Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  He smiled. Only his Callie would champion the cause of leaner pigs for the greater good of pigdom. "I daresay they will be eager to know your view of the matter." He escorted her round a table where a woman was laying out molds of cheese in an artistic fashion.

  "Of course they won't," she said wryly. "They will say that they are only pigs, and I am only a female— but pigs are most intelligent and feeling, I assure you. I taught one to play a wooden f lute once."

  "A f lute!"

  She nodded. "I secured it between a pair of fire dogs, and he soon learned that he could procure a bit of molasses if he made a note upon it. I stopped the holes for him, and he would play 'Baa Baa Black Sheep.'"

  "Mon dieu." He shook his head. "And I was not there to see it." He slid his fingers between hers, so that their hands were clasped where they rested on his arm. She tilted her head aslant, glancing up at him, but he could not detect her expression through the veil. He wasn't sure if she knew just how difficult it had been for him to break off from their lovemaking. He was in a state of exquisite torment even to walk beside her, with her shoulder brushing his at every step. It was he who had conceived this grand plan of a manufactured marriage, but he found now that what had seemed as if it would be a diverting amusement was in fact a bittersweet ordeal.

  If they had been married in truth, he would not have been strolling through a street full of straw and bawling calves, that was a certainty. He would have had her on the sofa—no, not the sofa, in the bed, stretched out on the sheets in very daylight, a long and slow and leisurely discovery of her white skin and golden red curls.

  "I shall write to the officers of the Agricultural Society, in any event," she continued. "I would even—" She paused. "Well, they would never invite me to speak at the monthly meeting, so I needn't fear that, but I would."

  He really very badly wanted to pull her up against him right there in the midst of the street and kiss her ruthlessly. "You are a heroine," he said, lifting her fingers brief ly to his lips. "A heroine of overstout pigs everywhere!"

  "I doubt even the pigs would thank me," she admitted with a rueful chuckle. "I'm sure they like their liberal dinners."

  "Then you are my heroine," he said warmly.

  Her fingertips moved slightly under his as she peeked up at him. He found that their slow stroll had stopped somehow; he was distantly aware of geese honking from inside their crates to his left, and a woman carrying a red hen on his right, but he stood looking down at Callie like a callow boy gazing helplessly at the adored object of his affections, unable to see more than a hazy shadow of her face but knowing just what her shy sparkling smile was beneath the veil.

  He was not a man who thought much of the future. He'd had enough of the expectations and demands of his grandfather's extravagant fantasies as a boy. In the early days of his boxing promotions, he'd had dreams of backing Jem Fowler to the Championship of England, until that ended in the bout that killed Jem and left his wife and baby on Trev's hands. It was a lesson. There were no more friends of his heart in the ring.

  He maintained no ambitions for himself beyond arranging the next prize bout or making good on the betting books he held. His very detachment was his strength. With no particular desires or emotions to burden his judgment of the outcome, he was very good at what he did. It did not ruin him to pay out on a losing stake, because he never made odds that would break him.

  It made no odds for him to think of the future now, but he couldn't seem to help himself. It wasn't a real future; it was this moment of smiling down at her, extended somehow into tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and he would never have to say that he must go, or put her hand away from his, or hide what he felt, or lie. He was profoundly weary of lies. He wished to be himself—if he could have settled on any notion of who he might be.

  Both of them seemed to realize at the same instant that they were stopping the way. Callie gave a slight "oh!" and Trev stepped aside, escorting her up onto the pavement to avoid a goat cart that desired to pass. As he raised his eyes from the curb and looked ahead down the crowded street, he saw the certain end of any wishful reveries.

  "Sturgeon!" he uttered, forgetting himself far enough to lapse into English. "God curse the man."

  Callie went stiff beside him. She gripped his arm and craned her neck to see past the crowd.

  "Don't look," he said, quickly turning her away and reverting to French. "He's down beside the Green Dragon. The devil seize him, what's he doing here?" They were walking now away from the danger, Trev restricting himself with an effort to a more casual pace. He had thought Sturgeon had departed for London yesterday, when Colonel Davenport came up to Hereford. That had been the word from Jock. He paused for a moment, catching the eye of the "footman" who had been dogging them at a respectful distance.

  The burly boxer came forward, bending his bewigged head to listen as Trev murmured to him. Charles gave a brief nod as he took his instructions and stood back again, folding his hands behind him.

  "It seems I'm forced to be suddenly unwell, chérie," Trev said to Callie, pulling the sheaf of broadsides from his coat. "I'm afraid you'll have to make the announcement. Noon, at the prize platform."

  "Me!" She gasped. "Oh no, I—"

  "You must, love," he said. "I'm sorry. I can't let myself be recognized, or we'll all be in the soup. You won't have to speak to the crowd. Just hand one of these to the secretary and ask him to read it aloud on my behalf. Tell them I've been taken ill with a headache but will be better presently. You needn't say much—remember that you don't speak English well. Charles here will fetch the salver and the coins to display just before you take to the stage."

