by Robin Helm
Mr. Thayer found them out there one afternoon, and Margaret didn’t even long for her blue dress when the boys pleaded for him to join in their game of hide and seek. Indeed, she encouraged him to hide quickly, because when she finished counting, she would capture all of them.
A few distinct sounds behind her, and the boys’ giggles told her where she’d find the man. She was right. He’d climbed up into the mulberry tree where presumably he held the erroneous idea that she would not follow to tag him. Her skirt had been torn—the obnoxious “L” shaped tear that had plagued her mother and sisters when she was a girl, of course—before he waved her back down and conceded defeat.
“You needn’t have ruined your gown, Miss Dashwood.”
“It is of no consequence,” she assured him. “I shall have a new one by tomorrow.”
Young Christopher piped up with his own comment at that remark. “Yes. A blue one.”
Margaret offered what she hoped was a benevolent smile at her eldest nephew. “That is correct. Blue makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
Christopher only nodded and smiled.
As Mr. Thayer counted, Margaret pointed out perfect places to hide while she slipped between two shrubs. It would certainly tear her dress further, but Margaret considered it a small sacrifice for certain victory.
He found young John first. Together, they found Christopher. The boys’ counting began. At thirty, they grew close, but though he brushed against the shrubbery, he did not look over the top where he might have noted the break. At fifty, she held her breath as he walked around to the other side. At fifty-eight, she felt confident she would win. At fifty-nine, he spoke. “You may come out from between the shrubbery, Miss Dashwood. I would not care to risk destroying that dress any further.”
“I thought I’d fooled you.”
His smile greeted her as she emerged with only a small snag on her sleeve. “I saw you at thirty, but I wanted to do the game justice, as you did. I chose preserving your gown over my pride, however.”
“Marianne would approve—except that she despises this dress.”
With a frown that could only mean disapproval, Mr. Thayer regarded her. “I don’t see why. The color perfectly matches your eyes. You look lovely in it.”
The boys giggled, but before she found it necessary to distract them, Vickers appeared to take them for chess practice. John balked until Margaret promised to let him beat her at a game later. Mr. Thayer’s smiled turned to a frown. “Is that wise, Miss Dashwood?”
“Inevitable, unfortunately.”
There the smile returned. “Not a chess master?”
“To call me a player is to insult the game and any opponent, but I try. John enjoys knowing there is one person in the household whom he can beat without much effort.”
An expression of disbelief foretold his next words. “This wouldn’t be a ruse to disarm me, before challenging me to a match that you would then win with your clever mind and quick wit?”
“I rarely resist a challenge myself, but I never offer one I cannot win. You are safe from a challenge from me.”
The moment she spoke, Margaret realized her words would have the same effect as a challenge. He would offer, and she would mortify herself by moving a pawn on the diagonal or the bishop backwards. Or are bishops allowed to do that? I never can recall…
“I must, of course, challenge you to see if your assertions are valid or merely a ruse to…” He gave her an indeterminable look. “What would be your reason?”
“One might accuse me of attempting to show my superior skills, but I assure you that a match will only end in mortification for me.” Before he could withdraw the challenge, she added, “However, I rarely have the opportunity to practice with anyone but John and Christopher.”
***
Conrad had once again decided she toyed with him when a new smile began to form. Never had he met anyone with as many different smiles as Miss Margaret Dashwood possessed. There was one for when she was pleased, of course. One she reserved for the Colonel—another for her sister. The Brandon children seemed to share one, which made him wonder if she had the same smile for all children or just her nephews.
A few others he hadn’t yet been able to decipher, and now this new one. What would it signify? Would he ever know, or would it be added to the riddle of the others?
“My stepfather is generous with his time, despite being certain that my attempts to learn are both unladylike and futile. He doesn’t think highly of my intellectual abilities.”
To call a man, and one he’d never met, a fool might not be appropriate in polite society, but he wanted to. “I would beg to differ with him, Miss Dashwood. From what I’ve observed, you have a fine mind and a keen intellect.”
