This was so reasonable that it merely fed her displeasure. "You also never said you weren't!"
"At what point did the topic enter into our conver sation?" he inquired.
"And that is another thing!" she expostulated. "Previous to this, sir, your conversation has been singularly uninformative regarding anything of any consequence whatsoever."
"I beg your pardon, Madame," he said, thrusting himself away from the mantel. "In that case I'll endeavor to confine myself to subjects of more worth and significance than my admiration for you."
She was cast into confusion by that, but recovered and began to pace the carpet again. "Indeed, it's been an excellent diversion, all this making up to me. I collect it was your intention to keep me wholly in the dark about everything!"
"Well of course," he said. "I always tell women I'm in love with them in order to produce mystification and baff lement. What other reason could I possibly have?"
"I can comprehend that you didn't wish to reveal these things to your mother, about making money off of boxing matches, and not truly owning Monceaux, and nearly being hung—but you might have told me and saved us a good deal of trial and tribulation."
"I didn't want you to know," he said curtly.
"What's more," she added, "you talk a great deal of how you admire and… and… whatever it is that you say—"
"That I love you?" he interrupted.
"Well, that. Yes, you seem to say that." She became f lustered. "You have said that, several times. And that you would like to murder Major Sturgeon, and that sort of thing, which of course is quite nonsensical, and perhaps it is all nonsense." Callie stopped her pacing. She looked over at him where he stood beside the fire place. The hard expression had returned to his face.
"I think it is all nonsense, because it is only words," she ventured. She wet her lips and then blurted out: "Like your letters, and everything you've said before. Words, with nothing behind them."
She glanced toward him under her lashes. White lines had appeared at the corners of his mouth. For a long moment they stood in silence, but her heart was beating so hard that it seemed to fill her ears. She had never seen him look so forbidding.
"Because if…" she said, summoning all her nerve, "if you aren't already married, then…" She broke off, realizing with horror that she was as near as was prac tical to demanding that he propose to her instead. Her courage failed her, overcome by a miserable wave of shyness. "Of course I understand now," she continued hurriedly, trying to appear as if she had meant nothing of the sort, "your circumstances are—with what you've told me, it's quite plain—you have abundant reason for not seeking matrimony with any respectable lady."
"Any respectable lady such as yourself?" he asked in a smothered voice.
"Myself!" she said with a dismissive f lurry of her hands. Three gentlemen had assured Callie that they loved her, and then reexamined their characters and belatedly determined that they were not worthy of taking so bold a step as to actually escort her to the altar. He was going to say he wasn't worthy to marry her. She could feel it coming. "Oh no. I wasn't speaking of myself, of course. You wouldn't be offering for me!" She gave an unconvincing laugh. "I'm betrothed, am I not? I didn't mean that at all. I merely meant—some chance respectable lady."
He examined the coals in the fireplace. Callie examined the hem of her skirt.
"In fact," he said slowly, "you are correct. It was all nonsense. Merely words, with nothing behind them."
Since she had entered into the room, Callie's emotions had spun from fury and shame to astonish ment—and then a feeling that she could hardly put a name to, something rather like a fragile joy, but half-disbelieved, too tentative and tender to fully show itself. At these words, it snapped back into hiding like a frightened turtle.
"To be frank," he went on grimly, "I never wanted to see you again. I assumed you were married and long moved away from here. If I'd known you were in Shelford, I'd never have come back at all."
"Would you not?" she asked lightly, assuming a defensive shell of hauteur against the shock of this attack. "Perhaps, after all, that would have been best."
"Certainly it would." He plucked her scarf from the f loor and tossed it on her dressing table. "In point of fact, I don't care to be your lover." His voice gained strength. "I didn't want to tell you anything at all about what my life has been. Not a goddamned thing! Here you are in this quaint little village, a respectable lady with your fortune and your cattle, where you're safe and comfortable, where a goat up a tree is the about the greatest threat to anybody's peace of mind. If there's one thing that's certain, it's that I don't belong in this pretty scene—as your father made perfectly clear years ago. When I saw you in that ballroom, I should have turned on my heel and walked out. And that, as you suggest, would have saved us all a great deal of trial and tribulation."
"Of course!" She was forced to agree immediately, and indeed to raise the stakes. "I'm sure that would have been the best for all of us!" she exclaimed in an unsteady voice. "Except for your mother, and if you did her a great deal of good at first, I believe with these Runners and constables besetting her, you may be the death of her yet!"
The instant she spoke, she wished the words back. She lifted her hand quickly, but he was already turning away.
"I'll remedy that at once," he snapped. "I bid you adieu, my lady. Accept my felicitations on your marriage." He threw open the shutters and the sash. It had come on to rain heavily again, and a gust of cold air blew her scarf from the table.
"Wait!" she said hastily. "Of course, I didn't mean—please wait. Oh, please wait!"
