Duc. I fear Madame is in a
grave crisis?"
As he spoke, he assumed an odd affectation of an accent, so that Trev was moo-shur
l'duck . The citizens of Shelford always took to French when they wished to put him in his
place. Clearly Mr. Hartman did not approve of Callie's escort.
Her cheeks were the color of crushed strawberries. Trev was embarrassed too, caught
enjoying himself while his mother was in a grave crisis. He was instantly annoyed with
Hartman.
"She's a good deal better this morning, thank you," he said with easy English and a cool
demeanor.
"Ah, she's improved." The news did not seem to please the parson. In fact his face drew
downward into a more severe frown. "I felt deep apprehension from what I was told. I did
not wish to leave her spiritually unattended at such a time."
"It's kind of you to come," Trev said dryly. As adherents of the Roman Catholic rite, his
family had seen very little of Mr. Hartman over their years in Shelford. "But I have some
hope she'll survive for a few more hours."
"Well, certainly. I didn't mean, of course—" Mr. Hartman sputtered a little. "I should be
glad to provide any comfort that I may in her extremity."
"Lady Callista has seen that my mother has every comfort," Trev said. "I suppose it's
not too late to alter her popish tendencies, but I advise you to hasten."
"Really, sir!" Mr. Hartman gasped. "I had no intention, I assure you!"
"But pray don't let us detain you while she's in her extremity." Trev could see by the
look Callie gave him that he was being outrageous. He took her arm again. "We're on our
way to the Antlers for tea, leaving her to her fate. Good day!"
With a little application of force, he walked on, carrying Callie along with him. She
threw a quick good morning over her shoulder and then allowed him to direct her
forward. They walked at a brisk pace as far as the crossroad.
He stopped so suddenly that her skirts swirled around his boots. With a harsh
exhalation, he said, "I beg your pardon. But by God—what a meddling old crow. What
does that fellow mean by calling on my mother now, when I daresay he's never set his
foot in her house before?"
"He's a meddling old crow," Callie said wryly. "But you were perhaps a little
disrespectful."
"Impudent, you mean. I suppose that will be all over town by noon."
"Oh no." Her mouth made a tiny quirk. "By the next quarter hour, I should think."
"Well then," he said. "Do you prefer the scarf or the bag?"
"Perhaps I should cover myself with a rug." They were nearly abreast of the first thatch-
and-timber houses that lined Shelford's only street. No one else had passed them yet, but
there were a few people walking and one horseman ahead. "Good morning," she said
hastily, in response to a greeting from the gentleman who trotted past. Her steps were
growing more unwilling as they approached the populated part of the street.
"This is a Mrs. Farr about to accost us, as I recall," Trev said under his breath. "Widely
known for her kind soul and foul-mouthed cockatoo." He took off his hat and bowed,
reckoning he'd best make an attempt to rehabilitate himself. "Good morning, ma'am," he
said cheerfully.
"I declare!" exclaimed the apple-cheeked widow, dropping a quick curtsy toward Callie
amid an abundance of petticoats spared from sometime in the last century. "Good
morning, milady. It couldn't be our young Frenchman who has you on his arm, now?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Farr," Callie said softly. "Yes, indeed, here is Madame's son
come to her."
"An excellent thing," Mrs. Farr said in her quavery voice. "There's nothing to top it.
What a fine gentleman!"
"I trust you're as well as you look, ma'am," Trev said. It was easy to smile
affectionately at Mrs. Farr. "And how does Miss Polly do these days?"
"Oh, she's as cross as ever she was. Just fancy you remembering Miss Polly!"
"How could I forget? That bird taught me how to have my mouth washed out with
soap."
"Pshaw, you aren't supposed
grave crisis?"
As he spoke, he assumed an odd affectation of an accent, so that Trev was moo-shur
l'duck . The citizens of Shelford always took to French when they wished to put him in his
place. Clearly Mr. Hartman did not approve of Callie's escort.
Her cheeks were the color of crushed strawberries. Trev was embarrassed too, caught
enjoying himself while his mother was in a grave crisis. He was instantly annoyed with
Hartman.
"She's a good deal better this morning, thank you," he said with easy English and a cool
demeanor.
"Ah, she's improved." The news did not seem to please the parson. In fact his face drew
downward into a more severe frown. "I felt deep apprehension from what I was told. I did
not wish to leave her spiritually unattended at such a time."
"It's kind of you to come," Trev said dryly. As adherents of the Roman Catholic rite, his
family had seen very little of Mr. Hartman over their years in Shelford. "But I have some
hope she'll survive for a few more hours."
"Well, certainly. I didn't mean, of course—" Mr. Hartman sputtered a little. "I should be
glad to provide any comfort that I may in her extremity."
"Lady Callista has seen that my mother has every comfort," Trev said. "I suppose it's
not too late to alter her popish tendencies, but I advise you to hasten."
"Really, sir!" Mr. Hartman gasped. "I had no intention, I assure you!"
"But pray don't let us detain you while she's in her extremity." Trev could see by the
look Callie gave him that he was being outrageous. He took her arm again. "We're on our
way to the Antlers for tea, leaving her to her fate. Good day!"
With a little application of force, he walked on, carrying Callie along with him. She
threw a quick good morning over her shoulder and then allowed him to direct her
forward. They walked at a brisk pace as far as the crossroad.
He stopped so suddenly that her skirts swirled around his boots. With a harsh
exhalation, he said, "I beg your pardon. But by God—what a meddling old crow. What
does that fellow mean by calling on my mother now, when I daresay he's never set his
foot in her house before?"
"He's a meddling old crow," Callie said wryly. "But you were perhaps a little
disrespectful."
"Impudent, you mean. I suppose that will be all over town by noon."
"Oh no." Her mouth made a tiny quirk. "By the next quarter hour, I should think."
"Well then," he said. "Do you prefer the scarf or the bag?"
"Perhaps I should cover myself with a rug." They were nearly abreast of the first thatch-
and-timber houses that lined Shelford's only street. No one else had passed them yet, but
there were a few people walking and one horseman ahead. "Good morning," she said
hastily, in response to a greeting from the gentleman who trotted past. Her steps were
growing more unwilling as they approached the populated part of the street.
"This is a Mrs. Farr about to accost us, as I recall," Trev said under his breath. "Widely
known for her kind soul and foul-mouthed cockatoo." He took off his hat and bowed,
reckoning he'd best make an attempt to rehabilitate himself. "Good morning, ma'am," he
said cheerfully.
"I declare!" exclaimed the apple-cheeked widow, dropping a quick curtsy toward Callie
amid an abundance of petticoats spared from sometime in the last century. "Good
morning, milady. It couldn't be our young Frenchman who has you on his arm, now?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Farr," Callie said softly. "Yes, indeed, here is Madame's son
come to her."
"An excellent thing," Mrs. Farr said in her quavery voice. "There's nothing to top it.
What a fine gentleman!"
"I trust you're as well as you look, ma'am," Trev said. It was easy to smile
affectionately at Mrs. Farr. "And how does Miss Polly do these days?"
"Oh, she's as cross as ever she was. Just fancy you remembering Miss Polly!"
"How could I forget? That bird taught me how to have my mouth washed out with
soap."
"Pshaw, you aren't supposed
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