Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  "Bien," she said with a sigh. "You may carry me, so that Nurse will not scold, but do not disturb the Runner with a great noise on the stairs."

  "I doubt a full cannonade would disturb him," Trev said and gave his hand to help his mother from her chair. "But what's this, Mademoiselle?" As she stood up, he noticed a pair of billowy yellow trousers that had been lying folded over the chair back. "Have you been cheating on me?"

  "Never!" she declared, placing her arms lightly about his neck as he lifted her. "It is most mysterious. Nurse found them hung over a rafter in the attic, and we have no notion how they arrived. I meant to have Lilly put them in the rag bag."

  "The rag bag! I'll have you know those cossacks cost thirty guineas."

  Her fingers tightened as he mounted the stairs. "Assure me that they can't be yours, my son."

  "Hmmm," he murmured. "I may have to discover if they fit me now."

  "S'il te plaît!" she begged. "Spare my frail health."

  Callie tried to make a daydream for herself. It was what she always did when she could not quite bear what was real. She was, as most of those who knew her had informed her with some exasperation at one time or another, quite capable of becoming so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear any words spoken to her. But this time she could find no way to lose herself in any reverie—or delusion, as they all seemed.

  So she heard her sister clearly when Hermey came to her door, but she didn't rise from her place on the window seat in answer to the knock.

  "At least the sky has cleared," Hermey was saying to Anne as she came in without waiting for a reply. "The mud will be horrid, but—" She stopped on the threshold, a vision in pink in her costume of Venus rising from the waves, a necklace of seashells about her throat and a foam of sparkling net and lace at her hem. "My dear sister," she said with gay reproof, "it's nearly half past six—haven't you begun to dress?"

  Callie bit her lip and shook her head. "Not yet."

  "Callie!" Hermey came forward. "What is it? Do you feel quite well?"

  "Oh yes." She summoned a smile. "I'm all right."

  Hermey reached for the bell pull. "We'll have something to eat. The Lady's Spectator strongly advises that one should always eat before a ball and take a short nap. Come and sit down, I've brought some plumes to try in your hair."

  In numb obedience Callie sat before the mirror and turned her head from side to side as Hermey held up the feathers. She ate the slices of buttered bread and drank some wine without protest. She allowed Anne and her sister to dress her in the costume that the maid had created by cutting up two of Hermey's overgowns, then swath her with spangles and the blue and green gauze. Below a shortened hem, her ankles were covered by a pair of puffy silken panta loons drawn up with ribbons, and Hermey had tied tiny bells to her slippers.

  It was only when her sister, reaching for some pins, instead accidentally swept a folded note out of a dish on her dressing table, that Callie awakened from her deadened state and made a sudden move. "That's nothing," she said quickly. "I'll take it." She held out her hand for the oddly shaped paper.

  Hermey had been about to toss the note aside, but she paused then, a teasing expression on her lips. "What is it? Are you keeping secrets?"

  "No," Callie said, with too much emphasis.

  Hermey giggled. "Well, it's a night for secrets, is it not? A masquerade." She held the note just out of Callie's reach. "Is it from the major?"

  "No, it is not," she retorted, realizing that she had made a grave tactical error by drawing any attention to the paper at all. She turned back to the mirror. "This plume is drooping," she said, pulling it out of the turban Anne had wrapped about her hair. "I look like Mrs. Farr's cockatoo after a disorderly night on the town."

  Hermey made as if to unfold the note, and Callie grabbed for it. She managed to seize it from her sister's hand, but then there was no escape. She felt herself blushing fiercely as Hermey and Anne both stared at her.

  "I heard a whisper about something," Hermey said with a smirk.

  Callie felt her heart go to her feet. She glanced at Anne, saw the maid bite her lower lip, and suddenly knew that the servants had been talking. Her mouth went dry. She gripped the note in her hand and turned away.

  "Callie?" The bantering tone left her sister's voice, replaced by wonder, as if before she had only been teasing but now she saw more than she had expected in Callie's reaction.

  "I'd like to take my nap now," Callie said.

  "You can't lie down now that you're dressed," Hermey pointed out, "or you will look like a demented parrot. You should have rested earlier. What have you been doing in here all afternoon?" she demanded.

  "Merely watching the rain and reading a little." Callie plucked all the feathers from her headdress. "I'll come to your room in a little while, and you can put them in again. I only want to doze for a few minutes first, to refresh myself."

  Hermey looked at her and then at Anne. The maid cast down her eyes and stood with the dumb and blind expression that Lady Shelford encouraged in her servants. "All right," she said, favoring Callie with another speculative glance. "You may read your love letter in peace. I'll send for you at quarter to eight. That should give us time."

  Callie waited until they had both gone out. She waited for some little time longer, just to be sure Hermey would not find some excuse to come back. Then she opened her fist and looked down at the note in it.

  She had meant to tear it up. Almost, as she fingered the thick seal of wax, she did so. She hadn't sent any ticket for the masquerade to the Antlers, of course. If Mrs. Fowler wished to find him, she would have to chase after him herself. On a broomstick.

