"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 impor tunity 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 f lustered 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.
"I hope to enter into your interests with enthusiasm," he replied, doffing his plumed hat. If he heard any similarity between her voice and Madame Malempré's, he gave no indication of it. "Morning, Davenport!" He nodded to the colonel. "I missed sharing that glass with you last night, but I was a little indisposed. We'll make it up this evening, eh? I'll join you at the Black Lion—I find the Gerard doesn't suit me."
Callie gave him a sidelong glance, recalling that the proprietor of the Gerard had approached Monsieur Malempré as they were leaving the hotel, murmuring that the unfortunate matter had been taken care of and Madame would not be troubled further. She wondered if Trev had had the major turfed out of his room, or if the officer had merely grown tired of waiting for Madame to appear. Whichever it was, it did not appear to have dampened Major Sturgeon's opinion of himself. He seemed to be in an expansive mood, perfectly certain that Callie must be pleased to see him. But of course, he didn't know that she was Madame Malempré herself, or that in the time since he had made his proposal, she had made love to another man.
She ought to be ashamed, Callie supposed, but there was too much irony in it all. Clearly he would have done the same if Madame Malempré had given him the chance, and she didn't doubt that Miss Ladd had been his lover too while he was betrothed to Callie. So they were even now. She had sunk to his level. It was not a particularly consoling thought.
The little crowd of herdsmen and farmers had begun to drift away now that the mince pies had run out, though the muff led drover lingered, leaning against a wagon with his arms crossed. Callie avoided looking toward him. She sent Lilly back into the Green Dragon for more pies. Colonel Davenport excused himself, clapping his friend on the shoulder and advising him to take good care of Lady Callista, as if somehow the major had already taken possession of her, and left them standing alone together.
"May I bring you a hot cider, my lady?" Major Sturgeon turned to Callie again. When she demurred, he looked about him at the rows and pens of her cattle neatly lined up along her assigned portion of the street. Callie had not bothered with tarps to conceal the Shelford stock, as there were no surprises there. She could pride herself at least that it was Shelford's usual excellent showing, except for the lack of Hubert. "This is an exciting moment, to see you here among your entries," he said expansively. "What do you feed to bring your calves up to this great size? I'm not an expert on livestock, but I fancy myself a quick study, if you'll honor me with a tour of the various points of interest."
His attention might have been manufactured, but he made a good show of it. And she had an aim—she meant to convince Trev that she was content with him as a potential husband. More than ever now, after last night. After this morning. After hearing Trev's stony silence as she listed her obvious shortcomings as a wife. She could feel the shabby drover in his muff ler watching her.
"Yes, if you like," she said, taking a deep breath of icy air to fortify herself. She allowed the major to take her arm and tuck it under his.
He patted her fingers. "Are you warm enough, my lady?" He bent his head near hers, the way he had when he'd thought she was Madame Malempré, and took it upon himself to tweak her hood back into place. "I've missed your company in Shelford," he murmured.
As she had only been gone one day from Shelford, it hardly required any wit to realize this was nonsense, but she forced herself to smile. "Have you, sir? But it's only been a few hours since I saw you last."
"Long enough that I couldn't help myself—I found after I started out yesterday that I was on the road to Hereford, when I'd certainly meant to go up to London for a fortnight. But I had the greatest urge to see this agricultural fair of yours."
Callie wished he'd fought off the urge. If he hadn't come, if he hadn't thought she was his long-lost paramour, she might still have had her three days of adventure with Trev. Now it was all a shambles. She had lost her best friend with one splendid, delirious mistake. Trev had parted with her at the dressmaker's without giving her any instructions to return. And indeed—how could she go back to the Gerard as Madame Malempré now?
She kept smiling, but there was a stinging blur in her eyes. She blinked, hoping that it would only seem to be the cold, and looked up at Major Sturgeon. "I haven't had much time to consider your offer," she said softly.
"Of course not!" He affected a great dismay. "I beg you not to suppose that I mean to worry you on that head. Tell me, what premium class do you most hope to win?"
She answered at random, finding that she wished to move away from her own stock and the man who still loitered there, rubbing his hands in the fingerless mitts over her herdsman's fire. She turned her back on him, directing the major toward the pavement, stopping to speak vaguely of a fine draft pony that stood harnessed to a farm cart in the next row, its mane braided, its hoof feathers lovingly brushed out to perfect unstained white. Major Sturgeon made gallant attempts to compliment her expertise. He had to make do with that, she supposed, since he couldn't compliment her looks or charm.
