A man who would not see thirty again, who hadn’t seen thirty for some time, had no business allowing a female to knock him off-balance. Fournier lectured himself on this topic as he waited for Miss Fairchild to descend from her bonnet-fetching expedition. He lectured himself at greater length as he escorted her into a garden with prodigiously high walls—seven feet at least.
Fournier approved of high walls. Better for privacy and for safety.
Though privacy and safety could become so much dreariness. Catherine Fairchild was the opposite of dreary. She was quick, forthright, and smarter than she wanted the world to know.
A conundrum, in other words. “The fellow I’d like you to meet is at the gate,” Fournier said. “Waiting in the alley.”
Miss Fairchild slanted him a look. “You would not try to kidnap me, would you?”
“Is that hope I hear in your voice, mademoiselle?”
“Somebody did try, during the Congress of Vienna. Holding the wives and daughters of diplomats for ransom became a sort of cottage industry in certain quarters. I believe all were returned unharmed, but rumors abounded regarding the perpetrators’ motives.”
“Miss Fairchild, I must compliment you on your highly original version of small talk. How were your kidnappers foiled?”
She paused to consider a statue of some heroically muscled Greek fellow preparing to hurl a discus.
“How did they stay on?” she murmured, gaze upon the statue’s crotch.
Fournier took a moment to realize that the lady referred not to granite testicles, but to the cluster of fig leaves obscuring the same from view.
“They didn’t. The Greeks competed naked, as I understand it. Those fig leaves are held fast by the glue of British prudery. Tell me of your kidnappers.”
She patted the statue’s hip and resumed walking. “My kidnappers were amateurs. I kicked one in his… fig leaves and brandished my peashooter at the other. Vienna is quite brisk in wintertime, so I carried a muff, an ideal place to conceal weapons. My footman did not do the expected thing and disappear at the first sign of trouble, though the kidnappers did.”
She offered this recitation as if she were remarking the progress of the hyacinths blooming along the south-facing wall.
Hyacinths one shade paler than her eyes. “Those amateurs have probably been thanking le bon Dieu for their narrow escape ever since. I am not in the business of kidnapping fair demoiselles, fortunately for me and my fig leaves. If you would please wait here?”
Fournier was also not in the habit of becoming infatuated, not with young ladies. He’d allowed himself to fall for an exquisite Beaujolais nouveau two years ago. A superlative Merlot could still turn his figurative head, but he hoped a woman would never again have that honor.
The feelings that presaged such folly were all too obvious. A lightness of spirit when in the lady’s presence. A tendency to consider her situation when absent from her. A curiosity about her that bore much of eagerness and not enough of caution. Attentiveness above and beyond the natural vigilance of any alert mind.
Joy limned with anxiety. Speculations about the future that had no basis in reality.
Catherine Fairchild could inspire much foolishness if Xavier were not careful.
She waited for him on the walkway as he’d asked her to, her black weeds a stark contrast to a garden bathed in spring sunshine. As much as mourning attire set her apart, her experience as a diplomat’s daughter apparently did as well.
As did her eyes, so watchful and lovely.
Fournier opened the gate. “Caesar, come.”
A stately mastiff trotted into the garden. He sniffed delicately at Miss Fairchild’s hand, then sat on his haunches by her side.
“He’ll lean upon you if you allow it,” Fournier said. “The beast exudes such dignity as his species claims, then shows himself to be a shameless flirt.”
Miss Fairchild stroked the dog’s head. “He’s majestic. His name is Caesar?”
Soulful dark eyes turned on Miss Fairchild as she spoke the dog’s name.
“He’s a wretched beggar, not an emperor,” Fournier replied, closing the gate. “Caesar belongs to a friend, so please don’t think I’m responsible for giving the beast airs above his station. My friend is preparing to travel with her spouse now that the weather is moderating. I thought you could use some company, and Caesar will mope for having been left behind.”
He’d mope for about fifteen minutes, before his pathetic-puppy routine earned him a juicy bone from the cook, a nibble of ham from the footmen, a game of fetch-the-stick with the grooms, and a protracted brushing out from the gardener.
“Being left behind is awful,” Miss Fairchild said. “How long can he stay?”
