AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella
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His intense gaze gripped hers. “Your services for a fortnight.”
Above wide cheekbones, her eyes narrowed. “Those services would be?”
“Whatever I desire – though I hasten to assure you my requirements violate neither our Lord Almighty’s laws nor our Lord Protector’s, Oliver Cromwell.”
Her fingertips stole to the leaping pulse at the base of her throat. Now the identity of her opponent was confirmed. Or, at least, whom he represented.
She swallowed. One-hundred Spanish gold doubloons. It was an extraordinary chance to start over. She could lose herself somewhere within the entirety of the Continent’s polite society. Paris, Vienna, Rome, Venice . . . names that made her mouth water even more than savory food.
No more scrubbing clothes with the corrosive lye soap and scouring the puncheon floors until her hands were raw and bled. No more cooking at all hours, beating rugs, turning mattresses, and cleaning chamber pots.
Could she both win in this chess game -- and maintain her charade?
He chuckled at her distressed uncertainty. “Tis merely a game, Eve. Not an execution.”
A veiled allusion to her past? Still, impulsively, her words choked out, “So done.”
§§ CHAPTER TWO §§
The grip of tension between Adam Sutcliff and Evangeline Bradshaw demanded release.
Gratified by her consent, his smile eased the tension not a whit. “Finish your bread and cake making and skewering those wretched birds,” he said. “I shall set up the chess board.”
In the kitchen, Evangeline’s hands might have been busy with the morrow’s Christmas dinner, but her mind was busy with visions of Paris’s stimulating salons and Warsaw’s schools of enlightenment.
To study astronomy, painting, and literature again. To hold books in her hands once more. To peruse Van Dyck and Rubens paintings and listen to operas or attend plays, all which Cromwell’s England had banned. These images stung her eyes with unexpected tears that she quickly blinked away. She had rigorously lectured herself about fantasizing over such worldly pleasures, now and forever beyond her reach.
Pouring two stout copper mugs of toddy, she inhaled its intoxicating spices, took a deep swig from her own to fortify herself for the night ahead, then turned resolute steps toward the main room – and her opponent.
He was arranging the final pieces on the chess board, and she noticed the forefinger of his left hand was missing. Not only that, but the backs of his hands were crisscrossed by scars. And yet, those hands moved with an elegant grace. A bolder look than other men, he might mistakenly have been considered a fop by Cromwell’s puritan Parliamentarians.
This should have reassured her, as well.
His thoughtful gaze raised to hers, lifted higher to the blue velvet ribbon carelessly binding her wildly curling, barley-brown hair that was bleached silver at the ends by the sun, next drifted down to her lips, the bottom one which she was gnawing, then returned to hold her eyes. “Black or white?” he said, at last.
“White, of course.” She sat his mug down, but, as she went to sit, he stood automatically – as a courtier would show deference for a lady of the royal court. She faltered midway, then recovered and, with a sidewise swish of her skirt, slid onto her chair.
Which court had he attended? Could he have known her from King Charles’s court? More than a few ex-Royalists had shifted allegiances and could be found at Cromwell’s court. It was gossiped to be as imperial as Charles’s had been – liveried servants at state occasions like the openings of Parliament and the accreditation of ambassadors.
“Interesting chess pieces,” he said.
She glanced down at the board, and was aghast at her oversight. At her request, Bonnie Charlie had carved it and its pieces. Crudely, yes, but the black pieces all had round heads, save the knight and tower, whereas the white ones had all been sculpted with long hair.
“Aye, are they not. I – I stained the pine pieces black with vinegar and pine pitch and the white ones I coated with clay from the riverbank.” She had even added mica flakes to make the white pieces sparkle.
By habit, her first move was to nudge her king’s pawn forward two spaces.
At once, Sutcliff moved his knight, which precluded her hope for a quick check on his king. She studied the board.
“From where do you hail?” he asked, his voice as lazily diverting as that of watching drifting snowflakes.
