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Back Lessons in French Save as PDF
Chapters (28)
  1. Table of Contents
  2. One
  3. Two
  4. Three
  5. Four
  6. Five
  7. Six
  8. Seven
  9. Eight
  10. Nine
  11. Ten
  12. Eleven
  13. Twelve
  14. Thirteen
  15. Fourteen
  16. Fifteen
  17. Sixteen
  18. Seventeen
  19. Eighteen
  20. Nineteen
  21. Twenty
  22. Twenty-One
  23. Twenty-Two
  24. Twenty-Three
  25. Epilogue
  26. Author's Note
  27. About the Author
  28. Cover

"You know what I am, Maman. Unsteady character."

"You were only a wild boy. Your grandfather—he could not help himself to drive you mad. I tried to say to him…" She trailed off and shrugged. "He could not help himself. He wanted everything to turn back… as it was."

"Yes, I did try single-handedly to restore the monarchy, but Bonaparte would have none of it. And then Wellington stole a march on me and did the thing himself."

She reached toward him across the coverlet, smiling. "You have accomplished what mattered most to us. Your father and your… grandfather would be so proud, to know we were in possession of Monceaux again."

It was almost worth it when she gave him such a look of gladness. He wondered brief ly what it would be like to deserve it. He took her cool hand for a moment, then released her.

"Well, I will not weasel you about Lady Callie," she said contritely. "But perhaps you will… consider what I say."

"Weasel me?"

"Yes, as they bait and persecute those… poor crea tures in their burrows, you know."

"'Badger' me," he corrected. "You will not badger me."

"Oh. But I may weasel you, then?"

"I feel quite certain that you will, Maman," he said.

Seven

Seven

THE NATURE OF HIS CONNECTION TO MAJOR STURGEON occurred to Trev over his morning coffee. It struck him full blown, apropos of nothing but a chipped white cup that reminded him of one he'd used in the Peninsula.

"Putain," he muttered slowly, looking up, his eyebrows lifted.

Jock turned round, his big head bent down to clear the low beam over the hearth. "You know yer mama won't like you to be saying them filthy words in French."

Trev took a sip and grimaced. "I'm sorry to sully your pretty caulif lower ears with my language lessons, 'Jacques,' old son, but your coffee deserves it." He always gave his manservant's name that little Gallic moue of accent, partly to encourage the unlikely impression that he was actually French, and partly just to torment him.

Jock snorted and returned to clattering with black pots and skillets. Sleet pattered against the small square window, promising an ugly day, but Jock had not stinted on the coal fire. The huge hearth gave out a steady heat. Trev stared at his valet's massive back, drinking the foul brew and frowning pensively.