Lessons in French (8 page)

find me pressing kisses to your feet. Or somewhere equally improper."

Callie ducked her head. She lifted her skirts and hurried up the steps out of the kitchen.

The fog still lay heavy when she reached the pasture, softening and obscuring the trees

and hedges. Hubert stood waiting at the gate, a dark shape in the mist. As she came to the

fence, he broke off his placid chewing and lifted his huge pink nose, snuff ling loudly in

expectation.

Callie pulled a loaf of stale bread from her basket. She stepped up on the rail. The bull

nosed gently, tickling her fingers, and took the bread on his long tongue. He curled it into

his mouth. Callie scratched his broad forehead while he chewed with an air of satisfied

contemplation.

He had good reason to feel satisfied with himself. Hubert was an excellent specimen.

He measured five feet six inches at the shoulder and eleven feet ten inches from nose to

tail. He boasted a superbly mottled coat, red and black on a white ground. In addition to

his size and beauty, he possessed all the highest perfections of a shorthorn bull: a clean

throat, level back, impeccable big shoulders, ribs full and round, leading smoothly to long

quarters. He had grown only one ring yet on his handsome horns, being just three years

old, and his first crop of calves were on the ground this past spring, perfectly healthy and

lively as larks.

She looked on him fondly as he blinked his generous lashes and turned his head to

allow her better access to scratch behind his ear. She had been present at Hubert's birth,

led him about at his mother's side when he was a baby calf, comforted him with treats

when he was weaned, nursed the inevitable cuts and scrapes a young bullock inflicted

upon himself by trying to reach that farthest blade of grass through the hedgerow, and

brought him up to his impressive prime. Hubert was the pride of the county, a fit

successor to his celebrated grandsire, Rupert.

Even though he was a mottled shorthorn, rather than one of the cherished local white-

faced breed, she felt perfectly certain that he would take first premium at Hereford. In a

few days she would have him begin his leisurely walk to the city with her most trusted

drover, moving at just the right speed to maintain his weight and muscle, but still arrive

in good time for him to recover from any loss or scratch he might suffer on the journey.

As Callie leaned across the fence to rub his ear, a sudden growling bark made her

startle and grab the rail. Hubert turned his big head as a brindled dog charged from out of

the foggy lane, roaring and snarling. It stopped, teeth bared, a yard's length from her skirt.

Hubert stamped a hoof, lowering his nose to look through the rail. The dog rushed

toward him, snap ping. In the f lash of the moment, Callie threw her basket, sending a

shower of bread on the dog's head. It shied off for an instant, then paused, its heavy

muzzle turned toward Hubert, its pink lip still lifted in a growl, quivering in every

muscle.

"Silly creature!" Callie said in a jolly voice. She stayed on the rail but forced her

muscles to relax. "Now what do you suppose you're doing?"

The dog never took its eyes from Hubert. The bull had turned to face the threat,

lowering his nostrils almost to the turf, blowing strong gusts of air against the grass. He

began to paw the ground.

"What a funny dog!" Callie crooned in a quiet voice. "What a foolish boy. You don't

think we mean to hurt you?"

A man's voice called out from the road. The dog pricked its shorn ears and turned. But

it did not retreat.

Through the light fog, she saw a stranger hurrying toward them. He called the dog

again. This time it obeyed him reluctantly, swinging away and trotting to his side.

"Beg pardon, Miss!" He reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar. "I'll put a

rope on him."

Neither man nor dog were from the neighbor hood of Shelford, where Callie knew

every domestic creature and a good number of the wild ones too. The stranger wore a

heavy overcoat and gaiters with an elegant top hat, a rather odd combination of country

and city fashion. As he straightened up from tying the dog, he gave her a nervous smile,

his mouth creasing too widely under high cheekbones.

"We'll go along now, Miss!" he said, touching his hat and dragging the dog as it snarled

and lunged back toward Hubert.

She watched from the gate as his outline faded in the fog. He disappeared around the

curve in the lane. The sound of the dog's barking diminished. One of those card sharpers

and badger-baiters, she did not doubt, who would put his dog to fighting chained animals

while he stood back and shouted and made his cowardly bets. Callie despised the breed.

She hoped that he was merely passing through. The Bromyard fair had just ended, and

fairs always attracted such men. She thought she would make note of it to Colonel

Davenport. Just a word in the magistrate's ear, that whatever might be tolerated in

Bromyard, such activities were not to be countenanced in Shelford's village.

Four

BY NOONTIME, THE INHABITANTS OF DOVE HOUSE HAD full reason to be

grateful to Lady Callista. Not only had a hot meal arrived from the Antlers, but the

innkeeper's wife came with it. Mrs. Rankin insisted that she would stay to attend Madame

while his lordship's grace stepped down to the inn, where the barber was awaiting him

with water on the boil. A pair of men and a boy from Shelford Hall were already at work

clearing the chimney, and a basket of green apples sat on the front table, compliments of

Lady Shelford.

"You must call on her this afternoon, Trevelyan," his mother whispered, lifting her

hand weakly from the coverlet. "I shall undertake to survive alone for an hour, I pledge

you!"

He hesitated. But Mrs. Rankin shooed him toward the door, saying that it was no such

thing—Madame would not be alone. The innkeeper's wife was a tiny woman, but she had

the self-assurance of a scrappy terrier, admonishing Trev to have his coat brushed before

he presented himself at the Hall. He left her chiding his mother to take more beef stew or

find herself sorry for it, for if Lady Callista learned that Madame had not eaten well, it

would be a great shame and a black stain on the honor of the Antlers.

She did not use those words, precisely, but she managed to convey the importance of

the affair. Trev smiled as he closed the door. He was under no illusions. His family had

always been treated with friendly condescension in Shelford, tolerated but hardly

esteemed. It was Lady Callista's opinion that mattered to Mrs. Rankin.

