She meant to prepare a breakfast, leave it set out on the parlor table under covers, and return to Shelford Hall before anyone would suppose she had done more than make an early visit to the farmyard. No one belowstairs at the Hall had questioned her need for bread and bacon and butter. They were accustomed to any odd request from Callie for her animals. But Dolly, Lady Shelford, was another matter. It would require some marvelous persuasion, Callie feared, for her cousin-in-law to approve of lending out the undercook. Callie wasn't hopeful about her prospects of success.
In the shadowy silence before dawn, she let herself into the scullery at Dove House and laid out her burden. The kitchen was empty, but the fire had been banked properly and took no great effort to revive. She envisioned a frigid wind blowing across the side of a mountain. Casting herself as the pretty daughter of an old shepherd, she built up the fire to a hot blaze in order to warm the rich and handsome traveler she and her faithful dog had just rescued from the Alpine snows.
After she had renounced his fervent offer of matri mony in favor of the handsome-but-poor blond moun tain guide who had loved her since she was a child in the f lower-strewn meadows, she slipped upstairs to look in on Madame de Monceaux. As she ascended, she could hear a ponderous snoring all the way from the attic and supposed that the massive Jacques had found himself a bed. When Callie peeked into Madame's chamber, the duchesse seemed to be resting quietly, her breathing shallow but regular. Barely visible in the shadows, Trev slept in the bedside chair, propped against the wall at an uncomfortable angle.
Callie paused. His mother must have passed a difficult night, if he had sat up with her for all of it. As she closed the door, trying to keep it from squeaking, she resolved to find at least a maidservant and a cook by dinnertime, even if she had to gird herself to beg Dolly for the loan. The situation for hiring in Shelford was dire, with the opening of a large new pottery not four miles from the town. Even Shelford Hall had felt the pinch in trying to replace the increasing number of staff who had left since the new mistress had taken management of the house. But Dolly had only looked coldly uninterested when Callie suggested that wages might be increased to compete with the manufactory's lure. Callie was entreated to calm her anxiety about a pack of disloyal servants and concern herself with more refined topics.
It was still dark outside when she set the teakettle on the hob and arranged rashers of bacon in the skillet. She stared down at the sizzling meat, deep in thought as she considered where best to begin inquiries. The innkeeper, Mr. Rankin, might have news of a prospective cook, since he was on the post road and received all the intelligence first. And Miss Poole always had her finger on the pulse of the young girls available in the district, looking out for help in her mantua-shop. A girl too clumsy to do good needlework would be perfectly useful at Dove House.
"Good morning."
A husky voice made her look round quickly. She dropped the big fork and turned as Trev stepped down into the kitchen, his black hair tousled and his neck cloth hanging rumpled and loose.
"That smells delicious," he said. "And the cook is a charming sight too." He leaned against the wall wearily. "If there is coffee to be had, I believe I may be able to carry on to the next hill."
"Coffee," Callie said, f lustered to find him down so soon. "Oh yes. Let me look out some berries from the pantry. Good morning!"
He smiled. "What can I do to help you? I'll carry out a violent raid on the rosebush, if I can unearth it in that jungle of a garden."
"No, do sit down, if you don't mind to eat in the kitchen." She waved at the scarred old table. "There's bread and butter. I fear your mother passed an uneasy night?"
His brief smile evaporated. He stood straight and came to the table to sit. "She was better after midnight, I think. I don't know. Perhaps it's only a bad spell, and she'll be recovered presently." He looked up hopefully.
Callie kept her gaze averted, setting the skillet off the grate. "I pray so. When I saw her a month ago, we sat up in the parlor, so perhaps with better nourish ment she'll find her strength." It was too difficult to admit that she feared the duchesse was failing badly.
He ran his hand through his hair. "I'll send Jacques to London today. I want a man of reputation to attend her."
Callie laid bacon on a plate. "Let me fetch the coffee-berries."
When she came back to the kitchen, he was gone. But by the time she had roasted the berries on a fire shovel and ground them, he returned. His great, tall manservant ducked a shaved head through the door after him. Jacques didn't linger to eat but only made a very creditable and gentlemanly bow to Callie before he went out the back door. She glanced after him. He was dressed neatly but oddly for a servant, in billowing yellow trousers and top boots, a colorful scarf tied about his throat. She had not noticed the night before that both of his ears were thickened and distorted in shape. If he had not been so well mannered and gentle in his moves, she would have thought he had been one of those horrid pugilists, the ones who came into the country for their illegal matches and caused all her farm lads to lose their wits and talk of taking up fighting as a trade.
A faint light of dawn showed against the sky as the manservant went out. When he was gone, Callie became conscious that she was left alone with Trev in the kitchen. He had not yet shaved, but he had straight ened his neck cloth and brushed the wilder curls from his hair. It didn't seem awkward or improper; indeed it seemed comfortable when he sat down again at the table and began to slice the bread. Callie set out plates and cups, the chipped and elegant remains of a set that had once borne garlands of f lowers and gilt rims.
She strained off the coffee when it boiled. Trev had speared pieces of bread on a long-handled fork, toasting them at the fire with surprising expertise for a French duke of royal bloodlines. He dropped the golden brown pieces off the fork onto a plate.
Callie was indulging herself in gentle daydreams, now the mother of a promising young family in a Normandy farmhouse, preparing breakfast for her dashing husband while he was home on leave from his naval command. He looked so drowsy because they had spent the entire night making passionate love that would no doubt result in another fine son. After breakfast they would take a stroll through the seaside village and cause the other wives to sigh over his gallantry and prizes. She served out the bacon on two plates and sat down across from him. "I hope the coffee is what you like."
"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."
She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I must go and find the eggs."
"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outra geous, I promise you."
Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.
"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual conversation.
He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.
"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.
"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good claret."