Call of the Trumpet Read Free

carved Arab horse from Jali. It had never occurred to her that there might be others at her party, children her own age. It had never been so. She did not miss what had never been. Cecile was surprised, therefore, when her father came to her with the invitation.
    “But what does it mean, Papa?” she had asked.
    “It means Madame would like you to come and join her for a little party Saturday afternoon,” her father had replied. Though he had never seemed a suspicious man, she saw in his eyes that he had his doubts.
    Looking back, Cecile understood now his fears. Since his return from the African continent with a half-caste child, her father had been virtually shunned by society. Why an invitation for Cecile now, after all this time? Did Madame extend the offer from a generous heart to a lonely little girl? Or did she have a more sinister motive? Would Cecile be simply another little girl at an afternoon tea, or an oddity on display?
    “Oh, Papa, I love parties! May I go?”
    “Of course, you may go, my pet,” Villier had replied, his daughter’s excitement overriding his doubts. “Of course.”
    So she had gone. With a book on etiquette borrowed from her father’s vast library, she had studied for hours what to say, how to sit, hold a cup. And she had followed the book’s instructions faithfully. She had curtsied to Madame and spoken politely to the other little girls. She had sat in the elegant salon with her ankles crossed, her hands in her lap. She had accepted tea and cakes courteously and spilled neither drop nor crumb.
    So why did they stare at her without speaking? Why did they giggle behind their hands? Why did Madame Arnoux eye her crossly when it was her own daughter, not Cecile, who jostled Cecile’s teacup and knocked it to the floor?
    Happy anticipation had rapidly turned to growing horror, then to cold, hard realization. She was not one of them. She did not even look like them. They were light-haired and blue-eyed. Their skin was pink-white, their bodies fleshy and moist. Suddenly aware of her own body as never before, Cecile knew how very different she was from them, with her olive skin and blue-black hair, her lean and muscular frame. It was not the only difference.
    The chatter she had overheard was inane: clothes, boys, endless parties. They apparently did not read, or ride, or do anything remotely constructive. Furthermore, their manners were atrocious. Cecile would never, under any circumstance, treat a guest in her house as she had been treated in Madame Arnoux’s salon.
    She had risen from her chair with grace and dignity. “Thank you very much, Madame Arnoux, for inviting me to your party, but I think I should like to go home now. And I don’t think I should ever like to come here again. Good afternoon.”
    Cecile’s exit speech created something of a minor scandal for a time. Didn’t it just prove, they had said, that breeding will always tell? Cecile agreed wholeheartedly.
    She had never received another invitation. She had never wanted one. Life was fine just as it was. She had her horses, Jali … her father …

    “What is it,
halaila?
Are you all right?”
    “Yes, I … I’m fine.” Cecile pressed her black-gloved fingers briefly to her temples. Her father was gone now. She was alone. She had to face the world on her own.
    The carriage turned up a long, curving gravel drive, and Cecile felt some of the lonely ache drain from her. The mere sight of the solid, imposing stone façade was comforting. There was not, she thought, a more beautiful château in all of France. Not even the overhanging gloom could mar its charm. Newly blooming gardens flanked each graceful wing. Dozens of horses, foals at their sides, grazed the white-fenced acres. It was home. The only home she had ever known.
    She hurried up the steps and entered the elaborately carved front door, leaving Jali behind.

    Cecile stepped out of the black gown of mourning and left it in a puddled heap on the floor. Silken