoothed a hand over her skirts. “Mama liked this dress.”
“You wear aubergine quite well.” The color brought out her eyes, an observation Fournier kept to himself. “I assure you my traveling coach is unremarkable. No crests, no bright red wheels, no liveried attendants. And you wear that dress day after day rather than add to the burden of the laundresses, or so you tell yourself.”
He approached her, holding her gaze by force of will. “You take a tray rather than sit down to a proper meal on the same pretext. You ignore the post because every note of condolence is more proof of your loss. You promise yourself you will sort through your mother’s things, but you simply sit among them, your mind blank, your heart aching. You sniff at her scent bottles, you might even go so far as to wrap yourself in her favorite shawl, but nothing and no one can bring her back. You fear if you begin to cry, you will never stop.”
