Major Sturgeon, on the other hand, was to have behaved with considerably more circumspection, no doubt because her imagination had matured a few degrees by the time she grew out of her teens. He would have seen her across the room at a London ball, having pined in silence for many years. But now, at the sight of her, he could no longer contain his feelings. He would write her a sonnet and send it anonymously. It would be full of remorse and regret, and he would stand in the rain outside her house and stare for hours at the door. She thought perhaps he would finally find a way to come into her path and beg to call on her, only in a rather more tender and miserable tone of voice than he had used in the Antlers' parlor, rather than sounding as if he would like to call her out.
In perfect honesty, she would have been quite content to leave these reveries safely in her head and omit any actual experience of them. Instead of Trev, it was Major Sturgeon who seemed to be assuming the role of brooding corsair, which was disconcerting in the extreme. She had no inkling of why he could possibly wish to call upon her. Their betrothal had been broken off through the medium of a letter, with no specific reason given but that he felt himself unworthy of her hand. Since he had shortly thereafter felt himself worthy to become engaged to another woman, she drew the obvious conclusion that she had not satisfied his requirements in a wife. Her father had been of a mind to forcibly alter Major Sturgeon's decision on the matter but submitted when Callie begged him not to do so. She had no desire, she told her papa, to marry any gentleman who did not wish to marry her.
It had all been very unpleasant and mortifying from start to finish. She recalled very little about Major Sturgeon himself, as she had only met him when he was on brief leave from Paris, and once again after Waterloo, and hardly spoken to him during the few times they were in company. He was quite a hand some man, very firm of jaw and military in his bearing, always in uniform when she had seen him. That was why she had recognized him after so long. Very few active officers in full dress crossed her path—none, to be precise—and she quite clearly remembered the imposing stiffness of his braids and shoulder epaulets. But there was a certain swashbuckling air about him now, in all his scarlet and gold, a resolute sweep in the way he removed his cloak. The intense manner in which he looked at her was unnerving.
To make things yet more unsettling, the instant antagonism between the two gentlemen had been palpable, and magnified by Trev's careless insolence. She had heard of duels being fought for less insult than he had offered to Major Sturgeon. It was one thing to tease about skewering and pistols, but the idea appalled her in reality.
However, she could not deny that it had been grati fying to have Trev stand by her. Very gratifying. In truth, the whole encounter had made her daydreams seem quite pale in comparison.
She found herself at the only corner in Shelford, gazing blindly at a new poster plastered over the old ones on the greengrocer's wall. It displayed the image of a bullbaiting, showing a colossal spotted animal in combat with two huge dogs. The advertisement was for a butcher shop in Bromyard and made great news of that old wives' tale that meat from a baited bull was the more tender.
Callie scowled. Colonel Davenport would be using Hubert for breeding, not baiting, but his resemblance to the imaginary bull made her shiver. This type of ancient nonsense caused poor creatures to be tortured for hours, when they ought to be dispatched with a single well-placed blow. Her father had taught her to patronize men who knew their trade. They did not allow the animals to suffer through lack of skill or carelessness. But this sort of cruelty was maddeningly common, made worse because it pleased the fairgoers and sporting crowd.
She reached up and ripped the bill down, tearing it into pieces. Shelford's grocer owned the butcher shop too and would no doubt thank her for obliterating an advertisement for one of his competitors from the wall of his own property. She thought of buying some stale bread for Hubert, remembered that he wasn't there, and blew her nose into her handkerchief, trying not to burst into tears in the center of Shelford's village green.
"Married at Blackburn, Henry Osbaldeson, aged 95, to Rachel Pemberton, spinster, aged 71." Trev read by candlelight from an ancient copy of La Belle Assemblée. "Do you suppose she's given him an heir yet?"
"And twins by this time," his mother said faintly. She sat propped up on pillows, cradling a tisane without drinking from the cup. "I'm sure that journal may have ten years."
Trev f lipped to the front page. "Eight." He raised his wineglass. "To the health of Mrs. O! Let us hope she's still spending his money to this day."
She smiled and plucked at the coverlet with her long fingers. "Myself, mon trésor—I hope you will not delay so long as Mr. O to take a wife."
Trev realized he had wandered onto dangerous ground. "I vow I won't wait a day past eighty."
She gave a sigh. It turned to a cough, and he reached for her medicine glass, but she shook her head. "No, I don't wish to… sleep." The color was very high in her cheeks, so that she looked younger, almost a girl in the candlelight. "Trevelyan," she said. "Tell me, have you ever considered to… propose to Lady Callista Taillefaire?"
"Certainly. I've offered myself to her several times," he said casually. "But alas!"
"Alas?" His mother tilted her chin. "Do not tell me she refused you."
"Not everyone appreciates my virtues as you do."
She pursed her lips. "I dare say that Lady Callie… I believe she… has some appreciation."
