Lessons in French (24 page)

some faux pas that would draw Dolly's attention to her. She impressed her dinner

partner—some viscount or other—only with her silence. Amid the murmur of

conversation, the candles and glitter of silver and diamonds, she indulged herself in

imagining a dining
salle
in Paris, with the conversation all in French, and herself the

enchanting new bride of a duke—nameless, of course, but resembling Trev in every

particular. Somewhere in her fantasy all the guests mysteriously vanished and he drew

her up a gilded staircase to a bed that rather resembled the entire city of Byzantium,

kissing her hands and then—

"Lady Callista?" Her dinner partner was standing, waiting to pull out her chair.

Perforce, she took his arm and joined the guests in the drawing room.

Hermey had taken a place near the door with Sir Thomas, enjoying her time in the sun,

accepting felicitations from some of the new arrivals who had been invited for the music

after dinner. Callie had found her own brief betrothals and the attendant ceremonies to be

excruciating, but clearly Hermey loved it. She readily offered her cheeks to be kissed and

her gloved hands to be pressed. Her eyes sparkled when she looked toward the staid

figure of Sir Thomas. It was pleasing to see. Her sister's evident happiness put Callie in

such an expansive humor that she even exchanged a few words about the weather with

the viscount.

He answered courteously as he seated her on the small sofa in the corner, screened as

close behind one of the Corinthian columns as she could manage. His attention then

being engaged by a fellow hunting-man regarding the condition of the coverts in the

Cotswolds, and how it would affect the Beaufort pack, he forgot all about her. Callie

accepted a cup of lemonade from a footman and sat looking at her toes, still drifting in

her mind with Trev amid gilded towers and silken bedsheets, waiting for the first moment

she could excuse herself to go out and feed the orphan calf.

"But where is your handsome French beau,
le duc très bon
?" a female voice murmured

coyly. "Monceaux, was it? He didn't linger the other day. I had so hoped to have an

introduction to him."

Callie's head came up in startlement. But no one was speaking to her—it was a lady on

the other side of the column talking to Lady Shelford. Callie could just see the spangled

train of Dolly's gown lying across the fringe of the India carpet.

"Oh, he sent his regrets tonight," Dolly said, with a low laugh. "
How
he regrets! His

tiresome mother is ill."

"A dutiful son," the other voice said. And then, softer: "But that is so charming,
n'est-ce

pas
? No doubt an attentive lover too."

"He's French, is he not?" Lady Shelford murmured.

"Let us pray his dear mother recovers sufficiently that he can leave her side," her friend

said suggestively, "while I'm yet here at Shelford to offer him my sympathy."

"Indeed. But I fear I must claim precedence there, Fanny darling, as your hostess."

"No, it's too ungenerous of you!" The other woman had a smirk in her voice. "Didn't we

always share everything at school?"

They giggled quietly and moved away, leaving Callie staring at the foot of the column.

She was shocked, not least to find that Dolly must have sent him a card for the dinner.

She sat fixed to the sofa, hardly knowing where to look. Trev grinning at her over the

horns of a misplaced bull and the très bon Duc de Monceaux were two entirely different

persons, she realized. She came to that insight with great suddenness, on the heels of

recalling that she was wearing a plain stuff gown that Hermey had cheerfully declared to

be fit for a milkmaid, and her hair was unadorned except for a single ribbon in a shade of

puce that Lady Shelford detested. Callie had not, when she dressed for dinner, taken any

note of these opinions, because she intended to go out the barn later, but abruptly they

took on a dangerous significance.

She was a spinster dowd. That was no fresh news, but she had rather a habit of

forgetting it just recently, having been beguiled by the suggestion that her cheeks more

closely resembled strawberries than a pudding, and the matter of certain gentlemen

attempting to recover certain bulls on her behalf. But the knowledge was not something

that she could afford to disregard, even under the allure of her daydreams. She and Trev

were great friends, but he was indeed French. Flirtation and lovemaking were in his

blood. He would say such things as he said to Callie to any lady. And now Dolly and her

friend spoke of him in that horrid insinuating way, as if it were quite natural to suppose

that they could share his attentions if they pleased.

Callie stood up abruptly, making her way toward the door before the violinist had even

started to play. The room felt close and hot. Such a wave of resentment and despair had

possessed her that she nearly grew ill. She had to go out into the chilly air to escape from

this press of elegant strangers. She hurried down the stairs to the little vestibule on the

ground floor where her cloak and muck boots awaited her. No one paid her any mind,

though doubtless in the morning Lady Shelford would have some acid comment on her

ungraciously early departure. Callie would say she had felt unwell. It was no more than

the truth.

Major Sturgeon made his second and third calls without successfully cornering Callie

alone. As the days passed, she observed with mild interest the colors of the bruise on his

jaw fade from black and blue to green and purple. With each call he brought the latest

news from Colonel Davenport regarding the search for Hubert, recounting the lack of

success in grave tones. Poor Cousin Jasper was closely interested in this topic, asking

anxious questions and proposing several absurdly optimistic theories about where the bull

might have got off to—none of which would have comforted Callie in the least if she

hadn't already known Hubert was safe.

Hermey also lent her chaperonage to the major's visits, sitting primly beside Callie and

attempting to dislodge Cousin Jasper so that Callie could be left alone with her suitor.

Their cousin seemed oblivious to all hints, however, chatting with the major in that slow,

fretful way of his that always made Callie feel sorry for him. Major Sturgeon was

relentlessly courteous, but by his third call, she could see that he was losing patience.

"Will you take a turn in the shrubbery with me, Lady Callista?" he demanded. It was

phrased as an invitation, but clearly he was a man accustomed to giving orders.

