Bemusedly, she put her palm on the earth.
“Do you feel it?”
“What am I supposed to feel?”
“The earth sighing, trembling, giving up its soul.”
“Soul?”
“The flowers. Everything has a soul, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Is that what the priests told you?”
He shook his head. “But I know. Can you feel it?”
She did feel a stirring beneath her palm, but it surely must have come from the breeze disturbing the grasses, their roots slightly moving in the soil. “I don’t think so.”
He frowned in disappointment. “I thought you might be one of the ones who felt it right away. Don’t worry, you’ll feel it later.”
He was so earnest she found herself smiling at him. “You’re so sure that—”
“Run away, Michel.”
She looked around to see Philippe dismounting from a chestnut horse a few yards away. She had never seen him dressed so simply in worn brown knee-boots, dark trousers, and a linen shirt unbuttoned at the top to reveal his strong brown throat.
Michel nodded in acknowledgment, but his gaze never left Catherine’s face. “You should come with me now. We can pick together.”
Philippe smiled indulgently at the child. “This is the mistress of Vasaro, Michel. She won’t be picking the blossoms.”
Michel turned to Catherine. “Are you sure? I think you’d like it.”
“She’s sure. Go back to the field, Michel.”
The child hesitated, smiled again, and then was running down the hill. As he reached the field, he was met by smiles and laughing remarks, drawn lovingly into the crowd of pickers.
“I was worried when Manon told me you’d left the house so early,” Philippe said. “You should have told me you wanted to come to the fields this morning.”
“I didn’t know I did. I was standing at the window this morning and saw the workers going down the road.…” Her gaze was on Michel, who was picking the blossoms with a dexterity that astonished her. “Is he the son of one of those women?”
“Michel?” Philippe shook his head. “He belongs to no one. He was found almost dead by the overseer in one of the rose fields when he was only a day or so old. Evidently, his mother was a picker who gave birth to him in the field and just left him there.”
“But how could she do such a thing?” Catherine asked, shocked. “A baby …”
“Babies aren’t always wanted. The woman probably had no husband.” Philippe glanced back at the field. “We think the mother was one of the pickers from Italy. There was a woman big with child who disappeared about the time the baby was found.”
“And she never came back?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Poor boy.” Her gaze went back to Michel. “But he seems very happy.”
“Why shouldn’t he be happy? He has everything he needs. He chooses which family he’ll live with every season and I give the picker an extra allowance for his food and lodging.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Part of managing Vasaro is providing for its workers. It doesn’t cost the property a great deal and Michel works as hard as the other pickers.”
“Shouldn’t he be given schooling?”
“I sent him to the priest to learn his letters, but he refused to go back after a few lessons. He’s happier in the fields anyway. He’s a little simple.”
Her eyes widened. “Nothing seemed wrong with him to me.”
Philippe shrugged. “He’s not like the other children. Perhaps he was damaged from lying in the field exposed to the weather those two days. You’ll see, if you get to know him. He doesn’t think like anyone else.”
“Working in the fields seems a hard life for a child.”
“All the children work. Besides, Michel likes it and doesn’t work only in the fields. Sometimes I let him work with the pomades and the essences. Someday he may be of real use to us. I think he has a nose.”
“Of course he does.”
Philippe chuckled. “No, I mean a nose for scents. Very few people can distinguish precise ingredients in a perfume and how they should be blended to make new scents. It takes a sensitive nose and a certain instinct.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, I have neither. Thank God, a gentleman has no need for them.”
“But the boy has this talent?”
“Augustine thinks he does. Augustine’s our master perfumer here at Vasaro.”
“We make perfumes as well as grow the flowers?”
“Recently we started to create our own scents. Why should the perfumers in Paris reap all the fattest profits?”
She turned to look at him. His expression was more enthusiastic than she had ever seen it. “That was very enterprising of you.”
“I love Vasaro,” he said simply. “I want it to continue to prosper.” He swung up on the horse. “So I’d better be checking on the pickers in the south field. May I escort you back to the house first? You should have your breakfast.”
She shook her head. Her gaze returned to the pickers. “I want to stay and watch a little while longer.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure that—” He stopped, his gaze on her absorbed face. “Eh bien, I’ll come back and fetch you after the morning’s work.” He turned the horse and trotted down the hill toward the road.
Catherine scarcely realized he was gone as she watched the rhythm of the pickers as they plucked the blossoms and tossed them into the baskets. Some of the baskets were full now, and the men were carrying them to the waiting cart and dumping them in large casks on the bed of the cart. Then they returned to the field and the rhythm resumed.
“Catherine!”
It was the child, Michel, waving at her from the field, his tanned face alight with laughter, his eyes squinting against the sunlight. She lifted her hand and waved in return.
He was motioning to her. He wanted her to come down to the field.
She hesitated and then shook her head.
Disappointment clouded his face and Catherine felt a sudden twinge of remorse. What difference did it make if she was the mistress of Vasaro? She jumped to her feet and was halfway down the hill before she had realized she was heading toward the boy. She reached the road, crossed it, and started winding her way through the plants, smiling shyly at the workers who stared at her with an uncertainty equal to her own. She came to the row where Michel was standing.
