So in Love (20 page)

“I have a present for you,” he said, his voice wrapping around her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprised. “A present?”

He went to the bookcase behind his desk and withdrew something from the cabinet at the base of it. Returning, he handed the box to her.

Placing it on his desk, she carefully unwrapped it, glancing at him occasionally as she did so. The ribbon was a length of lavender gauze that she carefully laid aside before taking off the top of the box. Inside was a nightgown of diaphanous linen, the top and sleeves crafted of intricate lace.

Even in Paris she’d never seen such a beautiful garment.

“I destroyed yours, I believe.” A softly voiced confession, one that made her shiver to recall that moment.

“Do you not miss me, Jeanne?”

Oh, yes.

“I said that I wouldn’t come to you, but I’ve been waiting for you to say the word. Why have you remained silent?”

She glanced up at him to find him smiling.

“I would think that you don’t enjoy our lovemaking,” he teased.

Enough to lose her mortal soul, but this, too, she didn’t say.

“Why did you stay with me?”

The question was so unexpected that she stared at him. “Why did I stay with you?” she repeated.

He nodded.

She wasn’t wise enough to lie. “Because those months in Paris were the most beautiful of my life,” she admitted.
“Because I wanted to feel that way again.” But the greatest reason, the greatest secret, was one she kept hidden.
Because I love you, and even after all this time I can’t turn my back on love.

Over the last ten years she’d come to realize that the flesh was nothing. She could be hurt and abused, and as long as her spirit was intact very little could truly affect her. But this man, with his sardonic smile and his intense blue eyes, had the power to wound her deeply without seeming to try.

Jeanne had realized his power over her the day she’d left Paris and he still had not appeared. She’d stared at the sky, at the brilliant yellow, blue, and purple colors of the dawn. The mist had risen from the river, obscuring the base of the hill of Montmartre. The church of St. Pierre de Montmartre stared out as if to send her on its way, its Gothic style a fitting last glimpse of Paris.

He never came. No one did, and when she was sent to the convent, no one ever rescued her. Circumstance alone had released her from her votary prison.

The question trembled on her lips now. Why had he never tried to find her? Why had he never left word?

Deliberately avoiding looking at him, she picked up the box, stepping back and away.

“Will you think about the spectacles?” she asked in a voice that quavered. With some force of will she turned and faced him again. He was studying her, his blue eyes narrowed. “Margaret loves to read,” she continued. “It’s a shame that she cannot because of her father’s pride.”

He strode across the room, but hesitated at the door and turned back to her.

“Of course I’ll get her the spectacles, Jeanne. She’s my daughter. But even without them Margaret can see better than her mother.”

He left her there staring after him.

M
argaret peered inside the schoolroom. “Cook promised to prepare us a lunch, if you’d like to eat outside, Miss du Marchand.”

“Outside?” Jeanne looked up from the slate in front of her.

Margaret walked to the window and pointed to the meadow beside the house. “Right there,” she said, pointing to the large and venerable oak Jeanne had noticed before. “It’s the perfect place for a meal.” She turned and smiled at Jeanne. “We have to eat, after all, do we not?”

In her smile was a hint of the charm her father had so often used to his advantage. Jeanne found herself no more successful in denying the daughter than she was in refusing the father.

“Yes, we do at that.”

As she descended the steps, Jeanne smiled at the young girl on the stairs industriously dusting the spools of the banister. Her employment at the Hartley home, however short-lived, had educated her about the life of servants. They were not often as concerned with the mistress and master of the house as they were with their own lives. Doug
las’s staff, however, surprised her. They seemed to share a camaraderie, yet they worked as hard as any people she knew. She doubted that in the kitchens of Vallans there had been such a general enjoyment of life, or, for that matter, a liking for their employer.

When she shared a meal with the servants, she sat and listened, and when conversation did, occasionally, turn to Douglas, she was not aware of looks directed at her. She could only credit Lassiter for their discretion, or perhaps the staff simply liked Douglas enough not to comment upon his actions. For whatever reason, she was grateful for their restraint.

Betty stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a basket with both hands. Jeanne took it from her, nearly sagging from its weight. “It feels like a great deal more food than we need.”

“Cook is forever feeding Miss Margaret. Ever since she was a baby, people have been trying to get her to eat.”

At Jeanne’s questioning look, she added, “She was nearly starved as a baby.”

Before Jeanne could ask any further questions, Margaret called out to her. “Miss du Marchand?” The child stood at the door, obviously impatient to be out on a very fine Edinburgh day.

