“Monsieur always takes the women to the Maisonette des Fleurs when he wishes to fornicate.”
“This isn’t the first time? He forces the women pickers to let him—”
“No,” Michel said quickly. “The women want to go with him. He pleases them and they let him use their bodies with great joy.”
“Joy.” Catherine swallowed. “That’s not joy.”
Michel frowned in puzzlement. “Most of the men and women in the fields find it so.” His small hand closed over hers. “It makes me sad that you lost the babe. I know you would have loved your child.”
Would she have loved a child born of that horror? She would never know now, and that realization brought a strange hollow sadness. Any child coming into the world deserved to be loved.
“My mother didn’t love me,” Michel whispered. “She wanted me to die.”
“No,” Catherine protested softly. “Perhaps she was only frightened and didn’t know what was best to do.”
Michel shook his head. “She didn’t want me. She never came back. I think she was afraid Monsieur Philippe would be angry.”
“Because she left you in the fields?”
He shook his head, his sweeping black lashes lowered, veiling his eyes. “Because she didn’t take me with her. All the women have to take their babes with them. He pays them a fat sum but everyone knows they have to take the babes. My mother cheated him.”
Catherine’s hand tightened on the child’s. “I don’t understand, Michel.”
He looked at her in surprise. “My mother was one of the women who went with Monsieur Philippe to the Maisonette des Fleurs.”
“Dear God,” she whispered. Philippe’s child. Michel was Philippe’s child. “How do you know?”
Michel shrugged. “Everyone in the field knows. Many of the women were here before I was born. They know my mother cheated Monsieur Philippe.”
“Cheated? What about you? She left a newborn child in the field to die and he didn’t even acknowledge—” She broke off as she realized Michel was staring at her in bewilderment. “It wasn’t your father who was cheated.”
“My father.” He repeated the word as if it were totally foreign to him. “You mean Monsieur Philippe.”
“He’s your father.”
Michel shook his head. “He’s Monsieur Philippe.”
How could she fault him for his attitude? From infancy he had been raised with people who had told him Philippe was the master who had every right to impregnate a woman and then be praised for sending her on her way with money in her pocket. A man who could let his child become a worker in the fields and give him no more affection than he did any other worker’s child. A man who could let that priest call Michel a child of sin and his mother a whore and never admit his own guilt.
She began to feel a ferocious anger kindle within her and she leaned forward and brushed her lips over Michel’s dark curls. “Yes, you’re right, he’s Monsieur Philippe. He’s not your father. You don’t need him.”
“I know. I have the flowers.”
She felt the tears sting her eyes. Michel had his flowers. She had Vasaro. Juliette had her painting. Passions to comfort and heal the pain and loneliness of life, but shouldn’t there be something else? “And you’ll continue to have them and more besides.”
“I don’t need more.”
“Well, you’re going to have more.” She ruffled his hair. “Now go to your bed and let me sleep. I have things to do tomorrow.”
He frowned. “I heard the doctor tell Mademoiselle that you should rest in bed for a fortnight.”
“I’m tired of people telling me what’s best for me to do. I’m sure it’s meant with the utmost kindness, but it must end. Will you come back this afternoon?”
He nodded. “After I finish in the fields.”
“No, don’t go to the fields. You needn’t—” She stopped. Michel loved the picking of the blossoms as he did everything else to do with the flowers. Because she was indignant, for his sake she mustn’t impose her will on him. After all, she had chosen to go to work in the fields herself. But, by all that was holy, it had been her own choice. Michel had never had a choice. “Come after you finish then.”
He smiled and rose to his feet. “I’ll bring you flowers for this room. Every room should have flowers.”
“Yes, please.”
She watched him move across the room toward the door, small, jaunty, vulnerable, and yet with a strength unusual in such a young child. He would have been a son any father would have been proud to claim, and Philippe had rejected and thrown him away as had his own mother.
As the door closed she nestled deeper under the covers, the hollow sadness returning more intensely than before. Now that sadness was not for the death of the child who had lived for such a short time in her body but for something precious and golden that had warmed her since she was a small child. Had the Philippe she had adored ever really existed, or had he changed as the world changed?
