by Rita Boucher
“He did me no real harm. If you feel so strongly, I shall say nothing,” David agreed, moved by the sincerity of her plea. So, the stone angel does have a heart after all, he thought as he fumbled for his glasses once more to better view the effect of emotion on that marble face.
Just as he found the proper pocket, the door flew open. When he saw the sight framed by the doorway, he wished that he had never taken the spectacles from his pocket.
“Milord! We did not expect callers when we are so soon come to town,” Ruby Gabriel said coyly.
David would not have believed that a woman who looked to be well over fifty could simper so, but simper she did, pulling a young chit in tow. Like a ship of line, floating amidst an ocean of unbecoming ruffles and furbelows, the woman plunged forward into the sea of introductions and neatly maneuvered her daughter to the side of the prize. To her credit, the girl seemed rather reluctant to be put forward, but her mother was a force too strong to resist.
“My daughter, Caroline Gabriel, milord,” Mrs. Gabriel declared.
As she advanced, David edged back slowly until his knees met the edge of a chair. Masterfully cornered, David bowed and planned his defensive position.
“Delighted, Miss Gabriel,” he said.
“Would you take some refreshment, milord?” Mrs. Gabriel said in tones more commanding than inquisitive.
David knew that if he seated himself, he was lost. A change of tactic was definitely in order, a strategic retreat. “I am sorry, Mrs. Gabriel-” but he was forestalled in mid-sentence by a look from Miss Sylvia Gabriel, the green eyes eloquent, pleading.
“Niece, why have you not yet seen to our guest? ” the termagant aunt demanded, directing the girl a fulminating look that could not be misinterpreted. If he departed suddenly, the stone angel was in the broth, there was no mistaking, and David felt his annoyance melt into pity. It would cost him little to remain for a brief visit and do the pretty. If that would stay the shrew’s anger then he would do it, he resolved
“Miss Gabriel has been a most gracious hostess,” David interjected. “I believe your staff is preparing even now.”
“Make certain that they don’t dawdle,” Mrs. Gabriel directed
Sylvia Gabriel left the room, casting a grateful glance behind her.
“I do hope that you will forgive my foolish niece for presenting my son,” Mrs. Gabriel said with a frown. When Boniface had informed her of the visitor, Mrs. Gabriel had consulted with her abigail, who was a veritable walking Debretts, and determined that David Rutherford was of that rarest breed- plump-pocketed gentry. It would not do at all if Sylvia were to steal a march on her cousin. Men were easily manipulated creatures, who tended to choose their mates with their eyes rather than with their minds. That was not to be borne.
She eyed their visitor’s decidedly casual mode of dress, deciding that there was naught that a determined wife and a skilled tailor might not fix to bring him up to snuff. “The simpleton girl should have realized that Lord Donhill would not seek an interview with a nine year old boy. My niece is a nodcock!”
“Actually, it your footman who assumed it was the child I wished to see,” David said stiffly, somewhat confused by his own irritated reaction to the woman’s disparaging tones. After all, had he not made much the same assessment of the girl? “It was a natural mistake on your servant’s part and I cannot claim to be sorry of the error. We had an opportunity to speak of the late Sir Miles, who was a dear friend.”
Mrs. Gabriel digested this information with a grimace. So, it was not Caroline that he had come to call upon. “Still, Sylvia should not have put herself forward so, but then, what can one expect from a girl who was raised almost entirely by a bachelor uncle? The child has not the vaguest idea how to go on in society.”
“Indeed,” David said. “Then your task is formidable, Madame, for I understand that introducing a young lady to the Ton is a vast undertaking. To care for both your daughter and your niece will be a double effort.”
Mrs. Gabriel’s florid face flushed even more and David noted absently that her stocky neck was nearly as red as a rooster’s comb. Just then, further conversation was forestalled as the butler entered with cakes and ratafia. Sylvia, however, did not reappear and David found himself wondering about the girl’s place in the household scheme. Although he usually did not concern himself with matters of dress, it was clear by contrast that her clothing was far inferior to the garments of her cousin and aunt. He would wager that they each wore a year of Harjit’s wages on their backs; however, Sylvia had been garbed simply.
