Page 81 of Miss Desirable
Catherine rose and shook out her skirts. “That place was to cower among the ferns, fetching punch for the dowagers and admiring the dresses of the wallflowers. As far as the rest of Society knew, I had done nothing wrong, but they judged me anyway.”
She pivoted at the sundial and stalked back to her guests. “Why, why on God’s green and bountiful earth, should I care what a lot of small-minded, vicious hypocrites think of me?”
“You don’t?” Lady Casriel said.
“I do not.” Catherine tested those words for false bravado and found none. “But I would rather not see Miss Dubious’s legacy visited upon Fournier, whose business depends on polite society’s approval, or upon my daughter, who is truly blameless, or upon my Dorning relations, who have been kind to me when I most needed kindness.”
“You aren’t Miss Dubious anymore.” Lady Trysting extended her hand to Caesar, who took a delicate sniff of her glove and settled on his haunches at her knee. “You are Miss Desirable.”
“MissDesirable?”
Lady Casriel nodded. “I like it. I suspect this was Fournier’s idea. I heard it from Lady Bellefonte, who heard it from Her Grace of Clonmere, who heard it from her French lady’s maid.”
“Kettering heard it at Martin’s bakery,” Lady Trysting added, “and Martin is an émigré. His English clientele has grown exclusive in recent years, but most of London’s better French households do business with him too.”
Miss Desirable. “Fournier had best get safely back to England, for I have much to say to him.”
“He’d best get back to England for all manner of reasons,” Lady Casriel said. “Armbruster has applied for a special license. He should be in possession of it any day.”
No. No. No. A special license was not in the plan. “We cannot be married by special license.”
Caesar regarded her with sad, worried eyes, as did both ladies.
“We can be married by special license,” Catherine said softly. “If I must marry that man to keep my daughter safe, I will marry him.”
“It won’t come to that.” Lady Casriel’s assurance rang with more hope than certainty.
“It might,” Catherine replied. “Armbruster kissed my cheek last week. I wanted to retch into the bushes, but I bore it. I can bear much to keep Marie safe.”
Both ladies rose. “You need to change your dress.”
“I do?”
“You do. If we are to call upon Lady Castlereagh, you must appear in the first stare of tastefully subdued second mourning fashion. Obviously, you have no interest in vouchers while your loss is so recent, but you are Miss Desirable. Her ladyship will want to reclaim her acquaintance with you.”
“Right,” Catherine said, pushing to her feet. “I am Miss Desirable, and scared to death, and missing my daughter terribly, and worried sick over the man I sent to keep her safe, but by all means, let us make a social call. I am a very accomplished caller, as will doubtless soon be known to all.”
Catherine, Caesar trotting at her heels, led her guests back into the house, though she still wanted to retch into the bushes.
* * *
“Mademoiselle Fairchild asked that I also give you this.” Fournier passed the governess a likeness of mother and child. Catherine’s face had been rounder and her eyes tired, but the love in her gaze as she beheld her baby made his heart ache.
“I sketched that.” Miss Drawbaugh looked from the sketch to Fournier. She was English, surprisingly youthful, and clearly devoted to her charge. “Miss Fairchild’s letter says I am to accompany you to Bordeaux with Marie. She does not elucidate how I am to explain this journey to the child.”
Fournier spoke English because Miss Drawbaugh spoke English. From behind the garden wall, a childish voice sang a little tune in French about dancing in circles on the bridge of Avignon.
He wanted to snatch up the child and bolt for the carriage waiting by the front steps of this commodious farmhouse, and he wanted to lie down on the good French earth and sleep for a week. His head pounded, his eyes were scratchy, and his neck ached from looking over his shoulder the entire distance from Bordeaux.
“I will explain the situation to the child,” he said, “while you pack her effects. We must be away immediately.”
Miss Drawbaugh handed him back the sketch. “Mademoiselle does not say that we should bring Claire, but we should not think of traveling without a nursery maid. Etienne will worry if Claire travels to Bordeaux without him, and he’s quite good with the child too. By tomorrow noon at the latest—”
“Miss Drawbaugh, I apologize for my blunt speech, but we do not have until tomorrow. Within the hour, I will be on my way with that child, whether you can accompany us or not.”
Miss Drawbaugh gave him a very severe look, in the best tradition of her profession. “Why this great haste? This is the only home Marie has known, and children do not deal well with upheaval.”
Fournier kept his voice down only because Marie was happily dancing on the bridge of Avignon not four yards away.
