“He wanted to stay! He said so. I—” Catherine broke off and gazed at Juliette defiantly. “And he said there was nothing wrong with my wanting to stay at Vasaro.”
“But you knew he was wrong, didn’t you?” Juliette put her brush down and regretfully shook her head. “Dear heaven, we were all so happy you’d found peace and contentment here at Vasaro we were afraid to probe beneath the surface.”
“I love Vasaro.”
“Who wouldn’t love it? But he still left you, didn’t he? And you know he would leave you again.”
“Yes!” Catherine exploded, driven. “He won’t stay here. He’ll go back to that horrible place and I’ll have to—” Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what she had said. “Mother of God …”
“And you know to admit you love François is to be forced to leave Vasaro. Tell me, have you ever written in the journal I gave you?”
“I write in it every day.”
“But you’ve never written on the first page.”
Catherine gazed at her, eyes bright with tears. “Dear God, you’re cruel. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you,” Juliette said wearily. “And because François loves you. He broke down and confessed to me in Paris. He loves you. Do you know how fortunate that makes you? I may go through my entire life without love and you have it and won’t reach out and take it.”
Catherine didn’t speak for a moment. “Jean Marc?”
“Of course it’s Jean Marc. Why are you so surprised? It’s always been Jean Marc.” Juliette stood up. “Catherine, admit it to yourself. You’re afraid to go to François because it would mean leaving your garden. You’ve learned to live without fear here but you’re afraid of the world he lives in.” She took two steps forward and grasped Catherine’s shoulders. “And, by the saints, you should be afraid. François is in danger all the time in the Temple. If he doesn’t betray himself in some manner, then Danton could decide at any time to hand him over to the Committee of Public Safety. He says there are even spies in our own group. Wherever he turns there’s the shadow of the guillotine.”
“No!” The tears were running down Catherine’s cheeks. “Why do you let him do it?”
“Because the rest of us don’t live in a sheltered garden. We all must take our own risks.”
Catherine pulled away from Juliette’s grasp and stared at her wordlessly. Her lips formed words that refused to fall from her lips. Then she turned and ran toward the manor.
Sweet Mary, was it true? Catherine asked herself. Had she been afraid to give up the safety of Vasaro even for François? She had thought she had grown strong and independent. Was that false?
She threw open the front door and ran up the stairs into her chamber and locked the door. She leaned back against it, panting, her heart pounding. Safe. She was safe here from Juliette’s words, safe from Juliette.…
Dieu, she loved Juliette and yet now she was shutting Juliette away, too, because she had become a threat to the serenity she had found at Vasaro.
Catherine threw herself on the bed and stared sightlessly at the window across the room. She lay there while the afternoon became evening and then darkened into night. She heard the knob turn once and another time Philippe knocked on her door and called softly. He went away when she didn’t answer.
The moon had risen and was flooding the room with silver light when she got up from the bed and walked slowly to the desk. Her fingers trembled as she lit the candles in the candelabrum. She sat down and drew the journal from the drawer. She sat looking at the smooth leather cover for a long time.
Then, slowly, she opened the journal to the first page.
The date leapt out at her.
September 2, 1792.
Dear God, she couldn’t …
She drew a deep breath and reached for the white feather quill. She quickly dipped the quill in the onyx inkwell and began to write.
The bells were ringing.
“Catherine.” Juliette knocked on the door again. “If you don’t answer, I’m just going to stay here until you do. It’s almost midnight and I don’t see—”
“Come in,” Catherine called. “I’ve unlocked the door.”
Juliette padded barefoot into the room, her white cotton nightgown drifting about her. “I feel very foolish. I tried the door before, and it was locked so I—” Her gaze fell on the ledger on the desk, then rose swiftly to Catherine’s weary face. “You did it?”
Catherine nodded. “Though I didn’t have very pleasant feelings toward you while I was.”
“I know. I felt the same way toward Jean Marc. But it’s better now?”
“It’s better now. It’s not over, but it did help. I’ve been a dreadful coward, haven’t I?”
“Oh, no.” Juliette knelt before Catherine’s chair, her arms sliding lovingly around her friend’s waist. “We all want a garden to go to when the pain becomes too great. Look at me, I ran to you and Vasaro.”
“But you’ll go back soon?”
“In a few days. I must get back to Paris. I have no reason to stay now. Your Vasaro has healed me.”
“Vasaro …” Catherine shook her head. “No, we heal ourselves. There’s no real magic in Vasaro.”
“Isn’t there?” Juliette smiled. “Don’t be willing to give up every belief so easily.”
Catherine’s palm gently touched Juliette’s curls. “You scoffed at magic a year ago.”
“Perhaps I’ve learned the wisdom of being foolish.” Juliette sat back on her heels. “And you the foolishness of being wise.” She grinned, her brown eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “Doesn’t that sound odiously profound? Now we can set ourselves to finding how to combine the two in some harmonious manner.”
Catherine felt a sudden lifting of spirit. “Stay in my room tonight,” she said impulsively. “Do you remember how sometimes I’d slip into your cell at the abbey and we’d talk and laugh until just before time for matins?”
