Lessons in French (3 page)

breath felt as if they had deserted her, declaring they were off to join the navy and might

come back to visit in a few years if she were lucky.

"Can you recommend to me a decent cook?" he asked.

The prosaic question pulled her from a momentary dream of… of something. She

missed a step and caught herself, flushing deeply as he lifted his chin to prevent the

feathers of her fan from obscuring his face entirely. "Oh," she said, gaining control of the

wayward fan. "Don't say that Mrs. Easley has taken to drinking again?"

"I fear so. I came in hopes of stealing a seedcake or two to save us from starvation."

"That woman!" Callie exclaimed, dropping her hand. She almost stood still on the

dance floor, but he lifted her glove and kept her moving. "She's beyond saving," she said

severely. "But has your mother not had nourishment? I sent a whole haunch of beef to her

two days ago!"

"Thank you." He smiled. "But I don't know what's become of it, bumbling fellow that I

am in these domestic matters. There was some broth, which is all that it seems she'll take,

in any case."

"She must have more than broth!" Callie did stop then, causing a brief f lurry as the

other dancers found a path around them. "I'll go to her directly."

"No, do not trouble—"

"It's no trouble," Callie said, drawing away from him. "Only let me speak to Mrs.

Adam. She'll see my sister home in the carriage. It's too late for the cook shop, but I'm

sure I can find something of substance in your kitchen if Mrs. Easley hasn't sold it all to

that wicked butcher's boy."

He shook his head. "You need not. I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to interrupt your

entertainment."

Callie waved her fan in dismissal. "That's hardly an affliction to me. I'm happy to go to

your mother."

He hesitated, frowning down at her. For a moment she thought he would refuse again,

but then a wry look came into his dark eyes. "In truth, it would be a blessing. I found the

place in disarray, and I hardly know how to set things right."

"I do," Callie said. "Pray go and tell your mother I'll be with her directly."

Something brushed Trev's face in the darkness as he fumbled at the door. He cursed

under his breath and pushed a trailing ivy out of the way, finding the latch with some

difficulty. He didn't bother with the bell—there was no maid to answer it. The place was

overgrown, the garden gate falling to pieces. He let himself inside and pulled off his

gloves, stuffing them into his pocket instead of laying them on a table he already knew to

be grimy with dust.

If it had been a roulette wheel to balance, or a boxer's bloodied head to stanch, Trev

could have managed well enough, but the mysteries of a hearth and home were baffling

to him. His sisters and mother had always seen to all of that: supervising the linen and

directing the servants. They would have been aghast if he or his majestic grandfather had

interfered or inquired about the smooth running of the household. Not that Trev had ever

been inclined to do so. But even he could see that the rambling old house at the edge of

Shelford was falling deep into disorder, and his mother's deteriorated condition appalled

him.

She had hidden it well. Not once in her letters had she begged or even hinted for him to

come, even after Hélène had died. He saw now that he should have come then; he had

wanted to, but he had hidden certain things himself, and it had not seemed possible at the

time.

The considerable amount of money he'd been sending to Shelford for the past few years

had obviously gone astray. Surprising, but not inconceivable, considering the circuitous

route he had arranged for the funds to take. Trev narrowed his eyes. He hoped that

somewhere in France, a certain banking correspondent was enjoying his remaining

interlude of good health.

He felt his way to the stairs. There were no candles or spills, not even a rushlight. But

he remembered the low ceiling and heavy railing well enough. He made his way up to his

mother's chamber. The lamp he had left with her still burned low.

She was sleeping. He stood for a moment, watching her labored breath. His

mischievous, sweet-faced
maman—he had hardly known her for herself when h
e saw her.

She was drawn, her cheeks sunken, her lips parted, thinned by the effort to take in air.

But she had a trace of a smile, as if she dreamed a pleasant dream.

