The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

  “Michel is your child. How can you treat him as if he were nothing to you?”

  Philippe kept his gaze averted. “I’ve not been ungenerous.”

  “Not if he were some other man’s child, but he’s yours.”

  “Listen to me, Catherine. You know my branch of the family has no money, and when Jean Marc gave me the post here it was a gift from heaven. I couldn’t have a parcel of bastards running around the estate,” Philippe said desperately. “Jean Marc would never have stood for it. I knew when he put me in charge of Vasaro I’d have to act with some circumspection.”

  “So every time you got a woman with child you gave her money and sent her away.”

  “Or married her to one of the other pickers. Mother of God, there weren’t that many of them.” Philippe’s face was white, but there was no guilt in his expression. “Catherine, you’re too innocent to know about these matters. This is the way these things are done. I hurt no one. The women were glad to take the money and go.”

  “And what about Michel?”

  “Michel is well taken care of by everyone at Vasaro.”

  “Everyone but you.”

  “I told you. I give a sum to whichever family Michel chooses—”

  “Stop it,” she interrupted. “It’s not enough.”

  Philippe was silent, gazing at her miserably. “I tried once or twice to talk to Michel, but he made me uncomfortable. He’s …”

  “Not like other children?” she finished, gazing at him incredulously. “How could he be?”

  “I don’t understand him.”

  Michel’s words suddenly came back to her. Monsieur Philippe enjoys the flowers but he doesn’t understand them. “That’s a pity. I think he understands you very well.”

  “What are you going to do?” He tried to smile. “I suppose you’ll tell Jean Marc? He’ll send me away from Vasaro, you know.”

  “No, I’m not going to tell Jean Marc.”

  An expression of relief brightened Philippe’s features. “That’s kind of you.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. You love Vasaro and you serve it well.” She met his gaze. “But I can’t look at you right now. I want you to go away for a time.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. Go visit your mother and sisters for six months. Leave today.”

  “But you’ll need me at Vasaro. You don’t know a tenth of the things you should about running the property.”

  “Then I’ll learn them from Monsieur Augustine and the pickers and Michel.” She paused. “And when you return you’ll find Michel has moved up to the manor and will be raised as a gentleman.”

  “But the son of a common picker wouldn’t be comfortable at—” Philippe saw the hardening of her expression and hurried on. “I can’t acknowledge him. Jean Marc would be angered and send me away.”

  “Jean Marc doesn’t own Vasaro. I decide whether you go or stay,” Catherine said. “But I have no desire for you to acknowledge Michel. It’s too late.”

  “Yes.” Philippe nodded quickly. “I’m glad you see I meant no harm. If you like, I’ll try to become better acquainted with him.”

  “Oh, no.” Her tone held irony. “Not when he makes you uncomfortable.”

  She turned and walked away from him.

  “The Wind Dancer,” Catherine murmured as she crossed the bedchamber toward the window seat where Juliette sat sketching. “But won’t it be dangerous going into Spain at this time?”

  “I don’t see why.” Juliette’s pen moved with lightning strokes over the pad on her lap. Her gaze was on the pickers in the field below. “After all, I speak the language and we’re not at war with Spain yet. After he lands at La Escala, Jean Marc will buy horses and travel overland just below the Pyrenees to Andorra. If I’m questioned by guards, we can always say I’m fleeing France for my grandfather’s home. God knows, there are enough émigrés these days to make that appear true. No, I shall do splendidly.” She grimaced. “And we have François to protect Jean Marc.”

  Catherine looked startled. “François is supposed to protect Jean Marc?”

  “Danton says that is François’s purpose in accompanying us.” A smile tugged at Juliette’s lips. “I find it amusing too. It’s like a panther protecting a tiger, n’est-ce pas?”

  “And what does Jean Marc say?”

  “He thinks Danton sent François to see what he’s doing in Spain. Which is probably correct.”

  “I’m confused. You keep saying Jean Marc, yet you tell me you also are going.”

  “I am.” Juliette sketched in a plump baby kicking joyfully in a straw basket next to one of the pickers. “But Jean Marc says I’m to stay here at Vasaro and has convinced everyone he’ll have his way.”

