François didn’t answer for an instant, and Juliette once more opened her lips to speak.
François held up his hand. “Enough.”
“You’ll wed her?”
François smiled mockingly. “How can I resist? As Monsieur Andreas knows, every man wishes to be rich.”
Juliette breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s settled, then.”
“If you can persuade Mademoiselle Vasaro to accept me,” François said gravely.
“Catherine. Her name is Catherine. You’re more formal than that pompous Comtesse de Noailles. Everyone at Versailles called her Madame Etiquette.”
“I’ve been taught well to give proper respect to my betters.”
“You think you have no betters,” Juliette scoffed. She stood up. “I’ll go talk to Catherine.”
“I wish to see her myself,” François said.
“Tomorrow. Call on her tomorrow. Give her time to become accustomed to the idea.”
A silence fell after she had left the room. “I don’t begrudge Catherine the dowry, Monsieur Etchelet,” Jean Marc said softly, “but I’ll expect good value for my money. I detest being cheated.”
“You think I’ll cheat you?”
Jean Marc gazed at him thoughtfully. “I believe you’re more than you appear to be.”
“Are we not all more than we appear to be…Jean Marc.”
Jean Marc noted both the familiarity and the mockery of François’s tone and nodded slowly. “I think you should be made aware that I am very fond of Catherine. I should be most unhappy if Juliette’s solution proved an unhappy one for my cousin.”
“You shall get what you paid for.” François met his gaze. “But I will be no puppet for you. I go my own path.”
“Somehow I didn’t think you’d display a predilection for strings.”
François rose to his feet and bowed. “Then, since our understanding is complete, I believe it’s time I bid youau revoiruntil tomorrow.”
Catherine sat as usual on the marble bench in the garden. Her gaze was fixed dreamily on the border of pink rosebushes beyond the fountain when François arrived at the Place Royal. The sight of her broughtback a sudden vivid memory of that afternoon when he had sat opposite her in this garden. Her gown today was not blue but a simple white muslin with a sash of sunshine yellow. A matching yellow ribbon held back her hair.
The gaze she turned on him was childlike as he walked toward her down the garden path.
He bowed formally. “Good afternoon, Catherine. Did Mademoiselle de Clem—Juliette—tell you I would call today?”
Catherine nodded, her gaze returning to the roses. “It’s a lovely afternoon, isn’t it? Robert says soon the frosts will come, but it’s difficult to believe on a day such as this.”
“Did she inform you of—” He broke off. Catherine appeared to be paying no attention to him, and he felt something twist within him. She had changed. That afternoon in the garden she had been subdued but still alive and caring. Now she appeared polite but as remote as the stars. “Catherine.”
She glanced at him, her stare vague. “Philippe told me once there are fields and fields of flowers at Vasaro that are beautiful beyond belief, but I scarcely remember them. Did I mention to you that I left there when I was only four? Here the garden is very nice, but I think I should like to see—”
“Catherine, you’re to wed me in two days’ time.” He paused. “If you wish it.”
For a moment the dreaminess vanished from her expression. “I do not wish it, but Juliette and Jean Marc know what’s best for me.” She straightened her shoulders and turned away to point to a spot beneath the high stone wall. “Robert’s going to plant white violets there next spring. He says they generally grow well, but this year the winter was harsh and killed them.” She frowned. “Harshness does kill, doesn’t it?”
“No!” François found his fists were clenched and forced himself to relax them. “Not if you fight it. Then it only makes you grow stronger.”
“The violets died.”
“People aren’t flowers.”
