Page 87 of Miss Desirable
Catherine drew back, her expression severe. “I am so grateful, so impressed, so agog at your audacity and generosity and sheer bravado… If heaven granted me three wishes, Xavier Fournier, they would all be that my daughter had you for her father.”
She leaned into him again, holding for dear life, lest she succumb to tears yet again.
“One hoped you would approve.” A slight catch in his voice suggested Catherine was not the only party in the grip of strong emotion. “Marie is a bright, dear child, and very much like her mother. Did she enjoy the gardening?”
In defense of parental dignity, Catherine allowed the change of subject. She had spent the past hour repotting ferns with Marie, who along with Fournier had been enjoying Sycamore and Jeanette Dorning’s hospitality.
“She has the family penchant for growing things,” Catherine said. “She will quiz you about the vineyards without mercy.”
Sycamore had suggested that help with the gardening would be appreciated and then had quietly withdrawn. Marie had become engrossed with dark earth, green plants, and her mother’s company. She’d chattered about bears, seagulls, Etienne’s boots, and the size of the ocean. She flitted from English to French with an occasional dip into Italian and German, and her imagination was limitless.
If we can speak with the English or the Italians, why not with the rabbits and cats? Surely an animal as wise as a cat has a language known to other cats?
Why is the sky blue sometimes, or the ocean green?
Why is winter cold and summer hot?
Marie refrained from the more vexing questions. Why had her mother left her in France? Was that shouting, nasty man really her papa?
The time for those questions would come, and Catherine would delight in answering them, as difficult as the topics might be. When Miss Drawbaugh insisted that Marie return to the nursery for a change of pinafore, Catherine had not wanted to allow the child from her sight.
Fournier had taken her hand, as if he’d known the struggle in her heart, and the instant they’d been alone in the garden, he’d wrapped her in a hug.
“Will your fiction hold up?” Catherine asked, drawing Fournier into the gazebo that sat at the foot of the Dornings’ garden. “Are there documents that name you as the father of a girl child of Marie’s age?”
Fournier’s eyes were ringed with shadows, his mouth bracketed with grooves of fatigue, but he seated Catherine with his usual courtesy and took her hand when he came down beside her.
“Children come in many shapes and sizes. Mignon’s hair was lighter than Marie’s is, and she might have been born a few months earlier than Marie. I have the documents recording Mignon’s birth with me. Her death came during the tumult at the end of the war and was not to my knowledge officially noted. Her grave, may she rest in peace, is unmarked.” He kissed Catherine’s dirty knuckles. “I should have asked you before I assumed even the fictional honor of Marie’s paternity, but…”
He stroked her fingers, his gaze going to the ferns repotted on the gazebo’s steps.
“But?”
“If the problem we faced was keeping you and the child safe, then I could marry you and turn the château into a fortress, but that is what your parents did. They kept you safe—from the gossips, from scandal, from your own ambitions—until all that safety made you reckless. I decided to solve a different problem—how to reach for both safety and happiness with you and your daughter.”
Catherine considered that version of events and the rich dark earth beneath her fingernails. “You are not wrong. Mama and Papa did what they thought was best for me. The result was that polite society’s censure came to loom in my mind as a much more dire fate than it is. Still, I would not wish that gauntlet on my daughter. If Marie isyourdaughter, officially, then she need not fear the fate I dreaded. You are very generous, also courageous, Fournier.”
“I am emboldened by love and a bit devious of necessity.”
She kissed his cheek. “I’ve learned a few other things in your absence, my bold fellow.”
“Did you learn that you missed me? I missed you terribly. A thousand times, I wished I could show you a beautiful vista, a sunset at sea. I longed to walk the vineyards with you, to introduce you to the wines that a Bordelais bottles for his own pleasure rather than for export. I love France, Catherine, and I love you. If I did not love Marie when I rose today, I certainly became enthralled with her when she told Armbruster he needed a nap.”
“His lordship needs a good hiding. You love France?”
Fournier nodded. “I have avoided going home to Bordeaux for anything but necessary business, because the memories were difficult—the more recent memories. They were recollections of heartache, loss, and failure. I have a great deal of money to show for my years in London, but what does the money matter when I have nobody to make happy memories with? I am tired, Catherine, and I have been tired for too long. I would like togo home and rest, and I would like you and Marie to come with me.”
“You will tell the world she is your daughter?”
“If you and she will allow it. Between us, a less comfortable truth can be acknowledged. You gave Armbruster a chance to admit his relationship with the child, and he declined that very great honor. Perhaps he hopes the child is not his. I want to kill him for that, but he is too pathetic. Tell me you missed me.”
“I missed you,” Catherine said, leaning into his side. “I missed you terribly, and I would love to bide in France with you. You cannot kill Armbruster.”
“Ah. You will allow me to disfigure him,non?”
“No, Fournier.”
“Merely a small scar across his arrogant nose. He insulted you and Marie and deserves to be held accountable.”