Finally, the butler withdrew.
“My niece’s circumstances ... “ Mrs. Gabriel began.
“What Mama is trying to say is that Sylvia is not to come out with me,” Miss Caroline declared, finding her voice at last. “And I think-”
But David was not destined to hear what the girl’s thoughts were upon the matter. Her mother finished the sentence, giving her daughter a glowering glance of warning.
“It is a pity, milord, that poor Sylvia’s circumstances are at such a pass. Sir Miles was the oldest of his family and a confirmed bachelor. My dear departed husband was next in line, so my little Miles inherited the title. Sylvia is the daughter of his youngest brother, John.”
“John Gabriel?” David queried.
“You have heard of him?” Mrs. Gabriel asked, surprised.
David nodded. “Truly, I wonder that I did not make the connection long ago. John Gabriel was one of the foremost chess players of the previous century. Why, ‘Gabriel’s Gambit’ is one of the foremost opening attacks that the game has ever known. He was the brother of the late Sir Miles, then?”
“Yes, although they were separated in age by nearly a score of years, John was as chess mad as his oldest brother. I can only thank my stars that my dear Horace was spared the malady,” Mrs. Gabriel declared vehemently. “For I can tell you that chess has caused a great deal of misery in this family. That ne’er-do-well John dragged his family all over Creation in search of the perfect game and of course, Miles, my other brother-by-marriage, was always staring at the board. ‘Tis no wonder that Sylvia has not the foggiest idea of how to get on in the world.”
She observed his face hoping for some appropriately negative reaction but finding none, she added. “Bad enough that Miles had no notion of suitably educating the girl, but to so utterly ruin her future! I vow, he must have run quite mad in his old age, with his crazy will full of chess mutterings. Do you know that he actually requested that no proper period of mourning be observed? As if we would be so lost to propriety to bring Caroline out only a few months after his death!”
Despite his annoyance at Mrs. Gabriel’s malicious tongue, David found himself intrigued. “Chess mutterings?”
“Sylvia and her brother had a fortune, you see, of which our uncle was sole guardian,” Caroline broke in. “Precious objects and things that their papa had collected in his travels as well as large sums of money, but upon Uncle’s death, not so much as a sou was found.”
“Precious objects? Fiddle! Chess boards and trinket trash more like! If only John had been prudent enough to leave his children in my care,” Mrs. Gabriel declared with a sniff. “However, I suspect that poor Miles had lost it all upon the Exchange and that idiotish will was only a way of trying to excuse himself. To think that Sylvia is destined to remain forever on the shelf.”
“Sylvia believes that the treasure is all hidden away somewhere and that the chess puzzle that Uncle set in his will contains the key,” Caroline added.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Gabriel said forbiddingly, deterring her daughter by taking firm hold of the course of the conversation. “Sylvia is hoping that wishes will turn to horses; for, of course, no stone has been left unturned in search of the money or this so-called treasure! But I am sure that Lord Donhill has heard enough of your poor cousin’s problems. Caroline, why do you not tell Lord Donhill of our plans to refurbish the house? Caroline has chosen the most delightful furnishings,
a la chinoise, for this room, milord. I vow, I cannot match her taste.”
“I find that difficult to believe, madame,” David said, repressing a shudder. Once the subject of modish decor was exhausted, the topic was forcefully turned to the doings of various members of the Ton. Luckily, as the woman prattled on endlessly about people that she obviously did not know, there was no need for David to do little more than nod in what he hoped were appropriate places. He pondered the mystery of the chess puzzle until he was roused by the mention of Brummel and his fashionable eccentricities. A surreptitious glance at the china clock upon the table showed that the hands were at half past one and he sent a grateful thought heavenward. Downing the last of his ratafia in a gulp, David rose and made his farewells, suddenly devoutly pleased that he was promised to Highslip, Brummel and the tailor at two.
