“Better you had died than come back to me like this. What use are you to me? Do you expect me to care for you when it’s your duty to care for me?”
“No,” Dupree said quickly. “Everything will be as you wish. I can still get the Wind Dancer for you. I know who has it.”
“Jean Marc Andreas,” Anne Dupree said caustically. “And how do you intend to wrest it from him? While you’ve been away Marat has been murdered and you have no patron, no power. Are you to go begging Danton or Robespierre for a place?”
“I went to Danton at his home and he refused me,” Dupree admitted. “He said he had no use for murderers.”
“Yet he had use for you before you went to Spain. I told you no one would be able to bear the sight of you with your twisted bones.”
“But there’s still hope. When I managed to escape from Spain I went first to Marseilles and asked questions.” Dupree’s words tumbled one after the other in his effort to convince her. “Andreas has a cousin, Catherine Vasaro, for whom he has a fondness. She may even be the girl in the locket. There has to be some connection between Juliette de Clement and Andreas.”
“You told me the girl in the locket was a princess.”
He had forgotten he had told her that falsehood. “I thought she was a princess but perhaps—”
“You lied to me.”
“No,” he said desperately. “I thought she was a princess. I only said—”
“Never mind.” His mother’s gaze narrowed on his face. “How will you use the Vasaro girl?”
“I’ll send her a message that I have Jean Marc Andreas captive and she must come herself to ransom him.”
“What if she ignores the message?”
“She won’t.” Dupree tried to sound confident. “She’ll come. And then I’ll have her.”
“And you’ll use her to make Andreas give you the Wind Dancer?”
Dupree nodded quickly.
“I don’t like it.” She frowned. “It’s a plan based on sentiment.”
She had identified Dupree’s own worst fears, but he had to persuade her he could be successful. “She’s only a foolish girl. Sentiment is common in women of—” He stopped as she turned her cold gray eyes on him. “Not you. But some women don’t realize how stupid it is to let sentiment rule them.”
“And Andreas? From what you’ve told me, I’d say he’s not a man of sentiment.”
“I tell you he has a fondness for her.”
“You have no cunning.” Anne Dupree rose to her feet with a swish of lavender taffeta. “I thought I’d taught you better. Forget this plan and go to Paris and set watch over Andreas. All men have secrets—and there might be something we can learn about this one that will profit us. It’s better than trusting to sentiment. You’ll leave at once.”
“I thought to stay here for a few days and rest,” Dupree stammered. “I’m not well. The bullet is still lodged in my body and at night I get the fever.” It was the truth but not the reason he wished to stay. It had been too long since he had seen her.
“You wish to rest? Certainly.” She smiled at him. “But you cannot expect to sleep in any of my nice clean beds. You’ve been very naughty. You failed me, Raoul. You didn’t bring me the Wind Dancer and you lied to me about the princess. You know the place for naughty little boys.”
“No!” Dupree got up as quickly as possible. “I’ll go at once to Paris. You’re right, I should watch Andreas.”
“I doubt you need worry that anyone will recognize you.” Anne Dupree made a delicate moue. “But be cautious, nevertheless. This is your last chance, Raoul. I shall not be so indulgent again.”
He grabbed his hat from the table. “I’ll not fail you.” He moved awkwardly toward the door, dragging his left leg behind him. “I’ll get it. I’ll give you the Wind Dancer.”
Anne Dupree walked to the mirror and patted the heart-shaped patch at the corner of her mouth. “That’s a good boy,” she said absently. “Oh, and take the locket from the jewel case in my chamber. You might have use for it, if you decide to involve the Vasaro girl in some way.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“The locket has no value now.” She inclined her head to stare at her son. “Because it’s not worthy of me, is it?”
She was not going to forgive him, he thought in panic. She might never forgive him again unless he brought her the Wind Dancer. The Wind Dancer had the power to give his mother everything she had always wanted. It would make her a queen greater than the Bourbon bitch they’d beheaded last week.