It was Callie's opinion that mattered to him too. He submitted himself to the barber, had

his boots polished, made use of one of the inn's bedchambers to tie a fresh neck cloth,

compensated Mr. Rankin generously, and—having made himself plausibly presentable in

a lady's drawing room—hired the Antlers' postboy and groom to put a pair to his carriage

and drive him to Shelford Hall.

He arrived at half past two, which would give him the proper quarter hour to pay his

respects and convey his gratitude if she had not been in jest about her calling hours. He

hoped she had not. He carried a posy of soft white roses and russet-colored dahlias, cut

ruthlessly from his mother's tangled garden and tied with a ribbon. Small thanks, but the

best he could do.

The cream-colored limestone edifice of Shelford glowed like a Greek temple in the

autumn afternoon, a symmetrical facade of pilasters and porticoes set in a gem green

park. Chestnut trees dotted the rolling pastures, their leaves f laming with orange under

the sun. Trev was perfectly acquainted with the outside of the great house, in particular

the dark old yew under Callie's window, but he had never been invited to set foot inside.

A carriage was stopped before the stairs, disembarking a trio of well-dressed ladies. He

recognized none of them, but he judged their gowns to be expensive. The chaise had a

liveried footman, who sprang up behind as it moved away, grinding over the gravel down

the drive. Trev touched his card case in his pocket. He reminded himself that he was a

duke and a cousin of kings, even if they had been beheaded. He had a perfect right to the

title of useless aristocratic fribble.

The front door had already closed behind the ladies by the time Trev walked lightly up

the steps under the blank gaze of two footmen. He informed the porter that he requested

the honor of calling upon Lady Callista Taillefaire on behalf of Madame de Monceaux,

handed in his cards, and waited. He waited a very long time, cooling his heels on the

stoop, trying not to feel seventeen years old again, with the cut of a whip across his face

and shame burning in his throat.

At last the door swung open under another foot man's white-gloved hand. The butler

bowed. It was all a great deal more ceremony than he remembered from the old earl's

days. The butler then had been an ally of his, an immensely tall fellow with a craggy,

forlorn face. This new man was shorter and thicker, with a high reddish complexion in

his cheeks. He looked as if he might have a temper. As Trev handed over his hat and

gloves, he judged that the new fellow would peel to thirteen stone—not a bad physique

for a middleweight boxer.

Their footsteps echoed in the domed vestibule, whispers of sound against the fluted

stone columns and the marble floor. The butler showed him into an empty anteroom with

a few stiff chairs and some paintings of cattle on the walls. Trev wished now that he'd

merely left a note of thanks with the f lowers, instead of sending up the cards. He felt as

unwelcome at Shelford Hall as he ever had.

There was already sufficient indication that his family was not held in large regard here.

The basket of apples from Lady Shelford might just as well have been a chilly

announcement that no more was owed to Dove House than token civility. So it had hardly

been a shocking blow when Mrs. Rankin conveyed the news that, due to some impending

social event, Lady Shelford could not see her way to lending out the undercook even for a

few days. The innkeeper's wife had delivered this intelligence with an eloquent shrug, as

if it were exactly what one might expect.

"This way, sir." The stolid butler returned after some delay. The servant nodded brief ly

as he held the door open.

Trev followed him up the wide curve of the stair case, carrying his posy. From the

drawing room came a loud murmur of voices. Quite a large afternoon gathering it

seemed. Pausing in the doorway, he saw that the pleasant, sun-filled chamber held a

number of visitors, mostly congregated about a young couple at the head of the room.

A quick glance round as he was announced did not reveal Callie among the group. He

disguised his vexation, being utterly at sea without knowing which of these females

might be Lady Shelford. No one moved forward to greet him, so he stepped into the room

and stood a moment, listening.

It didn't take long to deduce that the pair of young people standing shyly by the

fireplace were newly betrothed. Amid talk of a ball and a formal announcement, someone

said gaily that Lady Hermione would be wise to order her bride-clothes early from Paris.

Trev realized with a slight surprise that this was Callie's sister.

She did not resemble Callie at all. She was some what prettier, to be sure, but it was an

ordinary prettiness, neither objectionable nor memorable. Now that he guessed who she

was, he could vaguely recall a prattling and sociable child from his earlier days in

Shelford, but little sisters had not interested him very deeply at the time. She seemed

tolerable enough now, if perhaps a little too forced and gay in her gestures. Doubtless she

was nervous at being the center of attention. A forgivable offense. But no hint of stifled

mirth in her expression made him wish to tease a smile from her, as Callie's did.

Callie had mentioned going away with her sister when she married, but he had not

understood that it was already a settled thing. He realized that he was frowning, and

smoothed his face into a public smile as one of the women finally took notice of him.

She did not immediately move to greet him. He saw her give him the sort of cursory

examination that any lady of the bon ton could perform in the f lick of a raised brow.

Trev waited with composure while she made certain that he was in all points commeil

faut.

Her gaze lingered. He gave a small bow, finely calculated to avoid any presumption

that she should notice him if she did not care to do so. She was quite beautiful in an

unyielding way, her hair such a pale gold it was almost white, her features as strong and

expressionless as some classical statue of Minerva. Her skin seemed so fine and thin that

the bones showed too near the surface, as if she might crack like a marble stone if struck.

Trev made a deeper formal bow as she committed to walk across the room to him.

"Monsieur le Duc," she said, holding out her gloved hand. "
Bienvenue.
I am Lady

Shelford. Ah—f lowers! Thank you. You must have heard of our happy news. But you

shouldn't have left your poor mama. How does she do?"

He found himself giving up Callie's posy, having little choice as she took it from his