Lessons in French Page 9

  "Well then," he said. "Do you prefer the scarf or the bag?"

  "Perhaps I should cover myself with a rug." They were nearly abreast of the first thatch-and-timber houses that lined Shelford's only street. No one else had passed them yet, but there were a few people walking and one horseman ahead. "Good morning," she said hastily, in response to a greeting from the gentleman who trotted past. Her steps were growing more unwilling as they approached the populated part of the street.

  "This is a Mrs. Farr about to accost us, as I recall," Trev said under his breath. "Widely known for her kind soul and foul-mouthed cockatoo." He took off his hat and bowed, reckoning he'd best make an attempt to rehabilitate himself. "Good morning, ma'am," he said cheerfully.

  "I declare!" exclaimed the apple-cheeked widow, dropping a quick curtsy toward Callie amid an abundance of petticoats spared from sometime in the last century. "Good morning, milady. It couldn't be our young Frenchman who has you on his arm, now?"

  "Good morning, Mrs. Farr," Callie said softly. "Yes, indeed, here is Madame's son come to her."

  "An excellent thing," Mrs. Farr said in her quavery voice. "There's nothing to top it. What a fine gentleman!"

  "I trust you're as well as you look, ma'am," Trev said. It was easy to smile affectionately at Mrs. Farr. "And how does Miss Polly do these days?"

  "Oh, she's as cross as ever she was. Just fancy you remembering Miss Polly!"

  "How could I forget? That bird taught me how to have my mouth washed out with soap."

  "Pshaw, you aren't supposed to hear what she says!" Mrs. Farr said, lowering her voice with a quaking chuckle.

  "No? You should have warned me before I repeated it to my mother."

  "Evil boy!" Mrs. Farr simpered. "You never did!"

  Trev winked at her. "Come into the Antlers and sit down to a cup of tea with us, Mrs. Farr. Lady Callista has undertaken to help me find a new cook for Dove House. I've no doubt your advice would be invaluable."

  "I should be glad to do what I can to help." Mrs. Farr picked up her skirts and stepped toward the inn with a briskness that belied her gray hair and ancient voice. "And to guard milady's virtue," she added with smug smile.

  Trev bowed gravely. "Everything I know of vice, I learned from your parrot, Mrs. Farr."

  "Pshaw, you never did!" the widow said, sweeping ahead of them into the door of the inn.

  Six

  THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.

  Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer descend.

  A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.

  The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesita tion as they glanced at one another brief ly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead… it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and thronging crowds.

  He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowl edgment, and they went their own ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course—he would encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage to make a case of it.

  He rejoined the ladies, sitting down to a conversa tion about the price of tea carried on largely by Mrs. Farr, with the occasional nod and "yes, ma'am," from Callie. She did not seem to be paying strict attention, for which Trev could hardly blame her.

  "I don't care for your green teas," Mrs. Farr said decisively. "The half of them have been doctored with such abominable tricks that there's no saying what's in them. I won't have green tea in my house, I tell you."

  "No, ma'am," Callie said. "Certainly not."

  Mr. Rankin appeared at the parlor door with the officer behind him. "If you'll just take a seat beside the fire, sir." He ushered the new arrival into the room, accepting the man's hat and cloak. "The boy will see to your baggage. Will you be taking a refreshment? There's gingerbread just coming out of the oven."

  "Cider will do," the officer said brief ly.

  Callie suddenly sat up and threw a look toward the newcomer. Such a horrified expression came into her face that Trev almost reached out to support her as she blanched, but then she put down her teacup and bent her head toward her lap, hiding any glimpse of her face under the brim of her bonnet.

  Mrs. Farr entered into a discourse on Congo, with a pekoe additive, versus a good Imperial. The officer glanced toward their table with the brief disinterest of a stranger obliged to share a public space—and then looked again. It was a penetrating look directed at Callie, at the nape of her neck, where those singular red curls were as recognizable in Shelford as any sign hanging outside a shop. Trev watched a play of emotion in the man's face—the instant of detection, followed by a tightening of his thin lips, a straightening of his shoulders. The officer turned away abruptly and sat down on the sofa.

  Callie was hidden, but her breasts rose and fell with a rapid rhythm. Trev moved his leg, pressing it against her knee in silent support and question. She turned her face entirely away from the fire, staring toward the window as if she could escape by f lying through it. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

  "But if you care for a black tea, duke," Mrs. Farr said, "you cannot go wrong with the Congo mix. Green gunpowder will kill you in a month."

  "I'm sure it would kill you with one lucky shot, Mrs. Farr," Trev said. He looked at Callie. "Are you feeling quite well, Lady Callista? Would you like to go out into the air?"