Juliette nodded, her face lighting with eagerness. She jumped to her feet and ran over to the bed. “Get into your nightgown.” She pulled down the coverlet and slipped between the sheets.
Catherine laughed and went to the bureau to get her nightgown. She suddenly felt young and carefree and filled with the joy of being alive.
Juliette began to chatter about the painting of Michel, skipped to a less than complimentary assessment of Philippe’s character, and then went on to the art of making fans.
Catherine slipped into bed beside Juliette and contentedly leaned over to blow out the candles.
Juliette fell silent.
Catherine turned to her. “Juliette?”
“It’s not the same. We can’t bring it back, can we?”
“What do you mean?”
“The time before … I thought we could bring it back just for a little while—But we’re not those people anymore. We can’t talk and giggle until dawn. We can’t be children any longer.”
“No.” Catherine thought about it. “But perhaps this is better.” She reached out and took Juliette’s hand. “I think our friendship is stronger now. You said you loved me this afternoon. You couldn’t have said that then.”
Juliette’s fingers threaded through Catherine’s. “I do love you. If I loved you less, I’d have let you stay safe in your garden where I wouldn’t have had to worry about you.” She tried to laugh. “You know how selfish I am. Next week I’ll probably be telling you to forget everything I said and—No, that’s not true. I want your life to be full and rich. I won’t have you cheated.”
Silence fell between them.
“I want your life to be full and rich too, Juliette.” Catherine hesitated before asking tentatively, “Why Jean Marc? You know he’s—”
“I know. It doesn’t make any difference.”
They lay there, their hands joined companionably, staring at the silver-edged shadows of the room.
A long time later Catherine said quietly, “When you go back to Paris, I’m going with you
.”
Philippe helped Juliette into the carriage and then hesitated, looking at Catherine. “I don’t approve of this. Your place is here.”
“My place is where I choose it to be.” Catherine smiled and held out her hand. “Take care of my Vasaro, Philippe. And take care of Michel. Make sure he does his lessons every evening.”
“I will.” He added gravely as he lifted her hand to his lips, “I’m trying, Catherine.”
“I know you are.” She let him help her into the carriage and sat down by Juliette.
Philippe stepped back, motioned to Léon, and the carriage started with a jerk.
The coach rumbled down the driveway, past the lemon and lime trees toward the road. Philippe stood looking after them, and when they turned toward Cannes he lifted his hand in farewell. A ray of early morning sun burnished his golden hair with radiance as he smiled at them.
“What are you thinking?” Juliette asked curiously, her gaze on Catherine’s face.
“How beautiful he is.” Catherine’s tone was detached. “If the abbey had never happened, I probably would have married him and been happy. It would never have occurred to me to want more than I saw in him because I had no more depth than he.”
“You were more than you think you were.”
“I was an insufferable prig.”
“A prig.” Juliette’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Not insufferable. I suffered you, didn’t I?”
“We suffered each other.” Catherine chuckled. “Good God, why I ever let you make me chase after you to that tomb—” Her laughter faded and then she determinedly smiled, blocking out the other memories and keeping only the ones to cherish. “You were perfectly abominable to me on occasion.”
Juliette had noticed the hesitation and reached out to take Catherine’s hand with careful casualness. “It was good for your character. Now François will seem a saint to you in comparison.”
François. Catherine leaned back in the carriage, excitement and fear equally mixed within her. How did she know François even wanted her any longer? Juliette said he did but she could be mistaken. Six months was a long time. Perhaps there was even someone else.
Well, if it was too late, she would face it without shirking.
She could no longer hide in Eden.
“Mademoiselle Catherine, it’s good to see you looking so well.” Robert smiled warmly as he held open the front door. His gaze went beyond Catherine’s shoulder to the street where Juliette was supervising the unloading of her paints and canvas. She suddenly turned and ran up the steps.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Robert beamed at her. “Monsieur Andreas will be very happy you’ve returned. The house has seemed very empty since you’ve been gone.”
She made a face. “I’m sure it’s been a good deal quieter anyway.” She untied the ribbons of her bonnet. “But why are you opening the door? Where are the servants?”
“Gone. All the servants are gone except Marie and me. Monsieur Andreas dismissed them a few days after you left Paris.”
“How peculiar.” Juliette frowned. “I’ll speak to him about it. Where is he?”
“He’s not yet arisen.”
“Good Lord, it’s almost noon. He always rises early.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “Is he ill?” She started across the foyer toward the stairs at a run. “I must go see, Catherine. Make sure they don’t damage my portrait of Michel when they unload it.”
She burst into Jean Marc’s darkened chamber a moment later. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? I knew I should never have gone away.” She saw a stirring in the bed and hurried over to the window and ripped back the drapes to let in the light. “Look what happened. There are no servants in the house and you’ve become ill and—”
“Juliette.” Jean Marc’s voice was husky with sleep and surprise as he sat up in bed. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“It’s time I came back.” She ran over to the bed and threw herself into his arms. Before he could move she had covered his face with kisses. “Oh, Jean Marc, I’ve missed you. Please don’t be ill. All the time I was running up the stairs I was thinking. ‘What if he’s truly ill? What if he dies?’ I can’t bear it if you’re—”
“Hush!” His arms went around her and held her close. “I’m not at all ill.”
