Page 82 of Miss Desirable
“Children deal adequately with upheaval if the adults around them deal with it. Miss Fairchild has come into money. By underhanded tactics, Marie’s father now knows of the lady’s fortune and of Marie’s existence. He thinks to use Marie as a pawn in his greedy games, and if you dither and dawdle, he might well succeed. Will you be the reason mother and child must become fugitives?”
A worse possibility had occurred to Fournier amid the exhausted blur of recent days: Ablesdorf might steal the child. His reputation included thefts of many varieties, and he was a competent forger. If he got his hands on Marie, she would soon become Josephina Dupont or Evette Garnier, and she would disappear with Ablesdorf until Armbruster wanted her found.
Miss Drawbaugh’s Governess of Doom frown became an intelligent woman’s careful perusal. “Miss Fairchild says I am to trust you and yield to your guidance in every particular.”
“You are an English governess. I do not expect miracles in the yielding-to-guidance department.”
“Marie’s first language is French, but her English is nearly flawless. Speak to her in English, and she will more strongly associate you with her mother. Send your coachman and grooms to the kitchen. Etienne will water the horses and see that they have some grain. Give me thirty minutes, and then have your grooms fetch the valises.”
“My thanks. You will introduce me to the child?”
Miss Drawbaugh stuck her fine English nose in the air. “You may introduce yourself. I have a valise to pack.” She stalked into the house, another tempest wreaking havoc on Fournier’s careful plans.
“The Bay of Biscay was worse,” he muttered, trying to compose himself for an encounter with a small child. A small girl child who occupied the center of Catherine Fairchild’s universe.
The coach had nearly lost a wheel, one of the horses had come up lame, and the sky was threatening a serious spring storm, but none of that mattered.
Fournier ran a hand through hair much in need of combing and let himself into the garden.
The child stopped singing and dancing in a circle with a stuffed bear. She had dark brown hair that glinted auburn in the sun, her mother’s chin and nose, and blue, blue eyes.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Marie. Je m’appelle Fournier.” He’d forgotten to speak English.
She gazed up at him with the same serious reserve that so often characterized her mother. “Drawbaugh was out of patience with you,” she replied in French. “She is often out of patience with me. Were you naughty?”
“I am very tired, and worried.”
“You need a snack and a nap?”
“Oui. Yes. Marie, your mother has sent me to fetch you.”
“Mama sent you? Will you take me to her?” Such careful hope lay in that question, such hard-earned caution. Fournier’s heart broke to see that legacy of caution already taking root in the child.
“Eventually, your mama will come to France, but for now, we will go as far as Bordeaux. You must not be worried, because Drawbaugh and I and Claire will take very good care of you.”
Fine blue eyes considered him with more gravity than a small girl ought to possess. “Etienne must come, too, if Claire comes. And Berthold.”
An image of a long, horsey face came to mind. “Who in God’s name is Berthold?”
“My bear—Bear-told, you know? Half French and half English.” She smiled at him, swinging the bear by the arm, and the resemblance to Catherine was again uncanny.
“I have a horse named Bertold. He is also half French and half English.”
Marie spun around. “You have a horse? Is he very big, and all white, and can he leap the moon?”
“He is a fine fellow, and I hope one day you can meet him. Let’s see about that snack, shall we? Bordeaux is at least two days’ journey, and we must start very soon.”
The child proved an agreeable traveler, and the young fellow Etienne was indeed good with her, with the horses, and most significantly, with Miss Drawbaugh and the nurserymaid, Claire.
As they prepared to leave the innyard on the second morning of their journey, Etienne pretended to pick the hoof of the offside wheeler.
“He’s back,” Etienne said quietly. “You see him, monsieur?”
“The tinker,” Fournier replied, studying the sky. “He was a parson yesterday.”
“He stays always one hill behind us, and he does not have the eyes of a man of God.”
“You are armed?”