She was to leave for Hereford at first light. Knowing that he could not continue to

pursue her after today, she submitted to the inevitable. She had spent long hours staring

into the dark canopy of her bed, considering her future. Of course she wasn't a beauty.

Anyone could see that. She was far past the age of matrimony. She had no wit or even

sensible conversation in company. She did possess a distinguished rank and pedigree, but

there had always seemed to be more than an adequate supply of earls' daughters to fill the

demand at Almack's, and she had been dismissed by the patronesses as a hopeless quiz

after her first season anyway. Her jiltings had confirmed their judgment: Callie was a

social outcast. The only thing that she possessed to attract a husband was her money.

She knew all that in her head, but since Trev had returned, he had confused her in her

heart. His sentiments appeared to vary from the romantic to the unfeeling; he said he was

going away, and yet he stayed. He mentioned in an offhand way that he might love her,

but neglected to expand upon the topic to any particular purpose. She'd found no sense in

it, but what she had overheard from Lady Shelford and her guest had brought Callie back

to cold reality.

Trev might be her dear friend, but truthfully, what could a man like the Duc de

Monceaux possibly want with her? He had regained his own fortune. He was titled. He

was rich. In spite of a penchant for devilry, he was perfectly fitted to the elevated

continental society for which he had been bred. She had seen enough of the bon ton to

know that. Callie at the head of a great French noble house? It was a preposterous idea.

She was unsuitable in every way. She wasn't French, she wasn't Catholic, she wasn't

young or gay or beautiful. She knew no better than to wear poppy orange with pink.

She imagined herself sitting against the wall in a Parisian salon the way she had sat in

Almack's, conspicuously gauche, while the fashionable gossips whispered behind their

fans and wondered what could have induced him to marry this unfortunate English thing.

They would conjecture how she had trapped him and invent unpleasant stories about her.

She knew well enough the sort of things people could say, having been jilted three times.

Some no doubt would feel sorry for her and murmur that he had married her out of pity, a

thought that made her feel wretched.

She allowed Major Sturgeon to escort her to the shrubbery. Hermey positively grabbed

Cousin Jasper by the arm, detaining him from following. Callie sat on a stone bench and

folded her hands, examining the polish on the major's boots as he took all the blame upon

himself for the breaking of their previous betrothal—as well he might, she thought

dryly— proclaimed that he was a reformed man, swore to devote the remainder of his life

to her welfare, and declared himself to be prostrate at her feet. He did not, thankfully,

claim to be in love with her. He seemed to have at least a smidgen of shame left to him.

She listened to his proposal in silence and then said that she must have a fortnight to

think about it.

Twelve

CALLIE LOVED AGRICULTURAL FAIRS. HER SITTING chamber at the Green

Dragon, the same one she and her papa had always used, directly overlooked the wide

street where all the stock would gather. They had spent many hours standing in this same

window and trying to guess what sort of calves were hidden inside Mr. Downie's

tarpaulin enclosure, or commenting on the suitability of some crossbred yearling ox for

plowing. The earl would lean out the window and salute his friends, calling down to

invite them inside to share a breakfast.

There was no standing off or holding oneself up stiffly above the others. Humble

Farmer Lewis would bring a jug of his best perry made from the celebrated black pears of

Worcester, touch his forelock respect fully, and be welcomed to sit down to the table with

the earl and everyone else. Callie always kept a place on the little sofa near the window,

taking effervescent sips of pear cider and listening to the talk of sheep and orchards. She

enjoyed the familiar whiff of soap scrubbed skin and tobacco, the earnest mixture of best

Sunday clothes and work-toughened hands. There was always a sense of gay excitement,

especially on the first day as the animals arrived, much hearty laughter and dreams of

silver cups and prizes. Everyone felt as if anything could happen.

She stood by the sitting room window now, the room silent and empty behind her. It

was very hard not to cry. She saw Mr. Downie go by in the street below, but she felt too

shy to wave or call out, and there was no need, for she couldn't host a breakfast as her

father had—it would seem a very strange thing for a spinster lady to invite a group of

gentlemen and farmers to her rooms.

She had felt conspicuous enough arriving alone at the Green Dragon with only Lilly in

her company, but the innkeeper knew her well and made her comfort able, kindly sending

Farmer Lewis's offering of a jug up to her room. She wrote the good farmer a note of

thanks, with a mention of how her father had always especially enjoyed to drink the

product of his orchards, and wished him the best of luck with his entries this year. She

sent it down with the boot boy. Then she did weep, just a little.

Her own stock was not to arrive until this evening, moving at a careful, steady pace

along the back lanes the fourteen miles from Shelford. She herself had embarked much

earlier than usual. The brief note Trev had left for her in the medicine chest had not been

very informative, instructing her only to arrive at the Green Dragon as early as she could,

and send Lilly out to the shops directly.

A great deal of shouting erupted below her as some crated pigs and geese had to be

moved in order to accommodate the passing of a large closed van drawn by a pair of

oxen. Callie recognized one of the Agricultural Society officers, Mr. Price, trying to settle

a dispute over how wide the lane for traffic must be kept. He made a valiant effort, but

after the van had lumbered through, the space narrowed rapidly behind it again.

She watched the vehicle creak to a halt across the street, just past her window, waved

into place by two very large and daunting men in powdered wigs and matching green

coats that stretched taut over their broad shoulders. Even before the doors were opened,

they set about erecting the pen and tarpaulins to hide their entry. Callie bit her lip, her

heart beating faster. She had never seen any cattle brought in a van before, though crates

of the smaller stock often arrived on drays. But while the patient oxen stood waiting, the