'Oh,' the duchesse said, opening her eyes suddenly. She lifted one slender hand. 'Pray do not read me of this tiresome Mrs. Fowler. I have no interest in that… sordid affair.'
Callie found to her chagrin that she did. Prurient and low though it might be, she had a burning desire to discover more of the woman who protested her innocence in the public papers. And now, finding that Mrs. Fowler was apparently accused of forgery-Callie hardly seemed able to hold the journal steady. She riff led through the pages quickly, following the indication pointing to Further Articles Relating to the Trials of Mrs. Fowler and Monsieur LeBlanc, Page 24. Fortunately the designated page included a story about a well-known actress driving herself alone in Hyde Park, an uneventful progress, which was nevertheless endowed by the editors with broad hints of sinister meaning. Callie read it aloud, trying to examine the articles about Mrs. Fowler from the corner of her eye.
They detailed the lady's history with the salacious enjoyment of a first-rate village gossip. The pretty daughter of a Yorkshire gentleman with both money and connections, Mrs. Fowler might have made a respectable match, but instead she had obliged The Lady's Spectator by running away with an impoverished poet at sixteen. After his early demise in a sponging house, she straight away wed a famous prizefighter- Mr. Jem 'The Rooster' Fowler-and became the reigning toast of the Corinthian set, only to witness his death in the ring under suspicious circumstances. But it was the description of her companion Monsieur LeBlanc that made Callie stumble as she tried to read. He figured prominently in the latter part of the story, first as the friend, then as the lover, then as the secret spouse of Mrs. Fowler.
He was French, but according to The Lady's Spectator, no one who knew him personally could hold that against him. The journal seemed to take a tolerant, even an admiring view of his activities. Monsieur LeBlanc was a member of the demimonde and the boxing fancy, a bookmaker and organizer of bouts, a close friend of Gentleman Jackson and the Rooster, and a man of impeccable character and noble manners. The journal saved its disdain for the hapless widow, Mrs. Fowler, who had been detected in the attempt to pass a forged note of hand in payment for her large debt at a dressmaker.
Upon exposure, this unfortunate lady had at first seemed bewildered by the idea that anything could be amiss. Learning that the crime was subject to capital punishment, however, she had instantly insisted that her friend Monsieur LeBlanc had given her the note, which she had merely delivered in all innocence. At her trial, she had caused a sensation by revealing that he acted as trustee of the considerable public sum that had been collected to support her and her child after her husband's untimely death in the boxing ring. Upon examination, she tearfully suggested that Monsieur had gambled away her money and been reduced to forgery to hide it from her.
Several affecting drawings of Mrs. Fowler accompa nied the description of her trial. She was shown in her prison cell, in the dock, and praying outside the court room with her young son, each time in a different gown. But however plausible and touching it might be, The Lady's Spectator did not swallow her story for an instant. There was no indication, upon the court's summoning of the account books, that Monsieur LeBlanc had mismanaged Mrs. Fowler's trust. Indeed, it appeared that when she had exhausted the stipend with her spending, he had given her a generous amount of money from his own funds as well.
It was this last fact that riveted Callie's attention and caught that of the eager public too, it seemed. The discovery that he had been supporting Mrs. Fowler for some years prior to the scandal put a new light on their relationship. Witnesses spoke of how often he was in her company, how tenderly he treated her. While it had never been brought up at the trial itself, The Lady's Spectator confidently stated that they had married on the day after the Rooster's death and kept it secret so as not to offend the mood of public mourning for the famous boxer. Thus he made no defense at his own trial, taking the part of tragic honor and allowing himself to be convicted so that his lover might be declared innocent.
Callie looked up, realizing that she had long since ceased to read aloud. She stared blankly at the bedpost. Her heart was beating wildly, but she sat very still.
It was Trev, of course. She knew that with a certainty that went to her bones. He had not come home from France. He had been in England all along. All his huge menservants-they were prizefighters. He had been convicted of forgery, and it was precisely the sort of gallant thing he would do, sacrifice himself for a woman.
For his wife.