“Hmmm?” She glanced up. “What?”
“I doubt you were born here in the colonies.”
She stiffened again. “Why is that?”
“Your mannerisms. Your obvious education. They bespeak of imagination and versatility, of one who mixes with the cream of society.”
“A wild, rum-fueled idea on your part.”
If he only knew. Her education was thorough and extensive. At the age of sixteen she could write and speak French and Latin fluently and had a good knowledge of mathematics. “I am the daughter of a lowly village schoolmaster. And you are distracting me in order to win, sire.”
“Adam,” his grave tone reinforced. “Perhaps it is you who is intending to distract me. I am curious about you.”
She could feel the muscles in her jaw flickering. Had she given herself away? “Why so?”
He shrugged shoulders uncommonly wide. “A woman, as young as yourself, a proprietress of an inn far flung from the pleasures and comforts afforded by villages and towns – tis most unusual, is it not? I find myself wondering about you rather than attending to the game at hand.”
The room spun and its myriad wall sconce candles dizzily mirrored the same checkerboard effect around the room as that of the chessboard before her. Cautiously, she slid her queen diagonally out to the forefront. “Your move.”
While he considered the board, she studied him. His was a narrow face that further emphasized the bladed nose, sharply angled cheek bones and wide, laughing mouth. But it was his eyes that made a merely good-looking visage arresting. Glinting with amber, the dark brown eyes were thickly fringed with absurdly long lashes. And from behind those eyes a lively intelligence both scrutinized and dared the world.
“Your speech betrays a definite English accent, sire – Adam.” Better to placate him – at least, early on in this game – this game that might well be one of life and death. “From where in England?”
His glance gripped hers. “You are mistaken.”
There, that voice – it was born of lashing rain and sugary sand. She could distinguish the origin of an accent, whether it be Liverpool or Leeds. But this one she could not place. “Then from where, prithee?” she parried.
“The West Indies. Your move.” He had advanced his king’s pawn, freeing both his queen and bishop for attack.
She tried to concentrate on the board, but her mind was clicking like an abacus elsewhere. The West Indies? Then the answer leaped to the forefront of her mind. Lord Lieutenant Sutcliff. But, of course. Her mind rummaged back through years’ past conversations and gossip and broadsides.
At three and twenty, he had returned from Barbados, having profited in some sort of sugar enterprise. Once back in England, he conveniently switched allegiance at a critical time to become a key supporter of Cromwell. An opportunist, he was.
Sutcliff’s reputation had been that of one of the hundreds of mercenaries who, in the hope of pay and plunder, had flocked to England during the Civil War, frankly admitting, “'I care not for your cause, I fight for your half-crowns and your handsome women.”
What had apparently counted was that his stellar performance outspoke any professed words. As a part of Cromwell’s Ironsides, an elite army of full-time professionals rather than part-time militia, Sutcliff had risen rapidly in rank to one of eleven Major Generals, governing England’s eleven designated areas, constituting five-million people, and had assisted in paving the way for Cromwell’s future regime.
Eventually, Cromwell created Sutcliff Lord Lieutenant – and he had quite
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His identity established, she relaxed, but only slightly. A man of his standing would never be sent to a hinterland to search for a single fugitive. Besides, she doubted he even had any recollection of either her or her brother and father.
Aye, her father as one of His Majesty’s fourteen physicians and her brother as one of the Royal Court Physicians had occasionally attended court functions – but she, busily assisting at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital or at the family’s apothecary dispensary, infrequently saw the insides of Whitehall Palace, especially in those latter years in London.
Belatedly, she realized he was watching her, patiently waiting for her move. Her gaze swept the board and spotted an opening. She scooted her pawn to capture one of his. Her quick, triumphant smile betrayed her delight. “Your move.”
He laughed and eyed her merrily. “Pleased as punch, are you?” Then, his brow furrowed, he braced his jaw on his fist and renewed his attention to the game.
