How could Julienne explain that she knew this was the answer to her prayers without making her mother think her as impulsive as she had been in marrying Julienne’s father?
She opened her mouth to try, but Isaac spoke before she could. “I am the first to grant the need for thought and prayer,” he said quietly, “but I beg you to think and pray quickly. France is ripe for uprising, and getting you to England will be difficult enough without that added to the mix.”
Mère’s hands raised in exasperation. “And so we should simply trust you? You, a total stranger? You could be a pretender claiming a false association with my husband, a pirate wanting to ransom us, a murderer interested only in luring us out here alone so you might—”
“Mère!” Julienne settled her hand on Isaac’s arm to comfort him, to assure him she believed no such nonsense. Though when she glanced at his face, he seemed more amused by the suggestions than offended.
He tilted his head and smiled. “I have faults aplenty, madame, but I must say this is the first anyone has thought to wonder if I am a pirate or his like.”
Her mother gave him a glare that had shriveled many a man in the court. Fairchild, however, did not so much as flinch, even when she added that low hum that sounded as though she were finding every imaginable flaw. “Then what are you, monsieur? Other than a spy.”
“I am not—” He came to an abrupt halt and drew in a quick breath. The muscle under Julienne’s hand tensed. “I am not a spy by profession. I am the grandson of a duke, the son of an earl.”
Her mother arched a single, deadly brow. “First son?”
Isaac parried the arch with one of his own. “Third.”
“So you have blood but no rank.” The wave of Mère’s hand made it seem as though that alone were reason to distrust him.
Yet he smiled again. “I have a rank, my lady. Though I doubt it will endear me to you. ’Tis brigadier general.”
Army? That ought to strike fear into Julienne’s heart, the realization that he had no doubt felled some of her countrymen, that he wore the uniform of her nation’s arch enemy.
But how could it, when she looked up into his face? Non. It would take a man of honor to rise to any rank of general, even a lesser one. Not to mention that his nation was also half hers, even if she had never realized it. He knew her brothers—brothers! And her father. He had risked his life to come here for them.
Her mother seemed none too impressed. “Why would you be playing the spy then, monsieur? Surely it is beneath you, if you are what you say.”
Fairchild shrugged. “The request that sent me here some months ago was such that I could not refuse it.”
“Why?”
“For reasons I cannot disclose.”
Mère huffed. “Who made it of you?”
His smile faded. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“Tight-lipped, are you?”
Now sobriety took over his features, making him look wiser than his years. “I have learned the hard way to be so. Please, Lady Poole, I know you have no reason to trust me. But do pray, consider it. And take this.” He reached into his overcoat, withdrew a thick envelope, and held it out. “From your husband.”
Oh, the look on her mother’s face. Wonder joining with incredulity, caution swirling with hope. She traced a fingertip over the front as if it contained the secret to happiness.
Perhaps it did.
Julienne linked her hands over Isaac’s arm and watched the parade of feelings flit over Mère’s face for a long moment. A smile tickled her own lips. Many times over the years, the topic of remarriage had come up for her mother, a handsome woman still quite young. But always she had refused. Now Julienne understood why. She had a husband, one time had not obliterated from her heart despite the distance she had chosen.
Clearing both her throat and countenance, her mother tucked the letter into the pocket of her skirt and straightened her shoulders. “I shall indeed think and pray. But for now, we had best return.”
Had there been any logic to it, Julienne would have suggested they instead keep riding, through the countryside and the towns until Versailles was far behind them, until she could see freedom lapping along the shore.
But that wouldn’t do. So she merely exchanged a smile with Isaac and released him so he could help Mère onto her horse and then Julienne onto hers. His hands lingered a moment on her waist, and he looked about to speak.
“Let us hurry back,” Mère mother said, her voice once again controlled and even.
Fairchild only gave her a fleeting smile and moved to mount his horse. The ride back was far too quick, the crowds around them again far too soon.