  She nodded, standing up, clutching at Trev's arm as he offered it. Behind her, the officer stood up at the same time.

  "My lady," he said clearly.

  Callie stood still, frozen like a deer at the sound of his voice.

  "If you don't desire to acknowledge me, Lady Callista, I'll submit to your wish," the man said. His nostrils f lared. "I will not inf lict myself upon you." He glanced an instant at Trev, his aristocratic brows drawn together. Then he stared at Callie again. "But I would call upon you, if you would… if you would kindly give me consent to do so."

  She wet her lips. "Oh, I—no, I—" She took a deep breath, staring down at the f loor. "It would be very uncomfortable for me."

  The officer's pale eyes snapped to Trev again. There was something… Trev held the look. It was as if the other man grew taut with a personal chal lenge, directly marking him. He might have thought it was jealousy, the way the two of them stood with their lips buttoned and their faces rigid, like a pair of thwarted lovers, but Trev had a strong suspicion otherw
ise. Unless Callie had participated in more romantic encounters than anyone who knew her could believe, this would be one of the infamous jilts. A major of cavalry, at that; Trev could read the insignia of rank now.

  A fine coincidence. He didn't see how the fellow had any claim to resentment of another man at Callie's side.

  The officer looked again at her, his jaw set hard. "My lady, if you might consider—"

  "I believe Lady Callista has made her answer known to you," Trev interrupted.

  The man ignored him. "If you would see fit, my lady—"

  "How curious." Trev gave an audible sniff. "I could swear I smell a day-old fish."

  Callie's fingers nearly cut off the blood in his arm. She made a sound somewhere between a choke and a whimper. The other man grew as scarlet as his uniform coat. White lines played at the corner of his mouth. "I'm speaking to Lady Callista, not to you, sir."

  "I don't wish to speak to you," Callie said in a rush.

  The officer stood very still for a moment. "As you wish, then, ma'am." He bowed stiff ly and walked out of the room, casting Trev one more venomous glance as he left.

  "Oh." Callie's voice trembled. She sat down with a plop.

  Mrs. Farr leaned over, patting Callie's hand and peering into her face. "Poor dear, you're ashen as a sheet. But the nasty gentleman is gone now. There, you see, he's calling for his carriage."

  Callie put her fingertips to her cheek, drawing a deep breath. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to cause a scene. Thank you, Mrs. Farr." She lifted the cup that the widow poured for her and took a convulsive gulp of tea.

  "Number One?" Trev asked matter-of-factly.

  She swallowed again and made a face, wrinkling her nose over the cup. "Major Sturgeon." The saucer rattled as she put down the tea and looked at Trev. "What a peculiar shock," she said weakly. "So odd, as we were just…" Her voice trailed off. "Forgive me. I'm very startled." She gave an unsteady smile. "I must thank you for skewering him so neatly."

  "Oh, you skewered him quite well yourself," Trev said.

  "I hope so," she mumbled.

  "What a very rude fellow," Mrs. Farr said. She peered at Callie with new interest. "I'm sure you ought not to know such a person, milady."

  "No!" Callie said instantly. "I don't. That is—" She bit her lip. "I really don't know him at all, or wish to. I hope that you don't suppose—that anyone should think—oh, please don't mention—"

  "I wouldn't breathe a word!" Mrs. Farr said, which Trev took to mean she would wait at least until Callie was out of sight before she began to spread the tale. He didn't care for the speculations that were likely to result from a story of some stranger accosting Lady Callista in a public inn. But as Callie f loundered through a disjointed sentence, he could see that she was unable to summon any coherent explanation in the face of Mrs. Farr's growing curiosity.

  "Major Sturgeon is beneath Lady Callista's notice," he said abruptly, judging that the truth was better in this case than the rampant conjectures that were bound to occur in a place like Shelford. "As a man who broke his word to her, he deserves no recognition from her, or from anyone who stands her friend."

  "No, is that who he is?" Mrs. Farr gasped. "One of those villains who cried off on our Lady Callista? I declare, that he would dare to show his face in Shelford! That he would dare to speak to milady! Does he suppose he can worm his way back into your graces and propose again?"

  "He is married now, Mrs. Farr," Callie said gently. "Doubtless he would simply like to express his deep regret or some such thing."

  "His deep regret that his wife is an ill-tempered shrew, one hopes, and marrying anyone but you was the greatest mistake of his sorry life," Trev remarked.

  Callie rewarded him with a tiny smirk. She seemed to be recovering her composure. "Oh, I should like that. I might have let him call, if he were going to say that."