Long minutes stretched into a quarter of an hour. She grew fidgety. Rising, she warned, “I know whereat is every piece.” But he did not relinquish his focus on the gameboard.
She went to the kitchen and brought back the jug of warm spiced rum to replenish first her glass and then his. As she leaned over him, she inadvertently brushed his shoulder, and she heard his harsh intake of air.
“’To lie like pawns, locked up,’” he murmured.
His quote from Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew caught her off guard. Taking her seat, she tested him, quoting from Christopher Marlowe. “’I'm armed with more than complete steel - the justice of my quarrel.’”
He laid her low with his response from the playwright’s The Jew of Malta. “Confess and be hanged.” Offhandedly, he took a bite from his apple, leaving crimson toothmarks.
Her hand shot out for her mug and a stalling drink of its potent rum. When she put it down, her smile was artificially bright. “And you are familiar with Spenser, as well?”
“Aye, but I still prefer Marlowe. ‘Where both deliberate, the love is slight; whoever loved, that loved not at first sight?’”
A Puritan who could quote Shakespeare and Spencer? Rattled, she rashly positioned her queen in defense. Before she could release her piece, his warm fingers capped hers. Sparks tingled through her hand, and her stomach fluttered. “Reconsider, Eve.”
Nonplussed, she blinked, then realized he was referring to the game at hand. She glanced from their cupped hands to the board. Instantly, she saw that her intended move would expose her valuable bishop to attack. He was giving her a second chance. Until her fingers relinquished her Queen, the move was not an accomplished deed. She looked up at him. “I judged you a man who would win at all costs. Yet you have prevented me from losing a vital piece.”
“Oh, win I shall. I merely wish to prolong . . . this night’s entertainment.”
Shaken by his iron-will intention, she muttered, “Surely, you are weary – after your sojourn – and seek a bed?”
“Aye, I do seek a bed . . . but not till later.” His gaze scanned the main room, as if inventorying it – and then returned to her, as if inventorying herself, as well. “I find . . . your accommodations . . . nourishing.” He released her hand.
“And I weary of this word play,” she said.
He only smiled. “Finish your move.”
And so it went, she moving a piece, he strategizing, then countering her move with an aggressive attack. On either side of the chess board, the pieces mounted – his booty totaling four points more in his favor.
It was as if they were the only two people in the world that Christmas Eve. The warming fire, the kitchen’s tantalizing aromas, and they two focused solely on one another and the chess board – until the wee mews from above intruded upon their consciousness.
She sprang upright, nearly toppling her chair. “The babe!”
He cocked his head, better attuning to the outcries from above. “What?”
She ignored him, dashed to the kitchen, and set the pan of cow’s milk and mush to warming on the embers. Then, another mad dash upstairs to her chamber and the cradle Bonnie Charlie had carved of green wood so fresh that its resinous scent filled the room. The three-weeks-old infant, restrained in its wrap of furred rabbit skin, was wailing its discontent.
“Sshhsh, I know, I know,” she said, coddling the infant. She checked its diapering – “As sopping wet as a mop” – and grabbed another linen from atop the wallpress. “All is well,” she crooned.
She carried the baby, now dry and bundled, downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, she hesitated uncertainly. Hands clasped behind him, Sutcliff turned from where he stood, warming himself before the fireplace. He looked askance at her and the bawling bundle she carried.
“Robbie demands to be fed,” she said. “Grant me a respite from our game to prepare his pap.”
She felt his scrutiny and was certain of what must surely be his conclusion, because he asked. “Your mother’s milk did not come in?”
She flushed. Heat prickled her entire upper body. “Nay.”
She turned back toward the kitchen and the warming milk and mush. He followed, pausing to observe at the half-door. She thrust the babe into his unwitting arms.
His eyes widened at this new, unaccustomed burden. He hefted the squalling infant out at arms’ length, much as he might a hissing, snarling kitten. “Uhhhh . . .”