“Thank you.” Conrad felt certain she would have winked if she could. Instead, one of those smiles he hadn’t translated yet formed and she added, “I appreciate compliments as any lady does, but with regard to my skill at the chessboard, my stepfather is, unfortunately, correct.”
“And you will prove this to me this evening? After dinner, perhaps?”
“Not while we wait again for our intruders?”
The grace and kindness of God alone prevented the choke that tried to seize him. “If I should encounter anyone in the library this evening, I should be forced to call for help in apprehending the intruder. The Colonel would decide from there what should be done.”
There it was again—that same smile, but this time something hovered with it. Amusement? Disdain? A challenge? Miss Dashwood turned to go. “We shall see how you fare at midnight.” And with that, she sailed around the corner, the torn part of her skirt flapping independently of the rest of the fabric.
Have I accepted two challenges from the same young lady in one afternoon? And what are the odds that I would win either of them?
***
When Miss Dashwood appeared for dinner in a deep, sapphire blue gown, Conrad couldn’t help but wonder if it was the blue dress. No one teased her about it, however. Instead, Brandon complimented both ladies on their appearance and prompted his sons to follow his example. Conrad pretended to have forgotten basic courtesies and whispered thanks to the boys for reminding him.
That earned him a smile from Miss Dashwood, one he recognized as being truly pleased, and it seemed to him that smile held more value for him than it had in previous days. Indeed, while she intrigued him, the young lady had also annoyed and irritated him from almost the first moment.
That night, however, it did seem as if she improved on acquaintance. As he’d noticed several times, she possessed an active, intelligent mind, and one could never accuse her of silly flirting and simpering. Still, in the rare moments he spent time with them, Conrad had always admired quieter ladies—ones who didn’t throw themselves into danger or threaten men with an enforced marriage if they didn’t cooperate with other schemes.
Somewhat startled at the turn of his thoughts, Conrad attempted to steer them in less dangerous waters. Where had such nonsense originated? He had no plans to engage himself to any young lady. Indeed, Brandon had asked about his plans for the future, and he had allowed that someday he would want to settle somewhere in a modest house with a wife and children. Alas, his time in the Navy had not produced the large sums of prize money that set up some officers for life. He had a few hundred pounds a year aside from his Navy pay of £101. It wasn’t much to induce the sort of young lady he might wish to marry.
Once again, he wondered what had sparked such a wildfire of dangerous thoughts, and a raised eyebrow from the Colonel answered that question. Of course. He asked, and it naturally follows that I would think of it whenever in company with an unattached young lady. A quick look in that person’s direction showed her engaged in helping the boys fold a boat out of a piece of newspaper. She just isn’t the sort of person who would make—that is whom I could make happy, and that signifies we would not suit.
The satisfaction he’d expected to feel over this decision didn’t
come. Instead, a bit of unease hovered about the edges of his conscience as if he’d found a fine specimen of something wanting when indeed, it was only his eyesight at fault. It doesn’t matter even if she were everything I could hope for and dream of. I am in no position to marry; therefore, it would be wrong of me to put myself forward in that manner.
Now, that decision settled well in his belly. He joined in the conversation regarding the best way to ensure a paper boat sailed downstream without becoming waterlogged too quickly and found that Miss Dashwood’s solution was to spread a thin coating of candlewax on the bottom and sides of the boats. He’d never thought of that, and as the only sailor present, well…
“Excellent suggestion. I’ll join you all at the stream tomorrow and see if your plan works as well as I suspect it will.”
It was the wrong thing to say, of course. He looked up just in time to see the Brandons exchanging knowing glances. They knew nothing that they thought they did, and he’d have to be careful to make that perfectly clear without appearing to do anything of the sort. And I thought this assignment would be both relaxing and a little dull. I was a fool.
