Page 20 of Miss Desirable
He had hoped to provoke his hostess into a display of temper, however ladylike. She merely regarded him, her calm unnerving.
“I have cried more than you or anyone else will ever know. Wait here.”
Fournier bowed rather than retort. Miss Fairchild had given him an order, and considering how far he had pushed her, he owed it to her to wait as faithfully as would a slobbering hound longing for the merest touch of her hand.
CHAPTERFIVE
Catherine debated taking Caesar with her to Richmond, but when she came down to rejoin Monsieur Fournier, Harry told her that the dog was out with Nevin.
“Third time today,” Harry said as Catherine collected a black cloak, black parasol, and a bonnet heavily veiled in black tulle. “In some households, walking a dog is an underfootman’s job.”
“That is a good suggestion, Harry,” Catherine said, pulling on black gloves. “Let’s divide the task between Nevin and Vincent, shall we? Vincent can look after Caesar until midafternoon, then Nevin can take over after most of the work in the stable is done. Caesar can have a ramble in the garden for his last outing of the night.”
Harry gained two inches of height. “I’ll explain the schedule to Nevin, miss, and to Vincent.”
“Thank you, Harry, and please tell Cook not to expect me for supper. I’m off to visit family and will be gone for most of the day.”
Harry had the requisite height and good looks expected of all footmen. He was also sensible, as the oldest of seven siblings had to be. He had not yet acquired the faultless discretion of a London domestic servant.
“But I thought… That is…”
“Come, Harry,” Catherine said. “I do have family. Every person in this household knows it, and in the circumstances, that family has decided to be kind to me. Take the unplanned half day and enjoy it.”
Harry smiled. “You sound like Mrs. Trask.”
“I will consider that a compliment.” Albeit an unusual one. Catherine draped her cloak over her arm and found Monsieur Fournier in the parlor, on his knees and peering at the underside of the desk’s kneehole.
“French,” he said, easing to his feet, “as I thought. The inlay is too lyrical to be English, the brass fixtures too ornate.” He took Catherine’s bonnet and parasol and set them on the sofa, then appropriated her cloak and swirled it about her. He completed that courtesy—or presumption—by smoothing the fabric over her shoulders in a light stroke of both hands. “This garment is not French. It does not murmur of a lady’s grace with each step. It turns her into a peevish nun.”
“I did not dye my favorite clothing black,” Catherine said. “Bad of me, I suppose, but mourning does not last forever, and many of my best dresses are French. They cannot be undyed, and I cannot have them remade here in London.”
Fournier came around to do up the cloak’s frogs. “Mrs. Dorning informs me that first mourning for a parent is to last only a month, though second mourning is observed for six months. This strikes me as ridiculous. Is a woman to mourn a man to whom she has been married only a few years twelve times longer than she does the parents who gave her life, raised her, and loved her all of her days? Apparently so. I will never understand the English.”
He understood them very well, probably better than Catherine did. “You will bring me home before dark?” She hated the nervous note in her question.
“Unless you decide to bide for a day or two with your family. In that case, I will see your household informed of your decision and commend your good sense for quitting Town. When you summon me, I will retrieve you from your respite if Dorning himself cannot return you to Town.”
“Will it be a respite?” And why was she dithering over a simple excursion to the country? This call would involve sipping two cups of tea with Jeanette Dorning, admiring her garden, thanking her for her kindness, and tooling back to London. Fournier would be half amusing and half vexing for the duration, which was somehow exactly what Catherine needed him to be.
“I do not know Mrs. Dorning well,” he said. “Her spouse clearly adores her—one of his few endearing features—and she has been through much at the hands of her first husband and his ilk. Society was unkind to her, the much younger wife of an arrogant nobleman, but she, being half French, ignored Society at the earliest opportunity. I suggest you do likewise.”
“I try, monsieur. Shall we be off?”
He took her parasol and bonnet from the sofa, apparently content to carry them. “My carriage awaits in the alley, the better to protect your privacy. You must not be anxious, Miss Fairchild.”
Catherine was not anxious so much as she was afraid, which made little sense. This call was also an acknowledgment of Mama’s passing. Another acknowledgment.
“You tell me not to worry, when I hardly know Jeanette Dorning, she’s a former marchioness, and I’m leaving London in a closed carriage with a man I barely know—and arguably bending the rules of mourning to do it.”
Fournier accompanied her into the garden, and for a moment, the sunshine was blinding. Catherine was tempted to don her bonnet and parasol—seeing the world through a dark veil had become that much of a habit—but Fournier was right. The time for deepest mourning had passed, at least according to the rules.
“I thought you were a widow when I first saw you in my shop,” he said, surveying the garden. “You are not a widow, but you had the same air. Widows are wary, Miss Fairchild. Life has delivered them a blow, and no matter a person’s intelligence, confidence, or worldly means, the pain of that blow never entirely fades. The loss is deep and permanent and seems damnably unfair.”
He escorted her down the steps, and Catherine again had the sense he’d said more than he’d meant to.
“You speak from experience.”
“To my great sorrow, I do, but our objective today is to enjoy the fresh air and introduce you to Mrs. Dorning. What did she say in her note to inspire you to leave Town with me?”
