Lessons in French (28 page)

Major Sturgeon seemed to have some unaccountable interest in an event which should

have held no importance to him whatsoever. She had told him during one of his visits that

she would be attending the show, and he had nodded with polite but hardly urgent

attention. She could not conceive of why he had come to Hereford at all, far less why he

should linger about the platform as the early cattle classes were announced. She very

much feared that he suspected something.

She did not dare to look directly toward him, but it seemed as if he were watching her

while Mr. Price droned out the list of classes and the prizes that would be awarded for

each. When he'd finished with the list of events, the club secretary turned and bowed

deeply to Callie, and then took up Trev's broadside and read it through his glasses in a

loud, official voice.

A murmur went through the crowd as the challenge was described. Charles lifted the

heavy silver tray above his head. The trophy glinted in the sun as he turned left and right

to show it off. Men in the audience elbowed one another, exchanging looks. There were a

number of cattle breeders who had brought bulls to the show, but Callie was sure that not

one of them approached Hubert's size. Still, with a such a grand prize, there was an eager

push forward to sign animals onto the list of hopeful contestants for measure.

Mr. Price turned to her, beaming. It was a fine boost to the show, to have such an

unusual and valuable challenge, he informed her with enthusiasm. Nothing could be

better to generate excitement and bring attention. All the society officials were eager to

attend to her, inquiring after her husband's health with some anxiety. Callie tried to assure

them with a good many nods and a few broken English phrases that he was only feeling

the effects of their recent journey.

Her stifled utterances were smothered entirely by the realization that Major Sturgeon

had made his way onto the platform. As she stood frozen in dismay, he spoke to the

president. That gentleman turned to her with a smile.

"Madame," he said gaily, "here's someone who tells me that he's visited your beautiful

country and wishes an introduction. May I have the honor?"

Callie stared through her veil, not finding any way to avoid it without throwing herself

bodily from the platform into the crowd. She gave a slight nod, turning her face

downward so that the brim of her hat obscured her face even further.

"I give you Major Sturgeon, Madame," the president said. "Major, this is our honored

guest, Madame Malempré, who adds such a mark of nobility to our humble agricultural

affair!"

Callie allowed the major to take her hand, giving a faint curtsy as he bent over it.

"I am enchanted!" he said. He leaned close to her and said in a confiding voice, "But I

have been to Malempré myself, Madame, and found it to be a charming place."

For an instant she felt as if she would simply dissolve, sinking to the floor in a puddle

of terror. He had been to Malempré. She had no idea where Malempré was, except that it

was presumably somewhere in Belgium. Never having been to Belgium, she could not

even summon a speculation as to what sort of place it might be, if it was large or small, f

lat or mountainous, busy or rural. It might be dotted with pagodas and Chinamen for all

she knew. Far worse, she didn't know if a visitor to Malempré would be likely to have

met a Madame and Monsieur Malempré there.

"I do not… well speak," she said hesitantly, keeping her face lowered and her voice

pitched low to disguise it.

He retained her hand in spite of her attempt to withdraw it. "Ah, I must beg your

pardon," he replied in fluent French, lifting her fingers to his lips. "My command of your

delightful language is poor, but let us converse in it."

His command of French appeared to be all too excellent. The veil seemed to become

suffocating. "I must sit down!" she said faintly, drawing her hand away. She turned to the

steps, but she could not avoid him. He caught her elbow and supported her as she went

down the wooden steps.

"Come this way," he said, his grip firm as he directed her toward the door of the nearest

inn. "Stand aside!" he barked in English. "Let the lady pass!"

The crowd parted at his sharp command. Callie

found herself helpless, propelled by his supporting arm about her waist in spite of

attempts to draw back. She dreaded to enter the inn with him, where there would

doubtless be a great fuss made over a lady feeling faint. They might even encourage her

to remove her veil.

She allowed him to escort her as far as the walkway and then set her feet. "Monsieur,

do not trouble your self." She disengaged herself firmly. "If you please!" She put a little

acid into her voice and made a point of removing his hand from her arm.

He stiffened for an instant and then bowed his head. "I beg you will consider me your

humble servant, Madame! Are you feeling better?"

Callie took a deep breath. Seeing no other recourse open to her, she plunged with a

whole heart into a masquerade of a haughty lady, bridling up and giving him a sideways

glance of disdain. "I am well," she said coolly. "I do not believe I know you, Monsieur."

He stood quite still for a moment, looking at her with such intensity that she was sure

he was trying to see through the veil. She turned her face away abruptly, fearing he would

suddenly shout out her real name to the street.

"Of course," he said in an oddly light tone, doffing his plumed hat in the face of this

direct cut. "But how could I be so foolish as to suppose you would remember me by

name? I was among the liaison officers after the abdication. You were so kind as to open

your home to us and give a luncheon al fresco, to celebrate the liberation of your

country."

"Ah," Callie said, silently cursing Trev and his choice of towns and names. She put up

her chin. "Yes, the picnic. You were there? I have a poor head for faces, Monsieur. A

strange chance, to encounter you here, is it not? But you must pardon me, I will attend

my husband now."

To her despair, he turned with her, persisting in walking alongside. "And where do you

stay in Hereford, Madame? I would be pleased to return your hospitality, if you and your

husband would do me the honor of joining me for dinner."

"I must regret," she said. "Monsieur Malempré is resting."

"I am devastated." He sounded truly sorry. "I would wish to make some return of your

kindness. I have never forgot that sunny day in your gardens."

"Have you not, Monsieur?" Callie walked quickly, but he kept pace.

"Madame." He put his hand on her elbow as she turned the corner. He seemed to have

no qualms about touching her. "Never," he said intensely. "My God, how could I?"

