Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  She took a deep breath, gathered her skirt, and walked up to the door. Lilly answered the bell promptly.

  "Oh, my lady!" The maid stepped aside as Callie entered, closing the door. "I'm so thankful you've come—Madame asks so many questions and looks at me so odd, and I don't know what to say! My lord told me that I mustn't worry her, and I've tried, my lady— I've tried, but—" Suddenly her eyes filled and she dropped a belated curtsy. "I beg your pardon, but—" She put her apron over her face and burst into tears.

  Callie felt all the guilty weight of her neglect in delaying to call. She put her arm about the girl and guided a sobbing Lilly toward the kitchen. Cook turned about from her chopping, took one look at them, and lifted the teakettle from the hob. Lilly wiped her eyes and plopped down in a chair.

  "She asked me when the duke was to call again!" the maid exclaimed in tragic tones. "And I knew I was meant to say that he would be here soon, b-but I c-couldn't seem to say it a-right. And she looks at me so! And now her cough is worse, and her fever is high—Nurse says she's in a bad way, even with the mustard plasters."

  "Nurse." Cook snorted, sitting down and reaching over with her great arm to fill the teapot amid clouds of steam. "Don't put much stock on what her says, I don't. That grim sort, them likes to make out like as all's going to wrack and ruin. Gives 'em position, they suppose."

  Lilly sniffed. "Do you think?"

  "Ma'am's been eatin'. Not in great swallows, her ain't, but I seen that tray don't come back quite so full as it goes up."

  In spite of a desire to hurry to Madame's bedside at this news, Callie delayed to share a cup of tea. It was always best to learn what the servants had to say of a situation. Lady Shelford would never countenance a chat in the kitchen with the staff, but Callie had no such qualms. "So there's been no word from the duke this past week?" she asked, careful to keep her voice level and unconcerned.

  "No, my lady," Lilly said. She glanced toward Cook and then averted her eyes, heaping lumps of sugar into her tea.

  Callie noted the heavy inroads on the sugarloaf, which had been reduced from a neatly peaked cone to a shapeless lump wrapped in blue paper. "You have enough to buy what provisions you need?" she asked.

  "Oh aye," Cook said comfortably. "We got us an open account at the greengrocer and the butcher too, and I told the duke I've no need to have recourse to the cookshop. Whatever Ma'am needs, I can make right here, I told him. There was a little trouble when that Easley woman tried to buy a ham off the butcher, claiming her was working here at Dove House, but I took care of that. And I'll send that one on her way if she comes round about here again, no matter if Ma'am wants to waste her time on such rubbish and don't know her own good." Cook nodded and thumped her knuckles on the table, making the teacups rattle.

  "Mrs. Easley has come here?" Callie asked in surprise.

  "Twice!" Cook said indignantly. "Come asking to see Ma'am, and got herself in too!" She glared at Lilly.

  "Madame said she wanted to see her!" Lilly protested. "It's not my place to say she can't see anyone she likes, is it?"

  Callie shook her head. "Of course not. I'm sure the duchesse wanted to make certain that poor Mrs. Easley was—that her situation had not deteriorated after she was turned off."

  "'Poor Mrs. Easley,'" Cook mocked with a snort. "Her's top-heavy from the gin, that's all o' her situa tion a body needs to know."

  Callie could not argue this point. She nodded. "Well, I don't want her to worry the duchesse—if she comes again, you may turn her away."

  "But Madame said in particular that she was to be allowed to call," Lilly said plaintively.

  Callie frowned. "I see. If that's the case, I suppose we must allow it. I'm sure the duchesse feels some gratitude toward Mrs. Easley, in spite of her faults. She was the cook here for a good while, after all, before—" She cleared her throat. "Before Madame's circumstances were recently improved," she finished.

  "Too soft-hearted by half," Cook grumbled.

  "I perfectly comprehend you, Cook. And do make sure to count the silver whenever she leaves." Callie stood. "I'll go up now. You may bring us some tea and whatever you think Madame might be persuaded to partake."

  Cook nodded and heaved herself to her feet, turning briskly in spite of her bulk. Lilly dried her eyes and shook out her apron. She began to collect clean cups from the cupboard. Callie paused at the door and watched for a moment. A wave of gratitude came over her for these two humble and good-hearted people. While she had been cravenly putting off a call on the duchesse, for fear of what questions she might face, they had been taking care of their mistress with staunch loyalty. "Thank you," she said. "Madame is very fortunate to have you both."

  Lilly blushed and curtsied. Cook grunted an assent. "Her's not a bit o' trouble," she said. "Now that mad Frenchie son o' hers—" She shook her head and took a deep breath, preparing for what Callie could see would be a lengthy exposition on the topic of the duke.

  "I must go up," she said hastily and closed the door before Cook could get a start on her next sentence.

  It didn't take long for Callie to understand why Lilly had been reduced to tears. The duchesse was neither gloomy nor distressed; she sat up and smiled and conversed in her elegant, accented English, but she seemed spun fragile and slight as a thread of glass, as f leeting as a web that glistened in morning dew. She asked no questions about her son, but her bright, feverish glance followed Callie with an intensity that seemed to look right through her, as if in search of answers.

