Page 57 of Miss Desirable
“You fled from Rome to Cahors?”
“To a little manor house several miles outside the town. Papa had connections across diplomatic lines, favors to call in, and nobody would think to look for a disgraced English girl in France of all places.”
“Clever.” Also brave. “You speak French with an Italian accent, which made the choice even easier.”
“And Mama’s French was nearly that of a native speaker, though she threw in occasional asides in Russian for the sake of our safety. I could not be happy in Cahors, but I could heal somewhat.”
A dress might not fit because a young woman had lost her appetite. A dress might also cease to fit because…
Fournier mentally crossed himself—old habits died hard—and spoke gently. “Does the child yet live, Catherine?”
She tucked her face against his chest and nodded.
And that nod explained much. All of it difficult and so very dear. “I’m glad,” Fournier said, hugging her close. “I am so very, exceedingly glad that your child thrives. Tell me more. I must know everything about this wonderful child of yours.”
First, he must of course hold the woman he loved while she cried tears long overdue. Catherine stopped short of hysterics, though he would not have begrudged her such an indulgence. She did weep and cling to him and soaked his handkerchief to a gratifying degree.
As she gradually composed herself, and the carriage navigated yet more toll gates, she did tell him everything, or nearly everything.
The girl—Marie, after the late Lady Fairchild’s mother—was ever so smart. She was dark and tallish like her mother, but her eyes were thankfully a celestial blue rather than the telltale violet. She was fluent in French and English and starting to work on German and Italian, because she enjoyed languages. She loved animals, and her governess, and she was beginning to send short notes to her mama along with the governess’s monthly letters.
“She wants me to visit her, Fournier. She does not beg, but she invites, and that breaks my heart. I had six months with her, before Papa sent word that we must meet him in Lisbon. I’ve seen her once since then. I begged Mama to tell polite society that I was dead so I could remain in France, but Mama needed me too. The hardest thing I’ve ever done…”
“Was leave that child in France.”
Catherine peered up at him, her face blotchy, her eyes sheened with tears. “No, because I knew I would someday, despite war, scandal, or the wrath of God, return to be a mother to my child. The hardest thing waspretending, standing up with the young men who considered me a pity dance and then standing up with Marie’s father. I smiled at him when I wanted to put a knife in his heart.”
“He deserved that, at least.”
“He doesn’t know,” Catherine said, a thread of triumph in her voice. “He has no idea that I bore his child, and I will never do him the courtesy of enlightening him. Don’t think to argue with me about this. Not now.”
“You are that child’s mother. I am nobody to question your judgment.”
A subtle tension drained from her. “I had not planned to confide in you to this degree so soon after your own disclosures. I want you to know that you are not the only parent with regrets, Fournier.”
She thought of him as a parent, from which he derived precious comfort. “You think I would judge you for not bringing this child to England?”
“If youwereto judge me, I’d rather know that now and not six months of half days from now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “You did what you thought was best for your daughter at the time.”
“So did you.”
Three fierce little words, but they clobbered Fournier with their simplicity.
“I did.” Of course he had. Maybe Gabriella had too. He would at some later time examine the notion that forgiving himself meant forgiving Gabriella as well.
Complicated business, forgiveness, but not impossible.
“Marie’s father is awful, Fournier. I don’t trust him any more now than I should have trusted him in Rome.” A note of fear laced Catherine’s words, suggesting Marie’s father might be powerful in addition to conscienceless. A younger son, she’d called him, implying that a title or an old fortune was involved.
“You have been careful, and you dallied with him long ago. If you choose to move to France and never set foot on English soil again, that is your business.”
“I want to,” Catherine said. “When the peace came—the real peace—I could not leave Mama, but my heart was in France. All I want, all I wish for, is to be a mother to my daughter and raise her with all the love in me. I cannot do that here in England, which makes the whole business complicated. The Dornings will not understand.”
“You underestimate your family. Casriel is raising an illegitimate daughter conceived prior to his marriage. She is very much one of the family.”
Catherine regarded him again, her features showing less evidence of her earlier tears. “Lady Della mentioned that. Mama claimed that Hawthorne was rumored to be as much cousin as brother, and then there is Lady Della herself.”