He paused with his hand on the sash, the wind blowing past him, tousling his hair. "What is it? Quickly, before I'm seen here in broad daylight."
A tumble of words fought to reach her tongue, but all she could manage to utter was, "Where are you going?"
"Where I've always been going." He swung his legs fully over the windowsill and ducked out. "To the devil."
Twenty-Two
THE DOWNPOUR HELD ONE ADVANTAGE, WHICH WAS that the Bow Street Runner apparently didn't care to stand outside in it and watch Dove House. Trev actually entered by the front door, a rare treat in his life lately. He had to shake off his coat, strip to his shirtsleeves in the entryway, and towel his hair dry with a cloth brought by Lilly, before he could step into the dining room. His mother seemed to have gained enough strength to sit up and have her breakfast there.
She glanced up at him from a newspaper spread out on the table. "Lilly, bring the fresh coffee. And then you must—" She caught her breath on a light cough. "You must do a guard at the kitchen door."
"Yes, ma'am." Lilly curtsied and gave Trev a pert glance, ogling him in his shirtsleeves as she left the room.
He pulled out a chair. "You frighten me, ma mère. I hope this doesn't mean Cook is entertaining the constable again."
"No, this time it is the Runner," she said, taking a sip from her cup.
"Excellent," he said. "A redoubtable woman."
"But why are you here, mon enfant?" She coughed again, covering her lips with a lacy handkerchief.
"Where is Nurse?" he countered. "Should you be cavorting out of bed in this frivolous manner?"
"I have made Nurse an errand, to walk very far in the rain."
"Making a nuisance of herself, is she?"
"She is a good woman, but she troubles… me very much, that I must be bled, which I do not wish."
"Never mind her, then. But you look well, Maman. You look well." He gazed down at one of the heavy old knives of sterling, running his finger over the ornate coronet engraved above the f lowing initial M. "Je t'aime, ma mère," he said to the tablecloth. "I must leave England."
He heard her give another small cough, but he didn't look up. Lilly scratched at the door. Trev gave a gruff assent, and the maid entered. She poured his coffee, set the pot down, and retreated.
"Voyons, it is just as good that you go, then, eh?" his mother said, when Lilly h
ad closed the door behind her. There was a hint of anger in her thin voice. "What need do we… have with you here?"
He took a deep drink of coffee, not caring that it burned him. "C'est à chier, non?" he said, closing his eyes brief ly.
"Oh my son!" She reached across and caught his hand. "I am sorry! It was a sting of the moment only. Forgive me! Forgive me."
He pressed her fingers. "You've nothing to forgive. Not you." He let her go, still not meeting her eyes. He rolled the sterling knife over, watching the dull light gleam on ancient silver. "But let us for once be frank with one another. How much do you know, Maman?"
She drew a shuddering breath. He looked at her sidelong.
"Very much, I think," she admitted, "that I deduce, but do not know."
He waited, spinning the knife with his fingertip.
"Monceaux is gone, is it not?" she asked quietly.
The sadness in her voice was like a mortal wound to him. "It is a pig farm," he said, his lip curling a little. "Except for the vineyards. They've been honored by Jacobins and royalists alike. A mistress of the duc de Berri now enjoys possession, I believe."
A steady tap of rain beat on the old glass panes. He watched the watery f low of green and brown and gray outside. His mother did not speak.
"I could not bring myself to tell you," he said. He leaned on his elbows and rubbed his hands over his face. "I could not."
She said, "I have only one regret for it. That you never saw it as it was. What belonged to you."
"It never belonged to me. It was yours, and my father's and grandfather's. I wanted it for you. For you and Hélène and Aimée. I wanted you to dance again at Monceaux, those dances that you used to teach us." He shook his head. "It was never mine. It's why Grand-père hated me, because my heart was born between. I was happy here; I loved to come home from school and be with you in this shabby old house. And Callie—my God—" He laughed. "What would he have done to me if he'd known? I don't know where I belong, Maman. But I wanted—ah, I wanted to come back and hand you a golden key, and make it all right again."
"And so you could not come back at all, which makes me hate Monceaux now."
He shrugged. "I should have come. At least after—" He broke off.
"After you fought for Bonaparte?" she asked wisely. "No, not then. Your grand-père would have killed you for certain if he had discovered it. Or you would have made a duel, which would be very shocking—here in such a petit place as… Shelford."
He frowned at her. "You know of that? How?"
She hid her face behind her handkerchief for a moment to cough and then lowered it elegantly. "Your English friend. The officer. Hixson? He came to call on me, to assure me that you were safe."
"Geordie Hixson?" Trev was astonished. "That was damned handsome of him."
"Yes, he said that he was making… calls on the families of his men while he was on leave. He said that you were captured but allowed to go about freely on your honor as a gentleman." She caught her breath. "It was a great comfort to me. But I did not mention it—to your grand-père—of course."