  “He usually does,” Catherine said. “I wish you would stay here. I don’t like the thought of you leaving again.”

  “I told you why I must go. How can I expect Jean Marc to give me the money for the Wind Dancer if he finds it himself?”

  “He said he’d still give it to you.”

  “We made a bargain.” Juliette’s jaw set stubbornly. “A bargain must be kept.”

  Catherine sat down on the window seat and leaned back against the wall of the alcove, her gaze on Juliette’s face. “I believe you’ve changed too.”

  Juliette shook her head. “I’m always the same.”

  “No, there’s something … softer.”

  “You’re looking at me with clearer eyes. I was never as bold and strong as you thought I was.” Juliette kept her gaze on the sketch. “François once told me it was I who needed you. He must have been right, for you don’t need me at all now.” She smiled with an effort. “You’ve grown beyond me. How did it happen?”

  “Vasaro.”

  “And Philippe’s little boy?”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “You know about Michel? How?”

  Juliette shrugged. “The eyes are the same and the shape of the mouth.”

  Catherine should have known Juliette would notice what she hadn’t seen. The eyes of the artist. “I’m bringing Michel to the manor to live as soon as I can persuade him to come.”

  Juliette became still. “You’re going to marry the peacock?”

  “No.”

  Juliette relaxed. “That’s good. I’ve noticed some women are very foolish about men.” She began sketching in the mountains in the background. “You’re better off with the child than the man. I’d like to paint Michel. His face has much more character than the peacock’s.”

  “Will you stay at Vasaro when you come back from Spain?”

  Juliette shook her head. “I have something to do in Paris.”

  “The queen?”

  “Yes, Jean Marc and I have a bargain.”

  “It’s not safe. Dupree will—”

  “Safe enough.” Juliette’s lashes lowered to veil her eyes. “Dupree has left Paris and I won’t be recognized. I have a perfectly splendid wig in which I look quite unlike myself.”

  Catherine shook her head skeptically.

  “Stop fretting. I’m being very good about allowing you to get along without me.” Juliette’s eyes twinkled. “I couldn’t bear to have you start smothering me.”

  “You’ll, at least, return to Vasaro before you go back to Paris?”

  “Of course. I told you I wanted to paint Michel.”

  Catherine smiled and ruefully shook her head. Juliette had not really changed. She was still afraid to admit or show affection. “Then I’ll marshal all my arguments and we’ll discuss it when you return.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll leave you to your sketching and order supper.”

  “Wait.” Juliette scrambled to her feet and tossed the sketch on the window seat. “I have a gift for you.” She crossed the room to the lacquer and rosewood desk and opened the middle drawer. “I want you to promise me you’ll use it.”

  “Gift?” Catherine had a sudden memory of the day Juliette had given her the locket with the miniature. How long ago that seemed.

&n
bsp; Juliette was drawing a large volume bound in crimson morocco leather from the drawer. “It’s a journal and you must write in it every single day. I’ve dated every page.” She paused. “Starting on the second of September 1792.”

  Catherine’s smile faded. “The abbey.”

  “It’s for no one’s eyes but your own.” Juliette crossed the room and placed the volume in Catherine’s hands. “It will help you, Catherine.”

  “No …”

  “It helped me. Jean Marc made me draw what happened and it … I hated him all the time I was drawing those canailles.” She met Catherine’s gaze. “But it freed me. And I don’t want you to stay a prisoner while I go free.”

  Catherine smiled shakily. “I cannot draw.”

  “But you can paint pictures with words. You’re much more clever than I am with books. Promise you’ll do it.”

  “I can’t do it now.”

  Juliette nodded. “Leave the first pages blank and go back to them. But you’ll do it someday?”

  “Someday.”

  “Soon?”

  Catherine hugged Juliette quickly and said huskily, “Soon.” She released her friend and turned away. “Now let me leave before I start to weep and you accuse me of blubbering.” She paused at the door to ask, “Will Jean Marc and François be back tonight?”

  Juliette shrugged. “Jean Marc didn’t tell me. I think if he could do so he’d sail away without returning. But he’ll want to know you’re entirely well before he leaves.”

  “Then it may be just the three of us for supper.”

