The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  The door was swinging shut as she called, “François.”

  “I told you I won’t—”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked at her warily but could detect no mockery in her expression.

  “I know you didn’t have to do that for Catherine,” she said simply. “I suppose I can wait to find out about the other man.”

  “I’m glad I did something to please you.”

  “Oh, you did.” Her eyes were suddenly twinkling with mischief. “But you didn’t do everything I asked. Your hat has no cockade and—”

  The slam of the door cut off Juliette’s final words.

  NINE

  I have to talk to you, Jean Marc.”

  Jean Marc looked up from the document he was studying to see Juliette standing in the doorway of the study. The emerald green of her gown contrasted magnificently with her skin and unruly dark curls which seemed to shimmer while her eyes sparkled. He had been deliberately avoiding Juliette for the whole month past; now her sheer vitality sent a sensual shock through him. He felt every muscle tense as he fought the response she always provoked in him. “Can’t it wait? I’m busy.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re busy.” Juliette moved across the study toward the desk. “You’re always busy. You work in here day and night and I never get a chance to talk to you. Not once in the past month have you even had supper with Philippe and me.”

  Jean Marc leaned back in his chair. “My dear Juliette, those damned Jacobins have taken over the government and I’m trying to keep them from stealing everything I own.” He smiled. “However, I didn’t realize I’d been missed. Perhaps if you’d said s’il vous plaît, Jean Marc, I would have—”

  “I believe Catherine’s with child.”

  Jean Marc went still. “No.”

  “I am afraid it is so. She’s not had her flux due a fortnight ago. At first I couldn’t believe it.” Juliette smiled bitterly. “You’d think God had given her enough to bear and would spare her this. What are you going to do?”

  “I must think about it.”

  “Think? Do something. Catherine is so filled with shame, she’s drowning in it. She wakes screaming every night.”

  “I said that I must think.”

  Juliette took a step closer. “And while you’re thinking, what if it occurs to her that she’s with child and she kills herself? Do you wish such a thing to happen?”

  Anger surged through Jean Marc. “And what should I do? Find a dirty old woman in one of the back streets to kill the child in her womb? Did it ever occur to you to kill the child might also kill Catherine?”

  “Don’t be foolish—or misunderstand me in this. Catherine would never accept the murder of her babe, but she can’t be made to suffer even greater shame. I’ve been thinking about it.” Juliette paused. “You must find her a husband.”

  “Indeed? Who?”

  “How do I know? It’s your responsibility. You’re the one who was too busy to come when she needed you. Now you should be the one to help her.”

  He lifted a brow. “Are you suggesting I offer myself on the marital altar?”

  “Bon Dieu, no! She already quakes when you frown at her. She’d snap like the ribs of a fan before you’d been wed a month.”

  “I’m not an ogre and I don’t appreciate you—” Jean Marc stopped, his gaze narrowing thoughtfully. “But if not me, perhaps she could—”

  “No!” Juliette immediately realized where his logic was leading. “You’re thinking of Philippe. She wouldn’t marry him.”

  “Why not? She’s always been fond of him.”

  “Fond? She adores him. She’s besotted with him. She blushes at the mere mention of his name.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled. It’s time Philippe married and it will be an advantageous match for them both. He always has loved Vasaro and will continue to be an excellent manager.”

  “Settled? You haven’t even discussed it with him.”

  “I’ll speak to him immediately. I’m sure there will be no problem. Philippe likes Catherine and he appears genuinely remorseful for—”

  Juliette adamantly shook her head. “Anyone else. Not Philippe.”

  “You make no sense whatsoever.” Jean Marc frowned. “Philippe will treat her with the greatest tenderness.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me? She loves that beautiful peacock. Do you think she’d force herself on him in marriage when she won’t even allow herself to be in the same room with him?”

  “I’ll talk to her.” He started for the door. “It’s an excellent solution and it’s unreasonable of her to—”

  “Dear heaven, she’s in pain. How do you expect her to be reasonable?” She rushed after him. “You must not tell her she’s with child.”