Secretly grinning, she ignored him and turned her attention to the pap, testing its heat on the inside of her wrist. Satisfied, she ladled the pap into the cow horn, tipped with a leather nipple. She went to the flummoxed Sutcliff and scooped the bundle from him. “Resume the game, shall we?”
Settling onto the chair, she slipped the horn’s nipple-tip into the bairn’s yowling mouth. A lusty child, Robbie would be.
Sutcliff simply stared. Then, with a scoffing expression, he murmured, “Our Lady, the Madonna.”
Her cheeks felt as scarlet bright as the mistletoe berries festooned around the room. “I believe it was your move.”
Curiously, the noise of the suckling bairn put her somewhat at ease. Mayhap, it was the latent mother instinct, or, mayhap, she was reminded life was forever born anew each moment. The miracle of birth . . . the miracle of hope . . . the miracle of new chances.
While Sutcliff pondered the board, she took the occasion to observe him more closely. Cruelty, she did not detect in that determined countenance . . . but, aye, a purposefulness to obtain his will was clearly etched there.
Robbie’s doe-like lashes had closed in drowsiness, and she chucked him under his tiny chin to nudge him into finishing the pap. When she glanced up, she caught Sutcliff staring at her again, his countenance fierce with some unnamable hunger.
“Your move,” he prompted.
The bundled warmth against her breast, she leaned forward, passing the horn over the board into his keeping. At his startled expression, she nearly laughed. She wasted no time with the opportunity he had unintentionally presented her. Using her now freed hand, she jumped her knight toward the board’s center.
He looked from the horn in his hand to her newly positioned knight, then back to her. He nodded in approval. “Well done, Eve.”
At his approval, she grinned. “Have you on the run, do I not?”
His gaze drifted to the baby, once more sleeping. “Robbie, you call him? For his father – or perhaps a family member?”
She froze. What a blunder. She had temporarily named the baby after her father and brother, both blessed with the given name Robert. “Neither,” she muttered and quickly rose. “The bairn sleeps. While I return him to his cradle, you would do well to consider your next move.”
She escaped up the steep stairs and knelt to ensconce the infant within the cradle. Hands braced on the puncheon floor at either side of the cradle, she hung her head and st
ruggled for composure. Deep shuddering breaths rifled through her body. She now strongly suspected she was Adam Sutcliff’s quarry. She had to bleed every second out of every chess play from hereon.
When she returned below, she found him in the kitchen. He had returned the empty cow horn to the sideboard. She paused just inside the doorway and watched as he hunkered on the brick floor before the hearth’s embers to sample the cranberry and clove sauce. His presumptuous, proprietary manner, making himself at home as he was, irritated her beyond endurance.
“Do you find it to your liking?” she inquired, each word eked out from between tight lips.
Slowly, he pivoted on the one knee to regard her. His gaze traveled her length, from her scuffed clogs, past her food-stained apron and threadbare drab, Puritan’s gray dress with its starched white cuffs and collar, up to her hair’s frivolous blue velvet ribbon – and then returned to lock in on her censorious gaze. “I find everything here to my liking.”
She wheeled to return to the main room but at his explosive, “God’s bones!” spun back. His palm cupped his cheek. Instantly, she realized what had happened. Dripping partridge fat had ignited in the coals and popped, burning him.
Swiftly she crossed to kneel in front of him. With care, she moved his hand and scrutinized a red, blistering welt the size of a half-pence on his cheek. That close, her gaze was entrapped with his. Lightning crackled through her, from her hair that felt like it was standing on end to her toes that tingled.
Snatching her attention from his snare, she pointed to the stool. “Sit.”
She broke away and headed out the back door, where she scooped into her cupped hands piled snow that had scurried against the log wall. When she reentered, she was relieved to see that he had obeyed her and was sitting on the tall stool, his long, booted legs stretched out. A grimace flattened those beguiling lips.
She slapped the snow against his cheek a little more heartily than warranted, and he winced. “Methinks you enjoy my discomfort, Eve.”