  "But—"

  "No, attend to me." He touched her shoulder, cutting her off. "Go back to the dressmakers' afterward to change. Lilly will be looking for you. Make some sort of appearance as yourself this afternoon—see to your animals, walk out with Lilly. I'm going back to Dove House for the night, to Maman, but I'll send word to you early tomorrow." He pressed the papers into her unwilling hand. Without lingering to answer her stammer of objections, he tipped his hat and kissed her fingers, and left her alone with Charles in the street. Callie stood on the wooden platform with several of the officers of the society, feeling as if everyone in the crowd could see right through her veil. She hoped that Trev had made certain that her hair didn't show where the net was gathered at her nape. There were familiar faces in the audience—Farmer Lewis and Mr. Downie and any number of men who knew her perfectly well, waiting with looks of interest and speculation as the secretary of the Agricultural Society stepped to the fore. The colonel was not there—Trev had assured her he wouldn't be, but she was distressed to find that Major Sturgeon seemed to have some unaccountable interest in an event which should have held no impor tance to him whatsoever. She had told him during one of his visits that she would be attending the show, and he had nodded with polite but hardly urgent atten tion. She could not conceive of why he had come to Hereford at all, far less why he should linger about the platform as the early cattle classes were announced. She very much feared that he suspected something.

  She did not dare to look directly toward him, but it seemed as if he were watching her while Mr. Price droned out the list of classes and the prizes that would be awarded for each. When he'd finished with the list of events, the club secretary turned and bowed deeply to Callie, and then took up Trev's broadside and read it through his glasses in a loud, official voice.

  A murmur went through the crowd as the chal lenge was described. Charles lifted the heavy silver tray above his head. The trophy glinted in the sun as he turned left and right to show it off. Men in the audience elbowed one another, exchanging looks. There were a number of cattle breeders who had brought bulls to the show, but Callie was sure that not one of them approached Hubert's size. Still, with a such a grand prize, there was an eager push forward to sign animals onto the list of hopeful contestants for measure.

  Mr. Price turned to her, beaming. It
was a fine boost to the show, to have such an unusual and valuable challenge, he informed her with enthusiasm. Nothing could be better to generate excitement and bring attention. All the society officials were eager to attend to her, inquiring after her husband's health with some anxiety. Callie tried to assure them with a good many nods and a few broken English phrases that he was only feeling the effects of their recent journey.

  Her stif led utterances were smothered entirely by the realization that Major Sturgeon had made his way onto the platform. As she stood frozen in dismay, he spoke to the president. That gentleman turned to her with a smile.

  "Madame," he said gaily, "here's someone who tells me that he's visited your beautiful country and wishes an introduction. May I have the honor?"

  Callie stared through her veil, not finding any way to avoid it without throwing herself bodily from the platform into the crowd. She gave a slight nod, turning her face downward so that the brim of her hat obscured her face even further.

  "I give you Major Sturgeon, Madame," the presi dent said. "Major, this is our honored guest, Madame Malempré, who adds such a mark of nobility to our humble agricultural affair!"

  Callie allowed the major to take her hand, giving a faint curtsy as he bent over it.

  "I am enchanted!" he said. He leaned close to her and said in a confiding voice, "But I have been to Malempré myself, Madame, and found it to be a charming place."

  For an instant she felt as if she would simply dissolve, sinking to the f loor in a puddle of terror. He had been to Malempré. She had no idea where Malempré was, except that it was presumably somewhere in Belgium. Never having been to Belgium, she could not even summon a speculation as to what sort of place it might be, if it was large or small, f lat or mountainous, busy or rural. It might be dotted with pagodas and Chinamen for all she knew. Far worse, she didn't know if a visitor to Malempré would be likely to have met a Madame and Monsieur Malempré there.

  "I do not… well speak," she said hesitantly, keeping her face lowered and her voice pitched low to disguise it.

  He retained her hand in spite of her attempt to withdraw it. "Ah, I must beg your pardon," he replied in f luent French, lifting her fingers to his lips. "My command of your delightful language is poor, but let us converse in it."

  His command of French appeared to be all too excellent. The veil seemed to become suffocating. "I must sit down!" she said faintly, drawing her hand away. She turned to the steps, but she could not avoid him. He caught her elbow and supported her as she went down the wooden steps.

  "Come this way," he said, his grip firm as he directed her toward the door of the nearest inn. "Stand aside!" he barked in English. "Let the lady pass!"

  The crowd parted at his sharp command. Callie

  found herself helpless, propelled by his supporting arm about her waist in spite of attempts to draw back. She dreaded to enter the inn with him, where there would doubtless be a great fuss made over a lady feeling faint. They might even encourage her to remove her veil.

  She allowed him to escort her as far as the walkway and then set her feet. "Monsieur, do not trouble your self." She disengaged herself firmly. "If you please!" She put a little acid into her voice and made a point of removing his hand from her arm.

  He stiffened for an instant and then bowed his head. "I beg you will consider me your humble servant, Madame! Are you feeling better?"

