Lessons in French (16 page)

People scrambled, yelling and shoving at one another. Chairs toppled and bottles

smashed. The barmaid shrieked in frustration as the Bluebell descended into a drunken

melee.

Eight

ACCORDING TO HOARY TRADITION, THE YEW TREE outside Callie's window

had been planted at the behest of Edward I. She had never had reason to doubt this fact—

its girth was a full twelve feet round, and the thick old branches were gnarled and scarred

enough to have seen six hundred years. They had certainly witnessed a visit by Henry

Tudor to the abbey that had once stood in place of Shelford Hall, and been singed by the f

lames of Cromwell's troops. Two elopements, a sermon preached by John Wesley, and a

murky incident involving the tenth countess, which could have been an attempt at

burglary, an abduction, or a practical joke—all were on the list of known escapades in

which the old tree had played a role.

There were a few escapades in its more recent past that were not a matter of public

record. Callie was already certain, without even trying to peer down through the moaning

and whipping branches, exactly who was waiting at the foot of the ancient yew. The

sharp double click of two pebbles, and then the raucous howl of a tomcat: she should not

remember that signal at all, but she had recognized it from a dead sleep it seemed, her

eyes springing open at the first rattle against the glass. She was out of bed and pulling on

her dressing gown before the hoarse yowl died away.

She paused before she pulled open the shutters, putting her palms to her face. Woken so

suddenly, she could barely gather her wits. Her cheeks were hot, her heart thumping.

Surely he did not truly suppose she would climb out of her window
now.
At the age of

seven and twenty. A spinster. In this weather!

The yowl came again, insistently. She drew a breath and folded the inside shutters back,

kneeling on the window seat. Through the glass, she could see only swaying black shapes

of branches in the night outside. The dark mass of the yew obscured everything else. The

tomcat called a third time, ending on a muff led human note, almost a plea. Callie made a

small moan and pushed open the window.

Chilly air f lowed in, sprinkled with icy drops. The damp, musty scent of the yew

enveloped her as she leaned out. She could not see the ground. "Go away!" she hissed.

"For pity's sake, are you mad?"

"Callie." He pitched his voice low, just loud enough to be heard over the rushing sound

of the branches and the wind. "I need help."

She squinted down, gripping the wet windowsill. She had expected him to laugh and

urge her to join him on some ridiculous exploit.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't go…" The rest of his reply was lost amid a gust of wind in

the branches. "Would you…" Only snatches of words reached her. "…my mother. I

need…"

She could not make out more. In the murk, she could just barely discern a pale shape

that might have been his face. But there was distress in his voice, not taunt or coaxing.

"What is it? What's happened?"

He made no reply to that, or if he did she couldn't hear it. She sat back on the window

seat, pulling her dressing gown tight about her waist. Trev had never come asking for

help, not this way. It was some crisis with his mother. And she could not blame him for

coming to her window instead of sending a message. He wouldn't want to wake the staff,

or involve Dolly, not at this time of night. Callie wasn't eager to do so herself.

She leaned out again. The branch nearest her window, the big one with the special

crook where she had always taken the first step, was impossible to see. And really, she

had no intention of climbing down from her window—it was simply beyond the pale.

She thought of telling him to meet her at the cow barn, but one of her farm lads would

be sleeping there. The boxwood maze would be miserable on a night like this. The

gamekeeper would be on alert for poachers in the wood, and a groom was always on

night duty in the stables.

Truly, the range of possibilities had not altered much in the past nine years.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and called down as softly as she could. "The

carriage house."

"Bless you!" he responded instantly. The vague shape below her vanished.

Callie wore her oilskin overcoat and work boots. She had made her way out the

servants' entrance, locking the door behind her, prepared to say that she was going to tend

the orphan calf if she'd encountered any of the staff. But no one stirred, not even the hall

boy snoring on his cot by Dolly's bell.

It was all too easy, as it had always been. She should have been born a housebreaker.

The door to the carriage house was closed. She could see enough by the light of the

lowering clouds to let herself in, but it was utterly black inside.

"Trev?" she whispered. "Are you here?"

She heard the carriage springs squeak with some sudden move.

"Callie?" His voice sounded muff led and shocked.

"Of course," she said. She had no idea why he had mounted into the carriage itself.

"What's happened? Is it your mother?"

There were more sounds, and then the creak of the door opening. "Callie. You didn't

have to come out."

She paused in consternation. "I thought you needed help."

She heard him moving on the steps, and then suddenly he bumped against her in the

dark. He sucked in a swift, sharp breath and then touched her arm, resting his fingers

there as if to steady himself.

"You're not hurt, are you?" she asked, uncertain of the sounds.

"Ah," he mumbled. "A little."

She could smell strong drink on his breath, some thing she had never noticed with Trev

before, though it was common enough among the older gentlemen of her acquaintance.

"I only need a place to sleep," he said, enunciating his words carefully. "I can sleep in

the carriage."

"What's happened?" She pulled off her gloves and fumbled in the deep pocket of her

overcoat where she always kept a cache of useful items. "What have you done to hurt

yourself?"

He blinked and squinted at the flare of her brim stone match. "I fell."

"Fell?" She peered at him. He was holding his hand up against his chest. Even in the

flickering light she could see that it was badly swollen. He had a bloody cut on the side of

his jaw.

"From my horse," he said, standing back from her. He leaned against the carriage

wheel. "I'd… rather not go back to Dove House just now. Need a place to rest until

morning."

She could see that his coat was torn at the collar, and his neck cloth hung down in

complete disarray. She frowned, trying to discern if he had any other injury.

