He stood observing her with a frown. "I'm sorry to hear that you feel this way."
She offered a consoling glance and went back to her task. "I'm sure I'm in the minority."
Major Sturgeon stroked his plumed hat. Callie waited for him to say that the engagement was off. She wondered if she had been engaged long enough for it to count as a fourth jilt. Going for a record, Trev would have said. But she did not want to think of Trev. She was done with Trev. She walked Trev to the end of a plank at sword point and poked him in the back and watched him step off into shark-infested waters with a huff of satisfaction. Before he even hit the water, she was stirring hard as she boiled him in a vat of molasses and made him march, covered in goose feathers, down the center of Broad Street in Hereford, while farmwives jeered and threw pear tarts at his back.
She stiffened a little as the major took a step toward her. He noticed it. He paused in midstride and held himself up. Callie stopped stirring her mash pail. For an instant they were like two tin soldiers facing one another.
"My lady," he said. A degree of the rigid affront left him. He lifted his hat and dropped it with a helpless move. "I'll admit that I hardly know what to say. Are we to be strangers to one another, then? Do you wish to live separately? I had hoped that my children—" He stopped.
Callie supposed that he was hesitant to admit quite so openly that he needed a mother for his family. Her cheeks were f laming with bright red spots, she was sure. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over the stall partitions to be sure no one was nearby. "It isn't that. I look forward to becoming acquainted with your children. I don't—I suppose I don't wish to live separately." She took a breath, feeling as if she were smothered in molasses herself. "This is a difficult topic to discuss. I would prefer not to live as man and wife. Of course I understand that you will have— other interests—and I wish you to understand that is perfectly acceptable to me."
He stood looking at her, a slight frown creasing his brow. He shook his head slightly. "A mistress, I comprehend you mean. Pardon my bluntness. No, my lady, I had not contemplated such a thing."
"Oh come," she said, adding another scoop of barley and giving the mash a hard stir. "Pray do not lie to me."
A silence stretched between them. He averted his eyes and shrugged. "Perhaps at one time I did." He looked at her askance, his lowered glance traveling from her hem to her throat. "I cannot, at the moment, comprehend why."
"Perhaps you will remember later," Callie said dryly. She would hardly be an object of admiration in her canvas apron and mucking boots. "It doesn't matter. That is my stipulation, along with my choice of property for our home and a settlement in which I have ample allowance to pursue my cattle husbandry."
He examined the plume on his hat, running his fingers over the feathers. Then he shrugged. "I will agree to that, my dear, if it's truly what you wish."
Callie found herself even more f lustered. She'd rather hoped that he would find her requirements too onerous, but of course except for his pride, there was little to burden him in her requests. Her mouth was dry as she nodded. "Very well."
He reached as if to take her hand to kiss it, then stopped himself, looking conscious. He substituted with a brisk military bow. Callie gave him a shallow curtsy in return.
It was settled, then; she would truly marry this man and go away from Shelford Hall with him.
"Ah yes!" he exclaimed with a forced brightness. "But in the excitement of our coming to an under standing, I'd forgot that I've news for you. You'll be pleased to hear that my efforts to apprehend that so-called Belgian scoundrel for you have borne fruit."
She lifted her eyes quickly. "Indeed?"
"Yes, I had word from some men I hired out of Bow Street. He was spotted boarding a ship, but when the port police learned that there was warrant for him, they sent an officer out to take him off before it left harbor."
"Oh?" To hide her reaction, Callie turned to the bucket of mash on the stove. She took up a cloth and clasped both hands about the wooden handle of the pail, gripping it tightly.
He reached to help her lift it from the stove. "They're low fellows, those thief-takers, but they know the criminal mind. Careful! Allow me, my dear. They tracked him from Hereford to the Bristol docks. He's jailed and awaiting the assizes by now. Take care!" He leaped back as the bucket tilted and clattered to the f loor, spilling a f lood of hot molasses and barley grain.
Trev should have been on a packet ship for Boston instead of under his mother's bed. His trunk—and Jock along with it—were aboard. But Trev had gone ashore with the last mail, telling himself he ought to leave a final note for his maman and that he'd somehow find the words to write it on the Bristol quay. He hadn't, of course. Six beakers of blue ruin in a dockside gin house had not loosened his pen, but they had succeeded in making him miss the last call for the ship tender.
Jock was doubtless a little put out. Trev sincerely hoped that Boston had excellent tailors.
He'd woken up with a thundering headache and no purse. By the time his head was clear, he'd been halfway to London on borrowed blunt, with the intent to track down whoever it was who had blackmailed Sturgeon. It was a bothersome itch in the back of his mind—though not as bothersome as the dust ball that was tickling his nose at the moment. He stif led a sneeze.
"Why is this window wide open to the cold night air?" Nurse demanded. Her sturdy shoes clumped across the f loor, making the boards vibrate under Trev's cheek. He'd just made it under the bed before the door opened. "The plain truth is, that young maid is a good-for-nothing! I'd supposed Madame would be asleep," she added severely. "And the candle still lit!" There was an ominous pause. "I daresay you didn't think to ring for me to snuff it?"
