Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  "Hubert!" Callie cried, as the bull swung his great head and threw a barrel aside. It rolled along the street, barely missing Colonel Davenport as he ran pell-mell toward them. He leaped out of its path, losing his hat, but came on, closing with Callie on the rampaging beast. From somewhere Trev's footman Charles had appeared, running at her side. Everyone else scattered away, wise in the ways of enraged bulls.

  "Hold!" Callie screamed at Charles, f linging out her arm before he could run past her. "Colonel! Stop! Don't go near him!"

  The men froze in midstride. Hubert bellowed, the strange squealing sound echoing over the turmoil in the street. He turned toward her, searching, his breath frosting in the air like great puffs from a steam engine. Callie's knees were failing under her. Her head spun with pain. Someone pulled the calf's lead from her hand, but she never took her eyes from the bull.

  "Hubert!" she called, tasting blood in her mouth. "Come now, Hubert…" She put that little note in her voice, the sweet note that promised treats and an ear scratch, but the bull was confused and angry, uncertain of where he was. He lowered his head and pawed the street.

  "Come along," she crooned. A red hen trotted past her, zigzagging toward the bull and away. Hubert made a charge at it, almost taking out its tail feathers before it squawked and f lew out of range. "Come along," Callie warbled desperately. "Walk on, Hubert. There's a good boy."

  He swung his head, eyeing a kid goat that pranced too close. Callie held her breath, dreading for him to strike out with his horns. But the little animal stood with its legs spread, staring up at the snorting giant above it as if Hubert were the eighth wonder of the world. Hubert lowered his horns and pawed once, staring back balefully.

  Everything had gone quiet around them. Even the loose animals seemed to pause. The kid gave one tiny, uncertain bleat. The bull snuff led. They touched noses.

  As if some question had been answered between them, Hubert heaved a great sigh and gave the little fellow a lick that near bowled it over.

  "Good boy," Callie said. She began to walk toward him slowly. Her knees were knocking. The kid darted away as she approached, but Hubert merely swayed his head toward her and blinked in a dreamy way. She caught the lead dangling from his nose ring.

  A crowd had gathered in a wide, wary circle around them. The Malempré pen lay in ruins.

  "It's Hubert," she managed to say in a small voice, remembering her part. The darkness at the edge of her vision seemed to close in on her. Her breath failed. "This isn't… a Belgian bull. It's… Hubert."

  Everything seemed to slide away from her at once. The last thing she remembered, before the spinning world closed in, was Trev's muff led face above her, his arms catching her up just before she hit the ground.

  She was already awake before they conveyed her into the Green Dragon. She knew it was Trev who carried her; she heard him snarl a fierce command at the others to stand back, but she couldn't seem to gather her wits to speak or even lift her head. And then he was gone somehow, and she was lying on a sofa surrounded by a great number of anxious onlookers, bewildered as to how she had got there.

  "Hubert?" she mumbled, trying to sit up.

  "He's penned all right now, my lady, good and tight." She recognized her drover's familiar voice. "Don't you worry."

  She could trust Shelford's own drover, who had handled Hubert since he was a baby calf. She subsided for the moment, closing her eyes, allowing someone to take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. The top of her head hurt abominably. She wanted Trev, wanted him to be holding her close while she ripped his char acter to shreds, beginning with his unforgivable fool ishness and continuing through his criminal negligence and winding up with his unpardonable stupidity, and then starting on it all over again, louder.

  "Was anyone hurt?" she mumbled.

  "Only a few scratches." She thought it was Mr. Price who spoke. "But for you, my lady. You took a sharp rap, eh? The doctor's on his way."

  A vial of hartshorn appeared under her nose. She wasn't fond of smelling salts, but just at this moment, a deep whiff went straight to her brain and cleared some of the mist. "The animals?" she asked, blinking her eyes open.

  "We're making a head count," he said. "No injuries or losses reported yet. We may be fortunate, thank the good Lord. Only there was a good deal of damage to property. But don't you try to talk, ma'am. We've sent word to Shelford."

  "Oh no," she said, with a drifting vision of Lady Shelford's reaction to this news. "Where's—" She broke off, realizing that she shouldn't ask openly for Trev. She looked about her and saw him standing at the foot of the sofa, his scarf slipped down off his nose and only covering his mouth. His expression was white and set, almost frightening. She wanted to tell him that he should take care, but her brain was a little confused, and she thought it better to say nothing rather than risk a mistake.

  She wondered vaguely, since Trev was standing there, who it was holding her hand. Peculiar lights seemed to go off in f lashes when she turned her head, but she discovered Major Sturgeon kneeling at her side, rubbing his palm over the back of her hand.

  "Oh," she said and sat up, pulling free.

  Everyone chided and clucked at her, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the salts to make the world stop whirling and straighten itself again.

  "I'm quite all right," she said, when the horizon had settled. "May I have some tea?"