  Callie took a deep breath. Seeing no other recourse open to her, she plunged with a whole heart into a masquerade of a haughty lady, bridling up and giving him a sideways glance of disdain. "I am well," she said coolly. "I do not believe I know you, Monsieur."

  He stood quite still for a moment, looking at her with such intensity that she was sure he was trying to see through the veil. She turned her face away abruptly, fearing he would suddenly shout out her real name to the street.

  "Of course," he said in an oddly light tone, doffing his plumed hat in the face of this direct cut. "But how could I be so foolish as to suppose you would remember me by name? I was among the liaison officers after the abdication. You were so kind as to open your home to us and give a luncheon al fresco, to celebrate the liberation of your country."

  "Ah," Callie said, silently cursing Trev and his choice of towns and names. She put up her chin. "Yes, the picnic. You were there? I have a poor head for faces, Monsieur. A strange chance, to encounter you here, is it not? But you must pardon me, I will attend my husband now."

  To her despair, he turned with her, persisting in walking alongside. "And where do you stay in Hereford, Madame? I would be pleased to return your hospitality, if you and your husband would do me the honor of joining me for dinner."

  "I must regret," she said. "Monsieur Malempré is resting."

  "I am devastated." He sounded truly sorry. "I would wish to make some return of your kindness. I have never forgot that sunny day in your gardens."

  "Have you not, Monsieur?" Callie walked quickly, but he kept pace.

  "Madame." He put his hand on her elbow as she turned the corner. He seemed to have no qualms about touching her. "Never," he said intensely. "My God, how could I?"

  She cast a look aside at him, startled by the fierce note in his voice. He stopped, holding her, and then let her go as if he realized what he was doing. Callie took advantage of that to turn away in the direction of the dressmaker's shop. She thought that surely he would not follow her that far. But he came with her, keeping up easily with his longer stride. She began to feel hunted, frightened that he had recognized her and was playing some sly game. For the whole distance of the street he walked alongside her, saying nothing.

  As they approached the shop, she debated with herself furiously. He appeared determined to keep company with her in spite of any rudeness she could summon. She had intended to go into the shop to change and emerge as herself, but she was afraid now that he would even try to accompany her in, or linger outside. She did not dare to go in as Madame Malempré and come out as Lady Callista Taillefaire.

  She slowed her steps as she neared the door. She saw Lilly lingering across the street. Trev's footman trailed at a respectful distance. Lilly stared a moment toward them with an uncertain look, then turned quickly away, giving a coy smile to a pair of large young fellows lounging in a tailor's door.

  Callie paused. The dressmaker's shop was impos sible. He could see inside it. She nodded shortly and said, "I will leave you here, Monsieur. I must go to our hotel."

  "Sofie!" he said under his breath. "Don't do this to me, I beg you!"

  She stared at him through the veil. An astonishing suspicion came to her. He could not mean—surely he did not mean—it was shocking enough that there seemed to be a real Madame Malempré who he had met, but he appeared to believe that he had far more than a passing acquaintance with her.

  He took her hand. "Don't tell me you have truly forgotten me," he murmured. "The garden. The summerhouse. I know you might not recall my name, but—" He broke off, looking down. "It was not so much to you as to me, perhaps."

  As the full import of his words sank in, Callie began to feel an upwelling of outrage. He not only knew this Madame Malempré, but it was becoming quite clear that he'd had some romantic encounter with her in a summerhouse. And it appeared that he would be quite willing to renew the acquaintance, in spite of the fact that he had been diligently courting Callie for the past week.

  As the realization sank in, a new recklessness possessed her, the sort of feeling that she had not experienced in a very long time. Not since her last adventure with Trev, in fact, in which she had been obliged to steal a melon from a canvas bag and replace it with a large hedgehog. Instead of marching away, she allowed the major to take her gloved fingers to his lips.

  He smiled over her hand. "You have not forgot," he whispered. "Tell me it is so."

  From the corner of her eye, Callie could see that Charles had drawn closer. His bulk towered over the major's height. At a word, she thought, she could have Major Sturgeon deposited in a wat
ering trough. The picture of it made her give a low laugh as she let him kiss her hand. "Forget?" she asked noncommittally. "What do you mean, Monsieur?"

  He turned away from Charles, drawing her arm through his, leaning very close to her ear. "Is it your husband?" he murmured. "I didn't think he was a jealous man."

  Callie's heart beat faster. She found it difficult to believe that he did not recognize her from so close. But if he did, he was playing a very deep game. She should repulse him immediately, she was sure, but the desire to take some small revenge was growing.

  "You must have a better knowledge of him than I, if you suppose that," she said.

  "But it's not very handsome of him to leave you alone at a dirty cattle fair, Madame."

  Callie instantly wanted to protest that the Hereford show maintained exceptionally high standards of cleanliness, but she suppressed her annoyance. "He has the headache," she said, allowing her fingers to play over his arm the way she had once seen Dolly do as she f lirted discreetly with a gentleman houseguest. "Refresh my poor memory, Monsieur, if you please. I met you at the Waterloo picnic?"