Similar looks followed all evening long. First as Marianne played the pianoforte again. Next during dinner when he and Miss Dashwood both moved to help young John at the same moment. Again, as the ladies withdrew from the dining room and Miss Dashwood promised to set up the chess board. However, despite his expectation that the Colonel would make some comment, the man didn’t—not even a look. And this left Conrad with the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he’d misread the entire evening.
Surely, I’m not laying hopes I don’t ascribe to at their feet instead of my own.
By the time they’d entered the drawing room, Miss Dashwood had the chessboard set up and was seated there with a diagram in hand. She moved a bishop and placed him back where he belonged. A rook. Again, it was replaced. Over and over, she moved pieces until he sat opposite her. Then, she folded her diagram and slipped it beneath the board.
“Are you ready for a quick game, Mr. Thayer?”
“Perhaps it won’t be as brief as you imagine.” Even as he said it, Conrad had the most uncomfortable feeling that it was more of a hope than a reassurance. This will never do.
Miss Dashwood only moved her first pawn. F3. She couldn’t have chosen a worse opening move. “Are you certain you wish to begin with that one?”
“Which would you recommend?”
He pushed back the pawn and pulled out E4. “That is usually my first choice when I’m on that side of the board.”
With each turn, he pointed out the merits and demerits of her choices, and as her understanding rose, so did her confidence. She explained that she’d been lectured on strategy but never shown how it works and how to predict a response to her movements. After several more moves, he suggested a weaker one to test her thinking.
“I would imagine that would leave my queen vulnerable, Mr. Thayer. Would it not? You could—” She broke off when she saw his smile. “You tested me. Did I do well?”
“Very well, indeed. Which will you play, then?”
By the time he won the game, she was still no match for him… yet. However, she likely could make young John work for a win or even best him if the boy proved too confident for prudence. “I hope you’ll challenge your nephew again. I’d like to see how that match plays out.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll see how things fare.” At that, she yawned. Oh, she tried to hide it, but he saw the struggle. When a second followed, she turned to Mrs. Brandon. “Marianne, dearest, I believe I’ll retire. I’m suddenly quite fatigued.”
You’ll be down in the library when I arrive, Conrad predicted.
But to his surprise, and truthfully his disappointment, Miss Margaret Dashwood never appeared.
CHAPTER SIX
The sacrifice had been worth it.
Mr. Thayer was seated at the breakfast table when Margaret arrived, and by the way he studied her, she knew he’d expected her to interrupt his library vigil. Sleep, however, had been her true objective, despite the temptation to unsettle him further. That he now watched for her told her she’d achieved her purpose.
Colonel Brandon broke through her observations. “How do you feel this morning, Margaret?”
“Quite well, thank you. I’ve not had such refreshing rest in far too long.”
Marianne paused in spreading marmalade on her toast and eyed her, but Margaret ignored her sister, surveyed the sideboard, and placed a couple of Bath cakes on a small plate. She’d be certain to burn toast if she attempted it while her attention was diverted. Did anyone come? Will he tell me without my resorting to extortion again? The things men do to force our hands…
One of the under maids appeared and whispered something to Marianne, and she rose. The Colonel asked if all was well, and the breakfast room learned that young John was unwell. “Likely just a touch of the cold,” she assured them.
Margaret seated herself and called after Marianne and now the Colonel. “Tell him I’ll bring up the chess board later. Perhaps after my lesson with Mr. Thayer and him not feeling himself, I may have a chance at besting him.”
They sipped tea—coffee for Mr. Thayer—and enjoyed their respective repasts. Several long minutes passed before the man leaned as close as he could from the opposite side of the table and murmured, “It was a quiet night, if you are curious.”
“I am, of course.” She set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap as she regarded him. “When will they come, do you think?”
“I should have thought long before now.” Mr. Thayer moved his plate and cup closer to her and lowered his voice again. “I’ve been given the names of several important people in riding distance. I’ll visit several over the next few days and see if there is anything to these rumors of highwaymen.”
