“Where do you go when we finish in the fields, Michel?”
“Sometimes I go for walks. If you go past that hill and over two fields you can see the sea.” He picked upa rose that had fallen unheeded from one of the baskets, held it to his nose, and breathed in the fragrance. “And sometimes I go to see Monsieur Augustine and he lets me help while he experiments with the essences. Today I go to the shed to help with the maceration.”
“Maceration?”
“Taking the scents from the flowers.”
“May I go with you?”
“No.” Michel started up the road after the other pickers. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It would make you sad. It’s better that you just pick the flowers for now.”
“I could have Monsieur Philippe show me.”
He stopped and gave her a troubled glance. “It would make you sad,” he repeated. “You don’t realize how much they’ve given to you. Perhaps next week I’ll take you. Will you not wait for me?”
Catherine started to object, thought, and finally nodded. “I’ll wait.” She added firmly, “Until next week, no longer.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled widely at her. “You’re beginning to fight. See how much the flowers have given you?”
She smiled back at him. “And tomorrow I want you to take me to see the sea.”
He nodded as he started off at a trot after the straggling column of pickers. “Tomorrow, Catherine.” He waved at a tall, gangling boy. “Ho, Donato, wait for me.”
She gazed after him affectionately as he caught up with the older boy. At times Michel was a child brimming with mischief and at others he seemed to possess uncanny wisdom. She wasn’t sure which Michel she liked better.
“Catherine.”
She turned to see Philippe sitting his horse a few yards away. She flushed, her hand rising involuntarily to her perspiring forehead. She was suddenly conscious of the dirt and grass stains soiling her gown and the factthat her single brown braid had pulled free of its binding. “Good afternoon, Philippe. The field will be done tomorrow. Aren’t the roses—”
“Don’t you think it’s enough, Catherine?” he interrupted. “I didn’t want to interfere because you seemed so content, but you’ll be mistress here someday. You don’t want the pickers to remember you as working at their sides, do you?”
“Why not?” She nervously wiped her dirty palms on the skirt of her gown.
“They must have respect for you. Believe me, for them to regard you with such familiarity isn’t good for your future position.”
“I do believe you, but—” She gazed at him helplessly. “Iwantto do this, Philippe.”
He smiled ruefully. His classic features showed fresh beauty. “Then you must do it, of course. Beautiful ladies must always do what they want to do.” He bowed. “And does it please you to go back to the house for dinner, Mademoiselle?”
She nodded shyly, drinking in the sight of him, his sweet smile, the sun glinting on his hair, turning it into an aureole of gold. “I’m…not beautiful.”
“But you are. I have both excellent vision and judgment and can assure you of that truth.” He held out his arms. “Come, beautiful lady, I’ll give you a ride back to the house.”
She was dirty, sweat-stained, and weary and yet, as he looked at her, she suddenly did feel beautiful. Beautiful and clean and as young as the day they had ridden together in that coach to Versailles. She took a step toward him and then another; the next step put her beside the chestnut horse. He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and set her carefully before him on the horse. He gathered up the reins. “Lean back. You won’t fall. I’ll hold you.”
She sat stiff and unyielding as the horse started to trot down the road. He was holding her gently but a shiver of apprehension went through her. There was nothing to fear, she assured herself. This was Philippe, who was gentle and kind and all that was knightly. Whywas she so afraid? She had not been nearly so tense when she had been naked in bed with François Etchelet.
But François Etchelet was gone from her life. Vasaro was her world now. Vasaro and the flowers and the boy Michel and Philippe, who was everything a man should be.
Slowly, tentatively, she leaned back against Philippe’s broad chest and forced herself to relax as he urged the horse to a faster pace.
“Who lives in that pretty little house?” Catherine asked idly as she pointed down the steep hill to the right of the cliff.
Michel glanced with disinterest at the small thatched cottage nestled beneath the overhanging cypress trees. “No one. It’s only the Maisonette des Fleurs.”