“Then why are you still in bed?”
“For the very good reason that I didn’t get to bed until nearly dawn.”
His heart throbbed strongly beneath her ear and she cuddled contentedly closer, nestling her cheek in the dark hair that thatched his chest. Life. “Well, it was most unkind of you to frighten me like that.”
“May I call it to your attention that I didn’t know you were returning? Why didn’t you send a message and—Never mind.” He tugged her head back and his lips covered hers with sudden passion.
Her arms tightened about him as joy soared through her. He was well and strong and they were together again.
Jean Marc lifted his head. His breath had quickened. “One of us is overdressed, and I believe it’s you. Take off your clothes, Juliette. Dieu, I’ve missed you.”
“Have you? I wanted you to miss me.” She looked up at him wistfully. “Truly, Jean Marc?”
“Truly.” He sent her bonnet sailing across the room. “As I mean to demonstrate immediately if you’ll please remove—”
“I can’t.” She reluctantly pushed him away and stood up. “If you’re not ill, then you must dress and come downstairs. Catherine is here.”
“Catherine.” Jean Marc frowned. “Why has she come to Paris? She shouldn’t have left Vasaro. Neither of you should have come back.”
“You knew I’d come back,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t leave you here alone, and I have something I must do.”
Jean Marc threw back the covers and got out of bed, reaching for his brocade robe on the chair. “Merde, haven’t you heard what’s going on here? The Jacobins have gone mad. They’re arresting and killing everyone in sight. They’ve executed every Girondin and aristocrat they can lay hands on and anyone else they have a quarrel against. The guillotine’s been working day and night since the queen’s death. Dammit, it’s not safe for you here.”
“The guillotine.” She shuddered as she remembered that day at the Place de la Révolution. The queen in her pretty red prunella slippers … “More deaths?”
Jean Marc buttoned his robe as he turned to face her. “Go back to Vasaro. When there’s so many deaths, it becomes commonplace. I’d have little chance of saving you if you went before the tribunal.”
She tried to smile. “And would you mind if I went to the guillotine? I hope you would. It would be very sad to have no one mourn me.”
“I’d mind,” he said slowly. “I’d mind so much that I’d probably be forced to find a way to destroy both that damn guillotine and the nation who ordered it used on you.”
Her eyes widened and she felt a sudden breathlessness. “How … extravagant. You would mourn me.”
“Good God, did I not say—” He broke off and turned his head away so that she couldn’t see his face. “However, François would be most upset if I also brought down his precious Rights of Man which would probably follow. So let’s avoid it by all means. Go back to Vasaro.”
She shook her head. “Even if I’d go, Catherine would not. She’s going to join François at the Temple.”
“No!” Jean Marc whirled back to face her. “Why?”
“She loves him,” she said simply. “It’s her place to be with him now.”
“Not at the Temple. If she won’t go back to Vasaro, let her stay here where I can try to protect—”
“She’s not a child any longer, Jean Marc. You can’t protect her. We must both do what we have to do.”
“The devil I can’t,” Jean Marc said harshly. “I should order Léon to bind and gag both of you and force you to go back to Vasaro.”
“We’d only come back.” She smiled. “I know you care about Catherine but she’s no longer your concern. She
’s François’s wife now.” She turned and moved toward the door. “I’ll leave you to dress. Shall I send water up with Léon?” She frowned. “It’s not his duty and he’ll be quite upset. Really, Jean Marc, it’s not sensible to have only Robert and Marie in the household. Why did you send the rest of the servants away?”
“I thought it best. I’ve had a number of visitors of late that I wanted no gossip about.”
“Who?” She gazed at him curiously before pain suddenly tore through her. “A … woman? I suppose I should have expected it. You’ve always had many mistresses and I’ve been gone—”
“Seven weeks and three days,” Jean Marc said softly. “I’m not sure how many hours, but I’m certain I would have been able to tell you if you hadn’t exploded into my chamber and roused me from a sound sleep.”
“Truly?” The breathlessness came again and with it the faintest stirring of hope. “Bankers are always good at numbers, aren’t they?”
“If they wish to make a success of their profession.” He shook his head. “No other women, Juliette. I found myself quite uninterested in replacing you in my bed. Another victory for you.”
“Then where were you last night?”
“At one of those tiresomely clandestine meetings necessary for dire plots and conspiracies. Tell me, is there some rule that they always have to take place in the middle of the night?”
“Plots?”
He smiled slowly. “I’d hoped to have your Louis Charles safely out of the Temple before you returned but, as usual, you’ve done the unpredictable.”
“Louis Charles.” She gazed at him in amazement. “You’re helping us?”
“My dear Juliette, I do not help. If I become involved, I must seize control of a project.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a certain amount of self-love, I suppose.”
“No, I mean why are you doing this?”
“Do you expect me to say I’m doing it for the memory of the queen or the good of the country?” He shook his head. “I’m no idealist.”