Lessons in French (32 page)

appeared to feel.

She had a gloomy vision of becoming betrothed to him now, in this moment of crisis,

and then in a month or two receiving one of those polite, reserved letters in which he

expressed his deep regret at breaking off their engagement because he found he was

unable to make her a praiseworthy husband. Her jilts would be a nice round number: a

wretched prospect.

Or worse, far worse, a thousand times worse—for him to wed her because he felt he

must, and then to be sitting some evening in some drawing room, listening to the

whispers, to overhear that he was seeing Lady So-and-So, or Madame Vis-à-Vis, or

whatever reigning beauty it might be, and how mortifying for his dreary little mouse of a

wife, poor thing!

"Well!" she said quickly, turning and walking to the table, where she started to pick up

the teapot and then put it down when the exasperating lid
would
rattle under her

trembling hands. "It is most kind of you, but I find that I cannot accept. I hope… I hope

that we may remain friends."

He inclined his head coolly. "Of course. We will certainly remain friends."

She knew in that moment that she had been right to refuse him. He didn't wish to marry

her. A tiny remaining hope that he might dispute her decision died a final death. She

poured tea in spite of the fact that she spilled several drops into the saucer.

"I suppose," he remarked, still in that dispassionate voice, "since you find you cannot

accept me, we must pray that no natural consequences will result from my mistake."

Callie felt herself grow cold, her blood seeming to recede from her head to her feet. It

was a "mistake" now. She sat down abruptly, feeling light-headed. "No," she whispered.

"I don't think that likely."

The chamber was so quiet that she could hear a horse's hooves ring distantly against the

cobbles in the stable yard.

"At my age, you know," she added, to fill the silence, fumbling among the cups and

spoons. "I'm not a girl any longer. It's very unlikely. Would you be so good as to ring for

the chambermaid? And arrange some way that I may go out as myself? I must see how

my cattle go on in this weather."

He gave her a long, smoldering look. Then he bowed and left the room.

It took all of Callie's courage to show herself in Broad Street. She was certain anyone

could see that she had been walking abroad there the day before, dressed in a gentian blue

hat and veil and speaking French. But when she appeared as herself, there were only

welcoming grins and brusque farmers' greetings, the familiar faces of her drover and his

boys—no one accosted her with accusations or stopped in the street and pointed with

scandalized horror at the woman who had slept in Monsieur Malempré's bed last night.

In fact she found herself quickly drawn into her own life, regaled with all the small

incidents of moving the livestock to town, leaning down to check the knees of a calf that

had stumbled and to see that sufficient ointment had been applied. With her warmest

cloak and hood wrapped close about her, she accepted a cup of hot cider from Farmer

Lewis. Lilly distributed mincemeat pies from a basket—the traditional hospitality at the

Shelford pens. Callie could almost have forgot that there was anything amiss about this

cattle show, but that her father wasn't there and all the talk was of Hubert and the

Malempré bull, and she could still feel the physical consequence of what she and Trev

had done in faint tingles and strange sensations that made her blink and blush. But her

cheeks were already as pink as they could be from the cold, and no one seemed to notice

anything different about her at all.

"I don't believe it," she said, dutifully giving her opinion of the challenge to Mr.

Downie when he stopped to chat. She spoke softly, because she wasn't very good at

prevarication, and somehow it seemed as if keeping her voice low might make her sound

more believable. "I can't credit that this Belgian animal would be larger than Hubert."

"Certainly not," Mr. Downie said indignantly. Then he cleared his throat. "Have you

seen the published measurements, my lady?"

"No, I haven't," she lied, pulling her hood closer in the frigid air. The scent of smoke

from street fires mingled with the odors of the show. "I understand that they are said to be

certified?"

"It's what the paper claims," he admitted, his breath frosting in the cold. "Has there

been no progress in locating the Shelford bull?"

She shook her head. Everyone spoke of Hubert as belonging to Shelford, though it was

common knowledge that Colonel Davenport now owned him. Mr. Downie harrumphed.

"It's a bad business, my lady," he said. "A sorry day when your father passed away, God

rest him. This wouldn't have happened if the earl had been alive."

Callie could agree with that in all honesty. She listened to the rumors as more

agricultural people gathered at the Shelford pens, pausing to greet her kindly and regale

themselves on mince pies and steaming cider. The most common gossip suggested that

Hubert had been taken swiftly from the vicinity and either moved by some old abandoned

drovers' road to the north, or already baited and slaughtered, never to be seen again. She

hated both notions and had to keep reminding herself that he was lying in a well-kept pen

not fifteen yards away. The edge of a thick bed of straw overflowed from under the

Malempré tarps, and she could see a big hoof tip and the smooth black lock of his tail just

under the canvas. A baker's sack, presumably full of Bath buns, sat on the Malempré

herdsman's enameled green show box.

Colonel Davenport himself arrived, his cheeks flushed with cold and bluster. He

accosted Callie immediately, demanding to know if she had heard of this havey-cavey

Belgian business. He was of the dark opinion that Hubert had been made off with,

probably by this Malempré fellow himself. The whole thing had the strong smell of

criminal activity. He did not mean to frighten her, but he was a magistrate. He had long

experience of rogues and rascals, and they were not all of the lowest classes. He very

much doubted that Monsieur Malempré was what he represented himself to be. Colonel

Davenport didn't suppose for one moment that Malempré was an honest gentleman, and it

was unconscionable for the Agricultural Society to give him any countenance when he

had stolen Hubert.

"No, I believe it was your fence," Callie said quietly, finally lifting her face at this. "I

saw the break myself. You don't keep secure fences, I'm sorry to have to say, Colonel

Davenport. No one stole Hubert—he simply pushed through your fence and got out."

