“Who is he?” Michel asked.
Catherine tossed two more roses into the basket before she looked at the crest of the hill where Michel was pointing.
François Etchelet stood watching them, his gaze focused intently on Catherine. “François Etchelet, one of the visitors from Paris.”
“I know that. He was there at the house the day you were hurt, but who is he to you?”
“I told you.”
“He was angry with Monsieur Philippe,” Michel said. “I think he wanted to kill him because he hurt you.”
“You’re mistaken, he cares nothing for me.” Yet this man was her husband, she remembered with a sense of shock. If not in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the republic of France. The memory of that day had faded and become as dreamlike as everything else that had happened before she had looked out the carriage window the first day and seen the flowers. Vasaro was now the only reality.
“He’s waiting for you. He wants you to come to him,” Michel said. “I think he’ll stand there until you do.”
Catherine smiled. “Well, we wouldn’t want him to take root on the hill. It might prove very inconvenient to have to work around him if we decide we need to plant it someday.” She started down the row. “I’ll be back soon, Michel.”
He didn’t answer, and when she glanced back it was to see Michel still gazing thoughtfully at François.
“Juliette told me you were here. I didn’t expect to see you looking so well,” François said as she reached the crest of the hill. His gaze went slowly over her from her thick single braid to the wooden shoes on her feet. “I thought you’d still be—”
“Lying frail and sickly in my bed?” Catherine finished. “I’m quite well again.”
François nodded slowly. “I see you are.” His gaze suddenly swooped to her face. “Do you still dream?”
She tensed. “I forgot you knew about that stupidity. I regret I was such a bother to everyone during that time.” She paused. “I’m happy you, at least, were well paid for your efforts on my behalf.”
“Very well paid,” he agreed impassively. “You didn’t answer me. Do you still dream?”
“Occasionally, but it’s to be expected. It’s been over a week since I had the last one.” She was beginning tobe uncomfortable beneath the intensity of his stare and rushed on. “Juliette tells me you’ll be leaving tonight for Spain.”
François nodded. “We sail at midnight.”
“You’ll wish to leave Vasaro early. I’ll order supper for five o’clock.”
He suddenly smiled. “A hardy laborer in the field and now gracious mistress of the household? I find myself wondering what other sides to your character I’ll discover.”
“I wonder myself.” She turned and started back down the hill toward the fields and said over her shoulder, “You’ll like the wine of Vasaro. It flows sweetly but has a delicious bite.”
“An interesting description.” There was a thickness in his voice that made her gaze fly back to him in surprise. His face was without expression as he said, “I look forward to trying it.”
A shiver went through her like that brought by a sudden hot wind on fields wet with rain. She felt a tightening of the muscles of her stomach and suddenly her breasts felt…different. Fear?
She looked away from him, her pace quickening as she fled down the hill and through the field until she reached Michel. She began to feverishly pick the blossoms and toss them into the basket.
“You’ve lost the rhythm,” Michel told her, his gaze on the hill. “He’s still watching you.”
Catherine slowed and began to take more care. “Why are you so interested in him?”
“He’s gone now.” Michel began to pick the blossoms again.
“Why?” she persisted.
“I think he’s one of the ones who could understand the flowers.”
Catherine laughed and shook her head. “He’s not at all a gentle man, Michel.”
“It doesn’t take gentleness, it takes…” He paused, trying to put it into words. “A knowing. A feeling.”