She pulled gently on the dog’s silky ear, and Fournier had to look away. “Their Graces will be traveling until summer, though you could also send to Willow Dorning for your own dog.”
The disgraceful cur was leaning now, his great bulk comfortably wedged against Miss Fairchild’s leg as he doubtless got dog hair all over her skirts.
“This is a ducal pet?” She switched to the other ear.
“Right now, he is a lonely beast, abandoned to the indifferent attentions of a staff who were relieved to see the back of him.”
The Duchess of Quimbey’s housekeeper had harangued Fournier for a quarter hour about dear Cee-Cee’s moods and crotchets. The butler’s lecture had been even longer.
“I haven’t a leash,” Miss Fairchild said.
“You won’t need one. He’s that well trained. You tell him to sit, and he will sit until midsummer. You tell him to stay, he will still be where you left him until Michaelmas. He can guard, hold, fetch, and he knows the usual parlor tricks.”
“What is the command for…” Her hand slowed. “Deterring an intruder?”
“‘Attack,’ though the dog will also make a lot of noise if you tell him to bark.”
Caesar cocked his head and gave a soft woof.
“Good boy,” Miss Fairchild murmured. “I’ve always wanted a dog. We never knew when Papa would have a new posting, or where that posting would be, so a pet wasn’t possible. I can’t imagine Caesar would enjoy the climate in Cairo very much.”
Caesar’s gaze had gone from adoring to besotted, while Fournier was jealous of a damned dog.
“He’s enjoying your company already,” Fournier said, “and thus I have accomplished what I set out to do. You will sack Deems today?”
“After the kitchen serves lunch, I will inform Deems of his good fortune and thank him for all his years of loyal service.”
“And tell him that he has lodgings elsewhere for the nonce.” That part mattered very much. If one wanted a villain to flee the scene, one had to provide him an escape route.
“You were very considerate, monsieur, to arrange for me to borrow Caesar. I would never have thought… That is…” Miss Fairchild used the back of her hand to swipe at her cheek. “Caesar and I will get on famously. You have my thanks.”
The other side of all those stupid, infatuated feelings reared its inane head: a horror of seeing the lady displeased or discommoded, an inability to ignore her suffering.
“I must apologize,” Fournier said, passing over his handkerchief. “I did not mean to upset you.”
“You have not upset me.” She touched his linen to the corners of her eyes. “I am simply not at my best. A bereavement brings many adjustments, and I never anticipated one result might be to introduce me to a new friend.”
She meant the dog. Fournier was almost certain she meant the dog.
“When my wife died, I was lost,” Fournier said. “Gabriella was my everything. I have been years putting myself back together, but what choice does one have?”
“You were married?”
“I don’t generally speak of it.” He never spoke of it. Goddard probably knew, but Goddard was blessedly discreet. “In the last years of my marriage, my wife remained in France, while I spent most of my time in London. Thanks to the decimation of the French fleet at Trafalgar, Napoleon’s blockade was not as formidable as it might have been, but I still wish…”
That he’d never agreed to leave Gabriella in France, tending to the vineyards and hoping the château would still be standing after the next wave of violence.
That he’d not waited so long to send Gabriella to her cousins.
That he’d had the wisdom to withstand the selfish impulse that had seen him married to her in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Fairchild said, touching his shoulder. “You seem so self-possessed, the equal of any situation, and yet, I know such savoir faire is usually earned at a high price.” She folded Fournier’s handkerchief into eighths and tucked it into her pocket. “I hope she appreciated you.”
“She did.” Gabriella had appreciated more being lady of a fine château and then de facto supervisor of the winemaking. Even her boldness and confidence had appealed to him, at first.
“You have savoir faire too,” Fournier said, knowing the change of subject was clumsy. “But that puts you out of the common mode in the society where you dwell. I think you might be happier on the Continent.”
He would love to show her his home, love to walk with her in the cool of the morning as the mist rose from the river and the sun shone golden on the vineyards. That he could experience such longings nearly in the same breath as he mentioned Gabriella was astonishing.