The duchesse said nothing. When Callie looked up at her, their eyes met for a long moment. Madame bit her lip and turned her face away with an unhappy look. It came upon Callie suddenly that she knew- that the guilt and sadness in Madame's face were because she knew.
'Oh my,' Callie said. She was numb, but she struggled to speak. 'Oh.'
The duchesse reached toward her. 'My dear, if I may-'
'I'm sorry, I… I must go.' She couldn't hold the magazine for another moment; she let it fall to the f loor as she stood and hurried to the door. 'I really must go!' she exclaimed. She closed the door behind her, ran down the stairs, and f lew out the door, leaving Lilly standing with some unanswered query on her lips.
Eighteen
'I FEEL A DEEP LOVE AND ABIDING RESPECT FOR YOU, my dear,' Major Sturgeon said. 'You have made me the happiest man alive.'
'Congratulations,' Callie remarked wryly, holding her bucket with both hands as she lugged it to the stove. 'How pleased I am for you.'
He glanced up at her from his position on the requi site bended knee. He had worn his full dress uniform, all burnished and plumed, as he made his call in reply to her note that she had made up her mind in the matter. The Shelford yard and cattle stalls were quite clean, but he had paused and looked carefully at the ground before he lowered himself to put his question to her.
'Oh dear,' she added, seeing his expression as she set the bucket down. 'That's someone else's line, isn't it? I've done this so often that I become confused.'
He had the grace to made a gesture of rueful admis sion. 'You haven't been treated as you ought, dearest, and I am the first to blame for that.'
She gave him a faintly acid smile. 'Only the first.'
He stood up, looking down for a moment and brushing at his knees. Then he took a step toward her and caught both of her hands in his. 'I hope I can make you as happy as you have made me.'
She raised her lashes. 'You might lift this bucket up onto the stove, in that case,' she said.
'Certainly!' He let go of her and reached down, hefting the bucket of mash and molasses onto the hot surface with a grunt. He stood back, brushing his palms together. 'I beg your pardon, I ought to have done so instantly, but I was… distracted.'
'By your deep love and abiding respect.' Callie took up the wooden paddle and began to stir the mix. 'I understand completely.' She peered down into the dark syrup. 'I have one stipulation that I must mention.'
'Of course. Tell me anything that would please you.'
'I hope you won't object to a marriage of convenience.'
'Convenience?' He drew her away from the stove, taking her hand again lightly. 'I'm not certain that I understand you.'
Heat rose in her cheeks. She held the paddle out over the pail to prevent molasses from dripping to the f loor. 'I mean that I prefer not to interfere in your conduct. You may feel free to indulge-'
'My dear!' He interrupted her, catching the paddle from her and dropping it into the mash. 'We needn't speak of this sort of thing. I mean to make up fully for my past fault, of that I assure you. Tell me-where would you like to live? Somewhere that you may raise your cattle, I'm certain, and I've had my eye on the broads country round about Norwich. Have you seen it? What do you think of the forage there?'
Callie pulled her fingers free. She looked down at her muck boots and then up again. 'I believe you under stand me perfectly well. I do not wish to be touched.'
Surprise f litted across his features, followed by a lightly concealed impatience. 'Delicacy of feeling is perfectly understandable in a virtuous maiden such as yourself, of course. I hope that I can assuage your fears. I'm not an insensitive man.'
'It isn't delicacy of feeling,' Callie said frankly. 'It is you, sir. I do not wish to be touched by you. You may consider it a personal aversion, if you like. I well understand that you wish to marry me for my money. You must understand that I have purely practical motives to accept you. You may, of course, feel free to withdraw your suit if that offends you.'
He stared at her. 'My lady-' He seemed unable to summon a reply. Callie had the notion that he actually noticed her for the first time and was not pleased with what he perceived. She turned to the pail and began to stir vigorously before the syrup could congeal.
'You feel a personal aversion to me?' he asked, as if the very thought bewildered him.
The notion that any female could hold him in aver sion appeared to be a supremely difficult concept for him to grasp. She let go of the spoon and turned. 'I beg your pardon,' she said with a slight curtsy. 'I am known to have poor taste.'
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.'