  Mr. Rankin paused in the door, peering in with a puzzled look. "Did the gentleman say he was leaving?"

  "Driven off with his tail between his legs," Trev said.

  "But he left his bags."

  "Throw them into the street," Trev advised and enjoyed Callie's sudden giggle.

  "He said he was staying the week," Mr. Rankin protested.

  "Oh dear." Callie bit her lip. "What can he want in Shelford for a week?"

  "Did he annoy you, milady?" the innkeeper asked anxiously. "He seemed a perfect gentleman, and so I was sure I ought to offer him a seat in here, instead of the tap."

  "No, no, it was nothing," Callie said.

  "I believe he recalled an urgent appointment," Trev said. "With a halibut."

  "Indeed, I hope he found nothing to offend him about the Antlers."

  "It was nothing of the sort, I assure you, Mr. Rankin." Callie sat up in her chair. "The gingerbread smells delicious; I hope we might taste it soon. And have you had a reply from the cook in Bromyard?"

  "I have, milady. I was about to tell you when the officer gentleman arrived. She is at liberty to start on Saturday, and sent a recommendation from her employer. But two other families wish to take her on, and she advises that she cannot accept a post for less than thirteen shillings the week."

  "Thirteen shillings!" quavered Mrs. Farr. "For a cook-woman?"

  "Oh—she is in great demand, then?" Callie asked.

  "I fear so, milady. I understand that the only reason she was willing to entertain my inquiry is because she would prefer to live within a day's drive of her family in Gloucester, and the other offers are farther afield."

  "But why is she leaving her employer?"

  "She's been these past ten years with a lady who now intends to make her home with a married daughter, due to her declining health."

  Callie looked at Trev. "Thirteen shillings is a shocking swindle."

  "No doubt she scents my desperation," he said. "My want of a convincing blancmange has carried all the way to Bromyard."

  "I suppose if she's been with a lady in declining health, she must be accustomed to producing meals to tempt a delicate appetite," Callie said.

  "The letter describes her just so, milady," said Mr. Rankin. "I'll fetch it for you." He bowed and went out.

  "I think we might be wise to leap at this," Callie murmured. "Thirteen shillings or not."

  "I'm wholly in your hands," Trev said. "She may gouge me to her heart's content if you think she can provide what my mother requires."

  She gave a decisive nod. "Very true. There's no use in trying to haggle her down. We haven't the luxury for that. Mr. Rankin—" As the innkeeper returned, she took the letter and perused it brief ly. "I believe we must request her to come as soon as she may. If you'll bring me a pen and paper, I'll write out an offer."

  "Make it fifteen shillings," Trev said.

  "Fifteen?" Mrs. Farr groaned. "I hope my old cook doesn't hear of this, or I shall have no peace."

  "I understand you, Mrs. Farr, I do!" Callie peered into the inkpot that the innkeeper provided. "But truly, it's a crisis. You may tell Cook that the duke is French and has no sense, and it's only to be expected that he'd be choused."

  "Make it eighteen shillings," Trev said grandly. "Make it a guinea!"

  "A guinea!" Mrs. Farr emitted a scandalized cry and took a deep draught of her smelling salts.

  "You see?" Callie said, dipping her pen. "A complete f lat. Fourteen is our firm offer."

  He winked at her. She gave him a bright glance and then bent to her task.

  Callie parted from Trevelyan and Mrs. Farr outside the door of the Antlers. Trev had offered to escort her on any further errands she might have, but she declined, cravenly unable to endure more inquisitive looks and interested greetings. She walked down the street, hardly knowing where she was going. She was by no means accustomed to so much disorder in her feelings. For some years now—for nine of them, to be exact—she had found her pleasures in the quiet rhythm of seasons and animals. They had their certain habits and small adventures. They did not propose to come and see if she would climb down from he
r window at midnight, or jilt her and then request to call on her with a burning look. They might make her laugh with delight or weep with loss, but they never made a compliment to her complexion.

  She had, of course, imagined a thousand times how she would accept the groveling change of heart from each of her suitors, starting with Trev. He was to have written her passionate, brooding letters and declared that his life was forfeit if she would not have him. That was after he had become unthinkably wealthy and recovered Monceaux, and declared on his knees that her fortune meant nothing to him and never had. He would take her penniless from the side of the road and threaten to shoot himself, or sail to Madagascar and become a pirate—which was just the sort of thing Trev would do—if she refused his love. After suitably ardent persuasion, she would reluctantly give up her plan to dedicate her life to good works and tapioca jelly, and accept his suit. Afterward they would become pirates together, and she would wear a great many pearls and rubies and skewer British officers.