Read Online Lessons in French by Laura Kinsale - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Kinsale
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with an air of satisfied
contemplation.
He had good reason to feel satisfied with himself. Hubert was an excellent specimen.
He measured five feet six inches at the shoulder and eleven feet ten inches from nose to
tail. He boasted a superbly mottled coat, red and black on a white ground. In addition to
his size and beauty, he possessed all the highest perfections of a shorthorn bull: a clean
throat, level back, impeccable big shoulders, ribs full and round, leading smoothly to long
quarters. He had grown only one ring yet on his handsome horns, being just three years
old, and his first crop of calves were on the ground this past spring, perfectly healthy and
lively as larks.
She looked on him fondly as he blinked his generous lashes and turned his head to
allow her better access to scratch behind his ear. She had been present at Hubert's birth,
led him about at his mother's side when he was a baby calf, comforted him with treats
when he was weaned, nursed the inevitable cuts and scrapes a young bullock inflicted
upon himself by trying to reach that farthest blade of grass through the hedgerow, and
brought him up to his impressive prime. Hubert was the pride of the county, a fit
successor to his celebrated grandsire, Rupert.
Even though he was a mottled shorthorn, rather than one of the cherished local white-
faced breed, she felt perfectly certain that he would take first premium at Hereford. In a
few days she would have him begin his leisurely walk to the city with her most trusted
drover, moving at just the right speed to maintain his weight and muscle, but still arrive
in good time for him to recover from any loss or scratch he might suffer on the journey.
As Callie leaned across the fence to rub his ear, a sudden growling bark made her
startle and grab the rail. Hubert turned his big head as a brindled dog charged from out of
the foggy lane, roaring and snarling. It stopped, teeth bared, a yard's length from her skirt.
Hubert stamped a hoof, lowering his nose to look through the rail. The dog rushed
toward him, snap ping. In the f lash of the moment, Callie threw her basket, sending a
shower of bread on the dog's head. It shied off for an instant, then paused, its heavy
muzzle turned toward Hubert, its pink lip still lifted in a growl, quivering in every
muscle.
"Silly creature!" Callie said in a jolly voice. She stayed on the rail but forced her
muscles to relax. "Now what do you suppose you're doing?"
The dog never took its eyes from Hubert. The bull had turned to face the threat,
lowering his nostrils almost to the turf, blowing strong gusts of air against the grass. He
began to paw the ground.
"What a funny dog!" Callie crooned in a quiet voice. "What a foolish boy. You don't
think we mean to hurt you?"
A man's voice called out from the road. The dog pricked its shorn ears and turned. But
it did not retreat.
Through the light fog, she saw a stranger hurrying toward them. He called the dog
again. This time it obeyed him reluctantly, swinging away and trotting to his side.
"Beg pardon, Miss!" He reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar. "I'll put a
rope on him."
Neither man nor dog were from the neighbor hood of Shelford, where Callie knew
every domestic creature and a good number of the wild ones too. The stranger wore a
heavy overcoat and gaiters with an elegant top hat, a rather odd combination of country
and city fashion. As he straightened up from tying the dog, he gave her a nervous smile,
his mouth creasing too widely under high cheekbones.
"We'll go along now, Miss!" he said, touching his hat and dragging the dog as it snarled
and lunged back toward Hubert.
She watched from the gate as his outline faded in the fog. He disappeared around the
curve in the lane. The sound of the dog's barking diminished. One of those card sharpers
and badger-baiters, she did not doubt, who would put his dog to fighting chained animals
while he stood back and shouted and
contemplation.
He had good reason to feel satisfied with himself. Hubert was an excellent specimen.
He measured five feet six inches at the shoulder and eleven feet ten inches from nose to
tail. He boasted a superbly mottled coat, red and black on a white ground. In addition to
his size and beauty, he possessed all the highest perfections of a shorthorn bull: a clean
throat, level back, impeccable big shoulders, ribs full and round, leading smoothly to long
quarters. He had grown only one ring yet on his handsome horns, being just three years
old, and his first crop of calves were on the ground this past spring, perfectly healthy and
lively as larks.
She looked on him fondly as he blinked his generous lashes and turned his head to
allow her better access to scratch behind his ear. She had been present at Hubert's birth,
led him about at his mother's side when he was a baby calf, comforted him with treats
when he was weaned, nursed the inevitable cuts and scrapes a young bullock inflicted
upon himself by trying to reach that farthest blade of grass through the hedgerow, and
brought him up to his impressive prime. Hubert was the pride of the county, a fit
successor to his celebrated grandsire, Rupert.
Even though he was a mottled shorthorn, rather than one of the cherished local white-
faced breed, she felt perfectly certain that he would take first premium at Hereford. In a
few days she would have him begin his leisurely walk to the city with her most trusted
drover, moving at just the right speed to maintain his weight and muscle, but still arrive
in good time for him to recover from any loss or scratch he might suffer on the journey.
As Callie leaned across the fence to rub his ear, a sudden growling bark made her
startle and grab the rail. Hubert turned his big head as a brindled dog charged from out of
the foggy lane, roaring and snarling. It stopped, teeth bared, a yard's length from her skirt.
Hubert stamped a hoof, lowering his nose to look through the rail. The dog rushed
toward him, snap ping. In the f lash of the moment, Callie threw her basket, sending a
shower of bread on the dog's head. It shied off for an instant, then paused, its heavy
muzzle turned toward Hubert, its pink lip still lifted in a growl, quivering in every
muscle.
"Silly creature!" Callie said in a jolly voice. She stayed on the rail but forced her
muscles to relax. "Now what do you suppose you're doing?"
The dog never took its eyes from Hubert. The bull had turned to face the threat,
lowering his nostrils almost to the turf, blowing strong gusts of air against the grass. He
began to paw the ground.
"What a funny dog!" Callie crooned in a quiet voice. "What a foolish boy. You don't
think we mean to hurt you?"
A man's voice called out from the road. The dog pricked its shorn ears and turned. But
it did not retreat.
Through the light fog, she saw a stranger hurrying toward them. He called the dog
again. This time it obeyed him reluctantly, swinging away and trotting to his side.
"Beg pardon, Miss!" He reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar. "I'll put a
rope on him."
Neither man nor dog were from the neighbor hood of Shelford, where Callie knew
every domestic creature and a good number of the wild ones too. The stranger wore a
heavy overcoat and gaiters with an elegant top hat, a rather odd combination of country
and city fashion. As he straightened up from tying the dog, he gave her a nervous smile,
his mouth creasing too widely under high cheekbones.
"We'll go along now, Miss!" he said, touching his hat and dragging the dog as it snarled
and lunged back toward Hubert.
She watched from the gate as his outline faded in the fog. He disappeared around the
curve in the lane. The sound of the dog's barking diminished. One of those card sharpers
and badger-baiters, she did not doubt, who would put his dog to fighting chained animals
while he stood back and shouted and
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