Sixteen
TREV HAD THOUGHT HE COULD TAKE IT. HE'D THOUGHT he could endure the idea that she would marry another man. For near a decade he'd assumed she already had, reckoned she was a happy wife with all her children about her, an image which had been sufficient to keep him on the other side of the Channel, if not the other side of the world, for a good part of the last ten years. He'd wandered back to England finally, having failed to recover Monceaux and botched pretty much everything else he'd set his hand to before he discovered in himself a particular talent for arranging boxing spectacles of both fixed and fair varieties. By then she had faded to a soft-edged memory, blunted in the golden autumn mist of his past, the mere image of a copper-haired, kissable waif in an outmoded gown. He'd hardly been eating his heart out for her. In truth, he'd remembered her father with stronger feeling.
The knowledge that she was even tolerating Sturgeon's company, allowing him to call on her—at first Trev had not taken it in seriousness, supposing she'd merely been unable to summon sufficient daring to refuse to admit the man. He'd been perfectly ready to undertake a visit to Sturgeon on her behalf if she required assistance in the matter, and finish up what he'd started by giving the major a matching pair of black eyes to go with his swollen jaw.
To discover that she was entertaining an actual proposal had set Trev we
ll off his stride. Perhaps a little more than that. Perhaps he had finally admitted the truth to himself—that he was utterly distracted and still crazy in love with her mischievous smile and that way she had of looking up at him sidelong while she discussed the various merits of an overweight peeg. He was worse off than even his mother suspected, and she suspected a good deal.
He was, in fact, dying by inches. He stood near the fire, glowering at an innocent cow and rhythmically opening and closing his fists while Sturgeon made up to her in the open street. She knew Trev was there too. After she'd turned him down, with all that bosh about how unworthy she was of Monceaux; turned him down, and he couldn't argue with her, couldn't tell her what he felt or prove it was the other way round—C'est à chier, his exalted grand-père had always said of him, not worth a shit, and God knew it was true at that moment.
He watched sullenly as Sturgeon pulled her hood round her face in a mawkish little gesture of caring. The fellow was a damned hum. How she could allow him to touch her, knowing what she did, that he'd dangle after some Belgian slut at the very moment he was supposed to be courting her—Trev set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He slapped his hands against his arms, more out of frustrated violence than cold.
It seemed like a nightmare that he stood here wrapped up to his eyebrows to hide himself, doing nothing while his lover walked away with another man. He ought to have cut off all her silly objections and dragged her down to the cathedral, found a priest, or a bishop, or whoever did these things quietly and fast—he'd convert to the Church of England while he was at it and let his grandfather turn over in his grave. He didn't think, if he'd insisted, that she would have refused him very long. He rather thought she'd been hoping for it.
But then he'd have to tell her the truth.
C'est à chier, he thought, eh, grand-père? Thrusting his cold hands in his coat, he strode away from the fire. Callie and her beau were strolling along the opposite pavement, pausing now and then to observe some exhibitor's cheese or pies. Trev shadowed them, jerking his chin to one of his boys. The big boxer stood up and fell in with him casually, passing the signal on. In a moment, there were a dozen of them, spread across the street and among the exhibits, ready for trouble.
Trev was in the mood for it. He wished it were all done with, over now, this juvenile adventure, so he could get on with the vast sum of nothing that was his life stretching before him. Italy, he thought, but no, that wasn't far enough. He needed an ocean between them if she was going to marry Sturgeon. Boston, perhaps, where he could get himself a tomahawk and live with the rest of the savages, busting up tea crates for entertainment.
Across the way, the happy couple stopped at the pen with the obese pig. Trev halted. He felt his reason slipping. Sturgeon made some remark and pointed at the animal, and Callie laughed and shook her head.
Something cracked, some final thin sliver of sanity. Absurdly, all he could think was that it was his pig, his and Callie's, and Sturgeon had made her laugh. He stood still for a moment, suffused with rage. She looked up then and saw him. Across the width of the street full of geese and chicken crates, he stared at her, breathing through the woolen scarf concealing his face.
She gazed back as if she were transfixed. Trev narrowed his eyes, expressing his opinion of this betrayal. She lost all her color, leaving only two bright spots burning on her cheeks in the cold. Her hand went out and found Sturgeon's arm for support.
Trev realized then that he must be a figure of more than ordinary menace in his mask. He turned abruptly away, prowling along the street. She liked adventure. He would give it to her. The fair had begun to attract more people now, as the shadows of early morning retreated and the sun took off the worst of the frost. He moved near the tarps that concealed Hubert's pen.
"Untie the bull," he muttered. "Get him on his feet."
Charles poked his head from inside the canvas. "Aye, sir." He pulled back and vanished.
Trev moved away as the tarps began to sway and tremble. He gave a low instruction to one of his boys.