* * * *
“‘Tis most unfair!” Miles exclaimed, kicking at the leg of a schoolroom stool. “’Twas me Lord Donhill came to call on.”
“I know, Miles,” Sylvia said in soothing tones as she pulled a book from the shelf. “But we have both been sent upstairs and there is little we can do about it. Now, let us get back to our geography.”
“No,” Miles declared with a pout, stamping his foot. “I won’t.”
Sylvia sighed. There was no dealing with the boy in this moody state and, in truth, she could not blame him as she understood his feelings well enough. She, too, had been summarily dismissed. There had been no need for Aunt Ruby to articulate the warning in her eyes. Sylvia was not to return to the drawing room. She had little doubt that despite her obedience to her aunt’s unspoken wishes, the woman would ring a peal over Sylvia’s head. Still, it could be far worse, Sylvia thought, replacing the book of maps upon the shelf and going to the door of her chamber.
The governess’ room was far more luxurious than most quarters of its kind. A thick carpet covered the floor and Sylvia had furnished her nook with the delicate Chippendale that her aunt had cast off in favor of more stylish accoutrements. The large attic windows commanded an incomparable view of Berkeley Square; the corner window overlooked the garden.
Nonetheless, when Sylvia had found that she was to share the nursery with Miles, it had been a bitter blow. At least, in her uncle’s Northumberland home, she had been able to hold on to some shred of pretense. There the servants had still deferred to her as mistress, a matter of no small irritation to her aunt. In the shelter of Crown Beeches, she could still believe that the money would be found, her position restored and since she was past her majority, she would be completely free of her aunt’s control.
Now that they were in London, however, only the sympathy of Boniface, her uncle’s old butler, kept her from the general lot of governesses. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, those poor women usually wandered the netherworld between upstairs and below, finding respect in neither. No, Sylvia corrected, there was one other major item that separated her from the realm of service. Aunt Ruby paid her servants, but as an impoverished relation, Sylvia received nothing but cold charity.
Even now, Sylvia ventured a guess, Aunt Ruby was pouring the entire sad tale into Lord Donhill’s sympathetic ears. “Poor Sylvia, cheated by her wicked uncle, cast upon our mercy ... “ What utter rubbish! The penny-squeezing woman had not spent so much as a groat on either Sylvia or her brother since it was determined that the money had disappeared. Slamming the door behind her, Sylvia threw herself upon her bed, blinking back angry tears. Bad enough to be made into an object of pity, but for Aunt Ruby to toss Uncle Miles’ reputation to the winds, especially poisoning David Rutherford against him. It was not to be borne.
She turned onto her back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. There was no help for it. It would be foolish beyond permission to storm downstairs to throw Aunt Ruby’s barley-water charity into her face. Besides, Sylvia tried to convince herself, it was undoubtedly better this way. If Aunt Ruby behaved with her usual lack of grace, Lord Donhill would probably take his leave forever. There would be no further questions about the culmination of the correspondence chess game. Strange, how that thought left her feeling utterly bereft.
You should be relieved, she berated herself. The deception is over. There would be no more stealthy searches through the mail, hoping to intercept David’s letter before it came to Aunt Ruby’s hands. Yet, all she could do was mourn, as this last link to a happier past was severed. The game was ended and there would be no more.
When Uncle had become too ill to write anymore, Sylvia had known that she should have informed his opponent. However, over the years, she had come to know and respect David; indeed, she began to think of her uncle’s correspondent on a first name basis. Sylvia had often read David’s letters aloud to Sir Mile’s and they had laughed together over David’s wry observations about life in the army and later, the difficulties of making a fresh start in a new land. His vivid descriptions of the East had reminded Sylvia of those wonderful years that she and Will had spent in India with Mama and Papa.