“No, it’s not worthy,” he mumbled as he opened the door. “I’m sorry, Mother. Please … I’ll bring you the Wind Dancer. I’ll bring it …”
He limped from the room, pausing just outside the door to try to suppress waves of nausea. Close. It had been so close. What if she had discarded him? He was nothing without his duty to her.
A sudden thought chilled him. If he gave his mother the Wind Dancer, she would no longer need him. No, he must not let such a thing happen.
The hunger raked at his soul. She had sent him away again. The hunger must be fed.
Camille. He would go to Camille and she would feed the hunger.
“The eyes are difficult.” Juliette added a little more blue to her brush. “He has such expressive eyes, doesn’t he? So much wonder …”
Catherine looked over her shoulder at the portrait of Michel standing in a field of flowers. “But I think you’ve caught it.” She sat down on the grass and linked her arms about her legs as she gazed thoughtfully at the pickers working at the bottom of the hill. “You’ve made good progress on it.”
“It’s truly a wonder. I can’t persuade the little Gypsy to pose for me for more than five minutes at a time.” She tilted her head. “It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done. It’s worthy of a gallery showing.” Her lips twisted. “Not that I’ll ever know that pleasure.”
“Why not?”
“Even in this splendid new republic, women’s artistic efforts aren’t considered worthy of public display.”
Catherine shook her head. “But it’s wonderful.”
“That makes no difference, I could have the talent of a Fragonard or Jacques-Louis David and still not be allowed to be hung next to the most amateurish of male daubers. It’s not fair, but that’s the way of life.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, I know it’s good.”
“Are you almost finished?”
“Just a few more touches and the signature.” Juliette wiped her perspiring brow with her sleeve. “I notice Michel’s been spending a good deal of time with Philippe.”
Catherine nodded as she picked a blade of grass and chewed on it. “Philippe’s tried very hard to become friends with Michel since he returned from Marseilles.”
“Have you forgiven him?”
“Forgiven him for being Philippe?” She shrugged. “It isn’t my place to forgive him. It’s Michel’s. And Michel sees nothing to forgive.”
“But you can’t view him in the same fashion?”
“No, but we both love Vasaro.”
“I don’t like it,” Juliette said flatly. “If you keep on in this vein, you’ll end up by marrying the peacock.”
Catherine looked down at the ground. “It’s … a possibility.” Catherine added, “Not soon. But I must have a daughter for Vasaro at some time.”
Juliette shook her head. “You deserve more.”
“Philippe is a cheerful companion, he works hard—”
“And he’s certainly proven he can father any number of progeny.”
Catherine smothered a smile. “Only you would say something so outrageous.” Her smile faded. “I need someone besides Michel. I’m … lonely, Juliette.”
Juliette was silent for a moment before glancing over the top of her easel at Catherine. “Then send for François.”
Catherine stiffened. “François?”
“Why won’t you talk about François, Catherine? I’ve told you what forced him to make the decision at the ab
bey and I think you understand.”
“I don’t wish to speak of François. I know you have a great admiration for him but—”
“You refuse to forgive him when you’ve obviously forgiven Philippe. Even after I told you why it was necessary he withhold his help at the abbey, you still won’t talk about him.” Juliette looked down at the painting. “I’ve been thinking about it and I believe I know why you can’t forgive him.”
“Juliette, I don’t wish—”
“Because you love him. You don’t love Philippe, so it’s easy to forgive his faults.” She shook her head. “Mother of God, at the abbey François didn’t even know you. How could he betray you?”
Catherine stood up and jerkily brushed the grass from her gown. “You know nothing of how I feel.”
“Who could know you better? I don’t understand why …” Juliette frowned as she stared thoughtfully at Catherine. “Or perhaps it’s not really a question of forgiveness at all. Did he refuse to stay with you here at Vasaro? Couldn’t you hold him here in your Eden?”
“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.”
The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds Page 83