Thanking Betty for her assistance, she followed Margaret out the front door and then to the left, along the path to the meadow.

“Do you have your book?” she asked.

Margaret nodded, a copy of
Praise of Folly
in her hand. “Must we have Erasmus, Miss du Marchand? He seems very dour.”

“We must,” she said firmly.

Margaret sighed again, but didn’t demur.

Jeanne hid her smile. As much as she enjoyed teaching the girl, she was very conscious of Margaret’s will. In that, Margaret was not unlike Jeanne herself. She’d been a
tyrant, of sorts, as a child, her arrogance partly a result of who she was—the daughter of the Comte du Marchand must be obeyed. What Jeanne had accomplished with her rank, however, Margaret achieved with a smile.

“You’ll find that he has a great deal of interest to say,” Jeanne said, refusing to give way.

“Most adults do,” Margaret said.

Surprised, Jeanne glanced at her.

“At least my uncles do,” Margaret amended. “And Papa, of course.” She looked at Jeanne and smiled, the expression impish. “And of course you, Miss du Marchand.”

She was being teased, and it was such a novel experience that Jeanne felt a surge of warmth. “I’m pleased that you think so, Margaret. That will make Erasmus much easier to bear.”

Margaret smiled back, conceding Jeanne the victor in this mild skirmish of wills.

They continued to follow a path through the dense overgrowth. The landscape had been transformed into a scene of wild beauty by the recent storms. Crimson wildflowers brushed against the brambles and saplings, vying for attention. Oak trees had budded early; their branches were now heavy with leaves. Somewhere, the longing call of a bird seeking its mate conveyed repose and tranquility, while the bright sky hinted at a warm and peaceful day.

Abruptly, the brambles and saplings disappeared and the land leveled out. The path they followed now was nothing more than a depression in the earth, but it was evident from the ease that Margaret took it that she’d come here often.

“Papa is having this area landscaped,” she said, glancing at Jeanne over her shoulder. “He has a layout of terraces he wants built, and hedges and flower beds.”

“It seems a shame to change it,” Jeanne responded. “Although the park you described is no doubt very attractive,” she hastened to add.

“You should see Gilmuir,” Margaret said. “It’s a truly lovely place. I wish Papa would live there, but of course he can’t. Not with his business at Leith.”

“I can’t help but wonder why he settled in Edinburgh,” Jeanne said.

“It’s because of me,” Margaret said, halting beneath the oak tree. Jeanne spread the blanket on the ground near the trunk.

“Why because of you?”

Margaret smiled. “Papa said that he wanted to create an empire for me to inherit. He said that I should be an heiress.” She giggled, instantly banishing any hint of autocracy from that statement. “I would much rather have remained aboard ship, but Papa says that he wanted to choose a place on land that would be safer for me.”

“So he picked Edinburgh?”

“Uncle James is in Ayleshire, Uncle Alisdair is at Gilmuir, Uncle Brendan is in Inverness, and Uncle Hamish is aboard ship.”

Jeanne smoothed the corners of the blanket. “In that case, I can see why he chose Edinburgh.”

“It was the only place left without a MacRae,” Margaret said, shrugging.

They ate lunch leisurely, a meal of meat pies followed by fruit tarts adorned with slices of apple. When they were finished, Jeanne handed Margaret her own spectacles.

“We really should read Erasmus,” Jeanne said.

Sighing loudly, Margaret nevertheless placed the loops of ribbons over her ears, opened the book, and began to read from where she left off this morning.

The recitation was so very close to her own feelings of late that Jeanne was startled.

“Do you think that’s true, Miss du Marchand?” Margaret asked, holding her finger at her place and closing the book. “I couldn’t imagine wanting someone else’s life.”

“Then you should consider yourself blessed,” Jeanne said.

Margaret seemed to consider that, and then nodded. “Papa says that life can be a blessing or a curse, and it’s a man’s attitude that decides the matter.”

Was Douglas to be considered a font of wisdom in all things? Margaret seemed to think so.

“There are circumstances that may occur to a person that have nothing to do with attitude,” Jeanne countered.

“Papa says that it’s not what happens to you that’s important, but how you react to it.” Margaret’s look was intent and thoughtful and too adult for Jeanne’s peace of mind.

“I can’t say that I totally agree,” she said carefully, realizing that she was treading on shaky ground. Margaret quite obviously adored her father. But Douglas wasn’t a god, and Jeanne had no intention of treating him like one. “Death happens, despite our wishes. For example, my mother died when I was about your age. Yet I didn’t encourage it with my thoughts. And my reaction was grief and loneliness.”