Trev was left without words for a moment. Then he only said: "You see? We were in school together. That's what makes me love the English."
"They are a most stout people," she agreed. "Very kind friends. But you have been a good friend also, I think? To the Chicken?"
He regarded her with unwilling amusement. "The Rooster." He took the coffeepot from her shaky hand and poured for her. "So I find, after all my toil and trouble, that I have no secrets from you at all?" he asked ironically.
She gave him an apologetic glance. "The ladies of Shelford are so liberal as to bring the monthlies to me—they are a little out-of-date, but I find them—très piquant. I cannot always be—reading my prayer book, you know."
"The ladies of Shelford appear to be preoccupied beyond reason with the scandal papers."
"Of course," she said, lifting her cup by its double handles and looking at him over the rim. "Particularly when young Frenchmen of a certain description appear prominently in the pages."
He ran his hand through his damp hair. "You understand my situation, then."
"In truth, mon trésor, I am not certain that I do." She set down her cup. "You tell me you must leave the country? I thought you safe to remain concealed at Shelford Hall?"
"Safe?" he echoed sarcastically. "Shelford Hall is presently host to the Home Secretary himself, along with some uncounted number of his minions." At her questioning expression, he added, "He's minister in charge over such fellows as Cook's been taken to entertaining in her kitchen lately. Constables and Bow Street Runners and the like."
She did not appear to be alarmed. "But I do not think his bunions expect you to be there. As they might expect to discover you here, for instance, though I am happy for you to call brief ly."
"'Minions,' Maman. But that's not the worst."
She gazed at him with wide eyes. "What is worst?"
His mouth f lattened. "Mrs. Fowler," he said. "The devil only knows how she's found me. But she presented herself at the Hall and managed to get herself a word with Lady Callista."
His mother straightened a spoon and fork on the well-worn linen cloth. "Mon dieu," she said mildly.
"Mon dieu, indeed." He shoved away from the table, causing the cups to rattle as he stood. "Callie taxed me with having wed the woman, thanks to what she read in some scandal rag. She even had a plan for us to meet at the masquerade tonight."
"Oh, the poor child. Breaking her heart."
"Hah. She near pushed me out the window," he informed her. "'The poor child.'"
His mother sat up a little. "She was angry with you?"
"Yes."
"But you explained to her, of course? That you are not such a fool as to be in love as the magazines say? With a woman such as that. I brought you up to know better."
"I explained to her," he said shortly.
She put a spoon in her empty cup and stirred as if there were coffee there. "And now you must go away, you tell me?" Her voice broke upward. She dropped the spoon and took up her handkerchief to her mouth.
"Yes."
"What did you say to her?" The question was more like an exclamation. She balled the handkerchief in her fingers.
"I told her the truth."
"Oh, you must have made a great spoil of it all! She did not accept it?"
"She accepted it well enough, Maman," he said, as gently as he could. "And still I must go away."
His mother stood up, leaning on the table. She was trembling, but she managed to say, "What have you done to her?"
"It's what I will not do to her."
"And what is that? You do not offer a… a carte blanche… not to such a lady. You would ask her to wed you."
"Ma mère, I'm afraid to ask. I'm afraid she would say yes."
She stared at him. "But of course yes. And why not?"
"Because she would go with me!" He paced across the small room. "You know that she would; she is a little heroine: she is all heart. She's never refused me any mad thing I asked, never once. And I want her—my God, I want her with me. But I will not. I will not ask her to live as I do. I was wrong to linger here, wrong to speak to her at all." He closed his eyes. "What I've said, what I've done—knowing that I had no right!" He shook his head helplessly. "You don't know this life, Maman, and neither does she. It would be exile for her, from everything she holds dear."
"And so?" his mother demanded. "Do you think I do not know exile?"
He stopped and looked around at her.
"Trevelyan," she said, more quietly. "I will tell you something, mon ange. It is you who condemn her to exile."
He gazed at her. Then he looked away blindly.
She lowered herself to the chair again. "What will the life be with this officer who cares only for her money?"
"She says they're growing to love one another."
His mother gave him a look of scorn. "You will let another man take her from you?" she as
ked provocatively.
"I'm not fit for her," he said, scowling at the fading gilt on a pier mirror that was older than he was.
"Chut! Your grand-père will strike us with light ning bolts! The duc de Monceaux, twenty generations in Bourgogne, and to say you are not worthy of some English girl."
He gave a reluctant laugh at her exact imitation of his grandfather's frosty tone. "How many times have I heard that? Twenty generations in Bourgogne."
"At the measured pace you are proceeding, mon fils, I will not live to see twenty one, not any place at all."
He gave her a speaking look. "I'm not quite past that point, ma'am," he said dryly. "But if you mean to talk in this shockingly forward manner to a gentleman of my advanced years, while sitting up in your morning negligee, then you'll find yourself swept off your feet and carried directly to your sickbed."
Lessons in French Page 35
