Page 62 of A Fierce Wind

Zoé and Isabeau shared a smile. “Petticoats,” she whispered to the girl, “can be such a nuisance.”

By the time they had finished with the modiste, procured the needed underclothes and retrieved the shoes they’d ordered from Mr. Johnson on Queen Street, Zoé had just enough time to visit the jeweler.

“A wide gold band, please,” she told the gray-haired man with spectacles perched on his thin nose.

He nodded and walked to another case a short distance away, saying over his shoulder, “I have just the one!”

Her aunt’s auburn brows rose. “A wide band?”

“Oui. So other women will know Freddie is taken.”

Her aunt rolled her eyes. “Time for tea, I think.”

“Cover your eyes!” Freddie commanded as he slowed the buggy. He had told her he had found a house, one he thought might suit them. Though she was impatient to see it, she dutifully complied, shutting her eyes tight. Knowing his sense of humor, she expected a dilapidated shed or even a cave.

Some distance on, the buggy came to a stop and she heard him open the door. “Here we go,” Freddie said, lifting her from the velvet seat and carrying her a ways to set her feet upon the ground. The cushiony feel of grass beneath her shoes told her she was standing on a lawn. She smelled salty sea air and, somewhere nearby, she could hear waves breaking onshore. The faint scent of jasmine blossoms wafted to her on the breeze, making her even more curious.

“Can I open them now?”

“Not yet.” Zoé felt his arms encircle her waist from behind and he pulled her against his chest, making her snuggle against his warmth. Nuzzling her neck in the sensitive place just below her ear sent a shiver up her spine.

“Freddie, you are teasing me unmercifully.”

“I know, but you like it.”

“I suppose I do,” she admitted. Freddie was wonderfully affectionate and, since they had returned from Paris, he filled her days with kisses and sweet words of love.

“All right, Pigeon, you can open your eyes.”

What she saw robbed her of breath. The house Freddie had wanted her to see, the one about which he had been so secretive, was no ramshackle farmhouse, no dilapidated shed, no cave. It was her dream come true.

“Oh, Freddie. It’s… it’s perfect!”

Her gaze swept across the front of the two-story stone home, painted a pale yellow and trimmed in white to match the white front door. The roof was of a brown tile like the one atop the carriage house she could just glimpse through the trees in the distance. Not as large as her uncle’s home in St Peter Port, it was perfect for the two of them. She could tell by the five large paned windows on the front of the house they would never lack for light. A wide green lawn flanked by star jasmine hedges stretched from the carriage drive to where she stood.

On Freddie’s face was a pleased expression.

“I love it, Freddie, but can we afford it?”

“Oh, yes. Your dowry is more than adequate to pay for the house and the furnishings if we want them. The owner is willing to sell us those, as well. Before you see the inside, take a look at the view.” Freddie turned her around.

“Oh, my.” At the end of the green lawn, a beautiful beach of white sand gave way to turquoise waters that extended to the dark blue sea beyond. She had never been here before but she knew they were on Guernsey. “Where are we?”

“Perelle Bay in St Saviour’s on the west coast of the island. It’s country here, Pigeon, five miles from St Peter Port and very private. And nearby, there is a place where a ship could safely anchor.” Taking her hand he led her toward the house. “Don’t you want to see the inside?”

“You have the key?”

“Of course. A spy forgets no detail of importance. I told the agent we would want to see it by ourselves.”

She laughed, happy for the house, but happier still for the man who would soon be her husband. Her very own English spy.

As she crossed the threshold, she had a sense of being at home, as if she had lived here before. The furnishings in the parlor were of good quality and elegant. The dark blue velvet sofas and wing chairs beckoned her to sit. In the center of the room an oval table would be perfect for tea. Under the furniture rested a large rectangular rug that, like Guernsey itself, was covered in flowers, gold ones woven between blue-gray leaves. In the carpet’s corners were baskets spilling over with flowering bouquets of the same colors.

“That carpet looks like some I once saw in Versailles. Is it from the time of Louis XIV?”

“The agent told me it predates that Louis. They call it a ‘Louis XIII’ carpet because it was made between Louis XII and Louis XIV who succeeded him. Whether it was once in Versailles, the agent couldn’t tell me. You can be sure I asked. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” she said, nodding. “How nice to think some things from the palace might have been saved.”