Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.

  "Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."

  "Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."

  "How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."

  "Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the devil."

  "No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to find someone with such impressive credentials."

  "I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."

  "I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the pot and pass off as a chicken."

  He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the coven."

  "I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."

  "Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"

  "He still keeps the inn—the Antlers, you know— and will be our prime informant. You mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"

  "Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."

  Callie peeked up at him. The only overt signs that he was now a very wealthy lord were his excellent carriage and elegant dress. He seemed to be traveling without pomp, or any retinue beyond Jacques. She rather liked him for it, that he had not changed his ways on regaining his family's riches and titles. Dolly had insisted on every point of ceremony since her elevation to the Countess of Shelford. Cousin Jasper's vague indifference to the dignity of his new title only seemed to goad his wife into greater concern for his position. She made certain that the smallest mark of respect toward the earl should not be overlooked.

  It was a relief to escape, even for an hour, from the stif ling atmosphere that had been established at Shelford Hall. High form and etiquette always made Callie feel as if she should consult Burke's Peerage to make certain her name was actually in it, and discover how she ought to address herself in letters.

  "I'll pass by the Antlers on my way back," she said, on a more comfortable subject, "and have them send over a hot dinner by noon. That must suffice for now, but their victuals are very plain, and I think it best to have a cook in the kitchen, so that Madame's appetite can be tempted with more delicate fare."

  "Thank you. I hadn't even thought of sending to the inn."

  "If you'll excuse me, I'll go up and attend your mother and make her comfortable before I go."

  "Thank you, Callie." He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. "Thank you. I can't believe—" He shook his head with a baff led sound. "Who are these chuck leheads who let you slip out of their grasp?"

  Callie was conscious of a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Hardly that. They were made to pay handsomely for the privilege of relinquishing my hand, I assure you."

  "So I should hope," he said. "Blackguards. Are you a great heiress, then?"

  "Well, yes," she admitted. "At least, I suppose I am. After the last settlement—it does tote up to a rather large sum."

  "How much?" he asked bluntly.

  She bent her head. "Eighty thousand," she said in a smothered voice.

  "Good God."

  "So you see," she said, lifting her face, "I'm hardly an object for compassion."

  "May I make you the object of my violent and unrestrained ardor?" He made a motion as if to loosen his neck cloth. "I'm a bit tired, but perfectly willing."

  "My calling hours are from twelve to three, if you wish to importune me violently," Callie said, drop ping a quick curtsy. "But now I must see to your mother."

  "Thank you." He gave a weary snort. "How many times have I said that? I'll try if I can to achieve some originality when I've had more sleep."

  She paused on her way to the door. She had meant only to say that he had no need to thank her, but something in his tired smile made her touch his arm. "I'm so glad you've come home," she said softly.

  He stood still for a moment. Then abruptly he gripped her hand. "Oh God, I can't even think how to tell you—" He seemed to hear the desperation in his own voice, and let go of her with a rueful laugh. "Well. You'd better make your escape immediately, before you 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 perfec tions 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 inf licted upon himself by trying to reach that farthest blade of grass through the hedgerow, and brought him up to his impres sive 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 innkeep er'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 gener ously, 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 ruth lessly 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, disem barking 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 f luted stone columns and the marble f loor. 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 vexa tion, 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 announce ment, 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 pret tiness, 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 stif led 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 rais
ed brow. Trev waited with composure while she made certain that he was in all points comme il 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 hand and passed it to the footman. Keeping any hint of irony from his voice, Trev conveyed his mother's heartfelt thanks for the magnificent basket of green apples. He was surprised to find that Lady Shelford condescended to lead him to the tea table and see that he was served. He had not thought he would rate so high in her social calculations. She even lingered with him. He took advantage of it to extend his felicitations on the betrothal and casually hope that Lady Hermione would not go too far away from Shelford when she was wed.