"I don't want Maman to see me like this," he said thickly.

"I suppose—yes." She looked at him in consternation. "It might frighten her."

He ran his good hand through his hair, disheveling it even further. "The doctor from

London attended her this morning."

"What did he say?"

The light flickered, casting shadows on his face. "He said she has a week or two,

perhaps." His voice was not quite even. "A month at most."

Callie tilted her head. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

The match went out. They stood in the dark. She could hear him breathing almost as if

he were laughing. "God damn it," he said. "God damn me to hell. I ought to shoot

myself."

"Nonsense," she said stoutly. "You've only had too much drink. No wonder you took a

tumble. You'd no business going mounted, not in this state." She fished again in her

pocket for a candle stub. "Let me look at your hand. I'm sure once it's bound up, and

you're set to rights, your mother won't be upset to see you. Did you take any other hurt?"

"No," he said. He paused. "I don't know. A little bruising. I may have cracked a rib."

She touched the candle to another match. "I'd best send a boy for the surgeon."

"No," he said strongly. "No surgeons."

"Only to bind you up. I won't let him bleed you."

"No surgeon," he said.

"But—"

"I haven't taken any serious hurt." He scowled, turning from her candle. "If I can just

rest a few hours, I'll be off in the morning."

She held the light over a metal trunk. "Sit down. Let me see your hand."

He blew out a breath of air and sat. Callie set the candle stub in a rusty sconce and sat

down beside him. He allowed her to open his fingers and moved each of them in turn for

her. She was no surgeon, but she had dealt with enough animal injuries to have a good

deal of experience in judging their extent. He tensed a little, especially when she pressed

gently at the swollen joints along his fist, but made no sharp move.

"I don't think you've broken anything," she said. "But it would be best to bind your

fingers. There will be some bandages in the carriage boot."

She left him sitting on the trunk and felt about in the dark boot for the horse supplies,

returning with scissors and cloth. As she bent over and wrapped his hand, she could feel

his breath move softly against her temple and hair.

She tied off the bandage tightly and cut the ends. Then she straightened, standing

between him and the carriage. It loomed behind her like a huge and awkward keepsake, a

ponderous memento, as if a hidden package of love letters had suddenly mush roomed

into an elephant, standing there swinging its trunk back and forth with gauche shyness.

"Well!" she said brightly. "Another adventure."

He remained sitting, his head turned a little aside as he looked up at her. "Another

adventure," he said with a smile that held no humor. He closed his bound fist, holding it

up against his shoulder.

"Does it hurt when you breathe? You think you might have cracked a rib?"

"I'm all right. Thank you, this helps a good deal."

"There's little enough I can do, if you won't see the surgeon."

"I'm all right, Callie. Sit down with me for a moment."

She felt her pulse beating faster. But he appeared more distracted than amorous, which

made her ashamed that she was feeling quite animated by his company in the middle of

the night in highly improper circumstances. She sat down, her oilskin rustling.

For a few moments, they were both silent. Callie watched the gleam and sway of light

on the black carriage paint. Several layers of fabric and oilcloth separated them, but not

enough to prevent her feeling the solid shape of his shoulder against her arm. She

wriggled her toes inside her work boots. They were cold, but her cheeks felt flushed.

Unexpectedly he took her hand, locking it within his. He lifted it and bent his head and

pressed his mouth to her fingers. She watched him in astonishment, feeling as if it were

some other lady sitting in her place with his lips and cheek resting against her hand.

"I have to leave Shelford now, Callie," he said.

She blinked. "Leave?"

"I can't go back to Dove House. Would you—could I ask you to call on my mother?

And tell her…"

He stopped, as if he could not think of what he wanted to say.

"You have to leave now?" Callie repeated stupidly. "What do you mean?"

He gave a short laugh and kissed her hand. "I'd rather not explain. I'm a brainless

bastard, will that suffice?"

She was bewildered. "But… how long will you be gone?"

"For good," he said roughly.

"Oh." She stared at him.

"I've had one adventure too many, I'm afraid."

"But… I don't understand. You must leave Shelford now?"

"Perhaps you'll understand tomorrow, or the next day."

She remembered suddenly that she had written to Major Sturgeon, giving him

permission to call on her tomorrow if he wished. She opened her fingers. Trev let her go.

She had thought, while she was penning her stiff invitation to the major, that Trev

would be certain to hear of it eventually. Without precisely hoping that he would be

angry or jealous, she had indulged in a lengthy reverie in which the news had brought

him rushing to Shelford Hall to propose to her, perhaps after knocking Major Sturgeon

down at the door.

Now Trev said he was leaving. And while it would have been rather pleasant to

imagine this had something to do with her—that he had heard she was entertaining a

flattering proposal, and was withdrawing his presence forever because of a broken heart,

that was not only preposterous but clearly would be far more devastating in reality that

she could have imagined. A sense of quiet panic rose in her.

"You can't leave your mother now," she said. "I can't believe you must leave now."

He made an unhappy sound. "Will you tell her that I was called suddenly to Monceaux?

Or London. To my agent there. Tell her I'll be back soon."

"But you said you aren't coming back."

He did not answer. Callie stared at his profile in dawning comprehension.

"You want me to lie to her," she said.

"No." He sat back and gave a slight laugh. "No, I misspoke myself. I shouldn't have

asked such a thing. A gentleman should tell his own lies."

Callie stood up. "Something terrible has happened." Her voice quivered. "What is it?"

He rose with her, so close that she could smell the damp scent of his skin. "Nothing

terrible has happened yet."

She felt his arm slip about her waist. It seemed unreal, as if she stood in a dream where