Page 22 of Miss Desirable
“Sorry to intrude, sir, but if you could have a look at the cold frames, you’d save us a lot of arguing. I say they must not be too deep, or we’ll waste the manure, while Higgins wants us buried in horseshite.”
“Can’t have that here in Richmond as well as in Mayfair.” Dorning saluted his guests with two fingers and loped away between tables of potted spices.
“And he’s off,” Goddard muttered. “His energy alone tires me, but then, he’s young and in love.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I’m old and in love,” Goddard said, though he was of an age with Fournier. “How’s business?”
They frequently compared notes regarding the wine trade, an enjoyable exercise in cadging information from a competitor and honestly commiserating with a colleague.
“Business is brisk, as one expects this time of year. What do you know of Miss Fairchild?”
Goddard ambled along the rosemary bushes. “Her late father was a diplomat by trade, probably a spy, seemed a decent sort. Went where he was told to go, didn’t put on airs. Most of the diplomatic types are canny people—the men, the women, their children, and employees. Miss Fairchild was the dutiful daughter, not too pretty, not too outspoken, when anybody was looking.”
“Was she also a spy?”
“I doubt Lord Fairchild would have stood for that. Nor would Lady Fairchild, though I am confident Miss Fairchild has the requisite ingenuity. She is half Dorning, after all. Why the concern?”
“The lady is wary.” Perhaps even afraid? “Her butler was tyrannizing the household, her solicitors are arrogant, and she is new to her wealth.” More than that, Fournier could not say, because he was probably in thrall to overly active instincts.
“Loss of a parent, particularly the second parent, is an adjustment,” Goddard said. “The acquisition of unexpected wealth is an adjustment. Even unexpected happiness is an adjustment.”
Goddard had switched to French, either out of consideration for Fournier’s natural inclinations, or because they approached an undergardener apparently working on grafts. The young fellow touched the brim of his cap and went back to his slicing and tying.
“Miss Fairchild’s mother had been ill for some time,” Fournier said. “Her father was elderly. She was an only child. She was bound to inherit some wealth and bound to lose her parents. I would expect her to be sad, but why have the diplomatic ladies not flocked to her side? Where is her priest? Why did the Dornings not even look in on her?”
“I’m sure you will share your theory.”
“I cannot speak for the Dornings, but I suspect Miss Fairchild has trained all of creation to assume she is self-sufficient. She does not make friends easily, though she makes flawless conversation. She doubtless dances exquisitely, but does an even more creditable job sitting among the wallflowers and listening to dowagers trade recipes for their tisanes. This is a woman who has learned to hide in plain sight.”
And Fournier knew exactly how it felt to wear a disguise the livelong day, to go about as a jovial and harmless French shopkeeper while ignoring a childhood and youth steeped in violence and tragedy.
Goddard paused before a vine twining around a wire frame to snap off a green bean and pop it into his mouth. “The taste of summer, but not exactly. Perhaps the taste of longing for summer.”
“Does Mrs. Goddard know she married a romantic?”
“Mrs. Goddardisa romantic. Tell no one.”
Before the colonel’s marriage, he’d been a stranger to whimsy. Now he smiled occasionally, and when his gaze rested on his wife, he was a man besotted. His champagne would likely reach new heights of glory, because vintners were human, and their products could reflect their fates.
“Back to Miss Fairchild, Colonel. Could she have come across secrets in the course of her father’s diplomatic work?”
“Of course, but why not simply ask her, Fournier? When you wish to be, you are as blunt as Dorning on his most determined day. If Miss Fairchild trusts you to escort her from Town, she must have your confidence to some extent.”
The ride out from London had been a revelation. Fournier had lied, of course. He cared not whether he sat on the forward- or backward-facing seats, rode on the box, lounged on the coach roof, or clung to the boot. Coach travel was coach travel. One endured until one reached the desired destination.
But he’d wanted to sit beside Catherine Fairchild, to bask in her proximity, to offer her closeness to another human being. He had not planned to put his arm around her, but the gesture had felt like the sort of presuming, not-quite-rude gesture Monsieur Xavier Fournier would make, and the lady had allowed his forward version of friendship.
She had rested against him, sleeping for a time—he was sure of that—and then awakening and pretending to sleep yet more.
“I could ask her,” Fournier said, “but one does not want to overstep.” Not with Catherine Fairchild.
“One does not know what the hell to do when an absolutely unexpected woman knocks one arse over teakettle. I did wonder about you, Fournier.”
“Are you being vulgar, Goddard?”
“I assumed you had a family in France, perhaps an irregular union. Some widowers vow not to remarry. If you’d made your late wife such a promise, you would keep it.”