  The thickly folded note lay in her palm. He'd said so many things to her, one lie upon the other, that it could hardly matter what more the infamous Mrs. Fowler might have to add to the whole sordid story now. Callie had a masquerade to attend, and never had the notion of hiding behind a mask seemed more appealing. She would have preferred to spend the evening in a cowshed, but there was small of chance of her being allowed to do that. She made a gesture, tossing the note toward the grate, but her fingers closed on it before it left her palm.

  Instead, she broke the seal. Almost without her conscious approval, she found her fingers pressing the paper half open, as if she wished to worry at a wound and could not help herself. The writing was thin and f lorid—a thought crossed her mind that it was nothing like Trev's concise, elegant strokes; a piece of evidence that one might have supposed a jury would have noticed, but perhaps they were twelve good men and blind instead of true.

  She tilted her head. At first glance she was unable to make out the opening line, but then she realized that the letters spelled out "M. Tib L.B.," rather than what she had thought at first: a very contorted rendering of Trevelyan.

  Monsieur Thibaut LeBlanc, of course. Callie had disliked the name immensely from the first time she had seen it printed on the pages of The Lady's Spectator. Morbid curiosity prompted her to spread the sheet full open, some dark desire to disgust herself as thoroughly as possible. The first sentence provided a promising start to this endeavor.

  You will surely Suppose me to be the Most Madcap of the Female race, and I know you Think me so, but dear M. L.B., I dare to Plead for your Aid.

  Callie made a face. She held the note with the tips of her fingers, as if it might stain her skin, and read down the page.

  Once before out of the Loyalty and Friendship which you bore So Nobly for my Late and Dearest Husband, you put Yourself at Great and indeed Mortal Peril for that which you Did Not Do. I depend on You then, that You will Not let that Sacrifice be in Vain, not on My Behalf, but in the Sacred Memory of Mr. Jem Fowler and to Protect his Innocent Child. I am in a Desperate way to Remove from England. I will tell you the Truth, that you may understand the Extreme Gravity of my Present Situation—I uttered a Second note, and it has now been Discovered. I will not attempt to justify my actions to you of all People. I was Imprudent, that I will Acknowledge. Jem w
ould Forgive me, and I Beg that you will also and Help Me and my Blessed Child to Depart from England and reach Safety. E.F.

  "Imprudent!" Callie whispered, opening her eyes wide. She stared at the swirling signature. She blinked and read the missive again. It still said the same things that it had said before. "Dear God."

  It was a confession. It was not meant it to be so, of course. Trev had said she was a silly woman—she struck Callie as something very near to a raving imbe cile to have written this and handed it to a stranger.

  Callie sat slowly, her knees buckling under her. She frowned down at the letter in her hands for a very long time. Once she started up from her chair, thinking to ring the bell and send to Dove House, and then sank down again without touching the pull. When she finally did send for a footman, it was to dispatch two messages—one, by word of mouth—to the Antlers, and the other, by a quickly written card, to Hermey's fiancé, Sir Thomas.

  Finally Anne's discreet scratch came at the door, summoning her to have her feathers inserted. Callie folded the note carefully and slipped it into her bodice under the layers of gauze.

  It had been Hermey's dashing idea to hold a masquerade, one taken up by Dolly with considerable enthusiasm. Callie had been too preoccupied with the circumstances of secretly entertaining a gentleman in her bedroom to pay much mind to the preparations, so that even though Hermey had regaled her with reports of the progress, she was astonished when she saw the transformation. The ballroom at Shelford Hall, which had not seen any large parties in Callie's lifetime, was fitted up as an enormous tent, canopied and draped with swags that alternated green and white with pink and lilac and yellow—all festooned with multicolored fringes and tassels. Under the radiance of the great crystal chandelier, with the music and the mixing of masked and costumed guests, the effect was dizzying.

  As it was a masquerade, a dinner and reception would be quite silly, Hermey had declared, for how ridiculous would they appear standing in their masks and greeting guests they weren't supposed to recognize when they had just sat next to them at table? Dolly, in an unusually obliging temper, had agreed to substitute an unmasking at the midnight supper.

  Callie entered arm in arm with her sister, but soon lost Venus to the music of a country dance. She seated herself on the row of chairs against the wall, but she was not left alone for long: an Egyptian Mamluk—Major Sturgeon in his regimentals and a turban—found her almost immediately. This was no great feat of detection. Among the several sultanas present, Callie was the only one with red hair and one plume that was determined to keep drooping down over her nose in spite of Hermey pausing to straighten it several times.

  The major was in an amorous mood. He bent over her fingers, looking quite imposing in his black mask and clean-shaven jaw. "An exotic!" he murmured. "Will you dance with me, lovely odalisque?"

  She accepted, reckoning it best to humor him now, as she would be otherwise occupied in a short time. Besides, she found that wearing a mask went a great way toward making one feel less shy in public. There was something to be said for the protocol of ostriches. She entered the dance for once without being too nervous to enjoy it.