A silence greeted her pronouncement. Every herdsman and farmer who had been

standing about eating mince pies and listening to the colonel—and there were many—

looked at Callie in something like awe. She had never said so much in public before.

As the representative of the late Earl of Shelford, who remained in everyone's mind the

proper owner of the bull, her opinion of the matter carried considerable weight. When her

drover chimed in, muttering that he'd seen the break too, and there weren't no way such a

rupture in the wood had been made by the hand of man, the weight of judgment began to

go against Colonel Davenport's theory. He was a little put out, defending his fence and

trying to argue with her, but Callie found that she had more friends than she knew: Mr.

Downie and Farmer Lewis, her drover and her herdsman and the cottager with the fat pig,

several other cowmen and farmers, and the wife of the Shelford butcher—even Mr. Price

stopped as he was passing and took up Callie's point with vigor. A great discussion

erupted over the usual sounds of clucking and lowing, filling Broad Street with the echo

of voices in loud dispute. Callie could imagine Trev's wicked enjoyment as he observed

the scene from whatever place he had chosen to conceal himself. He had told her that he

would be watching.

Monsieur Malempré's reputation gained consider ably in respect when some bystander

said he'd spoke to the banker, and the five hundred guineas were deposited under seal,

good as gold, and if no bull met the challenge, they were to be donated to the society

itself to be used for improvement of the local breeds. The big fellow who imparted this

stunning information was a stranger to Callie, but his size and diction—there was a

strong flavor of Charles's rough style to his speech—made her suspect he was no random

passerby.

Mr. Price turned round at this, expressing astonish ment and gratification at the news.

He demanded to know why the officials of the society had not been apprised of this

aspect of the challenge.

"Dunno nothin' more of it." The stranger shrugged. "I'm just a stockyard man myself,

from up Bristol. Guess he don't want some swindle," he suggested innocently, pulling a

straw out of his mouth. "Like them society fellows might shuffle off the biggest bull here

roundabouts if they knew they'd get them guineas themselves. Dunno what them aggi-

culture coves might do, eh?"

"The
society
hide him? By God, we'd never—"

Colonel Davenport cut him off. "Mr. Price! How long has the society been aware of the

Malempré Challenge?" he demanded.

"Why, we just found it out yesterday!" Mr. Price cried. "And precisely what are you

implying, Colonel, by asking me such a question?"

The colonel seemed to realize he had crossed the line to insult, and held himself up stiff

ly. "I merely inquired," he said. He gave a small bow. "I beg your pardon, sir. I meant no

offense."

The secretary of the society relaxed a little but kept his brows raised. "No offense

taken. I comprehend your upset, Colonel. It's an unfortunate situation for you, no doubt,

to have misplaced the Shelford animal at this juncture."

Colonel Davenport drew in a sharp breath as if he might give an angry retort, but then

he seemed to crumple under the weight of the secretary's words. "I cannot comprehend

it," he said in despair. "How that bull could have disappeared so suddenly, under my very

nose! Gone without a trace! A week before the show—and now this… this…
Belgian!

Five hundred guineas, I say! What would you think?"

"Dark doings," Mr. Price agreed. "We've had seven animals measured since yesterday,

but none approaches the dimensions of this imported animal." He glanced toward Callie.

"My lady, I beg your pardon, did your father ever have Hubert's measure taken?"

"He was measured last year at the Bromyard show," she said promptly. "After he took

the premium for Best Bull under Four Years," she added, to remind them of Hubert's

value. "But he's grown since. I daresay he's larger now."

Colonel Davenport gave a faint moan. "Egad, what an animal," he said miserably. "And

I've lost him!"

"You've no leads at all?" Mr. Price inquired.

"I'm having all the yards searched from here to London," the colonel said. "I've sent

letters to the shorthorn breeders and the society secretaries in ten counties, in case

someone attempts to sell him or show him. I've even alerted Bow Street, should he be

taken to the Home Counties. Gave 'em a description of that shady fellow who tried to buy

him of me. And that French rascal who attacked poor Sturgeon—
he's
still abroad! I dare

swear he's mixed up in it too."

"Perhaps he pulled down your fence," Callie murmured.

"It was a perfectly sufficient fence!" the colonel declared, glaring at her.

"We always keep our largest stock behind stone walls," she said modestly.

"There's a frost break in my stone," he grumbled. "That's why I had to put him in the

wood paddock."

Farmer Lewis cleared his throat meaningfully and took a bite of mince pie. Several of

the herdsmen chuckled. Callie felt her point about the condition of the colonel's fences

had been made. A new bystander, muff led up to his eyes against the cold, winked at her.

She glanced quickly away, blushing at this importunity from a stranger. Then she

looked back at him, suddenly suspicious. He tossed the ragged woolen scarf over his

shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets, a nondescript working man in a shabby

drover's jacket and fingerless mitts. He met her look with a directness that no common

herdsman would ever dare. Callie felt her cheeks f lame, growing hot even in the chill.

"Good morning, my lady!" Major Sturgeon's voice came from just behind her, loud and

cheerful. Caught gazing at the muff led drover, she startled and turned, her hood falling

back from her hair. He bowed and gave her a warm smile. He wore his uniform again,

with braids of gold on the collar points of his heavy cloak. "How cold it is!" he remarked,

clapping his hands together. "Did your animals fare well on the journey? They've all

arrived safe and sound, I pray."

Callie gave him a nod and a slight curtsy. She was still flustered from discovering that

Trev was nearby; she wasn't prepared to deal civilly with Major Sturgeon at the same

time. "They've arrived in good order," she managed to reply, hoping that he wouldn't

recognize her voice. "But… I didn't expect to see you here at a cattle show, Major." She

almost said, "a dirty cattle show," but stopped herself in time.