"Do you? I'm f lattered. Her father was of another opinion, however."
She frowned a little, a pretty sulk, like a thwarted child.
He turned a page. "Mr. Thomas Haynes, of Oundle, will soon publish a treatise on the improved culture of the strawberry, raspberry, and gooseberry," he announced. "This can't possibly animate us so much, however, as the news that the Rev. James Piumptre has made considerable progress in printing his English Drama Purified, and it will appear in the early spring."
She put on a smile, only half attending. Trev feigned a concentrated attention to the journal, watching her fold the edge of the coverlet over and over with her fingers.
"It was before, then?" She looked up searchingly at him. "You asked her before you went away?"
He turned the magazine in his hands and rolled it into a cylinder. "Don't let us speak of this, Maman. Lady Callista has no desire to wed me, I assure you."
"But with Monceaux, the circumstances have so much… changed."
"Exactly. She would not wish to move to France, and leave her sister, and go away from all she knows."
"I think she might be willing."
"Maman—" he said.
"She can't wish to be a… spinster all her days."
"Please," he said, tapping the rolled journal against his fist. "Please."
She drew a deep, unhappy breath. "You love her."
"Damn," he said, staring into the dark corner of the room.
They sat without speaking. Trev felt all his lies and failures hovering on his tongue—only the knowledge that he would disappoint her yet more kept him silent.
"Is it money, Trevelyan?" she asked at length. "I know you have not told me… the whole. Do you have no money?"
"I have a great deal of money, Maman. A very great deal of it."
That he could say with full truth. She looked at him, her eyes large and brilliant in the unsteady light.
He drained his wine and set the empty glass on her table. "Come, madame le duchesse, don't you want me to find a girl of the old blood, to dignify Monceaux with her prestige?"
"No," his mother said. "I want you to be happy. Lady Callie would… make you happy."
He smiled wryly. "I'm not so sure I would make her happy."
"Why not?"
"You know what I am, Maman. Unsteady character."
"You were only a wild boy. Your grandfather—he could not help himself to drive you mad. I tried to say to him…" She trailed off and shrugged. "He could not help himself. He wanted everything to turn back… as it wa
s."
"Yes, I did try single-handedly to restore the monarchy, but Bonaparte would have none of it. And then Wellington stole a march on me and did the thing himself."
She reached toward him across the coverlet, smiling. "You have accomplished what mattered most to us. Your father and your… grandfather would be so proud, to know we were in possession of Monceaux again."
It was almost worth it when she gave him such a look of gladness. He wondered brief ly what it would be like to deserve it. He took her cool hand for a moment, then released her.
"Well, I will not weasel you about Lady Callie," she said contritely. "But perhaps you will… consider what I say."
"Weasel me?"
"Yes, as they bait and persecute those… poor crea tures in their burrows, you know."
"'Badger' me," he corrected. "You will not badger me."
"Oh. But I may weasel you, then?"
"I feel quite certain that you will, Maman," he said.
Seven
THE NATURE OF HIS CONNECTION TO MAJOR STURGEON occurred to Trev over his morning coffee. It struck him full blown, apropos of nothing but a chipped white cup that reminded him of one he'd used in the Peninsula.
"Putain," he muttered slowly, looking up, his eyebrows lifted.
Jock turned round, his big head bent down to clear the low beam over the hearth. "You know yer mama won't like you to be saying them filthy words in French."
Trev took a sip and grimaced. "I'm sorry to sully your pretty caulif lower ears with my language lessons, 'Jacques,' old son, but your coffee deserves it." He always gave his manservant's name that little Gallic moue of accent, partly to encourage the unlikely impression that he was actually French, and partly just to torment him.
Jock snorted and returned to clattering with black pots and skillets. Sleet pattered against the small square window, promising an ugly day, but Jock had not stinted on the coal fire. The huge hearth gave out a steady heat. Trev stared at his valet's massive back, drinking the foul brew and frowning pensively.
Salamanca. It was easy to recall everything because it had been at Salamanca. The scalding sun of July, the dust and smoke—it seemed dreamlike now in the wet chill of an English autumn. Trev had been a new prisoner, brought in under Geordie Hixson's guard, both of them still panting from exertion and heat in the British cavalry officer's tent. Geordie had started to say something about sending Trev to the rear, but the words were interrupted by a new barrage of shelling from the dead ground to the west, exploding so close that a handful of spent shot pelted against the canvas. A pair of aides and a sentinel ran out to discover the range, leaving the tent empty but for Geordie and his commanding officer, both of them bent over the map in grim discussion of the reconnaissance.
Trev hadn't known the field officer's name or given a damn. He'd just been relieved and ashamed and sick of starving; sick of the sound of artillery and what he had become. He wasn't even concerned about the guns so close; it had seemed no more than a pretty irony to be killed by French cannon a bare half hour after his surrender. When Wellington's wounded courier had staggered in, covered in blood and black soot, with orders to attack immediately into the teeth of the unseen battery, Trev had barely taken note of the dying man's words. The courier had expired almost at his feet, but all he'd felt was that numb wonder at how the poor bastard had managed to make it so far after being shot in the chest.
