Page 72 of Miss Desirable
She feared for Marie, though until this discussion with Fournier, those fears had been predictable. Childhood illnesses, a girl’s heartaches, and no mother on hand to comfort and soothe. She feared for Marie’s reception in Society. Feared that a very great deal.
She feared the awkwardness of explaining to her Dorning relatives why, having acquired substantial wealth, she’d settle for a fribbling younger son as a husband.
Though in all her brooding and pondering, she’d never admitted that Armbruster’s notions of parenting might be worse for Marie than having no father at all. Fournier was right about that too—adding a worse fear yet to Catherine’s pile of woes.
And now he was threatening to leave—leave her and leave England—and she could not blame him and could not ask him to stay.
But could she trust him?
Fournier had been a father of sorts, had held a child’s happiness in his hands. He knew how easily a bitter word or cold stare could bruise a little girl’s heart. Fournier was thinking clearly, consulting hard-won experience, while Catherine was flailing about much as she had as a younger woman.
Had she learned nothing from her misadventures? Was she supposed to be Marie’s sole champion as well as her own? When had she made that choice, and was it a good choice?
Fournier stood silent and patient, while Catherine tried to envision a life without him.
“I love my daughter,” she said slowly. “More than anything, I want to be a mother to her, but that has been denied me. I was willing to settle for being her distant benefactress for a time, because I thought that was best for her. You are right, though, that Armbruster can add to her misery. I had not considered that.” Admitting that oversight was painful, but Fournier was the one person who had never expected Catherine to dissemble.
He watched her closely, his expression giving away nothing. “I cannot make this choice for you, Catherine, but what would your own mother tell you to do?”
The question was unexpected, and worth pondering. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”
“I am sure she was.”
He could not know that, but the words comforted. “I want Marie to be proud of me, and that…”
“Yes?”
Behind that patience Fournier adopted like an ermine robe lay a banked passion that Catherine had seen only on intimate occasions. That same passion had fueled the growth of his business, the unthinkable wartime risks, the unshakable sense of honor that defined Xavier Fournier in all circumstances.
“If I marry Armbruster, Marie might someday ask me why I chose such an arrogant buffoon for my husband, despite my having the means to live anywhere. She might ask me why being Lord Fortescue’s by-blow was such a great privilege, when she’d been happy and loved in Cahors amid a far more tolerant society.”
Weariness of heart threatened to steal the rest of Catherine’s admissions, but mother-love was a force of nature and more determined than even Catherine had known.
She was not the girl she’d been in Rome, neither was she Miss Dubious. She was Marie’s mother, and Fournier’s beloved.
“If I marry Armbruster,” Catherine went on, “I will tell Marie that my choice was made out of love, but in truth, if I become Armbruster’s wife, my choice will have been made out of fear. I am afraid of Fortescue Armbruster, and for that, I hate him. He and I need not be enemies, but he has comported himself as precisely that. He has enjoyed my ruination and doubtless thinks himself quite clever for scheming against me yet again. I might deserve him for a husband, but Marie does not deserve him for a father.”
“One is compelled to agree with only that last bit.”
A smile tugged at Catherine’s heart. “So self-possessed. I wish I had one-tenth of your savoir faire, Fournier, because it’s one thing for me to say I cannot marry Armbruster and quite another for me to know what to do about him. He has power, and not a kind of power I can fight.”
“You have power too,” Fournier said, “and you have me. I daresay you have a regiment of Dornings at your disposal and more than a few diplomatic wives. Will you allow me to fight this battle at your side or will you go meekly to the fate Armbruster has in store for you, your daughter, and your fortune?”
Catherine thought of endless evenings chatting meekly among the wallflowers, more evenings meekly sitting out dance after dance. That fate was the best Marie would look forward to, if Catherine married Fortescue Armbruster. Slighted, ignored, overlooked, or—worse—insulted and helpless to defend herself.
“We fight,” Catherine said. “I don’t know how, where, or with what weapons, but we fight.” That choice felt right—also terrifying.
Fournier’s gaze lit with unholy determination. “The very first thing we must do when planning this campaign is gather every available scrap of information we can about the foe and only then develop our strategy.”
Catherine wandered to the bench beneath the lime tree and patted the place beside her. “You have the energy for this fight. That’s good, because I’m not sure I do.”
“You have carried the standard on your own for far too long,chérie. Time to call up the reserves and put the enemy to rout. We French excel at strategy, and this cause is dear to my heart.”
Catherine remained talking quietly in the garden with Fournier as the sun rose. The discussion required her to focus on matters she’d rather ignore. She was terrified for her daughter and not a little worried for Fournier.
What sustained her, though, was the simple comfort of Fournier’s presence. He put his nimble mind and shrewd intelligence at her disposal and listened intently. He was a tender and passionate lover, also inventive and tireless, but this… this taking Catherine’s fears and happiness to heart, posing hard questions and listening to her replies, this was utterly precious and a balm to her soul.
Fournier’s friendship was worth fighting for.