Where guilt should have been, Fournier instead felt a measure of relief. Gabby had been gone for years, and she would not have wanted him to wallow. Then too, there was little of desire in these longings, just enough desire to confirm that Fournier’s animal spirits had not expired along with his wife.
“I did enjoy my time abroad,” Miss Fairchild said, “and I will enjoy getting to know Caesar. I am in your debt, monsieur.”
“Friends do not keep a tally of kindnesses, Miss Fairchild, and it is Caesar who is in my debt—and yours.” A fine little exit line, so Fournier bowed. “I will be on my way. Send to me if you have need, and thank you for extending your hospitality to Caesar. If he becomes troublesome, I will escort him back to his home.”
She walked with Fournier to the gate, the dog panting at her side. “And if I merely want to see a friendly face? If I long to stroll my garden while recounting attempted kidnappings and admiring nearly naked statues? Must I have need of you to gain your notice?”
She had his notice, and that was not a good thing. “One does not want to intrude.”
“You excel at intruding. You are rather like Sycamore Dorning in that regard.”
Fournier paused at the gate and mustered his reserves of charm. “I am tall and dark-haired, but that is where my resemblance to your brother ends. To suggest otherwise will provoke me to strutting and dramatic proclamations, which will only prove your point. Take good care of Caesar, and he will take care of you. I wish you good day.”
He bowed over her hand, her fingers cool in his grasp.
“Will you call again?” she asked, keeping a grip on him. “Without a butler, I will be forced to purchase my own wine. You might as well agree to pay the occasional call, monsieur, lest I ambush you among your Merlots.”
She had already ambushed him—among the Merlots, over the tea service, and all over again before the discus thrower.
Fournier was reminded that she’d chosen the Cahors for reasons he still did not understand, that she’d been loath to sack a butler who far overstepped his authority. Formidable Catherine Fairchild might be, but she was also without allies.
“I will call again,” he said, “and we will tour your wine cellar, and there will be no need for you to lurk among my Merlots.”
He bowed again and let himself out through the gate before he did something truly stupid, like kissing her in her own back garden, where any servant could witness him being once again lured into utmost folly.
“And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Trask extended a hand to Caesar. “He has the look of a lad who’d enjoy Cook’s soupbones.”
Harry followed Mrs. Trask into the library, a tea tray in his hands, wariness in his eyes.
“Caesar is on loan to me while his owners travel,” Catherine said. “Thank you, Harry. Tray on the desk, please. You may leave the door open, and if you’d welcome any callers, I’d appreciate it.”
Catherine wanted this exchange with Mrs. Trask to be overheard, and leaving the door open would accomplish that end. Deems had left the library on a frigid bow not a quarter hour past and had gone directly to his quarters, where he was doubtless packing his effects.
Harry set down the tray, bowed, and sent Caesar another dubious glance.
“Caesar is very well trained,” Catherine said, “and I’m sure Nevin will be happy to take him for the occasional outing.” Particularly if Nevin, the undergroom, could use walking the dog as a pretext to stop by the corner pub.
“My Nevvie likes dogs,” Mrs. Trask said, slipping into the chair facing the desk. “He and yon canine will manage splendidly.”
Harry withdrew rather than argue with Mrs. Trask. She was Nevin’s aunt, and he was the apple of her eye, much to the frustration of those who had to work with him. Nevin was cheerful, good with the horses, and willing to work as long as somebody stood over him the whole while and kept him from wandering away from the job.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Trask said, laying a ledger on the desk. “Nevin’s a slacker. He’s not, but he’s imaginative and has wanted for guidance. Puts me in mind of his mother. A featherbrain when she was young. You’re very good to keep him on when I know you won’t be using the carriage much for some time.”
“He’s young,” Catherine said. “He has time to settle to his duties. Let’s have a look at the accounts, shall we?”
Catherine’s mother, during her husband’s frequent protracted absences, had instituted this practice of reviewing accounts, as well as menus, with the housekeeper over a cup of tea. Catherine had endured the same exercise with Deems on a monthly basis—no tea—and found the undertaking more grueling than an archbishop’s annual sermon on temperance.
Every expense, explained to the penny, every month.