Trev scowled. He hardly cared to admit the vast feeling of relief that he had felt when

Lady Callie offered to come. It was not something he would have asked of her. They

were all but strangers now. But still, the moment he had recognized her, it was as if no

time had passed; he had wanted to sit down and confide everything in her, his shock and

fear at his mother's illness, his consternation at the state of the house, his amazement to

find Lady Callista Taillefaire here in Shelford yet.

Unmarried.

He put that thought away, not yet ready for the surge of anger, the wound that lay

behind it. Even that surprised him—he had supposed himself long ago over that juvenile

affair. But they could still be friends, it seemed, for which he was glad. He liked Callie.

Admired her. What other lady of her position would stop dead in the midst of a waltz and

insist upon coming instantly to the aid of a Frenchwoman who had no earthly claims

upon her?

He smiled a little. A lavender turban, with that hair. Only Callie: oblivious to every

fashion, as sweet and shy as a wild doe. He shook his head and sat down on the edge of

the bed, lightly touching his mother's hand.

"May I have the honor of this dance, Mademoiselle?" he murmured in French.

Her long lashes fluttered, dark against her pallor. She lifted them. "Trevelyan," she

whispered, curling her hand about his. "
Mon amour."

He raised her hand and kissed her cool fingers. "I cannot permit these indolent airs," he

said. "You wish to encourage my rivals, I know it. I will have to shoot them all."

She smiled and spoke to him in English. "You enjoyed the assembly?"

"Of course! I engaged myself to two beautiful young ladies and had to leave by the

back window. I've f led to you for aid. Will you conceal me in your wardrobe?"

She gave a faint husky laugh. "Let the girls meet… on the field of honor," she said in a

weak voice. "Nothing to trouble about."

"But their mothers might pursue me!"

"
Alors
, I'll dispatch their mothers myself, by poison."

He squeezed her hand. "I see now where I come by my unsteady nature."

She returned the pressure, gripping his fingers. "Trevelyan," she said suddenly and

hoarsely. "I am so proud of you."

He maintained his smile down at her, finding nothing to say.

"You have succeeded where even… your grandfather failed. I wish only that he and

your father were alive to see it."

Trev gave a slight shrug. "I was fortunate."

"To regain the whole! Even Monceaux!" She struggled to sit up and began to cough.

"Do not be carried away by raptures, I beg you," he said. He stood and propped pillows

about her. "Save that for when I take you back to Monceaux in a gilded coach, with half a

dozen outriders and three footmen up behind."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She smiled, breathing with difficulty.

Her fingers trembled as she put her hand on his arm. "You know that's not to be."

"Only two outriders, then. Elegant economy!"

"Trevelyan—"

"Come, do not quarrel with me. I cross the sea to your side, and you refuse to

accompany me to dance, you will not eat—I've been forced to apply for rein forcements.

Lady Callista desired me to say that she will be here presently."

"Ah, she is too good."

"Indeed, she is an angel. If she can produce a supper, I shall marry her out of hand."

"I'm certain that she can." His mother breathed deeply. "But… three engagements in

one evening, my love?"

"No, do you think it excessive?" he asked in surprise.

"Trevelyan." She smiled up at him. "I am so happy." She held tight to his hand as her

chuckle turned into a gasping cough.

Two

MRS. ADAM HAD NOT HESITATED A MOMENT WHEN SHE
heard. Disapprove

she might of Callie waltzing in the arms of a suspiciously French émigré, but the news

that Mrs. Easley had succumbed to the bottle again was sufficient to excuse all. "That

woman!" she hissed, uttering everyone's favored description of Mrs. Easley. "Take Lilly

with you. Tell her to fetch the arrowroot custard that I meant for midday dinner. That will

do well for Madame's lungs, the poor lamb!"

Armed with the custard and a mission, Callie did not feel so shy as she made her way

into the back door of Dove House. She was always better when she had a task at hand.

