Lessons in French (51 page)

death at their whim after every session. I don't doubt he has the power to arrange it. It's

only that—" He stopped and scowled at her in the dim moonlight. "This puts a new

complexion on matters."

She regarded him doubtfully. The night seemed to have grown colder. A faint shiver

ran through her. She couldn't quite discern from the tone of his voice exactly what the

new complexion on matters might be. He might wish to reconsider his position. He might

even wish to reconsider marrying her at all. Now that he was a free man, he might want

to find some other heiress, one who wouldn't have so readily agreed to accompany him to

Shanghai. She bent her head, preparing herself to appear perfectly unconcerned if he

should suddenly become unworthy to abduct her.

"For one thing," he said, "it means we don't have to drive fourteen miles to Leominster

and arrive looking as if we took a wrong turn at the Barbary Coast."

"I rather like you as a pirate," she said shyly.

"I assure you, Mademoiselle, my feelings about you as a harem girl are beyond

description," he informed her. "But I don't arrange a very good abduction, I'm afraid. In

my haste to seize you and carry you off to the ends of the earth, I seem to have forgotten

a few of the important articles. Such as baggage."

"It was a perfect abduction," she declared. "Pray do not carp about the details."

"No doubt the press will add such embellishments as are required to satisfy the public

taste. And since I had already determined that my life is a vast wasteland without you, in

spite of my best and repeated efforts to abscond like a worthless cad—"

"Usually through a window," she interposed.

"—and you appear to have agreed that you would accompany me to Shanghai if you

must—"

"With the greatest happiness," she concurred.

"—I wonder if I might prevail upon you to forgo some of the minor particulars of this

plan, such as driving all night to Leominster and sailing to Boston in the dead of winter,

in favor of the simpler expedient of sleeping in a warm bed here at Dove House tonight?"

Callie tilted her head, considering. "Well, I'd been hoping for a Chinese adventure, but

if you're so poor spirited as to want to forgo storm and shipwreck…"

"Shabby of me, I must admit, but there's the added advantage that I'll be able to

debauch you thoroughly before sunrise," he pointed out.

She gave a contented sigh. "I daresay your mother will be shocked."

"I daresay she'll be purring like a hat in a cream pitcher," he said. "And I must warn you

that if you continue to giggle in that provocative manner, I shall be forced to accost you

right here on a carriage seat, in my customary French scoundrel style. Drive on to the

stable, my sweet life, before
The Lady's Spectator
catches us in the open."

"IT'S TIME."

Trev started up from a deep sleep. His stockinged feet hit the floor. For an instant he

had no notion of where he was, only that this was important news and he had to react

quickly. "I'm coming," he mumbled. "I'm here. Stay calm."

His fumbling hand found his shirt; he was pulling it on as he rose from the cot. He

grabbed his boots in the dark and took a step toward the door, cracking his shin on the

corner of an unexpected obstacle. "Stay calm," he muttered to himself, hopping on one

foot. "Damn it."

"Hurry!" Callie's voice drifted to him. "Oh!" Her voice rose in pitch. "Oh my!"

Trev's heart was pounding. He drew a deep breath into his lungs. He remembered that

he was in the cattle yard, not in his bedroom. Faint lamplight outlined the door of the tool

room. He picked his way more carefully and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb,

dragging on one boot. Callie urged him again to come quickly, her voice echoing in the

eaves.

"On my way!" he responded, rolling up his shirt sleeves and attempting to sound as if

he were wide awake. He could just see the clay-paved corridor as he hobbled past the

granary on the way to the cattle stalls, carrying one boot. Down the long row, she was

standing with her stockman and a farm boy at the edge of the lamp glow, her palms

pressed together and her eyes alight.

"Look!" she said, pointing toward a lush bed of straw.

Trev blew out a breath of relief. He'd been deputized to provide added manpower in

case it was required, a task which
The Complete Grazier
had not made to sound inviting,

but from her joyful expression he could see that all was well. As he reached the open

stall, a large cow heaved herself to her feet, revealing a wet and unprepossessing bundle

of calf in the straw. Trev appeared to have slept through the grittier details of the

procedure, for the tiny beast was already licked clean and attempting to get its hind legs

under it in a wobbly effort to rise.

"It's a bull calf," Callie whispered, leaning toward him. "Our first!"

"Congratulations," Trev said low, winking at her.

She took his arm and watched as the calf struggled to get its legs in order, collapsed,

and tried again. This time he made it, standing with his feet splayed, trembling but

upright, his damp tail f lapping from side to side.

"Oh, bravo! On the second try!" She cast a glowing look up at Trev. "I never tire of

seeing this," she confided, resting against him in a gratifying manner that fully made up

for his cracked shin and the fact that he still only had one boot on. "Look at his perfect

mottling! He looks a great deal like Hubert, don't you think?"

"Exceedingly like," Trev agreed with a sage nod, privately considering that he had

never seen anything that looked less like Hubert than this wobbly scrap of life that

seemed to be all legs and eyes. As if to disagree with his assessment, the proud father

favored them from somewhere in the distance with a prolonged, plaintive bellow.

"Is it that late? The sun must be coming up." Callie glanced over her shoulder. Hubert

had removed with them to the new property at Hereford, a wedding gift from Colonel

Davenport—which was damned decent of the man, Trev thought, considering that the

bridegroom had punched him in the breadbox. She had accepted the gift with fervent

gratitude and promised the colonel one of Hubert's offspring, but it was not to be this

particular one, Trev surmised. She was leaning over and baby-talking to the calf, cooing

and encouraging its first step like a new mother.

