Lessons in French (37 page)

high—Nurse says she's in a bad way, even with the mustard plasters."

"Nurse." Cook snorted, sitting down and reaching over with her great arm to fill the

teapot amid clouds of steam. "Don't put much stock on what her says, I don't. That grim

sort, them likes to make out like as all's going to wrack and ruin. Gives 'em position, they

suppose."

Lilly sniffed. "Do you think?"

"Ma'am's been eatin'. Not in great swallows, her ain't, but I seen that tray don't come

back quite so full as it goes up."

In spite of a desire to hurry to Madame's bedside at this news, Callie delayed to share a

cup of tea. It was always best to learn what the servants had to say of a situation. Lady

Shelford would never countenance a chat in the kitchen with the staff, but Callie had no

such qualms. "So there's been no word from the duke this past week?" she asked, careful

to keep her voice level and unconcerned.

"No, my lady," Lilly said. She glanced toward Cook and then averted her eyes, heaping

lumps of sugar into her tea.

Callie noted the heavy inroads on the sugarloaf, which had been reduced from a neatly

peaked cone to a shapeless lump wrapped in blue paper. "You have enough to buy what

provisions you need?" she asked.

"Oh aye," Cook said comfortably. "We got us an open account at the greengrocer and

the butcher too, and I told the duke I've no need to have recourse to the cookshop.

Whatever Ma'am needs, I can make right here, I told him. There was a little trouble when

that Easley woman tried to buy a ham off the butcher, claiming her was working here at

Dove House, but I took care of that. And I'll send
that
one on her way if she comes round

about here again, no matter if Ma'am wants to waste her time on such rubbish and don't

know her own good." Cook nodded and thumped her knuckles on the table, making the

teacups rattle.

"Mrs. Easley has come here?" Callie asked in surprise.

"Twice!" Cook said indignantly. "Come asking to see Ma'am, and got herself in too!"

She glared at Lilly.

"Madame said she wanted to see her!" Lilly protested. "It's not my place to say she can't

see anyone she likes, is it?"

Callie shook her head. "Of course not. I'm sure the duchesse wanted to make certain

that poor Mrs. Easley was—that her situation had not deteriorated after she was turned

off."

"'Poor Mrs. Easley,'" Cook mocked with a snort. "Her's top-heavy from the gin, that's

all o' her situation a body needs to know."

Callie could not argue this point. She nodded. "Well, I don't want her to worry the

duchesse—if she comes again, you may turn her away."

"But Madame said in particular that she was to be allowed to call," Lilly said

plaintively.

Callie frowned. "I see. If that's the case, I suppose we must allow it. I'm sure the

duchesse feels some gratitude toward Mrs. Easley, in spite of her faults. She was the cook

here for a good while, after all, before—" She cleared her throat. "Before Madame's

circumstances were recently improved," she finished.

"Too soft-hearted by half," Cook grumbled.

"I perfectly comprehend you, Cook. And do make sure to count the silver whenever she

leaves." Callie stood. "I'll go up now. You may bring us some tea and whatever you think

Madame might be persuaded to partake."

Cook nodded and heaved herself to her feet, turning briskly in spite of her bulk. Lilly

dried her eyes and shook out her apron. She began to collect clean cups from the

cupboard. Callie paused at the door and watched for a moment. A wave of gratitude came

over her for these two humble and good-hearted people. While she had been cravenly

putting off a call on the duchesse, for fear of what questions she might face, they had

been taking care of their mistress with staunch loyalty. "Thank you," she said. "Madame

is very fortunate to have you both."

Lilly blushed and curtsied. Cook grunted an assent. "Her's not a bit o' trouble," she said.

"Now that mad Frenchie son o' hers—" She shook her head and took a deep breath,

preparing for what Callie could see would be a lengthy exposition on the topic of the

duke.

"I must go up," she said hastily and closed the door before Cook could get a start on her

next sentence.

It didn't take long for Callie to understand why Lilly had been reduced to tears. The

duchesse was neither gloomy nor distressed; she sat up and smiled and conversed in her

elegant, accented English, but she seemed spun fragile and slight as a thread of glass, as

fleeting as a web that glistened in morning dew. She asked no questions about her son,

but her bright, feverish glance followed Callie with an intensity that seemed to look right

through her, as if in search of answers.

They spoke of the cattle fair and Callie's knock on the head. Madame inquired as to

Hubert's health and nodded in satisfaction when she learned that the bull was residing

temporarily in his home pasture at Shelford Hall again while Colonel Davenport repaired

his stone walls to Callie's strict specifications. That lesson, at least, had been learned.

Callie wondered if Trev had found a way to see his mother before he left, but she was

simply too craven to ask. Instead, to fill the time with safer topics, she asked if she might

read to the duchesse, and picked up a periodical from a stack on the bedside table.

"Please, if you will," Madame said faintly, smiling and closing her eyes. "Such a world

beyond—our village. And such people it is. I am never at a loss to be amused."

Callie nodded. She brushed her thumb through a copy of
The Lady's Spectator
, one of

the more daring of the new journals that Dolly had brought to Shelford. Although it was

much sought after in some quarters, several of the ladies of the village would not even

allow it within their doors. Doubtless that was why Madame—languishing at the low end

of village precedence—had a copy only a few months old at her bedside. It was a summer

number, full of town gossip and moralizing in equal measure, warning ladies against the

unwholesome activities of the bon ton while describing them in rich and titillating detail.

Callie was suddenly glad that her appearance as Madame Malempré had occurred in such

a backwater as Hereford, or she suspected that she would have found the entire escapade

described in detail in the upcoming Christmas volume. The editors of
The Lady's

Spectator
appeared to know a great deal about all manner of personal and public

activities.