While Lilly swung the lantern so that shadows flew all over the scullery, Callie

wrinkled her nose at the odor of sour milk issuing from a pail on the floor. The air was

cold and damp, the hearth a dark pile of abandoned ashes.

It appeared that nothing had been done in the kitchen for a week or more. On the slate

floor lay a square case-bottle marked
Hollands.
Dove House had always had a faintly

shabby air, being a sublet property for as long as Callie could remember, but Madame de

Monceaux and her daughter Mademoiselle Hélène had kept a pretty garden and fitted up

their spotless, neat parlor in a charming continental fashion. Callie feared that Madame

must have taken a serious turn for the worse, to allow things to come to this pass.

She pulled off her gloves and folded back the calash hood from over her turban, set

Lilly to washing bowls and cutlery, and located a candlestick from amid the disorder of

the pantry. As she made her way up the short staircase, she wished strongly that she had

not been absent for nigh a month with her sister and the new Lady Shelford, drinking the

vile waters at Leamington and knitting enough length of Shetland wool to tie up a

haystack in garters. Between helping her cousin Jasper to correct the muddle he had made

of the estate books in that short time, and attending to the various small disasters that had

arisen on the home farm, she had not paid a call at Dove House since her return, only sent

the beef over Lady Shelford's objection that a hare would have been quite sufficient.

She could hear Madame coughing, and so she only knocked once before letting herself

in. Somehow she had expected that Madame would be alone—Callie froze when she saw

Trevelyan turn and look toward the door.

All her shyness swept over her again. "Oh!" she said. "I beg your pardon for intruding.

I'll send up the maid."

As she began to close the door, he strode toward her. "Come in, my lady," he said,

catching the door by the edge. Then he took her hand and made a bow as he relieved her

of the candle.

Callie looked at his bare hand holding hers and then toward his mother. Madame de

Monceaux held a handkerchief to her mouth, but she put it down and smiled such a warm

welcome that Callie felt a little more at ease.

"I'm afraid I've neglected you, ma'am," Callie said. "I am so sorry. I didn't hear of Mrs.

Easley until tonight. Will you take some arrowroot pudding?"

"My dear," Madame whispered. "Do not be concerned with me, but I would be grateful

for anything you might discover"—she struggled for breath—"for my son to eat. You

find this house in a sad state, I fear!"

Trev gave Callie a meaningful glance. He still held her hand in a firm clasp, as if to

keep her. "She'll take arrowroot, I assure you," he said. He glanced toward his mother. "I

had a great deal to eat at the assembly, Maman; I couldn't consume another bite."

Callie knew he had not eaten anything at the assembly. In the flickering shadows from

the candle, his face seemed grim. As Lilly came into the chamber with a tray, he let go of

Callie's hand and went to prop pillows at his mother's head. Then he stood back

uncertainly, looking like a man in a sickroom—helpless.

"The fire has gone out in the kitchen," Callie said, offering him a task elsewhere. "Is

there someone who might see to it?"

"Jacques," he said immediately. "I'll speak to him." He made a courtesy toward his

mother, bowed again to Callie, and left the room.

Relieved at his departure, she took the tray from Lilly's hands and arranged it for

Madame. It was a natural thing; she had often done so for her father. The Frenchwoman

lifted her lashes and gave a faint thanks. "I must apologize—" she murmured.

"Don't worry yourself, ma'am," Callie said briskly. "When the fire is rekindled, Lilly

will bring up some tea." She sent the young maid downstairs and busied herself with an

inventory of the medicine glasses and spoons on the bedside table, watching from the

corner of her eye as Madame lifted an unsteady morsel of the pudding to her mouth.

"How pleased I am that your son has come home!"

Even in her weak state, Madame's face seemed to come alight. She laid down the silver.

"It is such bliss to me, Lady Callista. You cannot conceive!"

"But you must eat, you know, so that you have the strength to entertain him in fine

style."

Madame de Monceaux picked up the spoon dutifully. But she laid it down again. "My