  He returned her a little breathless after two sets, with her plume askew and the gauze drifting loose from several places that she could see through the mask and several more that she suspected from the attention that her Mamluk seemed to give her bodice. She put her hand up to check the safety of the note, and his eyes behind the black silk followed her motion. He grinned and bent to her ear.

  "My God, my lady—do you wish to slay me?"

  She did wish to be rid of him, but not quite that permanently. "I must go straighten my… my plume," she said. "If you will excuse me."

  "You look charmingly just as you are," he said, giving her elbow a squeeze.

  "Thank you," Callie said. She caught a glimpse of Sir Thomas taking Hermey toward the stairs. "But there, my sister is going down too. I must speak to her. If you will bring me a lemonade when I return, I would be much obliged." Without waiting for a reply, she deserted her fiancé as rapidly as the crowd would allow.

  She hurried down the stairs and found Sir Thomas lingering outside the room set aside for the ladies to repair their toilettes. Instead of joining Hermey, she went to Sir Thomas and put her arm through his, walking with determination down the spine passage to the servants' stairs. He allowed her to lead him, though she could see that he was rather ruff led.

  "In here." Callie took him through a door into the dark recesses of the boiler room.

  "My lady," he said in a whisper, "this is quite irregular. What is it?"

  "Can you bring Lord Sidmouth to me?" she asked, pushing the plume back over her head. "It's a matter of the utmost importance. A terrible miscarriage of justice has been done, and I believe he should be informed."

  "So your note said, or I shouldn't be standing here in a coal cellar! I'm sure I'm pleased to do whatever I may for Lady Hermione's sister, but what can you mean? What miscarriage?"

  "Regarding Monsieur LeBlanc and that forgery," she said urgently. "I have a confession from Mrs. Fowler."

  Even in the dark, she felt him stiffen. "The deuce you say. Pardon me—but… a confession? How is this? She was here today, Lady Hermione told me. She made you a confession of guilt?"

  "Yes! Well, no. Not precisely. She wrote it down."

  "Wrote it down!" he exclaimed.

  Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness and the dim red gleam of the boiler. "I have it here. And she's coming back to Shelford Hall tonight. Can you ask Lord Sidmouth to meet me?"

  He was silent. Callie watched him. She would have to try to accost the secretary herself if he would not aid her, but she was sure the minister would give one of his own assistants a more serious ear.

  "She's passed a forged note again," Callie added ruthlessly. "And doubtless will continue, if she isn't stopped." It was unfeeling, perhaps—even wicked— to reveal Mrs. Fowler and put her in danger of the noose, but she had served Trev the same turn without apparent remorse. Callie had thought long on the issue. She hardly knew if Trev would thank her—he might think it rendered what he had done pointless, and there was this child somewhere in the north, his friend's son—but in the end Trev was gone and Callie was adamant. It was for the duchesse, if nothing else.

  "You have evidence of that?" Sir Thomas asked sharply.

  "Yes, she wrote of it. And the second note has been discovered. She's attempting to find a way to leave the country; that's why she's here."

  That was enough. He made a sound of assent. "I'll speak to the secretary."

  "Do so directly," she urged. "And bring him here at quarter past eleven."

  Callie's message to Mrs. Fowler had warned her that on no account must she come to the porter at the front facade, but to enter by the laundry court. She would have no trouble locating this, for Callie had instructed the same footman to return to the Antlers with a sedan chair and escort her to the Hall at the appointed time. Under a full moon and racing clouds, a pair of hefty retainers trotted up to the rear of Shelford Hall bearing the chair. A figure swathed in a dark domino emerged and stepped daintily to the washroom door.

  Callie met her, still masked, feeling much as if she ought to have thirty pieces of silver jangling in her pockets when Mrs. Fowler thanked her with such a pretty profusion. But then she thought of the note and stiffened her resolve. The one forgery—that might have been excused as a naïve mistake—but when she uttered the second counterfeit note, she had known full well how heavy the consequences were. And then she came to Trev again as her savior from her own folly!

  Callie had provided a blank card and writing materials on the big ironing table in the dry laundry. "I couldn't find an extra ticket," she said, drawing a closed lantern near. "But this is out of the card stock from Lady Shelford's desk." She set the lantern on the table and shone light on the paper. "Here is ink. Write it as: 'The Pleasure of your company is requested at a Masked Ball'—and you must make a capital of P and M
—yes, just so." Callie had noted the peculiar and unique manner in which Mrs. Fowler inscribed these letters. The original invitations had been engraved, and Callie had been ready to explain that these had run out and the latter ones written by hand, but in the event Mrs. Fowler didn't question writing her own ticket. She did it so readily that Callie thought perhaps she had some experience of the practice.

  "Where am I to meet him?" Mrs. Fowler asked, looking up from the table. She had procured a half mask on a stick; she picked it up with the card and turned to Callie.

  "He's waiting for you," she said. "He says that you must be ready to f ly on the instant."

  "Oh, I am ready!" she exclaimed. "I can go tonight if I must."

  "What of your son?" Callie asked, the point on which she was most uneasy with this snare.