  “Three? I thought you said the child would be here?”

  “I’ve sent Philippe away for a while. It’s been a long time since he visited his family.” Catherine moved toward the door. “Vasaro doesn’t need him at present.”

  “And neither does the mistress of Vasaro,” Juliette added softly.

  “No, she doesn’t need him either.” Catherine experienced a strange weightlessness, as if something caged within her had been set free, and her hands tightened on the journal. “Not at all.”

  Jean Marc didn’t arrive back at Vasaro until after midnight and François did not come with him.

  Juliette jumped out of bed when she heard the soft thud of hoofbeats on the cork and stones of the driveway and was downstairs and throwing open the door by the time Jean Marc began climbing the steps. “Do we have a ship?”

  “I have a ship,” Jean Marc said. “The Bonne Chance is waiting in the harbor. François stayed in Cannes to see a port representative and smooth the way to make sure we’ll be able to sail tomorrow night.”

  “It’s good that he’s making himself useful.” Juliette’s tone was abstracted as she gazed at Jean Marc. Sharp lines of weariness slashed both sides of his mouth, and it was clear he was not in a gentle temper. “Have you supped?”

  “Before I left Cannes.” His gaze traveled over her. “Don’t you ever wear anything to bed but that disreputable garment?”

  Juliette looked down at the full white nightgown. “Why? It was very kind of Marie to give it to me, and it’s warm and comfortable. The nights here aren’t as cool as in Paris, but there’s still—”

  “Never mind.” Jean Marc shut the door and crossed the hall toward the stairs. “Good night, Juliette.”

  “I’m going with you to Spain, you know.”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around. “No.”

  “I speak the language. She’s my mother. You need me.”

  “I don’t intend to argue with you. I’m tired. All day I’ve been dealing with greedy officials I’d rather drown than bribe, and I still have to find a way of getting rid of François before I sail.”

  “But you need me.”

  He turned and looked at her, and she went still as she saw his expression. “The only way in which I’d need you on this journey is to provide me with the most basic carnal comforts and, if you choose to come, that will be your function. Do you understand?”

  She suddenly couldn’t breathe, and it was a moment before she could speak. “You’re threatening me?”

  “No, I’m warning you. A last warning.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Only God knows why. I haven’t had a woman since I left Marseilles, and at the moment I’m every bit as hot as your lecherous Due de Gramont.”

  “He wasn’t mine. He was my mother’s.”

  “For which I find I’m exceedingly grateful. But, if you’d occupied every nobleman’s bed at Versailles, I’d still invite you into mine.”

  “I would think that would be most unwise. A good many of them had the French pox.”

  “In my present state I assure you it would make not a whit of difference to me.”

  “That would be unreasonable of you. A moment of pleasure and then a most—” She stopped and drew a deep breath. She knew her words had been flowing with a total irrationality, for she was aware only of the tingling starting between her thighs and the flush burning her cheeks.

  Jean Marc’s gaze was fixed soberly on her face. “Don’t do it, Juliette. I find myself in the odd position of respecting you, which is not at all common for me. For once in my life I’m trying to forget about what I want and let you go free. It’s no mean sacrifice on my part.” He paused. “You were right. I’ve never loved a woman and never intend to do so. It’s all a game to me and, once I start it, I have to win. I never give up until I do. Take my advice and escape. Unless you want our relationship to culminate in the usual pleasurable manner, you’ll stay at Vasaro.” He started up the stairs. “And if you do decide to come, I wouldn’t advise you to bring that abominable nightgown for which you have such a fondness. The very first thing, I’d throw it over the side.”

  “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 to be uncomfortable beneath the intensity of his stare an
d 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.”

  “And he has it?”

  “I think so.” Michel frowned. “I knew you would understand them, but he’s not like you.”

  No, they had nothing at all in common, Catherine thought, and François was evidently capable of making her feel most uneasy. It was an excellent thing he was leaving Vasaro that night. The serenity she now possessed had been hard won, and she did not wish it to be endangered.

  Catherine’s uneasiness became even more acute when she walked into the salon that evening and met François’s gaze. He rose to his feet and bowed politely but his stare was as intent as it had been that afternoon.