Lessons in French

She did not forget Trev or what had happened. But the thought of it in the morning light was like a tender bruise that she was not quite ready to touch. The instant she awoke, she had been aware that she was alone in the bed, surrounded by the lingering warmth where he had been.

A deep blue robe lay across the counterpane, along with her cashmere shawl. Callie had undressed with the help of the chambermaid and slept in her shift, but she had not laid out anything for the morning. She touched the robe, knowing that Trev had left it there for her. When she pulled it around her shoulders, she breathed the scent of him.

The fire had been lit in the grate, but it had yet done little to warm the bedchamber. A soft chink of china came from the parlor, and the sound of a servant withdrawing. Callie pulled the robe and shawl around her and slid out of the bed. With her toes curling on the cold f loor, she went to the doorway and looked in.

Trev stood by the table, shaved and fully dressed, pouring a cup from the coffeepot. He glanced up as he saw her. Callie immediately dropped her eyes, her face growing fiery.

'Good morning.' His greeting was a little too loud in the quiet room.

'Good morning.' She stood in the door, uncertain. When she stole a look toward him, he turned his face down to the cup before their eyes met.

He picked up a newspaper lying on the table, folded it, and tossed it aside. 'Come in, it's warmer here.'

Callie moved a little way into the room. He walked behind her and closed the bedroom door. She was very aware of her bare feet and her loose hair and the tumbled bedclothes behind her. If he had any similar sensation, he did not show it. They evaded one another politely, like strangers.

'Tea or coffee?' he asked briskly. 'They've brought us some breakfast, if you like.'

'I really should see to my cattle,' she said. 'It's turned cold.'

'Yes, of course.' He paused. 'I suppose you have no slippers. I'm sorry. I didn't think of that.' He poured tea for her. 'I hadn't expected you to be here overnight.'

Callie sat down on a chaise and curled her feet tightly under her. 'I didn't expect you to come back,' she countered, on a slight note of defense.

'No,' he said. 'I realize that.' He brought her the cup. She could make nothing of his neutral tone, but as she took it, he stepped back with a small bow, as formal as if he were a butler. She began to feel more awkward yet. There were volumes of unspoken words between them.

'Did you tell me that Sturgeon had taken rooms here?' he asked.

Callie nodded. 'He followed me. That is-he followed Madame Malempre. He seems to be acquainted with her.'

'Acquainted with her!' Trev stopped in the motion of lifting his cup. 'The deuce you say.'

Callie raised her face. 'He says he met her in Belgium, at a picnic after Waterloo. He seems to'-she cleared her throat-'to know her rather intimately.'

He swore under his breath. 'That's impossible. He must be feigning it. He suspects something. Damn, he followed you here?' He paced a step and turned. 'It's as well you didn't go out again.'

'He isn't pretending,' Callie said. 'I think he does know Madame Malempre. I think he knows her very well.'

Trev looked at her sharply. 'You do?'

Callie nodded. She lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea.

'What did he say to you?' There was a taut edge in his voice.

'Not to me,' she said. 'He thought he was speaking to her.'

'Indeed,' Trev said suspiciously. 'And just what did he say?'

Callie thought a moment. She wasn't sure she wished for Trev to know everything he had said. 'He seems to have had an encounter with her, in a garden summerhouse.'

He snorted. 'An encounter in-' He stopped short. He stared, as if at some distant place, and then turned his back to her, looking out the window.

'Who is she, this Madame Malempre? Do you know her too?' Callie asked.

'Mordieu, it's just the name of a town I passed through once!' He made an impatient gesture, as if tossing something away from him. 'I remembered it when I ordered the tarpaulins, that's all.'

She gazed at his back. 'It was quite an unfortunate choice, then.' She gave a little shrug. 'He would like to renew his acquaintance with her.'