"You may put it out now," his maman said faintly. "No—ah no, pray—there is no need for you to… occupy the dressing room tonight."
Nurse's feet clumped indignantly. "My duty to you, Madame."
"But… you wish me to sleep," the duchesse said in a plaintive tone. "Do you not?"
"Certainly, Madame."
"Then I think… " His maman trailed off. "I do not say that the snore would… wake the dead. But perhaps I think it might."
Trev pressed his fist to his mouth and nose, subduing a sneeze and a laugh. It was said with such a pretty, tremulous naïveté that the nurse didn't even feel the sting. She huffed and clumped about, grumbling, but after slamming shut the window, placing all the uten sils of her black art to her satisfaction, and snuffing the lamp, she made a decisive effort to tiptoe on the way to the door, threatening to rattle the medicine bottles off the shelf.
After the door closed behind her, a silence descended on the room. Trev waited. The sound of Nurse's shoes receded, replaced by the creaks of the f loorboards overhead as she took possession of the attic.
"Mon trésor," his mother murmured. "The toast is clear."
Trev worked himself from beneath the bed frame, wincing as he bumped his head. "The 'coast,' Maman. The coast is clear." He fumbled to light the bed candle that Nurse had just extinguished.
"That is a great relief to me." She gave a faint smile. "Toast I never could comprehend to be clear. Particularly as the English… put butter on it. Are you hungry?"
He observed her intently, suspicious that his first impression had been correct—that her eyes had filled with tears when she first reached out her hand to him. "I'll eat later. Constable Hubble is presently engaged on some murky business with Cook in the kitchen, which I prefer not to know too much about."
"You have been… traveling?" She seemed uncon cerned that he had entered through the window. It seemed to be his typical means of ingress and egress to any respectable establishment these days.
"Yes." He did not elaborate but sat down on the bed and put his finger under her chin. "What is this?" He examined her face from side to side. "You've been gay and raking while I wasn't here to restrain you, I see. Too many parties, Maman. You're run off your feet."
She smiled. Then she g
ripped his hand and pressed it against her cheek, kissing his palm fiercely. Her eyes glittered as she took a single sobbing breath.
When she released him, he brushed his fingertips tenderly over her pale hair and down her chin. She greeted him with tears. Tears, and he had never seen his maman weep before except when his brother had died. She had lost four more children, but if she shed tears, she had done it in someplace beyond where anyone could see or hear.
"I won't leave again," he murmured.
"But the constable…" she said.
"Aye, and the Bow Street Runners too," he said, dropping his hand with a sigh. "I'll be put to some lengths to dodge them, I fear, but I won't leave you again, Maman."
He hadn't expected to have the Runners on his track. After a narrow escape from a brickyard where he'd been meeting with a clerk from the Bank of England, they'd made London too warm for him in the circles where he was asking questions. So even while he was developing a deep suspicion that there was something amiss with Callie's fortune, he'd been forced to abandon the inquiry and leave for a little holiday in the country.
He should have avoided Shelford, of course. He'd meant only to make a brief pause there to face his final farewells. Getting inside Dove House had not proved to be difficult, but staying only a moment with his maman proved impossible.
"Who are these… Runners?" she asked, frowning a little.
"Fellows from London. Thief-takers by trade." He saw her glance up at him quickly and gave her an easy shrug. "It's about the bull, I suppose. Lady Callista's magistrate friend is a determined prosecutor, but they'll never discover me under your bed, eh?"
She looked at him in that way she had, sidelong beneath her lashes—the one that reminded him where he had inherited his unsteady nature. Not from his upright patrician grandfather, certainly. "Oh yes," she said with a little dismissive gesture of her hand. "I have had news of Lady… Callista. She engages herself again… to marry. It is a very stupid thing."
Trev grew still. He said nothing, only let it wash over him and past, a wave of emotion and anger and all the things he had no right to feel. So, she had done it. He'd advised her to. He gave his mother a tight smile. "Congratulations to her. Sturgeon, I suppose?"
"That military man… who left her at the altar before." She made a sound of vexation. "It is because… you went away. I cannot approve!"
"It isn't your place to approve, Maman, after all." He took firm hold of his composure, building a wall between himself and the space Callie occupied in his heart. "It's not a bad match for her. She wants to have a home of her own and a place for her cattle. He should be able to give her that much, at least."
The duchesse sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "He doesn't love her."
"What's that to say? It's a marriage, not a love affair. He'll respect her as his wife, that I can promise you."
"Bah, how is that so, that you can promise it?"
Trev shrugged. "I had a little talk with him on the subject. In a back alley."
She lifted her slender eyebrows.
"You know I won't let him hurt her, Maman."
His mother gave a vexed sigh. She put her handker chief to her face as it become a cough. He watched her, concerned and guilty to see how weakly she moved.
"You should sleep now, before Nurse hears you and comes back to discover you dancing jigs against her advice," he said.
"One thing… would make me dance," she whis pered hoarsely.
"Maman—"
"You make me… cross," she said, speaking with effort. "Go and sleep… on the f loor. And if these Runners should come into my… house, you must pull the… blanket over your head!"