Mrs. Trask, by contrast, passed over her ledger book and left it to Catherine to raise questions. They shared a tea tray and chatted about menus and the household staff in general.
“I’ve retired Deems,” Catherine said when the accounts had been dealt with. “He’s earned his pension and then some, and I’m sure my parents would want him to have some time with family after all his years of service.”
He’d not actually been with the Fairchilds that long—only since their return from Vienna—but he was old enough to be put out to pasture.
“Deems is a pensioner now?” Mrs. Trask looked neither pleased nor dismayed, but then, she was Scottish and practical to her sturdy bones. She was also a handsome woman, her red hair fading to ivory at her temples and her smile often in evidence. “He’ll find another job, that one. Idleness is the devil’s workshop. If he said it once, he said it twelve times a day.”
“And yet,” Catherine replied, “even the Deity idled away at least one whole day out of seven. A theological puzzle, I suppose.”
They shared a smile, and all over again, Catherine felt the relief of having ousted Deems from her household. He’d truly been a blight, making all the burdens of mourning doubly oppressive.
“Will you hire another butler?” Mrs. Trask asked. “Harry would love to step into Deems’s role, but our Harry was never permitted to assist Deems with the inventories and decanting and accounts. Harry would have a lot to learn.”
And without a butler on hand, Mrs. Trask would become the undisputed senior domestic.
“We will have few callers for at least the next month,” Catherine said, “and I’m sure our stores of wine will be adequate for the present. I haven’t sent to the agencies just yet, but I likely will soon.”
“Life goes on,” Mrs. Trask said, finishing her tea. “We’ll manage, as we always do, miss. That Frenchie who was here this morning sells wine. Makes it too. He’s the one who brought the dog around, isn’t he?”
No point denying what Mrs. Trask had likely seen with her own eyes. “Monsieur Fournier did ask me to look after Caesar for a time. You should know that Monsieur is a particular friend to my extended family. The staff is to show him every courtesy.”
Catherine had no extended family in London, other than the Dornings.
“I’ve always liked dogs,” Mrs. Trask said. “I like dogs better than I like most people, to tell you the truth. Should we anticipate any other changes to the staff, miss?”
A reasonable, if bold, question, but then, Mrs. Trask’s forthright nature was part of her charm. No disapproving glances. No sermons about the price of candles. No subtle innuendo about stray dogs or handsome Frenchmen.
“You may assure the others their posts are secure,” Catherine said. “I am grateful to have familiar faces around me as I grieve my mother’s passing.”
“You are very like her ladyship,” Mrs. Trask said, organizing the dishes on the tea tray. “She wasn’t one to suffer fools, but she was kind. The best sort to work for. I’ll take these menus down to Cook, shall I?”
“Please do, and if Deems needs assistance with his effects, we will offer him that aid.”
“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Trask rose. “To be completely honest, Deems wasn’t the most…”
“We will miss him,” Catherine said, rather than encourage unkind talk. “He was conscientious in the extreme and competent in every regard. I have written him a character to that effect in case he wishes to pursue further employment, but my mother made it plain he had earned a pension.”
Mama hadn’t done any such thing. She’d left dealing with Deems to Catherine, claiming that Deems had a furtive air. Mama of all people would understand why Catherine had heeded Fournier’s advice.
Mrs. Trask lifted the tea tray and rested it against her hip. “Perhaps the Frenchman can find you a new butler. French butlers are all the rage, and I’m told they abound on the staffs of the gentlemen’s clubs too.”
“Monsieur is merely a friend, Mrs. Trask. He is no stranger to grief himself and is truly a family connection.”
Xavier Fournier was no stranger to deception either. He’d clearly lost the love of his life when his wife had died, and yet, to all appearances, he was the nearest thing to a bon vivant. Catherine was certain he hadn’t meant to allude to his own bereavement, but she liked him better for having made that admission.
Trusted him a little more too, drat the man.
Mrs. Trask departed, taking the tray with her, and Catherine closed the library door. A fussier housekeeper would have left the tray for the maids or footmen, but by degrees and inches, Catherine was coming to realize that the house was no longer that of Lord Fairchild, diplomat and discreet international negotiator. Nobody need be fussy about much of anything, especially now that Deems had been given the sack.