“You wished to speak to me?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Watch, I’ll show you how it’s done and then you can do it.” He bent down and started to pluck the geraniums again.
“I don’t want to—” She did want to pick the flowers, she suddenly realized. She wanted to be a part of the rhythm that united the pickers with the plants, to know how the dew-wet blossoms felt in her fingers. She wanted to be a part of Vasaro.
That was why she had been drawn from the house to the field that morning. She had not realized her purpose, but somehow the child had known.
“Tomorrow you must wear a hat. You’re not as brown as the other women, so you’ll burn.” Michel didn’t look at her as he quickly plucked the blossoms. “And wooden shoes are best. There’s much mud from the dew in the morning. You’ll remember?”
“I’ll remember.” She watched him closely and then began to clumsily pluck the blossoms and toss them into his basket. She was slow at first, but she found the occupation ambivalently both soothing and exhilarating. The work itself was mindless labor and yet the scent of the earth and flowers, the sun warming her skin, the rush of blood through her veins, and the unaccustomed exercise turned her warm and breathless. She didn’t know how long she worked beside Michel, but the basket was filled to overflowing with the orange-red geraniums, emptied into the cart and filled again, emptied and filled.
Michel worked in companionable silence beside her, his fingers like the beaks of small birds biting the blossoms from the stems.
She moved down the row
to another plant and reached out to find the first flower.
“No.” Michel’s callused hand abruptly covered her own. “It’s enough. It’s time for you to leave now.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“The sun’s high now and you’re beginning to grow very weary.”
“No, I feel fine.”
“It’s time for you to go.” His smile touched his face with a special radiance. “You can come back tomorrow. It’s a big field and we won’t finish today.”
“But I want to stay.”
“You’ve already taken what you need from them.”
Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What?”
“You needed the flowers but you’re at peace now. You mustn’t take too much or the healing will go away. There’s a …” He frowned, searching for a word. “Balance.”
“Healing?”
He started to pick the geraniums. “Come back tomorrow, Catherine.”
She stood staring at him for a moment, uncertain what to do. His words were strange, but they struck a note of rightness deep within her. She turned and walked down the row of denuded plants and then up the hill toward the manor house.
Catherine returned to the geranium field the next day and the day after that. On the fourth day the pickers moved to the field of pink bois de roses and Catherine moved with them. With every day she grew stronger, the rhythm of the work became clearer to her, more serene and better defined. On the fifth day Michel let her stay with the pickers until their workday was ended in the mid-afternoon. Pride and contentment filled her as she and Michel followed the pickers from the field.
“Where do you go when we finish in the fields, Michel?”
“Sometimes I go for walks. If you go past that hill and over two fields you can see the sea.” He picked up a rose that had fallen unheeded from one of the baskets, held it to his nose, and breathed in the fragrance. “And sometimes I go to see Monsieur Augustine and he lets me help while he experiments with the essences. Today I go to the shed to help with the maceration.”
“Maceration?”
“Taking the scents from the flowers.”
“May I go with you?”
“No.” Michel started up the road after the other pickers. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It would make you sad. It’s better that you just pick the flowers for now.”
“I could have Monsieur Philippe show me.”
He stopped and gave her a troubled glance. “It would make you sad,” he repeated. “You don’t realize how much they’ve given to you. Perhaps next week I’ll take you. Will you not wait for me?”
Catherine started to object, thought, and finally nodded. “I’ll wait.” She added firmly, “Until next week, no longer.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled widely at her. “You’re beginning to fight. See how much the flowers have given you?”
She smiled back at him. “And tomorrow I want you to take me to see the sea.”
He nodded as he started off at a trot after the straggling column of pickers. “Tomorrow, Catherine.” He waved at a tall, gangling boy. “Ho, Donato, wait for me.”
She gazed after him affectionately as he caught up with the older boy. At times Michel was a child brimming with mischief and at others he seemed to possess uncanny wisdom. She wasn’t sure which Michel she liked better.
“Catherine.”
She turned to see Philippe sitting his horse a few yards away. She flushed, her hand rising involuntarily to her perspiring forehead. She was suddenly conscious of the dirt and grass stains soiling her gown and the fact that her single brown braid had pulled free of its binding. “Good afternoon, Philippe. The field will be done tomorrow. Aren’t the roses—”
“Don’t you think it’s enough, Catherine?” he interrupted. “I didn’t want to interfere because you seemed so content, but you’ll be mistress here someday. You don’t want the pickers to remember you as working at their sides, do you?”
“Why not?” She nervously wiped her dirty palms on the skirt of her gown.
“They must have respect for you. Believe me, for them to regard you with such familiarity isn’t good for your future position.”
“I do believe you, but—” She gazed at him helplessly. “I want to do this, Philippe.”
He smiled ruefully. His classic features showed fresh beauty. “Then you must do it, of course. Beautiful ladies must always do what they want to do.” He bowed. “And does it please you to go back to the house for dinner, Mademoiselle?”