Trev might have been a bit jealous if it weren't for the fact that she made equally

foolish babble over their own two-month-old son. Master Etienne Shelford d'Augustin

had also been pronounced to be the perfect image of his father, so Trev could feel

satisfied that he rated well up with Hubert on the paternal scale of things. Hubert, of

course, got by with lying about in a pasture, having done his duty, eating and sleeping

himself to another championship, while Trev was sitting up with Callie for late-night

feedings, walking the halls with a crying infant, and applying himself to a new life of

bonds and cent per cents and bank shares instead of sporting bets.

He had a family of his own. Etienne's program rather resembled Hubert's: eat and sleep,

with the addition of periodic howling sessions. Trev had never realized that babies were

so consistently raucous, but if that was the price of admission, he was more than willing

to pay. He experienced some indescribable prickle of sensation across his skin every time

he watched his wife and son together, sitting up late at night in the house he had bought

for her, just the three of them together.

Assured that the new calf was up and nursing, Callie left her stockman with a lengthy

set of instructions and then allowed Trev to escort her back to the house, kindly pointing

out to him that he ought to put his boot on first. Faint light barely touched the horizon,

outlining the heavy, strange shapes of ancient oaks. Trev carried a bucket of warm

molasses mash, walking over the dewy grass beside her. They had been here only a six-

month, but all the fences were in trim, and the hay fields ripening. Their house stood

elegantly on level ground overlooking the River Wye: nothing so great and magnificent

as Shelford Hall, but a pretty mansion, recently built, with six bedrooms, two drawing

rooms, and a modern kitchen that had almost brought Cook to tears of delight.

Callie paused at the gate to felicitate Hubert on his accomplishment, covering him with

compliments that would have made a debutante blush. Trev merely told him that he was a

jolly good fellow and offered the mash. Hubert appeared to fully appreciate the gesture,

tipping the bucket over with relish and consuming the treat off the grass with his great

tongue.

Around them, birds had begun to twitter in the growing light. On the far side of the

pasture, a fox trotted into the open, stopped and stared at them a moment, and then

vanished into the hedgerow. Callie stood tiptoe on the fence, a little disheveled, her hair

trailing loose and her collar turned up on one side.

The thought that he might have been in Shanghai at this moment, instead of where he

was, brought such a fierce tenderness to Trev's chest that he blinked twice and then

informed her brusquely that he would like a moment in private with her, as he had a mind

to do some highly indecent things to her person. It was not precisely what he would have

liked to say, but he had no words sufficient for that.

She turned with one of her sidelong, mischievous smiles and gave him her hand,

hopping down from the fence and into his arms. Beyond that, it seemed, words were not

presently required.

"It's a bull!" Callie informed the duchesse when she came down for breakfast.

"Voyons, did I not predict?" Madame said with satisfaction. She allowed Nurse to seat

her at the table. "You owe me a guinea, Trevelyan, and do not wager against the brave

Hubert again, if you are wise."

"Strip me of my fortune, will you?" Trev kissed his mother's hand and carried his

newspaper back to the window. "Take care you don't become a hardened gambler on the

strength of this success."

"But no, can I help myself to bring young men to ruin?" She lifted a hand as Callie

moved toward the door. "
Ma fille,
pray allow Nurse to attend to Etienne and have a cup

of tea with me to celebrate this great event. Then we will go and dote on him together,

eh? He has not yet been sufficiently spoiled by his grand maman today."

Callie assented to this agreeable plan and sat down again. The duchesse had made a

recovery that even the London physician called miraculous, though Callie privately

thought it could be attributed largely to having her son back with no cloud over his

situation. Trev claimed it was because he wouldn't allow any lancets for bleeding in the

house. The duchesse had merely smiled at all their speculations and asked to hold Etienne

very often.

"Good God," Trev exclaimed suddenly, rattling the newspaper. "Listen to this!" He

folded the paper back. "'The marriage of John L. Sturgeon and Emma Fowler, née

Braddock, took place in Florence, Italy, in a private ceremony.'" He laughed and shook

his head. "I never thought I'd feel for Sturgeon, but Lord save the poor devil. I wonder

how she managed that?"

"She's very taking," Callie said. This news, while surprising, somehow made her smile

behind her teacup. "I think he likes that."

Trev made a sound of disgust. "Taking, indeed. She'll take his hide and tan it for a new

pair of gloves."

"It pleases me to see that I have brought you up wisely, Trevelyan," the duchesse

murmured. "I never believed that you would fall in love with such a one as that."

"Nary a chance," he said, smiling at Callie. "I was in a hopeless case long before I ever

met the lovely Fowler."

Callie blushed and peeked at him over her cup. "I wonder what the magazines will

make of this?"

"At least ten volumes, I'm sure. What I wonder, my love, is who blackmailed that

unlucky devil out of marrying you? Not that I don't bless 'em every day, but I've turned

over every angle I can conceive, and still I can't reckon who it would benefit—" He

stopped abruptly. An arrested expression came over his face. He looked toward his

mother.

"And now I go to puddle my grandson, I think," the duchesse said lightly, laying her

napkin aside and rising from her chair. "Will you come with me,
ma bonne fille
, and

leave this boring son to his newspaper?"

"'Cuddle,' ma'am," Callie said, suppressing a smile. "Of course I will come."

"A moment, Maman," Trev said sternly, standing up. "Geordie Hixson called on you,

did you tell me once? When was that?"

"Ah!" She made a careless gesture. "I'm much too old to recall such a detail. But a

charming young man. I was so sorry to learn that he had passed away. I liked him very

much. We were great friends in one afternoon."

"I can imagine," Trev said dryly. "No doubt he told you many stories of the war."

"Several," she agreed. She lifted her thin brows. "I fear he didn't like his commanding

officer and unburdened himself to me on the topic."

"Did he!"

"Yes, and perhaps it was not well done of me, but when I mentioned to him that my

young friend at the great house was engaged to marry this same officer, he was most