She cast a look aside at him, startled by the fierce note in his voice. He stopped, holding

her, and then let her go as if he realized what he was doing. Callie took advantage of that

to turn away in the direction of the dressmaker's shop. She thought that surely he would

not follow her that far. But he came with her, keeping up easily with his longer stride.

She began to feel hunted, frightened that he had recognized her and was playing some sly

game. For the whole distance of the street he walked alongside her, saying nothing.

As they approached the shop, she debated with herself furiously. He appeared

determined to keep company with her in spite of any rudeness she could summon. She

had intended to go into the shop to change and emerge as herself, but she was afraid now

that he would even try to accompany her in, or linger outside. She did not dare to go in as

Madame Malempré and come out as Lady Callista Taillefaire.

She slowed her steps as she neared the door. She saw Lilly lingering across the street.

Trev's footman trailed at a respectful distance. Lilly stared a moment toward them with

an uncertain look, then turned quickly away, giving a coy smile to a pair of large young

fellows lounging in a tailor's door.

Callie paused. The dressmaker's shop was impossible. He could see inside it. She

nodded shortly and said, "I will leave you here, Monsieur. I must go to our hotel."

"Sofie!" he said under his breath. "Don't do this to me, I beg you!"

She stared at him through the veil. An astonishing suspicion came to her. He could not

mean—surely he did not mean—it was shocking enough that there seemed to be a real

Madame Malempré who he had met, but he appeared to believe that he had far more than

a passing acquaintance with her.

He took her hand. "Don't tell me you have truly forgotten me," he murmured. "The

garden. The summerhouse. I know you might not recall my name, but—" He broke off,

looking down. "It was not so much to you as to me, perhaps."

As the full import of his words sank in, Callie began to feel an upwelling of outrage. He

not only knew this Madame Malempré, but it was becoming quite clear that he'd had

some romantic encounter with her in a summerhouse. And it appeared that he would be

quite willing to renew the acquaintance, in spite of the fact that he had been diligently

courting Callie for the past week.

As the realization sank in, a new recklessness possessed her, the sort of feeling that she

had not experienced in a very long time. Not since her last adventure with Trev, in fact, in

which she had been obliged to steal a melon from a canvas bag and replace it with a large

hedgehog. Instead of marching away, she allowed the major to take her gloved fingers to

his lips.

He smiled over her hand. "You have not forgot," he whispered. "Tell me it is so."

From the corner of her eye, Callie could see that Charles had drawn closer. His bulk

towered over the major's height. At a word, she thought, she could have Major Sturgeon

deposited in a watering trough. The picture of it made her give a low laugh as she let him

kiss her hand. "Forget?" she asked noncommittally. "What do you mean, Monsieur?"

He turned away from Charles, drawing her arm through his, leaning very close to her

ear. "Is it your husband?" he murmured. "I didn't think he was a jealous man."

Callie's heart beat faster. She found it difficult to believe that he did not recognize her

from so close. But if he did, he was playing a very deep game. She should repulse him

immediately, she was sure, but the desire to take some small revenge was growing.

"You must have a better knowledge of him than I, if you suppose that," she said.

"But it's not very handsome of him to leave you alone at a dirty cattle fair, Madame."

Callie instantly wanted to protest that the Hereford show maintained exceptionally high

standards of cleanliness, but she suppressed her annoyance. "He has the headache," she

said, allowing her fingers to play over his arm the way she had once seen Dolly do as she

flirted discreetly with a gentleman houseguest. "Refresh my poor memory, Monsieur, if

you please. I met you at the Waterloo picnic?"

His hand tightened on her a little. "I see that I made scant impression on you. I'm

humbled. But a lady of your loveliness must have many admirers."

"You f latter me," she said, putting a sultry note into her voice. She was pleased to

encourage him to suppose himself forgettable. "But there aren't so many. I'm very

sorry—I cannot understand how I have not recalled you. The summerhouse…?" She let

her words trail off suggestively.

"Perhaps you recall more than you wish to confess," he said. There was a hint of

bitterness in his words.

"La, if only you would give me some hint. Some detail that might prod my memory."

"Are you angry with me, Sofie?" he asked huskily. Apparently it didn't suit him to

believe any woman might not remember an encounter with him. "You know I could make

you no promises, nor return again."

"Oh?" she asked with a dawning interest. "Why not?"

"You do remember!" he exclaimed instantly. "But then you know why, my love. How

could I promise to come back, when I was to wed the moment I returned to England?"

"I see," Callie said. She stopped. She could feel her cheeks growing hot under the veil.

"You were engaged to an English lady?"

He shrugged, walking on with her. "Yes. I told you then, Sofie. I didn't hide it. I

thought you understood."

"So of course, you were in love."

He gave a brusque snort. "Nothing of the sort. In fact I didn't care for her—she's a

chilly woman, with a dull wit and no beauty. What little time I had with you was

precious, when I knew what I must go back to."

Callie blinked. She bit her lip. With a sense of turning a knife in her own breast, she

said, "How sad for you, Monsieur. A man like you, to marry a plain woman."

"Not a pleasant prospect, I admit. But fate intervened, and I didn't marry her after all,"

he said.

"Fate?" she inquired with an effort. "Did you discover some prettier heiress?"

He took her hand, kissing it. "Of course not. Do you think me a fortune hunter? She

died before the wedding."

Callie hid her gasp in a choked laugh. "What a fortunate escape for you, then! And still

you didn't return to me?"

"I could not, my love. I was posted to the West Indies."

She stood frozen in sick amazement at his gall. After breaking off with her, he had wed