Chapter 2
Mademoiselle Désirée le Duc shoved a flyaway tendril of golden-brown hair back up under her drooping bonnet and returned to harvesting the last fruits of her garden. Soon the weather would be too cold, and the land would lie dormant until the spring. But today, the soil yielded two plump aubergines, a handful of courgettes, and half a basket of onions.
Lucien had forbidden her from working in the garden. It was gauche. A task for servants, not ladies.Hewas the one who should be making sacrifices. But like her brothers, Désirée also tended to ignore any proscription that stood in the way of providing for her family. What harm could there be in a vegetable garden? It gave her something to tend, to be responsible for, to be proud of. It fed her family. It was also her way to both help and rebel against brothers adamant their beloved sister never resort to manual labor.
Hiring a maid for this task made little sense. Not when the goal was to pay off this plot of land in order to return to France as soon as possible. Lucien and Bastien might not allow her to contribute in the smithy, but absolutely no harm would befall her out here in the—
“Aie!” A stray thorn had managed to scrape her forearm, raking the skin and leaving a thin line of blood in its wake.
Not the end of the world, except she was late for Lucien’s English lessons, and he was bound to notice and cause a row. She wiped the blood against a clean spot on her apron and pushed to her feet. If she made haste, she could change from her gown into something with longer sleeves, and still get to the drawing room in time for lessons.
She hooked the basket over her other arm and hurried toward the house.
“Ho, there, Désirée,” Uncle Jasper shouted as she rounded the corner. “What’s for supper tonight?”
“You will find out when I make it,” she called back with a smile.
The le Duc household was perennially short on servants. There was a footman who doubled as butler, and a pair of hardworking maids, but the only “chef” was the family pig Uncle Jasper was currently feeding.
Technically, the pig was not meant to be a pet named Chef, but rather a meal to eat. They were fattening him from a tiny piglet to meat that would last several weeks. But Désirée had developed a soft spot for poor Chef, and refused to entertain thoughts of slaughter.
Possibly because, most days, Chef was the only company she had.
Désirée ducked into the house via the rear entrance, dropped her basket of vegetables in the kitchen, then dashed to her bedchamber. After removing her apron and bonnet and changing gowns, she raced to the front parlor, feet sliding on the carpet-less floor, until she all but tumbled into the parlor out of breath and only…mon Dieu. Thirty minutes late?
Lucien glanced up from the worn sofa where he sat, his hazel eyes piercing.
“Tu es en retard.”
“I know I am late,” she answered in slow, crisp English. “But I am here now.”
“C’est trop tard.”
“No, it is never too late to learn something new,” she replied, misunderstanding him on purpose.
At two-and-thirty—and the patriarch of their family—Lucien did not think himself too old to learn English. He didn’t see the point. Soon, they would be returning to France, and would never need to know a word of English again.
Soon. Soon, soon, soon. Perhaps Lucien required French lessons as well. He had been promising a “rapide” return for eighteen years. If she had not taught herself English, she would be even more isolated than she was now.
As isolated as Lucien no doubt felt.
She opened his exercise book and flipped to the last page. “Did you finish the preparation?”
“C’est stupide,” he grumbled. But, yes, he had done it. And very well, by the look of it.
“Well done.”
Although her brother tended to respond in French, regardless of the language in which he had been addressed, the accuracy and relevancy of his replies indicated he comprehended most of what was said. Rarely was he forced to ask a sibling to translate for him.
Coaxing him toanswerin English was anotherpaire de manches. He hated being seen as less-than-competent at any task. Having the thickest accent of the trio did not help.
What might help was actually practicing the language. Out loud. In a benign environment. One hour every afternoon, right here, with hispetite sœur. Her brothers worked so hard, and never let her contribute. At least she could do this. Shelikedtutoring. Her brother, on the other hand…
“You should not be teaching me English,” he said. “You should be improving your French.”
Désirée had been nine years old when they’d been forced to flee their home. Old enough that she would probably never completely lose her native accent, but young enough that her French fluency was… well, only somewhat better than that of a nine-year-old. There were no French tutors in Cressmouth.
Except for these one-hour English lessons, she and her brothers exclusively spoke French around the house, which only expanded her vocabulary to the sorts of topics one might discuss with one’s blacksmith elder brothers over the dinner table. Horses, carriages, food, fashion. How much better life would be when they were back in France where they belonged.