"Eh?" Bristol's finest hope for the next Champion of the Noble Art rolled a startled eye toward him.
"Do it," Trev said. "And man the fires—keep 'em clear when it starts."
"Oh, there's the dandy," his cohort said with under stated violence. "Mind we don't burn down the town."
"Aye, mind it," Trev said, giving him a clap on the shoulder to send him off.
While the word spread, he loitered by a stack of crated turkey hens, listening to their soft gobbles. After a moment he reached down surreptitiously and f lipped the wooden latches open, holding the doors closed with his knee. He kept his eyes down the street on Callie and Sturgeon as they sampled bread and honey at a vendor's stall. Sturgeon sampled it, at any rate. Callie just stood holding hers, looking nervous, the way she always looked just before he gave her the office to act on whatever outrageous part he had assigned her in their schemes.
A tight smile curled his mouth. Only that one look between them, and she knew. And in spite of the desperate expression, she would perform her role to perfection, even if she didn't yet know what it was. She always managed to carry it off, as clever and cool as a schoolmistress once the sport commenced.
Ah God, he would miss her. No good-byes, no farewells, which was better. Last night was his good bye. Remember me, he thought.
Off by the sheep, one of his boys leaned over the pen as if to observe a ram more closely. Then he stood back, his hand nonchalantly resting on the gate, and made the high sign with a swipe of his arm across his forehead. Trev looked from one end of the wide street to the other. They all waited on him, an odd sprinkling of Samsons and Goliaths amid the fairgoers, rubbing their chins or whistling and gazing artlessly up at the sky.
He nodded and stepped away from the turkey coops, turning his back as the doors swung open. With
a sharp kick of his heel, he cried havoc and let slip the hens of war.
It all started with the turkeys, a sudden burst of black wings and wattles as the birds exploded from a falling stack of crates. Four big hens tumbled and recovered themselves amid a f lutter of feathers and splintering wood. As their owner shouted in alarm, they began to run, sleek ebony missiles darting hither and thither between the legs of goats and through fences and under the skirt of a cottager's wife.
Callie had just begun to calm herself a little, thinking she must have misunderstood the intent of that malevolent stare from Trev, that it was merely the particular effect of his dark gypsy eyes that made it seem as if he intended to commit some sinister mayhem at any moment. But she went stiff at the sound of shouting from just at the place he had been standing. God in heaven, what mad thing did he think was he doing?
All about, every animal came alert for danger. One frightened beast startled the next, and suddenly the pens seemed no more than f limsy toothpicks. The cart pony reared as a turkey dashed under its belly, its silken hoof feathers f lying while pumpkins smashed onto the pavement. They bounced and rolled beneath the feet of an uneasy yearling calf. It bucked and bolted away from the attack of these alien objects, lead rope trailing. Suddenly there were geese waddling free, f lapping their wings to f lee from sheep crowding through an open gate and f looding onto the pavement. The air filled with bleats and quacks, disorder mushrooming into chaos.
Callie picked up her skirts and ran. A big drover waved his arms and shouted, spooking the loose calf and sheep away from a street fire. The frantic calf sheared off; Callie grabbed hold of its lead just before it leaped through a shop window. The rope burned across her gloved fingers as she threw herself backward to turn the animal. When the calf hit the end of the lead, the momentum hurled her to her knees. Her head struck hard on the wooden window sash. For an instant she was stunned, the pain ringing down through her whole body like a bright, terrible bell. Tears sprang in her eyes. But she held herself upright with her arm against the sill, her head spinning, refusing to let go of the lead.
Someone helped her up. She didn't
stop to see who it was. She took a loop of the calf's rope and pulled it along with her, plunging for the Malempré pens. Amid the chaos they passed the corpulent pig—the only animal sitting calmly, contemplating the open gate of its pen without even trying to rise. Callie grabbed a loose piglet with one hand just before it tottered out, tossed it back, and slammed the barrier shut. She picked herself up from another half stumble and plowed through the confusion, reaching the Malempré pen in time to see the canvas rock and sway as if the earth quaked.
She panted and lunged forward, almost going down on her knees again when she stepped off the curb. A strong hand caught at her elbow, saving her. The tarps lifted and f lailed. With a squealing bellow, Hubert burst forth, tossing a sheet of canvas and a green-coated herdsman aside with one powerful sweep of his head. The herdsman went down on his rear and Hubert broke into a thunderous trot, f linging his nose from side to side, his eyes rolling white as he emerged into the street.
Callie stood still, her mouth open, as he put his head down and hooked a bag of potatoes, pitching them on his horns right through a trestle table full of jam and preserves. The board collapsed, sending jelly f lying through the air. Farmwives screamed and scattered.