  He stopped with his hand on the knob of the door. “You’re sure she doesn’t know?”

  Juliette shook her head. “She’s like a child herself now. You shouldn’t tell her. She’ll accept that she has to wed to hide her shame. She mustn’t know there’s anything else to hide.”

  “It’s not something you can hide indefinitely.”

  “Perhaps she’ll be better soon,” Juliette said desperately, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “She has to get better, doesn’t she?”

  Jean Marc was strangely moved. Juliette, too, was like a child frantically seeking reassurance. Mother of God, he wanted to think only of her strengths, not her weaknesses. Yet he found he couldn’t deny her comfort. “We will find a way to make sure she gets better.”

  Juliette’s gaze clung to Jean Marc’s. Abruptly, then, she glanced away and stepped back. She moistened her lips. “You won’t speak to her about Philippe? It will only make her weep.”

  “I’ll wait until after I speak to Philippe at least.”

  “I don’t know why you even bother getting his approval on the disposition of his life.” Her tone was especially tart. “Doesn’t everyone do as you wish them to do?”

  He smothered a smile. “For the most part, but one must display a certain courtesy. I shall speak to Philippe and then talk to Catherine.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “You’re making a mistake.”

  Jean Marc frowned as he came down the steps toward Juliette and Philippe, waiting for him in the foyer.

  “I told you it would do no good,” Juliette said, reading his expression. “You should have listened to me.”

  “I’m getting exceptionally tired of listening to you,” Jean Marc said in a clipped tone. “I wonder the nuns were able to tolerate you for more than a fortnight.”

  “They considered me a scourge, good for their souls.”

  An unexpected smile banished the look of annoyance from Jean Marc’s face. “As do I.”

  Juliette’s own exasperation melted away as she looked at him. It was difficult to be angry at a man who could smile after being proved wrong. “I suppose you made her cry.”

  Jean Marc grimaced. “I never imagined she would become so upset. Perhaps you’d better go to her. She seems distraught.”

  Philippe took a step forward. “Perhaps I should go up and explain that this marriage is entirely by my will. I can’t understand why she has so suddenly taken this dislike to me. I only want to help la pauvre petite.”

  “And have her see you pitying her?” Juliette started up the stairs. “Even Jean Marc would be a better husband to her than you.”

  “You’ve reconsidered my eligibility, then?” Jean Marc asked.

  “You needn’t be sarcastic just because you were wrong and I was right. You’d do much better to channel your thoughts to finding a solution to Catherine’s predicament. I don’t see that a husband should be a problem. François says you’re very good at bribery. Buy her one.”

  “Oh, now I should buy her one. At a slave market on the vast Arabian desert? Where am I to find this convenient husband?”

  “That’s your affair. I’ve told you what’s needed. It’s your place to supply it.”

  The door to Cat
herine’s chamber closed behind Juliette and she stood there silently cursing Jean Marc and mankind in general. Catherine was lying on the bed sobbing in an attitude of complete desolation, her slight body shuddering with sobs.

  “Stop it.” Juliette strode forward. “There’s no reason to weep. All the stupidity is over.”

  Catherine quickly rolled over and sat up. “I can’t do it, Juliette. Jean Marc is angry with me, but I can’t do it.”

  “I know you can’t.” Juliette picked up a linen handkerchief from the table beside the bed and gently wiped Catherine’s cheeks. “No one is going to make you marry Philippe if you don’t wish to.”

  “How could Jean Marc ask him to do such a thing?” Catherine asked wonderingly. “He loves Philippe. Philippe deserves a wife who can come to him clean and free from the taint—”

  “Philippe would be fortunate beyond belief to wed you.”

  “No, I’m not fit—”

  “Stop spouting this nonsense.” Juliette tried to temper her impatience. “I won’t try to persuade you to marry Philippe, but you do realize it’s necessary for you to marry someone?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I shall never marry.”

  “You must marry.”