He remembered a brief silence from the guns, and the blood from the courier's mouth. Then Geordie's officer had ordered the body carried back outside and laid by the man's horse.
The strangeness of that order had not penetrated Trev's mind. It was only Geordie's protest and expres sion of shock that had even caused him to look up at the field officer. Into that same challenging, pale-eyed stare he had met yesterday.
Trev remembered Sturgeon.
Trev and Geordie had carried the corpse, left it as if the courier had fallen from his saddle. As if the orders to attack the battery had never arrived.
When they returned, Geordie stood at attention, staring expectantly at his commanding officer. The guns thundered again, and Sturgeon ordered him to call for the tent to be repositioned behind the knoll. Geordie stood still and then requested permission to speak. Sturgeon snapped at him to shut up and strike the tent. The young aides galloped in a few minutes afterward from their reconnoiter, cursed at the courier's death wounds, and hauled the body into the shade of a tree while the tent was struck.
Nothing else happened. No attack on the French guns had been mounted. They moved down behind the safety of the hillside. Not long after, Trev had been taken in a set of light irons to join the other prisoners in the rear.
He had never heard any more of it or given the incident particular thought. There had been far more pressing concerns on his mind than some nameless British officer's decision in the heat of battle, as long as it didn't include shooting at him. He'd put the memory away along with all the other things he didn't care to dwell upon. Wellington had soundly crushed the French at Salamanca, so it made no difference to anyone, except perhaps a few French and British soldiers who would have died and hadn't.
But here and now—Trev suddenly appreciated that he had been a witness to a court-martial offense. Sturgeon had been ordered to attack, and he had acted as if he'd never received the order.
"Son of a…" Jock dropped the coffeepot with a hiss and clang, sending dark liquid over the f loor. He added several more colorful words, holding his fingers in his other hand and blowing on them. Then he looked down at his stained trousers—the fashionable yellow ones—and let out a string of expletives that would have burned the ears off a bosun's mate. "My buttercup cossacks!" Jock's deep bass cracked. He grabbed a dish towel, daubing in a frenzy of vigor.
Trev squinted one eye at the stain on Jock's billowing trousers. "I fear they're past hope," he said, heartlessly honest.
"Thirty guineas!" The valet's voice reached a pitch that Trev had not supposed it could attain.
Trev put down his cup. "Damme, you spent thirty guineas on those things?"
"Worth every groat, sir," Jock snarled.
Trev would admit that they made the big man look quite the Cossack. All he required was a saber and some tassels hanging off his ears to be fit to ravage a town. But Trev made it a strict policy never to mock his valet's sense of style. He did not care to have one of those ham-sized fists in his teeth.
"You'd better take them down to the inn directly and find out a launderer," he advised. "Perhaps they can be boiled."
"And shrink to nothin', and bleach besides," Jock mourned.
"Then you can give them to me," Trev said sooth ingly. "I'll wear them to bed, like a sultan's pajamas."
Jock made a rumbling growl, stalking toward the kitchen door.
"You're certain this doctor has our right direction?" Trev asked after him.
"No, sir, I told 'im to go to Madrid," Jock snapped, holding the door in his giant paw so that a gust of freezing wind blew in Trev's face.
"You're so fetching when you're savage," Trev murmured.
The door closed with a solid thud, shutting out the sleet. Trev contemplated the dark splay of liquid trickling across the stone f loor, oozing its way toward his polished boot. He heaved a sigh and got up to find a mop.
Callie had been out to feed the orphan calf and back to change long before her sister and Lady Shelford joined her in the breakfast room. She sat beside the window, gazing out at the drooping trees and sleeting rain, trying not to dwell upon the empty gate where one large and placid bull had not been awaiting his morning treat.
"It's my sister's personal correspondence, ma'am." Hermey paused by the door, allowing Lady Shelford to precede her into the room. "She is quite mature enough to dispense with anyone's approval of any letters she may receive."
The countess was carrying a sealed missive. She ignored Hermione and held it up, looking at Callie. "I do not think it suitable for Lady Callista Tallefaire to be in clandestine communicat
ion with a bachelor, however mature she may be. Not in this house!"
"Clandestine!" Hermey exclaimed. "Oh, that is not true! It was delivered quite openly!"
Callie stood up, a familiar tightness forming at the base of her throat. She could not bear a scene with Dolly, not just now. "What is it?" she asked dubiously.
"It's a letter addressed to you, Callie," Hermey said hotly, "and she has no right to keep it from you!"
"I'm sure it's only a note from Mr. Rankin about the cook for Dove House." Callie looked at her cousin's wife. "Please, read it if you like, ma'am."
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