  "Bring her some tea," the major ordered, just as if a bustle had not already broken out to accomplish this task. People hurried back and forth and said things, and it was all rather confusing. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, except for once she dared to look aside at Trev and brush her fingers up her cheek to try to tell him that his disguise was slipping.

  He didn't seem to comprehend her, or if he did, he didn't appear to care. He met her eyes with that look again, such a look, his eyes a deep black glitter, so that she didn't know if he was nearer to tears or to cold blooded murder. It seemed it could be either.

  Callie herself felt inclined to murder, if only her head had not felt as if a blacksmith were using it as an anvil and pounding horseshoes into shape on top. She accepted the teacup, sitting up straight as it rattled in her hand. "Where is this Monsieur Malempré?" she demanded, as loudly as she could manage. Her voice was shaky, but strong enough to draw the attention of everyone around her.

  From the corner of her eye—if she turned, she feared that her wobbly stomach would betray her—she saw that Trev finally took her hint and pulled his collar and scarf up about his face. Fortune and the general disarray of things favored them; no one even looked at him twice as a clamor went up regarding the where abouts of the mysterious Belgian gentleman.

  "Shabbed off, I'll wager," a deep voice rumbled. Callie recognized the drover who'd prevented the panicked calf from running into the fire. "His jig's up, ain't it?"

  "Look for him at the Gerard." Major Sturgeon stood up beside her, scowling. "He was there last night."

  "Major," she said plaintively, reaching for his hand. "Will you find him for me?"

  "Certainly, my lady." He bent down and kissed her fingers. "Davenport, can you send someone? I don't want to leave her side."

  "No, please—" She pulled her hand away. "I wish to go to my room. But… Colonel, you were right after all, he did steal Hubert." She looked again at Major Sturgeon, putting on her best imitation of a lost puppy. "But you have such resolution, Major—will you hunt for him yourself? I hope you won't let him get away."

  It seemed to have a good effect. "Of course. Of course not." Reluctantly he let go of her and then caught her elbow again as she pushed herself to her feet. "Let me help you—no, that's the wrong way, my dear."

  She turned, ignoring him, tottering a step toward the foot of the sofa. She managed to trip on her skirts and fall against Trev's chest. "Oh," she muttered. "I beg your pardon. Where is… where is my maid?"

  His arm came round her, holding her up as she allowed her knees to crumple. "Have a care, M
iss," he muttered through his scarf. Then, without further ceremony, he bent down and picked her up bodily. "Where's 'er lady's slavey?" His voice was a rough growl, a fair imitation of a local drawl muff led within the scarf. The sound of it rumbled against her cheek. "You, inn'it? Lead us on up, then, and sharp about it. Shove over, let me through."

  The knot of spectators parted. He swung her round, mounting the stairs as Lilly hurried ahead. Callie closed her eyes, clinging to his neck. She was aware of the sound of many people on the stairs, of talk of the doctor's arrival, and then of passing under the door to her rooms. Trev carried her through to the bedroom. As he laid her down, she held on to him and hissed into his ear, "Don't you dare leave!"

  He grunted and stepped away. Lilly bustled about, ejecting several interested persons who had followed them upstairs. She allowed the doctor in, so Callie sat up quickly, pretending to a considerably stronger state of revival than she felt. She submitted to an examina tion of the bump on her head, trying not to wince every time the doctor touched it, promised that she would rest quietly and not go out for several days, and positively refused the administration of laudanum. The doctor shook his head and went away complaining that a young lady ought to have a guardian with her when she traveled, someone who could keep her from bumping her head and make her mind her elders.

  Callie waited until the door clicked closed behind him. She had been well aware that all the time she was being examined, Trev and Lilly had been standing in a corner of the bedroom, speaking in low tones to one another, so that the doctor took them both for her servants.

  "Lilly," she said. "Pray close the bedroom door. Stand outside and make certain that no one comes in."

  Lilly cast a glance at Trev and bit her lip. "But Sir wants me to—"

  "Do as I ask, if you please," Callie interrupted. Her head hurt. She put her hand to her temple. "I don't care what 'sir' would like at the moment."

  The maidservant bit her lip and curtsied. She turned away to the door. Trev moved a step, and Callie lifted her head.

  "Do not leave!" she ordered him.

  He stopped. Lilly closed the bedroom door behind her, leaving them alone. Callie sat on the bed, looking at him. He'd pulled down the scarf to show his face, but still the sinister gypsy effect was powerful.

  "I can't stay long," he said.

  "Really!" Callie favored him with a dry look. "And how do you plan to accomplish an exit, when half the county is loitering below looking for you?"

  He returned a sardonic smile. "By the window."

  "Oh, of course." She blinked, touching her hand gingerly to the bump on her head. The doctor's probing had only made it worse. She realized that her hair was falling down.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. There was a peculiar tautness about his mouth.

  "I am excessively put out with you!" she said, taking this as an invitation to vent her spleen. "You started that rout, didn't you? And you had those men helping to let the animals loose! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? Any number of them might have been hurt or lost. And think of the prize pies!" She paused, her lip trembling. "Someone could have been killed! It was abominable of you."