Then, at the end of each letter, there was always the next move. Uncle Miles would stand before the gold and silver board, lifting the lapis piece as if he were some high priest performing a sacred rite. Afterward, they would ponder the possibilities, racing to the shelves to consult the chess texts, arguing strategy, history and their opponent’s intent until the wee hours of the morning. It would take days of debate, until at last, they had chosen their own next move.
Ten years. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed. She had been a mere girl in plaits when the game had begun, but Uncle had made her a part of it from the start. Sylvia’s father had recognized his daughter’s native talent, nurturing it until he and his wife were killed in a carriage accident. Fortunately, Uncle Miles had also encouraged his young niece’s love of chess, helping her to hone her skill until she eventually had surpassed him. Indeed, her uncle had often joked that David Rutherford was playing a far wilier opponent than he realized, for no male could ever hope to follow the twists of a female mind.
And now, the precious board with its inlaid squares was gone, disappeared along with all the other treasures into some secret cache. Sylvia could not bring herself to believe that her uncle had misspent her fortune. She hoped that, despite Aunt Ruby’s venom, David would come to the same conclusion, even though the two men had never had the opportunity to meet.
Uncle Miles had come to view his chess correspondent in the light of a close friend. Perhaps that was why Sylvia had always assumed that David was a much older man. As it was, Sylvia judged that David looked to be about thirty, though beyond those spectacles, his eyes had seemed older with wisdom and kindness.
“Syl?” A questioning whisper came from beyond the door. “May I come in?”
Sylvia rose and smoothed her skirts. “You may, Miles,” she called.
The boy entered, hanging his head. “I’m sorry, Syl. T’ain’t your fault, I know.”
“No need to worry, Miles,” Sylvia said. “The truth is, we are both a bit blue-devilled.”
“I vow, it must be worse for you. Fancy meeting the ‘India player’ after all this time,” Miles said, glad at being so easily let off. “Did he find a way out of your trap?”
“No,” Sylvia said, smiling with triumph. “He called it a ‘tour de force.’”
“Must have shocked him to the marrow, being trounced by a girl,” Miles said. “Wish I could’ve seen his face.”
“He does not know, Miles,” Sylvia said, her forehead furrowing as she was assailed by her conscience once again. During the latter years of Uncle’s illness, David’s letters had been her lifeline. She had read them again and again. The very thought that this sole source of comfort might cease had driven her to deceit. Since she had usually acted as her uncle’s secretary, the handwriting in the letters had undergone no change. Sir Mile’s style of address was simple to mimic and so, during her Uncle’s illness, the replies to David’s letters had been as much Sylvia’s own as her responses to the ch
ess moves.
Now, as she looked at the boy’s puzzled face Sylvia realized that there was little choice. She had told young Miles about the correspondence game because of their shared passion for chess, never dreaming that the “India player,” as Miles called him, would ever set foot in London. Now, the child would have to become a party to the deceit. “I told him that Will took over the play,” Sylvia said.
“Will!” Miles scoffed. “Your brother don’t know a pawn from a penny-piece. Might as well’ve told the India player I was the one who brought the game to the end.”
“You are quite skilled, Miles,” Sylvia said. “But by no means are you on level with Lord Donhill. He might have wished to put you to the test and then, we surely would have been caught out. William is at Oxford and unlikely to appear and put me to the lie.”
“Don’t see why you didn’t tell him the truth. Cor, that would have set the cat amongst the pigeons. ‘Specially with that wager of his,” Miles said, his eyes shining.
“Wager?” Sylvia asked.
“Jack the footman got it from Lord Donhill’s tiger,” the boy informed her eagerly. “I heard when I went seeking Boniface, accidental of course. Know you don’t hold with gossiping, but this is famous. Seems last night his lordship got utterly cup-shot.”
“Miles,” Sylvia warned. “I do not wish to hear you using vulgar cant language. And if you are about to tell one of those dreadful stories that you glean from the servants, I do not believe that I wish to hear the rest of this. Now let us return to our lessons.” Even though she was bursting with curiosity, she turned and walked back to the schoolroom.