She searched for something she could read aloud without blushing, and finally found an

article on a financial scandal, in which the perpetrator had, according to the affronted

editors, "sold out his own holdings in good time while keeping the true state of affairs

from the public." When the stock company in question failed, this malefactor had f led to

Naples, where he was now residing comfortably on the sixty thousand pounds he had

previously settled on his wife, much to the fury and financial embarrassment of his

creditors.

The article editorialized at length on the shameful tendency of the justices to allow

these villains of both sexes to impose upon society without fear of retribution. Callie

added emphasis to her reading voice as the author summed up with high flourishes of

moral contempt. Then she paused. She frowned as she finished the article's last sentence,

which compared this disgraceful situation to that of Mrs. Fowler's escape from a just

penalty for her crime of forgery.

"Oh," the duchesse said, opening her eyes suddenly. She lifted one slender hand. "Pray

do not read me of this tiresome Mrs. Fowler. I have no interest in that… sordid affair."

Callie found to her chagrin that she did. Prurient and low though it might be, she had a

burning desire to discover more of the woman who protested her innocence in the public

papers. And now, finding that Mrs. Fowler was apparently accused of forgery—Callie

hardly seemed able to hold the journal steady. She riff led through the pages quickly,

following the indication pointing to
Further Articles Relating to the Trials of Mrs. Fowler

and Monsieur LeBlanc, Page 24.
Fortunately the designated page included a story about

a well-known actress driving herself alone in Hyde Park, an uneventful progress, which

was nevertheless endowed by the editors with broad hints of sinister meaning. Callie read

it aloud, trying to examine the articles about Mrs. Fowler from the corner of her eye.

They detailed the lady's history with the salacious enjoyment of a first-rate village

gossip. The pretty daughter of a Yorkshire gentleman with both money and connections,

Mrs. Fowler might have made a respectable match, but instead she had obliged
The

Lady's Spectator
by running away with an impoverished poet at sixteen. After his early

demise in a sponging house, she straight away wed a famous prizefighter— Mr. Jem

"The Rooster" Fowler—and became the reigning toast of the Corinthian set, only to

witness his death in the ring under suspicious circumstances. But it was the description of

her companion Monsieur LeBlanc that made Callie stumble as she tried to read. He

figured prominently in the latter part of the story, first as the friend, then as the lover,

then as the secret spouse of Mrs. Fowler.

He was French, but according to
The Lady's Spectator,
no one who knew him

personally could hold that against him. The journal seemed to take a tolerant, even an

admiring view of his activities. Monsieur LeBlanc was a member of the demimonde and

the boxing fancy, a bookmaker and organizer of bouts, a close friend of Gentleman

Jackson and the Rooster, and a man of impeccable character and noble manners. The

journal saved its disdain for the hapless widow, Mrs. Fowler, who had been detected in

the attempt to pass a forged note of hand in payment for her large debt at a dressmaker.

Upon exposure, this unfortunate lady had at first seemed bewildered by the idea that

anything could be amiss. Learning that the crime was subject to capital punishment,

however, she had instantly insisted that her friend Monsieur LeBlanc had given her the

note, which she had merely delivered in all innocence. At her trial, she had caused a

sensation by revealing that he acted as trustee of the considerable public sum that had

been collected to support her and her child after her husband's untimely death in the

boxing ring. Upon examination, she tearfully suggested that Monsieur had gambled away

her money and been reduced to forgery to hide it from her.

Several affecting drawings of Mrs. Fowler accompanied the description of her trial. She

was shown in her prison cell, in the dock, and praying outside the court room with her

young son, each time in a different gown. But however plausible and touching it might

be,
The Lady's Spectator
did not swallow her story for an instant. There was no

indication, upon the court's summoning of the account books, that Monsieur LeBlanc had

mismanaged Mrs. Fowler's trust. Indeed, it appeared that when she had exhausted the

stipend with her spending, he had given her a generous amount of money from his own

funds as well.

It was this last fact that riveted Callie's attention and caught that of the eager public too,

it seemed. The discovery that he had been supporting Mrs. Fowler for some years prior to

the scandal put a new light on their relationship. Witnesses spoke of how often he was in

her company, how tenderly he treated her. While it had never been brought up at the trial

itself,
The Lady's Spectator confidently stated that they had married on th
e day after the

Rooster's death and kept it secret so as not to offend the mood of public mourning for the

famous boxer. Thus he made no defense at his own trial, taking the part of tragic honor

and allowing himself to be convicted so that his lover might be declared innocent.

Callie looked up, realizing that she had long since ceased to read aloud. She stared

blankly at the bedpost. Her heart was beating wildly, but she sat very still.

It was Trev, of course. She knew that with a certainty that went to her bones. He had

not come home from France. He had been in England all along. All his huge

menservants—they were prizefighters. He had been convicted of forgery, and it was

precisely the sort of gallant thing he would do, sacrifice himself for a woman.

For his wife.

The duchesse said nothing. When Callie looked up at her, their eyes met for a long

moment. Madame bit her lip and turned her face away with an unhappy look. It came

upon Callie suddenly that she knew— that the guilt and sadness in Madame's face were

because she knew.

"Oh my," Callie said. She was numb, but she struggled to speak. "Oh."

The duchesse reached toward her. "My dear, if I may—"

"I'm sorry, I… I must go." She couldn't hold the magazine for another moment; she let

it fall to the floor as she stood and hurried to the door. "I really must go!" she exclaimed.

She closed the door behind her, ran down the stairs, and flew out the door, leaving Lilly

standing with some unanswered query on her lips.

Eighteen

"I FEEL A DEEP LOVE AND ABIDING RESPECT FOR YOU, my dear," Major