Nor was the household that of his lordship’s gracious, quiet widow.
The household was Catherine’s, and if she chose to admit friends on the occasional social call, she had that right. Nobody could object to a near spinster taking tea with a family friend, could they?
“I’m lying to myself.”
At Catherine’s words, Caesar looked up from his place on the carpet.
“The simple truth is, I like Fournier. He is hard to shock, he doesn’t judge, and his flirtation is the kind that need not be taken as flirtation at all.” More like gentle teasing.
Caesar’s expression went from inquisitive to vaguely worried.
“I know,” Catherine said. “Friendship with him must go nowhere, but can’t I enjoy his company in the odd moment? You are only on loan to me, and already, I am attached.”
Had Fournier known how lonely Catherine had become? How hard she’d had to fight the temptation to hug the dog?
“I have correspondence to see to,” she said. “More perishing letters of condolence no doubt.” A diplomat’s widow knew everybody, apparently. Some of the letters had come from Canada, Saint Petersburg, Greece… A few had come from royal courts.
“Perhaps I should go to Greece,” Catherine said, retrieving the stack of mail from the tray at the corner of the desk. “Except I won’t go to Greece, or anywhere else. I won’t cause talk, as much as I am sick to death of pretending.”
She sorted through the post, about half the missives bearing the black border indicating a card of condolence. The flood was ebbing, which was fortunate. Acknowledgments were a chore Catherine had to force herself to complete. She had sorted to the end of the stack—bills to the left, letters to the right—when she reached the limit of her willingness to deal in gracious, empty gestures.
“Come,” she said to Caesar, putting both stacks aside. “I will introduce you to Nevin. As long as you don’t mind stopping by The Boar’s Bride on every outing, you will be walked as much as you please.”
She made her way back to the garden, and rather than take Caesar to the mews, she tossed a stick for him and wished for the ten thousandth time that she had not been such a foolish young woman. What would Xavier Fournier think of her if he learned of her past?
She did not voice that question even to Caesar, even in the relative privacy of the walled garden.
“Nothing good could come of airing old linen,” Catherine murmured, and yet, she looked forward to Monsieur’s next call. Foolish of her, but she had the sense that as much as she longed for friendship and affection, Fournier did as well. She had little enough of either to offer him, though the truth was, she felt safer when he was on hand.
“I have it from no less authority than Mrs. Sycamore Dorning that you need to get out.” Fournier injected an apologetic note into his statement. “I must agree with her.” Miss Fairchild looked a trifle wan compared to when he’d seen her earlier in the week.
Not tired, exactly, but daunted. Her smile was gently forced, she relinquished Fournier’s hand at the earliest instant, and she was wearing the same dress she’d had on three days ago.
Less work for the staff, to simply don the wrinkled attire. Fournier had told himself the same thing after he’d lost Gabriella. The British practice of condolence calls starting three months after a bereavement was probably an attempt to foil that self-indulgence.
“You need not check up on me,” Miss Fairchild said. “I gave Deems his congé, and he went more or less without a fuss.”
Deems was kicking his heels at Whitaker’s Hotel. He’d had no callers and sent no mail. Until the man was ensconced in the household of some sister or cousin in the shires, Fournier would keep an eye on him.
“And has the household descended into chaos?” Fournier asked. “You are answering your own door, which even I can assure you is not the done thing.”
“I was retrieving the post from the sideboard,” Miss Fairchild replied a little too brightly, “and you seem to enjoy paying calls well before proper visiting hours.”
A considerable pile of letters did indeed sit in a tidy stack on the sideboard, perhaps several days’ worth. “The mail will have to wait, Miss Fairchild. I have been tasked with escorting you to Richmond.”
Miss Fairchild’s extraordinary eyes lit with some fleeting reaction. Confusion? Distrust? The emotion was gone too quickly to be accurately labeled, but Fournier’s invitation was clearly unwelcome. How well he knew that resentment, that stubborn unwillingness to depart from safe, sad spaces and numbing routines.
“I am in mourning,” Miss Fairchild retorted. “One does not go picnicking in the countryside when one is in mourning.”