She nodded shyly, drinking in the sight of him, his sweet smile, the sun glinting on his hair, turning it into an aureole of gold. “I’m … not beautiful.”
“But you are. I have both excellent vision and judgment and can assure you of that truth.” He held out his arms. “Come, beautiful lady, I’ll give you a ride back to the house.”
She was dirty, sweat-stained, and weary and yet, as he looked at her, she suddenly did feel beautiful. Beautiful and clean and as young as the day they had ridden together in that coach to Versailles. She took a step toward him and then another; the next step put her beside the chestnut horse. He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and set her carefully before him on the horse. He gathered up the reins. “Lean back. You won’t fall. I’ll hold you.”
She sat stiff and unyielding as the horse started to trot down the road. He was holding her gently but a shiver of apprehension went through her. There was nothing to fear, she assured herself. This was Philippe, who was gentle and kind and all that was knightly. Why was she so afraid? She had not been nearly so tense when she had been naked in bed with François Etchelet.
But François Etchelet was gone from her life. Vasaro was her world now. Vasaro and the flowers and the boy Michel and Philippe, who was everything a man should be.
Slowly, tentatively, she leaned back against Philippe’s broad chest and forced herself to relax as he urged the horse to a faster pace.
“Who lives in that pretty little house?” Catherine asked idly as she pointed down the steep hill to the right of the cliff.
Michel glanced with disinterest at the small thatched cottage nestled beneath the overhanging cypress trees. “No one. It’s only the Maisonette des Fleurs.”
“The cottage of flowers?”
“It belongs to Monsieur Philippe. He goes there often.” Michel drew her close to the edge of the cliff and pointed in the other direction. “There’s the sea. You can just see it today. I’ll have to bring you back someday when it’s clearer.”
Catherine turned immediately in the direction he was pointing, her hand shielding her eyes. It was true the haze misting the mountains and the town of Cannes softened and muted the view of the coastline, but the blinding sunlight on the sea was breathtaking, turning the cobalt blue of the Mediterranean to a shade closer to polished steel. “It’s still beautiful. How Juliette would love to paint it.” She realized suddenly that whenever she had thought of Juliette of late, the memories had come gently, lovingly, not with the urgency of need but with the pang for the absence of a dear companion. “I wish she’d come to Vasaro. There’s so much we could show her, Michel.”
“Juliette is your friend?” Michel picked up a branch and tossed it like a javelin over the cliff. “I have many friends.”
“I know you do. I have only one.”
He smiled. “You have me.”
She smiled back at him. “That’s true. I have two friends.”
“And the rest of the pickers would be your friends, only they know Monsieur Philippe wouldn’t like it.”
Catherine knew that was true. “It’s not that he doesn’t want me to be friends with them. He thinks it’s not proper for me to work in the fields.”
“He doesn’t understand the flowers.”
“He’s a good man,” she protested. “And he loves Vasaro.”
Michel nodded. “I didn’t say he wasn’t a good man. All the pickers think he’s a kind and just man. I onl
y said he enjoys the flowers but he doesn’t understand them.” He grabbed Catherine’s hand. “Come on, I want to run.”
She started to laugh helplessly as she let him pull her down the other side of the hill toward the manor house at a dizzying speed. Somewhere along the way he released her hand but she kept on running, enjoying the exhilaration of the warm sun on her face, the wind tearing through her hair, the scent of bergamot in her nostrils.
She hadn’t run like this since that night at the abbey when she’d—Her pace faltered as the memories of that last night came back to her. The muscles of her stomach clenched, knotted, and then suddenly eased. That night of horror was gone. Nothing could be more different from this lovely afternoon on Vasaro. That hideousness could never touch Vasaro and its people.
And if it did, she would deal with it. She would destroy it.
The fierce emotion accompanying that last thought startled her.
“Catherine, you’re falling behind,” Michel called, glancing mischievously over his shoulder.
“No, I’m not. You’re wrong. I’m forging ahead.” She sprinted toward him feeling young and strong enough to run to Paris and back. “I’ll race you to the geranium fields!”
“I told you that you’d be sad.” Michel’s anxious gaze searched Catherine’s stricken face as she watched the man empty the basket of bois de roses into the soupy mixture in the large caldron. “There’s nothing to be sad about. You don’t understand.”
“They’re dying.”
“It’s the maceration,” Michel said gently. “They’re giving up their souls. Don’t you see that it’s better this way? If the flowers had died naturally in the fields, they would have returned to the earth immediately, but this way they live longer. The perfume can survive a long time. Not always, of course, but Monsieur Augustine says some Egyptian perfumes have lasted for a thousand years and I myself have seen perfumed leather treated forty years ago that still has a strong scent. The blossoms die but their souls live on.”
The delicate pink blossoms lay quivering on the gray-white surface of the mixture in the pot and then lost all color immediately as the brawny woman minding the caldron stirred them beneath the surface with her long wooden spatula. Catherine had never really thought of the picking of the flowers as killing them, but here the destruction was clear.