She felt the tears run down her cheeks but made no attempt to halt them.
A woman had the right to weep when a dream died.
“What are you doing?” Juliette gazed at Catherine in astonishment as she watched Catherine coming slowly down the steps. “Go right back to bed. The doctor said—”
“I feel fine,” Catherine interrupted and then grimaced. “No, not fine. I was so sore it took me almost an hour to dress myself.”
“You should have called me.”
Catherine looked at her in surprise. “Why? I knew I could do it. I had only to persevere.”
“But you’re too ill to—” Juliette stopped and sighed. “I’m doing it again. I swore I wouldn’t smother you with attention and immediately I break my promise to myself.” She winked. “But it’s all your fault What can you expect when the first thing I see is you looking as if a carriage had run over you?”
Catherine smiled. “It’s the way I feel. A very heavy carriage like that berlin Cecile de Montard left the abbey in that—” She stopped and drew a deep breath and went on quickly to another subject. “Where’s Philippe? I wish to see him.”
“He left to go to the fields.”
“Which one?”
Juliette shrugged and shook her head.
“Probably the north field. There was a good deal left there to pick a few days ago.” Catherine started for the door. “I’ll see you in a little while, Juliette.”
“Wait. I’ll order a wagon.”
“A wagon?” Catherine laughed. “To take me to the field? It’s only a little over a mile away. Two days ago I worked from dawn until late afternoon in that same field.”
“Philippe told us.” Juliette regarded her with an odd hint of sadness as her glance traveled from Catherine’s golden-brown face and down her slim, strong body. “You look … different.”
“I’m stronger. Vasaro has been good to me.”
“I see that it has.” Juliette turned abruptly away. “Well, if I can’t convince you to be sensible, I’ll go and get my sketchbook. You’re right, this is a splendid place to paint.”
Catherine had a distinct impression she had hurt Juliette in some fashion. “Juliette, what did—”
“Run along. But don’t expect me to care for you if you collapse on the way home.” Juliette quickly climbed the steps. “I’ll be too busy sketching.”
“I won’t expect it.” Catherine gazed after her, troubled. “I’ll be back soon, Juliette.”
Juliette nodded and glanced back over her shoulder. “Why are you just standing there? You know I’ll worry until you get back.”
It was the sort of roughly affectionate thing Juliette had said a hundred times to her at the abbey and Catherine felt a sudden rush of nostalgia for those days of shared childhood. No, not shared. She had been the child. Juliette had always been the one who saw life as it was. “Don’t worry, I’m really quite strong now.”
“I know.” For an instant Catherine thought she saw the glitter of tears in Juliette’s
eyes. “I know you are.” She hurried up the steps and out of sight.
Catherine stood looking after her. Should she follow Juliette and learn why she was so upset? She decided against it. Juliette had been near tears and wouldn’t welcome anyone seeing her so vulnerable. She could talk to her later.
She slowly turned, opened the door, and left the manor to seek out Philippe.
Philippe jumped down from his horse as soon as he saw Catherine approach and rushed forward, a smile lighting his face. “Catherine, you’re looking wonderfully well. I was afraid that you would …” He trailed off lamely. “I know you were shocked at what you saw, but you didn’t understand. Lenore is a sweet woman but she means nothing to me. A man must have amusements.”
“Must he?” Catherine’s gaze searched his face. He was genuinely upset for her sake and not because he had been caught in a situation that could prove awkward for him. Philippe was no monster, but he also was not the golden young god she had worshiped. He was a man with faults like any other man, but one of those faults she could not tolerate. “I don’t know what you ‘must’ do with women, Philippe, but I do know a man must take responsibility when what he does results in a child.”
“Lenore’s not with child. Where did you hear that?” He stiffened, his gaze wandering to the field below. “Michel.”
“Michel.”
“I didn’t think he knew.” Philippe frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose one of the pickers must have told him about his mother.”
“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.
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.”