  "I'd not thought of the prize pies, I'll admit."

  "Well, you should have. And the preserves and cheeses. I'm sure poor Mrs. Franklin is weeping her heart out right now, after Hubert threw a barrel through her pear tarts. She is a new bride, you know."

  "No. I didn't know."

  "And you haven't the least regret, have you?" Her resentment grew. "It's all quite a game to you, isn't it? You stroll into some unsuspecting town and cause a riot, and then you can't stay long." She stood up, holding on to the bedpost when the room had a tendency to rotate about her. "You just go away and leave the rest of us to put everything to rights."

  "Yes," he said.

  The fact that he stood there without defending himself only fed her wrath. "Why did you do it? You didn't warn me. You didn't stop and think. Surely there was some other way to reveal Hubert, something a little less—spectacular! I thought we were to do it on the last day of the fair."

  "We were," he said shortly.

  "Then why?" she demanded.

  His lip curled. "I was angry."

  "Angry?" She blinked. "At what?"

  "You showed him the pig." There was a note of self-mockery in his voice.

  "The pig?" She had no notion what he meant.

  "And laughed at what he said. Of course I had to put a stop to that at once."

  "The pig? Do you mean that fat sow?"

  He gave a slight shrug of assent, like a schoolboy called up on the carpet.

  "You started all that—you put us all in danger— because I laughed about a pig? Are you mad?" she exclaimed.

  "It was our pig, do you see?" His voice rose to match hers. "God damn it. I haven't asked for much. Give me a goddamned pig at least."

  She shook her head, bewildered. "It's not my pig."

  He threw back his head and gave a brief, hard laugh. "No. Right. I'm sorry you were hurt. Scared the daylights out of me. It's true, it could have been far more serious, I didn't realize until it got out of hand." He sounded mortified. "I'm sorry. My damnable temper."

  "I only laughed because Major Sturgeon was so stupid. He asked me if she was a Berkshire hog, when anyone could see that she's an Old Spot."

  He took a stride toward her. Callie leaned back against the bedpost with her hands behind her. In his rough jacket and heavy stockman's boots, he seemed much larger than he ought, his dark, satyric features fit for a highwayman. For an instant she thought he might shake her, but instead he took her cheeks between his hands.

  She felt the rough wool of the mitts, and his fingertips resting on her cheeks. He bent his face to hers. "Callie—know something, believe something. I must go, but believe that I love you. Marry that fellow if you must; I know you have your reasons. I know I've let you down at every turn. I'm not the man who could give you the sort of life you deserve. But wherever I go, mon trésor, it doesn't matter where—I'll think of you. You're in my heart. Believe me. You're the only true and honest thing in my life."

  She stood with her face turned up to his, biting her lower lip.

  "And you're beautiful," he said. "Believe that too. Not like some damned society diamond, no. You're beautiful like the leaves in autumn, like a spring colt kicking its heels, you're beautiful the way your animals are beautiful, even that fool pig. Do you believe me?"

  She didn't answer. He pushed back a lock of her hair and kissed her gently, so sweetly that she was near to weeping.

  "I want to make love to you in a field," he whis pered. "In the green grass or in the fresh hay. I want you beyond reason."

  "I don't believe you," she said woodenly. "Tell me the truth."

  His breath touched her skin. "I am."

  Slowly she shook her head.

  "The truth about me, you mean," he said, lifting his head and looking down at her under his dark lashes.

  "Tell me in truth why you're leaving. If you want me to believe—whatever else you say."

  He stood back, his hands sliding to her shoulders. "I suppose I owe you that much, don't I?" He looked aside and suddenly let go of her, pushing away. In a voice that went to icy derision, he said, "The truth is I've been convicted of forgery and sentenced to hang."

  Callie blinked. Then she pushed back her falling hair from her face. "Oh come now. I'm sure I might have swallowed the rest, even about the pig, but I'm not a complete f lat, you know!"

  He had been standing before her with a hard, sullen expression; at that, his lip quirked upward. "Yes, you are," he informed her. "You're a pea-goose. It's one of the most charming things about you."

  She gave a little huff. "Perhaps so, but I'm sure I'm not going to believe that you're laboring under a sentence of death."

  He tilted his head. "Why not?"

  "Well… because," she said, not quite certain of the look in his eyes. "For forgery, you say? I can perfectly suppose tha
t you gave Major Sturgeon a black eye, and so the constable is after you, but I can't imagine that you did any such thing as commit a forgery. Why would you do so? You're already excessively wealthy. And besides, I don't think anyone would be hung for it. It's not a case of murder or something on that order. It's just a piece of paper."

  He leaned back against the chest of drawers, a wry smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Very sensible, I admit. I wish the bench might have taken your point of view."

  "And here you are, quite alive," she pointed out with some satisfaction in discovering another large hole in his claim.

  "Just so," he said. "I was given a conditional pardon the day before they finished building the gallows. I must leave the country and never return."