Margaret nodded, but didn’t say anything in response.

“There are some events in life that must simply be endured, Margaret. When they come, and they most certainly will, it’s not your ability to think of good thoughts that will sustain you, but faith.”

“In God?”

“In yourself,” Jeanne said firmly.

She thought about this for a moment. “Do you ever think of your mother, Miss du Marchand?”

The question was so unexpected that Jeanne hesitated. “Very often,” she said. “Especially when I need advice. I wonder what she would tell me. Sometimes I think I can hear her in my mind.”

Margaret nodded. She leaned back her head and stared up at the branches of the tree. “I think of my mother so often that I just know she’s near me.” She glanced at Jeanne. “Is that a bad thing, do you think, to believe in angels?”

Jeanne shook her head. “I cannot think so. But then, I’m not an expert on theology. Have you asked your father?”

Margaret shook her head. “Papa says he doesn’t mind talking about her, but I can tell it makes him sad.”

She shouldn’t ask, but then she shouldn’t have done a great many things concerning Douglas MacRae. “Do you remember her?”

Again Margaret shook her head. “No. She died at my birth. It’s a very strange feeling, causing your mother’s death.”

“You did not cause it, Margaret,” Jeanne said, reaching out and cupping her palm gently against the child’s cheek. “It simply happened, that’s all,” she said softly. “One had nothing to do with the other.” Sometimes a lie was more palatable than the truth.

“That’s just what Papa says, Miss du Marchand. Whenever he tells me the story of how they met I think he must still love her. His voice gets very low and soft.”

Jeanne busied herself in putting back the luncheon items into the basket, trying not to feel the pain Margaret’s words evoked. An inner voice—wisdom or conscience—warned her not to continue, but she disregarded it.

“What did she look like?”

“Like a princess, Papa said. She was French, like you, Miss du Marchand.”

There, payment for her curiosity.

Margaret was younger than her own child would have been, which meant that Douglas had not lost any time finding another woman to love. A woman who probably still lived in his heart. Why else did he only mention her cryptically and in passing?

How long had he waited? A few months? A year? Was that why he’d never come for her? He’d been in love with someone else by then, and she was only an afterthought. A faint memory. Oh, yes, Jeanne du Marchand. What a silly girl to think herself in love.

There, that was the reason to hate him, a way to diffuse the love that was growing stronger every day. How horrible that it didn’t seem to matter.

“Sometimes,” Margaret said, sitting back against the base of the tree, “I want to talk to her so very much.” She looked at Jeanne. “I want to ask her if she ever misses me as much as I miss her. Do you think an angel ever remembers what it’s like to be a person?”

Jeanne glanced at the young girl, seeing the pain in Margaret’s eyes and remembering her own. Reaching over, she placed her hand on the girl’s knee. “I think they must remember very clearly,” she said, recalling only too well her feelings of abandonment when her own mother died. “I know that she must miss you very much.”

“Do you truly think so?”

Jeanne nodded.

“Papa has this material at his warehouse. It comes from India and is white and gauzy with sparkles in it. It looks as if it might be made from angel wings.” She smiled, her expression somewhat brighter, Jeanne was pleased to see. “Perhaps you’ll see it tomorrow.”

“The warehouse seems like a very profitable venture,” Jeanne said, grateful that Margaret had changed the subject. She didn’t truly wish to hear any more of angels and women who made Douglas sad even now.

How horrible to be jealous of a dead woman.

“Oh, it is. I overheard my Aunt Iseabal say that Papa was the most marriageable man in Edinburgh. Do you think that’s true?”

They had gone from one unpalatable subject to another, it seemed.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, standing.

Jeanne smoothed out the material she had clenched between her fists, decided that she truly could not bear any more talk of Margaret’s mother or other women. Nevertheless, she found herself asking yet another question about her. “Are you named for her? For your mother, I mean?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, I’m named for my Aunt Mary. Her middle name is Margaret, too. My first name is too difficult for most people. It’s Mireille.”

“That’s French for miracle,” Jeanne said, surprised.

Margaret nodded. “Isn’t that the prettiest name? Papa said it’s because I was a miracle.” She stood and brushed down her skirt. “I nearly died when I was a baby, you see. I wasn’t supposed to live. But I did, and that’s why they named me Miracle.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Jeanne said. And Margaret was a charming child. There was no doubt that she was loved, and that Douglas was a fond and affectionate father.

She shouldn’t feel the bite of envy, or the peppering of tears. Such emotions were foolish, as was the wish that her own child might have lived. Regret would only poison the day.