  “That’s what Jean Marc said. Is it because of what they did to me? Because I’m disgraced?”

  “Yes, it’s because of what they did to you.”

  “It doesn’t seem … fair.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t wish to marry.”

  “I know, Catherine.” Juliette sat down on the bed beside her and took both Catherine’s hands in her own. “But you realize I’d never ask you to do anything that wasn’t for the best?”

  Catherine nodded listlessly.

  “Then you’ll do as I ask?”

  “Not Philippe.”

  “No, not Philippe.” Juliette’s hands tightened around Catherine’s. “Someone else.”

  Catherine tensed. “He won’t hurt me?”

  Juliette’s rush of fury was followed immediately by passionate tenderness. “I promise you won’t be hurt.”

  Catherine relaxed. “I couldn’t bear to be touched like that again.”

  “It won’t happen. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. I’ll do whatever you wish.” Catherine withdrew her hands from Juliette’s clasp and Juliette realized she was already drifting away again. “I think I’d like to go sit in the garden now.”

  “Be sure to take your shawl.” Juliette rose to her feet. “Will you join us for supper?”

  “What? Oh, no, thank you. I shall go to sleep early, I think.”

  She was asleep now, Juliette thought in despair. When would she wake? “Would you like me to come and brush your hair after supper? It sometimes helps you to sleep peacefully.”

  “No, thank you. I’d rather be alone.” Catherine’s gaze slid away from Juliette’s. “Unless you think it necessary.”

  This from Catherine, who so hated to be alone she had sometimes sought out Juliette’s company in Sister Bernadette’s tomb. “No, it’s not necessary. I simply thought you might like it.” Juliette moved toward the door. “I’ll tell Marie you’ll have supper in your room.”

  She was halfway down the stairs when the idea occurred to her.

  It was too absurd.

  But was it?

  She continued down the stairs, a thoughtful frown on her brow.

  “You can’t work through this meal, Jean Marc,” Juliette said as she opened the door of the study the next evening. “You must have supper with us tonight.”

  “Must?” Jean Marc repeated silkily.

  Juliette nodded. “We have a guest.”

  “What guest?” Jean Marc’s chair screeched as he pushed it away from the desk. “Dammit, you know we can’t have guests with you and Catherine in the house.”

  “Join us in the Gold Salon in a few minutes.” Juliette left the study.

  François Etchelet looked surprisingly elegant when he was shown in. His dark brown hair was drawn back from his face and fastened with a black tie, and his dark blue coat fitted his shoulders as impeccably as did Jean Marc’s or Philippe’s. The gracefulness of his bow betrayed an easy worldliness, and Juliette had a sudden memory of Philippe’s words regarding François’s reputed seductions. Evidently the panther did indeed have hidden facets to his character.

  “Good evening, Monsieur Andreas,” François said to Jean Marc and then continued impatiently. “This travesty of a social supper isn’t necessary. Let’s get on with it. Why did you send for me?”

  “I didn’t send for you.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “I have no idea.” Jean Marc turned to Juliette. “Suppose we ask Mademoiselle de Clement?”

  “Later,” Juliette said, her gaze fixed on François. “Talk. I’m still thinking about it.”

  “As you command. We wouldn’t wish to disturb your concentration.” Jean Marc began to pour wine from the silver pitcher into the goblets Marie had set in readiness on the rosewood table. “Dupree is still in Paris, Etchelet?”

  “Not much longer perhaps. Georges Jacques is concerned about how the war is going and may leave for the front shortly. He’ll ask Marat to delegate Dupree to his entourage.”

  “Perhaps?” Jean Marc grimaced. “I don’t like to depend on uncertainties. Can’t we hurry things a bit? How much would it cost to get the guards at the gates to look the other way?”

  “It can’t be done.”

  “I could be very generous.”

  “Impossible.”

  “There are no incorruptible men.”

  François inclined his head. “And no one knows that better than you, do they? You frequent the National Convention more than most of the delegates themselves.”