  They spoke of the cattle fair and Callie's knock on the head. Madame inquired as to Hubert's health and nodded in satisfaction when she learned that the bull was residing temporarily in his home pasture at Shelford Hall again while Colonel Davenport repaired his stone walls to Callie's strict specifications. That lesson, at least, had been learned.

  Callie wondered if Trev had found a way to see his mother before he left, but she was simply too craven to ask. Instead, to fill the time with safer topics, she asked if she might read to the duchesse, and picked up a periodical from a stack on the bedside table.

  "Please, if you will," Madame said faintly, smiling and closing her eyes. "Such a world beyond—our village. And such people it is. I am never at a loss to be amused."

  Callie nodded. She brushed her thumb through a copy of The Lady's Spectator, one of the more daring of the new journals that Dolly had brought to Shelford. Although it was much sought after in some quarters, several of the ladies of the village would not even allow it within their doors. Doubtless that was why Madame—languishing at the low end of village precedence—had a copy only a few months old at her bedside. It was a summer number, full of town gossip and moralizing in equal measure, warning ladies against the unwholesome activities of the bon ton while describing them in rich and titillating detail. Callie was suddenly glad that her appearance as Madame Malempré had occurred in such a backwater as Hereford, or she suspected that she would have found the entire escapade described in detail in the upcoming Christmas volume. The editors of The Lady's Spectator appeared to know a great deal about all manner of personal and public activities.

  She searched for something she could read aloud without blushing, and finally found an article on a finan cial scandal, in which the perpetrator had, according to the affronted editors, "sold out his own holdings in good time while keeping the true state of affairs from the public." When the stock company in question failed, this malefactor had f led to Naples, where he was now residing comfortably on the sixty thousand pounds he had previously settled on his wife, much to the fury and financial embarrassment of his creditors.

  The article editorialized at length on the shameful tendency of the justices to allow these villains of both sexes to impose upon society without fear of retribu tion. Callie added emphasis to her reading voice as the author summed up with high f lourishes of moral contempt. Then she paused. She frowned as she finished the article's last sentence, which compared this disgraceful situation to that of Mrs. Fowler's e
scape from a just penalty for her crime of forgery.

  "Oh," the duchesse said, opening her eyes suddenly. She lifted one slender hand. "Pray do not read me of this tiresome Mrs. Fowler. I have no interest in that… sordid affair."

  Callie found to her chagrin that she did. Prurient and low though it might be, she had a burning desire to discover more of the woman who protested her innocence in the public papers. And now, finding that Mrs. Fowler was apparently accused of forgery—Callie hardly seemed able to hold the journal steady. She riff led through the pages quickly, following the indication pointing to Further Articles Relating to the Trials of Mrs. Fowler and Monsieur LeBlanc, Page 24. Fortunately the designated page included a story about a well-known actress driving herself alone in Hyde Park, an uneventful progress, which was nevertheless endowed by the editors with broad hints of sinister meaning. Callie read it aloud, trying to examine the articles about Mrs. Fowler from the corner of her eye.

  They detailed the lady's history with the salacious enjoyment of a first-rate village gossip. The pretty daughter of a Yorkshire gentleman with both money and connections, Mrs. Fowler might have made a respectable match, but instead she had obliged The Lady's Spectator by running away with an impoverished poet at sixteen. After his early demise in a sponging house, she straight away wed a famous prizefighter— Mr. Jem "The Rooster" Fowler—and became the reigning toast of the Corinthian set, only to witness his death in the ring under suspicious circumstances. But it was the description of her companion Monsieur LeBlanc that made Callie stumble as she tried to read. He figured prominently in the latter part of the story, first as the friend, then as the lover, then as the secret spouse of Mrs. Fowler.

  He was French, but according to The Lady's Spectator, no one who knew him personally could hold that against him. The journal seemed to take a tolerant, even an admiring view of his activities. Monsieur LeBlanc was a member of the demimonde and the boxing fancy, a bookmaker and organizer of bouts, a close friend of Gentleman Jackson and the Rooster, and a man of impeccable character and noble manners. The journal saved its disdain for the hapless widow, Mrs. Fowler, who had been detected in the attempt to pass a forged note of hand in payment for her large debt at a dressmaker.

  Upon exposure, this unfortunate lady had at first seemed bewildered by the idea that anything could be amiss. Learning that the crime was subject to capital punishment, however, she had instantly insisted that her friend Monsieur LeBlanc had given her the note, which she had merely delivered in all innocence. At her trial, she had caused a sensation by revealing that he acted as trustee of the considerable public sum that had been collected to support her and her child after her husband's untimely death in the boxing ring. Upon examination, she tearfully suggested that Monsieur had gambled away her money and been reduced to forgery to hide it from her.

  Several affecting drawings of Mrs. Fowler accompa nied the description of her trial. She was shown in her prison cell, in the dock, and praying outside the court room with her young son, each time in a different gown. But however plausible and touching it might be, The Lady's Spectator did not swallow her story for an instant. There was no indication, upon the court's summoning of the account books, that Monsieur LeBlanc had mismanaged Mrs. Fowler's trust. Indeed, it appeared that when she had exhausted the stipend with her spending, he had given her a generous amount of money from his own funds as well.

