Page 11 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Poor as a church mouse,” he said, wishing it wasn’t so.
Her lips curved in a tight smile. “You are safe with me, as is Laurence. I have no interest in finding a young husband.”
“No interest… What?” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “You mean to say you’re after Laurence’s father?” A laugh exploded from him.
“I mean to say no such thing,” she said. “But why not an older man? Someone settled, seeking companionship, less likely to gamble away everything or beat me.”
“While you use your wiles to wrap him around your finger. Ah, you French women.”
“I am not French. I am English. I despise all things French.”
That would certainly make his task more difficult. Marceau was not a naturally charming man unless he was striking a deal with a wine merchant. It would be up to Gareth to convince Fleur to make her home in France.
“But why? There are many good people in France.”
“Like the ones who killed Thaddeus?”
“That was war, Fleur. They killed us, we killed them. It’s the way of things for soldiers. There’s no point in holding on to resentments.”
She eyed him sideways, a look of puzzlement in her gaze, and walked on.
“Don’t you ever wish to visit there? You certainly have family there.”
“Do I? Why have they not sought me out?” Her voice crackled with rare emotion, but the wings of her bonnet hid her face.
They have left me to do that. He could see it must be done carefully. Even the hardiest of flowers could be blown over by a strong wind.
“Perhaps… perhaps you’re an heiress.”
“Bah.”
“What if I investigate? Look for your family? Will you promise to meet them?”
They’d reached the front steps of Bicton Grange. Fleur held out her hand. “You’ll find no one. They were killed in the terror and the fighting. And those who weren’t, those who supported the revolution and Bonaparte, they are dead to me. Now, please may I have the book?”
He handed it over and waited until the door opened and then closed on her.
Fleur was more resentful than most of the soldiers he knew. He turned and retraced his steps to Sherington Manor, remembering the taunts young Fleur had received from those riffraff children from Lower Reabridge. He could still feel the satisfying crack of the bigger fellow’s nose under his fist.
Fleur had been hurt deeply. He ought to have realized that business of not speaking had been young Fleur’s punishment against her small world. To lose her parents, to be placed with strangers, to come to a country where she was taunted about who she was… Marceau would not understand. He might well become the kind of husband who would beat her.
Walking back to Sherington Manor in the descending twilight, he passed groups of hired harvest workers heading to their rest. Some looked surlier than others, grownup versions of those bullies taunting his Petal so many years ago. It was good he’d escorted her home. At least he could offer her that sort of protection.
The rest though… The Veuve wanted this match with Marceau, and he’d promised to try to arrange it as a matter of honor.
But what of Fleur’s wishes? He ought to have expected the same stubborn Fleur, grown stronger with age, but this Fleur—she was stubborn, that was true, but she was also homeless, desperate, vulnerable…
And here to find a husband. If Gareth delayed an introduction to Marceau much longer, Fleur might find someone else.
There was talk of the ladies paying a call on a family he didn’t know tomorrow. Perhaps he’d look out and attach himself to their party.
* * *
“Miss Farnham is a lovely girl,”Dulcinea said. “A pity Mr. Farnham was out, but I’m happy to learn that the vicar is at home today.”
From her perch on the gig’s cargo box, Cora chattered away about her friend, Miss Farnham, and the vicar, who was one of her guardians, and the Reabridge shops, all the while nibbling biscuits from the basket on her lap.
Fleur scarcely listened, pretending to concentrate on handling the lines. It had rained the night before, and there were muddy patches to navigate.