“If one did picnic in the countryside at such a sad time, one might find one’s grief more bearable. As it happens, I do not offer you a picnic. I offer you greetings from Mrs. Dorning, née Jeanette Goddard, former Marchioness of Tavistock, who has some experience with bereavement.”
He passed over a sealed missive. Miss Fairchild accepted it, though again, that hint of wariness imbued her actions.
“Come,” she said, turning on her heel. “I can ring for a tray, and if Mrs. Dorning’s epistle merits a reply, you can convey it to her for me.”
“My sainted mother would be so proud,” Fournier observed. “I am an English post boy now. The realization of my life’s ambitions is a dizzying achievement. I maintain my dignity in the face of this overwhelming joy as best I can. I beg for your understanding should I begin spontaneous saltation and whoopering, if that is the English word.”
“You know it is not.” Miss Fairchild pushed open the door to her parlor. She was smiling, so Fournier ceased his nonsense. “Sit if you like, sir. Shall I order tea?”
“We have no time for tea. We have an appointment to keep with your sister-by-marriage. Mrs. Dorning was quite clear that I am not to allow you to decline her summons. I told the lady that ‘allowing’ doesn’t come into it, as you are very much your own person, but her ladyship—one still thinks of her as such—is formidable. Married to cet homme, she has to be.”
“That man apparently did not know I was his sister until recently. Of all the Dornings, Sycamore is the one I can least expect to take an interest in my situation.”
“He is the most exuberantly fierce of the lot. The others are formidable in different ways, as are their spouses, though I have not met the youngest sister or the Dorset farmer.” Goddard had provided many of those introductions, at social events, hacking in the park, or in business contexts.
For a man who professed to be a gruff old soldier, Goddard could exercise surprising tact, but then, he was half French.
Miss Fairchild slit the seal and scanned the note’s contents. “Mrs. Dorning says a marquess’s widow knows all too well the pitfalls and temptations of early mourning. I am permitted to call on family, and she is my family. The day is lovely, ergo, to her Richmond abode I must go. I barely recall meeting this woman at some house party or other…”
“Well, there you have it,” Fournier said, prepared to take the gloves off if necessary. “Sycamore Dorning’s bad influence has inspired his wife to friendliness, and her a former marchioness. You would think the erstwhile Lady Tavistock would know better. I’ve met her step-son. The present marquess is young, but he knows an excellent Merlot from a presuming one. This is the hallmark of a true gentleman, and Mrs. Dorning was largely responsible for his upbringing. More evidence of her waywardness, for, as is known to all, English marquesses should be wretched bounders.”
From all reports, Jeanette Dorning’s first husband had been exactly that.
“I might have crossed paths with the current marquess in Paris,” Miss Fairchild said, “but I am barely acquainted with Sycamore, and a drive to Richmond will take two hours.”
“Then the sooner you change into a carriage dress, the sooner we can get you out of this stinking metropolis and into greener surrounds. Come, Miss Fairchild, the day is fine, my company is irresistibly charming, and you need to change your dress.”
She smoothed a hand over her skirts. “Mama liked this dress.”
“You wear aubergine quite well.” The color brought out her eyes, an observation Fournier kept to himself. “I assure you my traveling coach is unremarkable. No crests, no bright red wheels, no liveried attendants. And you wear that dress day after day rather than add to the burden of the laundresses, or so you tell yourself.”
He approached her, holding her gaze by force of will. “You take a tray rather than sit down to a proper meal on the same pretext. You ignore the post because every note of condolence is more proof of your loss. You promise yourself you will sort through your mother’s things, but you simply sit among them, your mind blank, your heart aching. You sniff at her scent bottles, you might even go so far as to wrap yourself in her favorite shawl, but nothing and no one can bring her back. You fear if you begin to cry, you will never stop.”
He had hoped to provoke his hostess into a display of temper, however ladylike. She merely regarded him, her calm unnerving.
“I have cried more than you or anyone else will ever know. Wait here.”
Fournier bowed rather than retort. Miss Fairchild had given him an order, and considering how far he had pushed her, he owed it to her to wait as faithfully as would a slobbering hound longing for the merest touch of her hand.