“I sent Philippe away to visit his family.”
“Really?” His gaze narrowed on her face. “Now, I wonder why you did that?”
“Because I wished to.” She turned away and then whirled back to face him. “You’re sure you need no more help?”
One corner of his lips lifted in a half smile. “I’m sure. You’ve done your duty as the lady of Vasaro.”
Her hand tightened on the candelabrum. His green eyes shimmered in the flickering light of the candles, and she felt again the odd tension that had afflicted her before. “If you need me, call out. I’ll leave my door ajar.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” He stepped into the bedchamber. “And, if anything could keep me from sleep in my present state, that knowledge will.”
She frowned at him in puzzlement. “But sleep will be good for your headache.”
“Never mind. My tongue is as clumsy as my thinking tonight. I’ll see you when I wake.Bonne nuit.”
“Bonne nuit.”The frown remained on Catherine’s face as she moved toward her own chamber down the hall. François Etchelet was a complex man. He had been more than a little cryptic, but she was too weary for puzzles.
She entered her room and set the candelabrum onthe table by the door before wandering over to stand in front of the open window. The darkness was already lightening, and as she had told François, it was no use trying to sleep. Soon she would change from her silk gown to her worn woolen one and go to the fields. She sat down on the window seat and leaned back against the wall of the alcove.
Journeys. Juliette and Jean Marc were out there somewhere in the darkness sailing toward Spain. Philippe had probably halted at an inn for the night on his way to Marseilles. Tomorrow François would return to Paris. She did not envy them their journeys. She wanted only to stay at Vasaro, where she belonged, and tend the earth and watch the constant struggle for birth and renewal Michel had shown her.
She looked at the desk across the room where the journal Juliette had given her lay. She knew Juliette had wanted to set her free, but the method was one she couldn’t accept yet. Vasaro had healed the gaping wound but the scar tissue was still too sensitive to trust. Still, she had promised Juliette she would use the journal and she could not break her word.
Catherine suddenly rose to her feet and moved toward the desk. She had an hour or two before she had to go to the fields. She sat down at the desk and opened the journal. She would ignore those first pages and start the journal on the first day she had arrived at Vasaro, the time her life had really begun.
She paused, looking blindly down at the page and remembering how Philippe had smiled at her on that day. She had thought he was as beautiful as the flowers, but that had not turned out to be the case. His beauty bloomed only on the surface, and there was no substance beneath it to take root. If she could be fooled by Philippe for so many years, how could she trust her judgment?
She was baffled by François’s behavior tonight. He should have been angrier. Why had he decided to go meekly back to Paris in defeat? He was a strong, determined man and it wasn’t reasonable he should give up so easily.
Catherine shook her head as she dipped her pen in the inkwell again. Why was she worrying about Etchelet’s reasons? She should be grateful he wasn’t pursuing Jean Marc, and she was certainly happy he was leaving Vasaro and returning to Paris. She had no time to try to fathom why he did not react in the way she had thought he would or to worry about her own reactions to him.
Flowers were much easier to understand than people.
François mounted his horse and sent him galloping out of the stable yard toward the golden field of broom, where he could see Catherine’s familiar figure standing near the flower cart.
Christ, it was nearly noon and she must have gotten no rest since early yesterday morning. As he approached she turned to look at him and he could see the lines of weariness beside her mouth, the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her gray-blue woolen gown was darkened with sweat, and the contrast between this woman and the silk-clad lady of Vasaro was nearly unbelievable to him. Yet they both possessed strength and dignity and a beauty that sent a surge of pure lust through him. Lust and a frustration that led him to pull up the horse before her and say roughly, “Go back to the house and lie down.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said go to bed. You’re exhausted and won’t admit it.” He glanced at the workers picking the broom fields. “I’ll stay and do what’s necessary. What has to be done here? They seem to be working quickly enough.”
“They’re good workers and they know their tasks. Philippe said all that was needed was a presence, the knowledge that someone was overseeing the—” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t let you help. This is my work.”
He smiled as he looked down at her. “I’m not trying to take away your work. I’m merely attempting to make myself useful while I’m a guest at Vasaro. I’mafraid I’ll have to impose on you for a little longer. I don’t feel as fit as I thought I would today.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “You’re ill?”
He shook his head. “Just unable to contemplate a long, jarring ride to Paris. No doubt I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“You’re welcome, of course.”
“Then let me act as the presence of authority and you go get some rest. Tell the driver of the cart you’ve put me in charge for the next few days.” He smiled coaxingly. “I assure you it would save me from excruciating boredom. I don’t function at all well away from the bustle of Paris.”
“No?”
“No, and it will give you a chance to discuss the running of Vasaro with your Monsieur Augustine and try to form some kind of plan for proceeding. You wouldn’t want Vasaro to suffer while you learn what’s needed of you.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “You’re sure this is your wish?”