The news that Lady Callista Taillefaire was engaged to be married to Major Sturgeon had created a sense of wonder and awe among the inhabitants of Shelford that equaled the appearance of a comet or some other profound astronomical event. Certainly it had occurred with less warning. But the gentlefolk of Shelford overcame their astonishment in their eager kindness and sent such a number of small gifts, congratulatory cards, and perfumed letters that the pile threatened to overwhelm the porter's table in the hall, and this in spite of the fact that no formal announcement had yet been made.
Callie knew where to lay the blame. Obviously the major had mentioned it to someone—probably Colonel Davenport, in strict confidentiality—and from there the word raced with that mysterious speed and force that only a secret in a small country village could obtain. By the next day after her interview with the major, it was known to Mrs. Adam, Mr. Rankin, Miss Cummins, and Miss Poole. By the second, Reverend Hartman, Mrs. Farr, and Polly Parrot were acquainted with the facts of the matter. By the third day, it was old news to the goats. Callie was only left to wonder if she ought to make a formal announcement to Hubert. She supposed he must know, through the goats, but she wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by being the last to mention it to him.
"Pssst!"
She paused, uncertain if she had heard the whisper, which seemed to emanate from somewhere behind the bales of silk and shawls and cloaks piled high in what passed for the fashion showroom of Miss Poole's mantua-shop. There was no one else in the back room; nothing but fabrics and a faint sour-sweet scent that Callie could not quite place. She had wandered there on the excuse that she was looking over the fabrics, but in truth to escape the frequent congratulations from Miss Poole, which seemed to be unremitting. Callie herself felt rather numb and lacked an appetite, but she could not quite tell if it was from being engaged or expecting momentarily to hear that Monsieur Malempré had been sent to his trial in Bristol.
The hissing sound came again. Callie frowned and looked about the dim corners. Her sister and Dolly drank tea in the front room, poring over the fashion book while Dolly made acidic comments on the poor selection in a country town. It was only an emergency that had brought them to the length of consulting Miss Poole. Having got wind that Callie had used up her sister's rejected coquelicot wool for a costume to be worn at the masquerade ball two days hence, Dolly had positively shrieked with disgust. The impossibility of allowing this cloth to be viewed in public by the guests at Shelford Hall, particularly on Callie, had precipitated a sudden crisis. It was to be a royal blue, or she could appear in her petticoat, Dolly declared. Callie would have preferred to simply remain in her room, but Hermey protested that this would make her appear as if she wished to hog all the attention, when everyone knew that Callie was engaged now too. They would appear together—in suitably harmonious colors—or Hermey would break off her betrothal and enter a convent, or become a milkmaid, or something on that order, but worse. So Callie was at Miss Poole's, to be judged against the silks.
"My lady!" A plump white hand appeared from behind the mantled shape of a dress form. It held a note, the folded paper waving in the faint light. Callie peered around the form. Mrs. Easley crouched down behind it against the back door, holding her bottle in her lap. Callie recognized the sweet scent of gin now.
The woman pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the door frame. "The madame," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead.
At that, Callie snapped the note from her hand. She opened it hurriedly. It said only, My good dear Lady Callista—I beg of you to come to me at once. The handwriting was shaky, and the duchesse's signature trailed off at the end to a fine thread.
Callie did not hesitate. She edged behind the dress form and followed Mrs. Easley out the back door of the shop.
"An' so you're to be married, m'lady!" Mrs. Easley mumbled as she made weaving but gallant attempts to keep up with Callie's stride. A fine sprinkle and lowering clouds threatened rain, but as yet it was only a misting. "Dare s'y you'll be wantin' a cook for the new establishmuum?"
Callie ignored this, drawing her shawl up over her head against the light dust of raindrops. Her heart was too far in her throat to compose any sort of reply that would not come back to trouble her in the future, so she merely kept walking and hoped Mrs. Easley would fall behind. That hope took
on substance when the former cook halted abruptly, barely keeping her balance, as they came upon Dove Lane and saw a man in the distance ahead of them. Callie would have hurried ahead, but Mrs. Easley grabbed her elbow.
"Hssst! M'lady! That's a one of 'em!" Her slurred voice took on sharp urgency, and her fingers dug into Callie's arm. "Stop!"
Callie had little choice, as Mrs. Easley seemed bent on dragging her bodily back. "One of who?" she asked, trying to disengage herself from the drunken cook's grip.
"'Em runner fellows, up from London. Thief takers, m'lady!"
Callie looked back. She could see the man loitering far up the lane, moving from side to side in a strange manner, as if he were inspecting something in the dirt. She gave an exasperated sigh. A genuine thief taker was a rare article in Shelford. The occasional disappearance of a farm implement, which was usually discovered next spring where it had been left under a rick during the last haying season, was what passed for a wave of criminal activity in Shelford. In fact Callie could not remember ever hearing of one of the profes sional policemen in the vicinity before. But doubtless if they were looking about for thieves, Mrs. Easley had her reasons to avoid them. "You may go back, then," she said. "The duchesse needs me."