“I doubt it,” Margaret assured him. “It is my belief that someone overheard something about Haselbury Plunkett in Somerset and assumed it was Haselbury Brian. People are notoriously lazy when listening. The moment they hear something familiar, they finish the speaker’s thoughts in their own minds.”
“And then are annoyed when the speaker did not follow their improvised script, I suppose.”
It strained against her mother’s bounds of propriety, but Margaret thought he might appreciate the joke. “Mr. Thayer! If you are not careful, I might mistake you for a sympathetic listener rather than a sanctuary invader.”
Without the slightest flicker of reaction on his countenance, the lieutenant broke off a piece of his cake and said, “I’ll be certain to commandeer the floor beneath the table the moment I’ve finished eating,” before popping it into his mouth. “Will I find Evelina abandoned there?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned the wretched book, and Margaret suspected he wasn’t aware of that fact. She’d brushed it aside with its appropriateness as an excuse in an effort to avoid appearing too much a “bluestocking.” Her stepfather did not like that. However, it seemed that he didn’t believe her lack of interest, and that rankled.
“If you must know, I believe my mother and sister would prefer Evelina to my current preferences. I care not for novels in general.” At his raised eyebrows, she added, “I do enjoy some poetry, however. I am not completely devoid of sentiment.”
“The one hundred fifty-fourth sonnet, I recall.”
A smile formed despite her best efforts. “Do you know it?”
“I didn’t,” he confessed. “However, I did read it.” Mr. Thayer cocked just one eyebrow at her. “I would have imagined you to be impervious to Cupid’s stories—wherever they originate.”
“You did not take my meaning, then,” Margaret told him. With that, she rose and bade him good morning.
As she stepped out of the room, the man’s laughter erupted and followed her up the stairs.
***
The disappearance of Miss Dashwood’s Saxon blue and white striped dress from the doorway prompted two simultaneous thoughts
. First, she’d acquired the blue dress she’d so desperately needed, and for reasons he could not fathom, and second… Laughter welled up in him, and Conrad didn’t even try to restrain it. The hundred fifty-fourth sonnet is the last one. Well done, Miss Dashwood.
The cake did little to tempt him, so Conrad finished off his coffee and left it. More than once on his visit, Mrs. Brandon had ordered eggs or fruit for breakfast, but most of the time Bath rolls, toast, and cake were the main fare. The memory of his upcoming ride sent him back again. Cake might be less desirable than an egg or a fish, but it would keep him sustained until the next meal.
He’d just changed into riding clothes and had requested a horse, when a rider appeared at the door with a letter addressed to him. Written as if to inform him of his Aunt Caroline’s imminent arrival and concern for her welfare, the note could only have one meaning. Someone would come for the papers soon.
That sent Conrad in search of Brandon, and he didn’t need to look far. The Colonel descended the stairs almost the moment Conrad started up them. However, before he could share the news, a gig arrived.
Roberts announced that Mrs. Berridge and a maid had arrived. After an amused glance at Conrad, Colonel Brandon excused himself and went to greet his mother-in-law. Conrad observed it all with more interest than he would have expected. He is affectionate and not at all displeased to see her. Is it for her own sake? Because she might take away Miss Dashwood from potential harm? Something else entirely?
Miss Dashwood presumably would be occupied with her mother for a while, so Conrad made his escape to the library. He’d spied a fine copy of a new Walter Scott book on the table and wanted to lose himself in it. Poetry and a story in one work. What could be more satisfying?
Only after he’d settled in and had adapted his reading pace to the meter of the poem did it occur to him that he’d ordered a horse. The book called to him, and he found it impossible not to yield. Still, it would not do to leave a horse or groom waiting, so he set down the book by the chair he’d chosen—the one Miss Dashwood seemed to prefer, he noted with a fair bit of chagrin—and went to apologize for a change of mind.