  Jean Marc stiffened. “You object to me bettering the fortunes of your fellow revolutionaries?” he asked softly.

  “Georges Jacques says I think the revolution is all shining virtue.” François shook his head. “He’s wrong. I know exactly how corrupt some of the men of the convention can be.”

  “And you have no quarrel with it?”

  “I accept it.” François paused. “As long as it doesn’t strike at the heart of the revolution. Bribe whomever you will to circumvent tax levies and trade embargoes. I do not care. Just stay away from the Rights of Man and the Constitution.”

  Jean Marc’s eyes narrowed on François’s face. “And what would you do if I decided I needed to make a few adjustments in those august documents?”

  François smiled pleasantly. “Cut your heart out.”

  Jean Marc braced. Slowly, he relaxed. Finally, he smiled. “I don’t believe I need to tamper with your Rights of Man. For the most part, I approve.”

  “How fortunate for both of us.”

  Juliette had been following the exchange with keen interest. The two men were completely different in character and philosophy, yet they were smiling at each other with complete understanding. However, she must stop this verbal minuet and bring them back to the principal topic. “Why is it impossible to bribe the soldiers at the gates?”

  François turned to her. “Because they’re more afraid of Dupree than greedy for Monsieur’s francs. Greed is universal but there are certain limits.”

  “Not extensive ones.” Jean Marc held out one of the silver goblets of wine he had poured for Juliette. “Perhaps you can persuade them to—What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Juliette couldn’t stop staring at the deep red of the wine in the goblet. Sickness caused her stomach to clench and then churn helplessly. She mustn’t be sick.

  “You’re ill.” Jean Marc’s gaze was on her face. “You’ve turned white. Take a sip of the wine.”

  “No!” She pushed the goblet from her and stepped back. “I’m not ill. I won’t be ill.”

  “Very well. You needn’t become violent about it. I only thought a drop of wine would brace you.”

  “Juliette doesn’t like wine,” Philippe said. “I’ve
often teased her about it. She always has water with her meals.”

  “How unusual.” Jean Marc studied Juliette’s face. “And unhealthy. Water from the abbey must have been a good deal more pure than that of Paris.”

  Juliette swallowed and looked away from the goblet. “I don’t know if it is or not.”

  “I recall Catherine saying the wine of the abbey was excellent. That the nuns grew their own grapes and that—”

  “I’ll take it.” François stepped forward and took the goblet from Jean Marc. “We poor republicans get little opportunity to sample the wine cellars of merchant princes.” He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the wine. “Excellent.”

  To Juliette’s relief Jean Marc’s attention swung immediately to François. “I’m delighted that a republican can appreciate something besides the Rights of Man.”

  François smiled. “I’m a Basque. No one can enjoy the pleasures of life more than a Basque.”

  François had deliberately diverted Jean Marc’s attention to himself when he’d realized Juliette was upset, an act that seemed totally out of character. But was it? She stared at the man thoughtfully. “It’s time for supper,” she said abruptly. “Marie’s a fine cook, François. Better than you can find in the kitchen of any eating establishment in Paris.”

  All three men looked at her in surprise.

  “Come along.” She turned and led the way through the arched doorway connecting the dining room to the salon. “You can talk to Jean Marc over the meal about ways of getting Catherine out of Paris.”

  Marie had served the fourth course when Juliette suddenly broke the silence she had maintained throughout the meal. “François.”

  François glanced at her across the table. “Yes?”

  She ignored him as she turned to Jean Marc at the head of the table. “I’ve decided we’ll use François.”

  “I dislike the word use,” François said. “I’ve agreed to give you my assistance, but it will be in the way I choose. I am not one to be ‘used.’ ”

  “Oh, hush, I meant nothing by the word. I’m not always as silver-tongued as I might be.”

  “Not always?” Jean Marc murmured. “Rarely.”

  “That doesn’t matter now.” Juliette leaned forward, her expression suddenly eager. “Are you wed, François?”