'Oh, he would, would he?' He turned back swiftly his jaw hardening. 'He didn't touch you? You should have called Charles-' He stopped again. He frowned and then gave Callie an amazed look. 'And he's been courting you, hasn't he?' It had taken a few moments longer for him to notice the incongruity of the situation than it had for her. He seemed shocked, as if he could not quite comprehend what he had just realized. 'Callie!'

She lifted her eyebrows, trying to look arch. 'Yes, it's rather a blunder on his part. That's why I think he isn't pretending.'

'That whoreson bastard!' he exclaimed, striding across the room. He followed it up with several words in French that she had never heard in any lessons. He was not as amused by it all as she had expected. 'By God, I'll kill him.'

He had reached as far as the door by the time Callie had untangled herself from the robe and shawl. He seemed to have come to his senses, or at least paused to consider what method by which to eradicate the major, for he stopped and turned around. Callie was on her feet by then.

'Let me be certain I understand you,' he said. 'Sturgeon has asked you to marry him?'

'Yes,' she said.

'And you are presently considering his proposal?' His voice was steely. He stood very still, looking at her.

Callie couldn't hold his eyes. Suddenly she could not seem to think of anything but his arms around her, his body over hers. She found it difficult to breathe. She could not at that instant recall why she had said, in the middle of the night, that they would not suit. It seemed mad, as mad as those moments themselves, and equally dreamlike now. He had asked her to marry him, and she had remembered just in time that for some reason she must say no. And afterward…

She hugged herself, standing in her bare feet, covered in mortification. 'Trev,' she said, turning with an agitated move. 'We must-could we-discuss something?'

'What happened between us last night?' he asked bluntly.

She took a deep breath, daring to lift her eyes. 'Yes, I… suppose… that.'

'It was, of course, iniquitous of me to take advan tage of you.' He gave a short bow and spoke as if he were reciting something that he had memorized. 'Let me repeat, my lady, that I beg of you to become my wife, if you would see fit to accept me.'

From the sound of it, the last thing he hoped was that she should do so. Callie looked down and fiddled with the fringe of the cashmere shawl. All her reasons for refusing him came back to her in a rush.

'I know you feel that you must offer now,' she said with difficulty. 'But I don't think we would suit.'

'Yes,' he said. 'You mentioned that, I believe.'

'I'm rather… awkward and not very clever in company, you know. I fear that I wouldn't be a fitting wife for you.'

She glanced up at him, half hoping to be contra dicted, but he seemed to find the hem of her gown to be of more interest than her face. He remained silent, his jaw set.

'I'm not a lady of fashion,' she added, trying to make a clean breast of the whole. 'I'm seven and twenty. And I'm English, of course. And not a Catholic.'

He made a slight deprecating shrug. But still he said nothing, altering his attention to some painting on the wall, frowning at it as if it offended him.

'I suppose that might be overcome,' she said, trying to reply sensibly to his silence. 'But-you may have noticed-I'm rather dull and plain. I can't see myself living amid the haut ton. I was really quite a failure at it before, you know. I'd have to be like Madame Malempre and wear a veil all the time, so that no one would see me,' she added, in a stupid attempt at humor.

His expression grew darker as she spoke. 'Nonsense,' he snapped. 'Don't talk that way.'

Callie wet her lips and gave him one more chance. 'But you must wish to find someone who would be more worthy of Monceaux.'

He gave a short laugh and turned away, his hands shoved into his pockets. 'Do not concern yourself on that head, ma'am.'

So. She lifted her chin, growing more sure, and at the same time more disheartened. He had been eager in the night, and passionate, but what was that vulgar phrase she had overheard once among the stable lads? All cats look alike in the dark. She had fairly well thrown herself at him, even if she hadn't meant for him to find her in his bed, playing a trick like that impudent house maid who had tried to entice the parson on a dare. If he had even a slight wish to marry her, he would certainly show more delight at the idea. Even her jilts had managed to summon a greater show of gratification at the prospect than Trev 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-a-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.