Page 7 of Miss Desirable
Jules, who hailed from Auvergne, bowed. “Very good, Mr. Dorning. You are in a difficult mood. You demand the best vintages be opened. I will warn the kitchen. The Iris Salon is available, if that would suit.”
Dorning smiled. “Vive le France. The Iris Salon will do. Come along, Fournier, and let us continue our discussion.”
Fournier did not want to continue the discussion. He did not want to provide Dorning a free lesson on the subtleties of good claret. He did not want to entangle himself in the troubles of a woman who was all but a stranger to him, and a stranger with at least seven English brothers better placed to take her situation in hand.
Dorning bounded up the steps and waited on the first landing. “She needs you,” he said. “Nobody else can discreetly see to the matter.”
And those were the exact words Fournier most especially did not want to hear. He took the steps slowly, as a man climbs to his doom, all the while mentally choosing among the most expensive bottles of claret ever to grace the club’s cellars.
* * *
“Miss, you have a caller.” Five clipped words were sufficient to convey that Deems was mortally offended by the arrival of company. Deems also managed to imply that such a great impropriety was Catherine’s fault.
She set aside her Ovid and rose. “The condolence calls must begin sometime.” She took the card from Deems’s silver salver, expecting to see that some widow or gossip was leading the charge.
Xavier G. Fournier.The name was a shock and a pleasure. The card, like the man, was quietly elegant. Excellent stock, a coat of arms embossed on one side, and the name in swirling type. Purple ink, of all the vanities, probably a nod to his lovely clarets.
“Your caller is French,” Deems said, as if this was further proof that the Fairchild household had fallen into ruin.
Catherine was within her rights to refuse callers for another few weeks, but if she sent Fournier away, he’d likely keep coming back. She doubted he was planning to join the list of her detractors, but neither would his errand be social.
“Show him to the family parlor, Deems.”
Bushy white eyebrows rose to biblical heights. “Thefamilyparlor, miss?”
“The fire has not been lit in the formal parlor. I refuse to freeze for the sake of a few platitudes from one of Papa’s Continental connections. Please have the kitchen send up a tray.”
The late Lord Fairchild had accepted diplomatic postings from the Baltic to Italy to Canada, the most recent having been a brief stint in Paris. Fournier might well have crossed paths with Papa in Paris, and in any case, Deems responded to overt displays of authority provided the matter was petty. He bowed slightly and withdrew.
His bows to Catherine were never more than slight, and she well knew why. The housekeeper, out of loyalty to Mama’s memory, had become Catherine’s staunch ally, and thus the house was in a constant state of domestic skirmishing.
Catherine inspected her appearance in the mirror over the sideboard, and as always, eyes of the absolute wrong color gazed back at her. Every other feature was plain, as if to ensure nobody missed the peculiarity of her eyes.
She made her way to the family parlor, tarrying in the doorway to study her guest. Fournier’s back was to her, the line of his burgundy morning coat showing off an excellent pair of shoulders and tapering to a lean waist.
“You might as well join me,” he said without turning. “I do not bite, Miss Fairchild.” His tone was humorous and patient, and Catherine should not be so pleased simply to hear that accented voice.
“But you do presume. This is a house of mourning, monsieur.”
He turned and bowed. “All the more reason why friends should come along to offer comfort and support. Good day, Miss Fairchild, and my condolences on your losses.”
He knew her name, he knew where she lived, and he knew of her specific bereavements. Fast work, considering he’d met Catherine a mere twenty-four hours ago.
“Thank you,” she said, offering a curtsey and advancing into the room. “I’ve sent for a tray and can offer you tea, but you really need not have called.”
“Do you mean Ishouldnot have called? In the opinion of polite society, you must be left in solitude to wrestle with your grief for weeks. Is grief like a criminal offense, then, such that the more severe the loss, the longer the sentence? If the French adopted these mourning eccentricities, the entire nation would be hung in crepe and shut up like anchorites for another twenty years.”
Catherine gestured to the sofa. “You are diverting, and for that, I thank you. I was never one for swanning about in Society to begin with and certainly not without my mother. I am not badton, but I am questionable. The gossips labeled me Miss Dubious, owing to my antecedents, my bookish inclinations, and my perceived lack of settlements. Please do have a seat.”
Fournier waited until Catherine had taken the wing chair before the fire—Mama’s favorite. If Catherine closed her eyes, she could imagine a whiff of Mama’s signature perfume wafting from the upholstery. Heady damasks with a hint of spice.
Mama, I miss you so.
Fournier took the end of the sofa closest to Catherine’s seat. “How are you, Miss Fairchild? We have already established that I am presuming, so I might as well live up to my reputation.”
“Thank you for asking. One manages.”
His expression changed, gaze narrowing. “The weather is much improved over yesterday, is it not? Such a downpour, but a good rain does reduce the dust.”