  It was this last fact that riveted Callie's attention and caught that of the eager public too, it seemed. The discovery that he had been supporting Mrs. Fowler for some years prior to the scandal put a new light on their relationship. Witnesses spoke of how often he was in her company, how tenderly he treated her. While it had never been brought up at the trial itself, The Lady's Spectator confidently stated that they had married on the day after the Rooster's death and kept it secret so as not to offend the mood of public mourning for the famous boxer. Thus he made no defense at his own trial, taking the part of tragic honor and allowing himself to be convicted so that his lover might be declared innocent.

  Callie looked up, realizing that she had long since ceased to read aloud. She stared blankly at the bedpost. Her heart was beating wildly, but she sat very still.

  It was Trev, of course. She knew that with a certainty that went to her bones. He had not come home from France. He had been in England all along. All his huge menservants—they were prizefighters. He had been convicted of forgery, and it was precisely the sort of gallant thing he would do, sacrifice himself for a woman.

  For his wife.

  The duchesse said nothing. When Callie looked up at her, their eyes met for a long moment. Madame bit her lip and turned her face away with an unhappy look. It came upon Callie suddenly that she knew— that the guilt and sadness in Madame's face were because she knew.

  "Oh my," Callie said. She was numb, but she struggled to speak. "Oh."

  The duchesse reached toward her. "My dear, if I may—"

  "I'm sorry, I… I must go." She couldn't hold the magazine for another moment; she let it fall to the f loor as she stood and hurried to the door. "I really must go!" she exclaimed. She closed the door behind her, ran down the stairs, and f lew out the door, leaving Lilly standing with some unanswered query on her lips.

  Eighteen

  "I FEEL A DEEP LOVE AND ABIDING RESPECT FOR YOU, my dear," Major Sturgeon said. "You have made me the happiest man alive."

  "Congratulations," Callie remarked wryly, holding her bucket with both hands as she lugged it to the stove. "How pleased I am for you."

  He glanced up at her from his position on the requi site bended knee. He had worn his full dress uniform, all burnished and plumed, as he made his call in reply to her note that she had made up her mind in the matter. The Shelford yard and cattle stalls were quite clean, but he had paused and looked carefully at the ground before he lowered himself to put his question to her.

  "Oh dear," she added, seeing his expression as she set the bucket down. "That's someone else's line, isn't it? I've done this so often that I become confused."

  He had the grace to made a gesture of rueful admis sion. "You haven't been treated as you ought, dearest, and I am the first to blame for that."

  She gave him a faintly acid smile. "Only the first."

  He stood up, looking down for a moment and brushing at his knees. Then he took a step toward her and caught both of her hands in his. "I hope I can make you as happy as you have made me."

  She raised her lashes. "You might lift this bucket up onto the stove, in that case," she said.

  "Certainly!" He let go of her and reached down, hefting the bucket of mash and molasses onto the hot surface with a grunt. He stood back, brushing his palms together. "I beg your pardon, I ought to have done so instantly, but I was… distracted."

  "By your deep love and abiding respect." Callie took up the wooden paddle and began to stir the mix. "I understand completely." She peered down into the dark syrup. "I have one stipulation that I must mention."

  "Of course. Tell me anything that would please you."

  "I hope you won't object to a marriage of convenience."

  "Convenience?" He drew her away from the stove, taking her hand again lightly. "I'm not certain that I understand you."

  Heat rose in her cheeks. She held the paddle out over the pail to prevent molasses from dripping to the f loor. "I mean that I prefer not to interfere in your conduct. You may feel free to indulge—"

  "My dear!" He interrupted her, catching the paddle from her and dropping it into the mash. "We needn't speak of this sort of thing. I mean to make up fully for my past fault, of that I assure you. Tell me—where would you like to live? Somewhere that you may raise your cattle, I'm certain, and I've had my eye on the broads country round about Norwich. Have you seen it? What do you think of the forage there?"

  Callie pulled her fingers free. She looked down at her muck boots and then up again. "I believe you under stand me perfectly well. I do not wish to be touched."

  Surprise f
litted across his features, followed by a lightly concealed impatience. "Delicacy of feeling is perfectly understandable in a virtuous maiden such as yourself, of course. I hope that I can assuage your fears. I'm not an insensitive man."

  "It isn't delicacy of feeling," Callie said frankly. "It is you, sir. I do not wish to be touched by you. You may consider it a personal aversion, if you like. I well understand that you wish to marry me for my money. You must understand that I have purely practical motives to accept you. You may, of course, feel free to withdraw your suit if that offends you."

  He stared at her. "My lady—" He seemed unable to summon a reply. Callie had the notion that he actually noticed her for the first time and was not pleased with what he perceived. She turned to the pail and began to stir vigorously before the syrup could congeal.

  "You feel a personal aversion to me?" he asked, as if the very thought bewildered him.

  The notion that any female could hold him in aver sion appeared to be a supremely difficult concept for him to grasp. She let go of the spoon and turned. "I beg your pardon," she said with a slight curtsy. "I am known to have poor taste."