When the countess’s voice broke, Julienne drew in a long breath and reached over. Her mother took her hand with a small smile. “Then the comte died, as you know.”
“Oui, only a month into your marriage. And you stayed a while longer and then came home.”
“Mais non. I did not stay at all.” Her mother looked away, toward the horizon. “I hated it there, and I had no great affection for either the comte or his family residing on the plantation. I boarded a ship immediately. But we were only a few days from port when we were set upon by…”
“The British.” Fairchild put in when it seemed she would not continue. “Specifically, by one Captain Gates, then a second son to an earl and determined to make his fortune on the seas.”
The lady’s face combined whimsy with pain. “It was a love like lightning, bright and startling. We married in Barbados, not caring about all the reasons we ought to have waited.”
Though Julienne’s gaze left her mother’s face for only half a moment, it was long enough to meet his, long enough to echo the questions that reverberated inside himself. Was that what they had experienced that night—a lightning love? Bright, yes. Startling, definitely. But was love the proper word?
Maybe. Yes. But it hadn’t been so fierce as lightning, nor so quickly gone. It hadn’t led them to any hasty decision that night but rather to months of wondering what might be.
“We were foolish. And soon realized it.” Lady Poole sighed and looked to her daughter again. “A letter was awaiting Edward in Barbados, from his family—news that his brother had died and he was now an earl. We sailed directly for England.”
Julienne swallowed and drew in a breath whose quavering strummed on Fairchild’s heart. “And this man is my father? Not the comte de Rouen?”
“Without question, yes. He was a good man, Julienne. Do not think otherwise. He tried to prepare me for life in England. But I… For a year I tried, but his mother and sisters hated me, his sons—”
“Sons?” Julienne’s hand slipped out of her mother’s.
Lady Poole sighed. “Yes, from his late wife. Two of them.”
“Brothers.” Incredulity saturated her tone, but it bore the tone of joy. “I have brothers?”
“They never accepted me, certainly not as their mother nor even as a friend. And it became worse after you were born. The dowager countess tried to take you from me. She told me I must send you to live with a nurse until you were weaned.” The lady shook her head. “Your father was no help, being too overwhelmed with the estates he knew nothing about. I wanted home. I wanted my père. So I told him I was going to France for a visit, and I…never went back.”
“Maman!”
The word was a plea, for what Fairchild could not be quite sure. For understanding, perhaps, or compassion.
Lady Poole’s face reflected back the same need. “I intended to, Julienne—at first. But things all looked so different once I was home again. That life seemed so very far away. And Père, he refused to acknowledge that Edward was my husband and told everyone I had only just left Martinique. No one questioned it. And because you were a girl and Rouen’s estate had already gone to a male heir, I saw no harm…”
Julienne slid off her horse. She was silent, her face blank again, but Fairchild swore he felt her ache, felt her grasping at composure, at calmness for her mother’s sake. He dismounted too, though he made no other move when she walked only a few steps away and halted. At Lady Poole’s motion, he absently assisted her from her saddle.
The countess pressed a hand to her temple. “What is it Edward wants, monsieur?”
Fairchild looked from her to Julienne to the countryside. Somewhere out there, peasants could be rioting even now. Taking what their lords refused to give to keep their children from starving.
And were they not, would Lord Poole ever have made a move to regain the wife and child he had lost? Only God in heaven could know.
“He wants his wife and daughter back, my lady. A chance to prove to you that your love was not so fleeting, and to get to know Julienne. More, he wants you to be safe and fears, as I do, that France will not be able to keep you so much longer.”
Lady Poole was shaking her head long before he finished. “Non. I cannot just uproot us from our life. This is all Julienne has ever known. She is betrothed. We cannot—”
“Mère, stop.” Julienne turned to face them, her countenance as intent and beautiful as any granite statue in the grotto. She raised her chin and met Fairchild’s gaze. “I will go.”
Four
Mère’s mouth went slack as her eyes reflected disbelief, even alarm. But Julienne scarcely felt the sway of that. How could she, when this beautiful man stood before them and offered her everything for which she had been praying?