A Gentleman’s Game

by Theresa Romain

  That was when Nathaniel began to drink, because to drink was to forget. And when Sir William asked for—no, demanded—help, he said no, and he drank some more. Whatever he could find in a decanter or in the wine cellar. New bottles, vinegary old bottles. Bottles covered in dust, bottles with sediment he accidentally disturbed. He drained them all dry, and he drank the sediment too.

  Nothing made Sir William come closer to him. Maybe nothing would. Once the doctors were sure the baronet would never walk again, he would certainly never draw his children near.

  So Nathaniel was as good to Hannah as he could possibly be, because she had no one else. He taught her as much as he could about horses. Riding. Stables. Pedigrees.

  And then one day when he went to fetch her from the study, there was Sir William with her. Perched in his new wheelchair with the smooth wooden rims. Hannah standing at one side, looking at a ledger with him. She didn’t notice Nathaniel in the doorway, but Sir William did.

  He did not welcome Nathaniel in. And Nathaniel did not ask to enter. At this distance in time, he was not sure which of them had turned away first.

  More than a dozen years later, their cordiality often seemed like a truce, with every request the negotiation of a treaty with ever-changing terms. Hannah’s amiable relationship with their father still mystified Nathaniel.

  Fortunately the tea arrived then, the tray set on a table beside Hannah’s sofa. She poured, and Nathaniel gulped at his tiny cup.

  Hannah sipped at her own, then crunched a biscuit. “I love this baby, but I miss all the Chandler sorts of things I used to do.”

  “Like what? Arguing? Hating Crosbys?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Those are Chandler-ish things to do, but remember, I’m the kind sibling. No, mainly I miss riding. If I put on a huge cloak, I can still visit the track and watch the promising colts and fillies exercising. But it’s not the same.”

  “The best colts won’t be there this week.” Aha, he was leading her around to the subject at last.

  “Because of the colic in Father’s stable?”

  “Gossip, gossip.” Nathaniel nestled his tiny cup back into its saucer. “Newmarket is the largest tiny town one could possibly imagine. Do you know which animals are down?”

  She listed them off. “And I won’t insult you by asking what you’ve tried to help them, because I know you’ll have done everything.” After a pause, she set her teacup down, fists clenching. “Ah, curse it. I have to say something. Water. Walking. Call a physician if you must. Do it for Sheltie, please.”

  “Hannah. Stop. I’m not here for advice.”

  “I didn’t figure you were. But it’s all I can do to help right now.” She looked ruefully at her round belly.

  “There is something you could help with.” Nathaniel leaned forward to place his cup and saucer on the tea tray with what he hoped was a casual air. “I want to know whatever you can tell me about Rosalind.”

  “She is ‘just as high as your heart.’”

  Somehow his finger got stuck in the teacup handle, and it made an unholy clatter on its saucer as he freed himself. “She—what?” That selfsame heart gave a little leap.

  “Rosalind? Heroine of As You Like It? It’s somewhere around here.” Hannah pawed at several of the cushions. “The library was stripped almost bare, so there’s nothing to read here but Shakespeare and Milton, and I’d rather a comedy than damnation. As You Like It is the play in which the hero falls in love with Rosalind at first sight, and they wander around in a forest in disguise and he sends her love poems by nailing them onto a tree.”

  “A tree?” Nathaniel’s brows yanked together. Love at first sight? Nonsense. “Never mind all that; I wasn’t talking about Shakespeare. I meant to refer to Miss Agate. And if you tease me about calling her by her first name, I shall—”

  “Threaten a woman who is with child? Maybe you need to read about damnation. Milton is the morocco-bound volume on the floor behind the sofa.” She coughed. “I don’t know how it happens to be there.”

  Nathaniel folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

  “All right, all right,” Hannah gave in. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Whatever will make her agree to do what I ask.”

  Hannah’s jaw dropped. “Are you blackmailing her?”

  “What? No! The opposite of blackmail, whatever one might call that. I want to…to…sparkle-mail her.” He ignored his sister’s snort. “Father almost granted that I could take the horses to Epsom if Miss Agate came along. Now I need her to agree so he will agree.”

  “Ah, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Good. So you see, I want to make the journey sound so delightful that there’s no way she could bear to refuse.” He considered. “Did the Rosalind in the play like her poems?”

  “You would write a love poem to our father’s secretary? This day has taken an interesting turn.”

  “Not a love poem. More like a ‘Please agree to accompany me to Epsom’ poem.”

  Hannah finally stopped fiddling with her cushions. “Let’s hear one, then.”

  Uh. “All right. Something like…

  ‘Please agree

  To accompany me

  To Epsom for the Derby.’”

  “That’s rotten,” said Hannah. “She would stay behind just so she’d be certain not to be subjected to any more poems.”

  Sisterly honesty was horrid, but in this case he had to agree with her. “I know, I know. I’ve always been more handy with things than with words.”

  “Well, then give her a thing instead.”

  “I…” Nathaniel cleared his throat.

  “Oh Lord. I didn’t mean it like that.” Hannah turned pink.

  “Of course you didn’t. And I most certainly didn’t either. I was just clearing my throat.”

  Right. Except that now he wondered whether Rosalind Agate would like to be touched, to be stroked.

  If they were talking of things, handy was all Nathaniel had been lately. Once the race season began, there was no time to pursue pleasure, no time for anything but work.

  Well, work and thought. Thought of a wry smile, of a ready sense of humor. Of clear green eyes and hair the color of new cedar. Of silky deep blue and pale print gowns that… Honestly, they covered so much that Nathaniel had no idea of the shape beneath them. But as long as Miss Agate had the usual parts, she would be lovely.

  Fortunately, Hannah was oblivious to the fact that Nathaniel’s mind had gone exploring. “There’s not much I can tell you about her,” Hannah said. “By the time I met her, Father had already decided to hire her. I asked about her references, and he said he had learned everything he needed to.”

  Oh. So Hannah hadn’t been privy to the decision to hire Rosalind. He hadn’t realized that. “You didn’t see the letters of reference, then?”

  “No, I didn’t. Why, what are you getting at?”

  “I just wondered who had provided them. Rosalind Agate was raised in a coaching inn and now talks like the Queen of England.”

  “With a German accent? I don’t remember noting that.”

  Would it be unkind to hit a pregnant woman with an embroidered cushion? Probably. “I hope your baby kicks you hard in the ribs.”

  “Wish granted.” She smiled. “‘Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.’”

  “Yes, so I noticed.”

  “Idiot. That’s more of Rosalind from As You Like It. Ah, you were never bookish.”

  “As I said, I’m better with things.”

  His education had been patched together by tutors and grooms. He knew the Latin names for every bone in a horse’s body and could figure any sum that might be involved in the running of a household. But calculus? Literature? If they didn’t have a practical use, he had never crammed them into his head.

  “Why don’t you ask Miss Agate what she likes, or whatever else you want to know?” Hannah suggested. Reasonably.

  And yet. “She has this cursed way of slipping aw
ay from the subject.”

  “Maybe you need to ask her in a poem.” Hannah’s freckled nose scrunched in a wicked smile.

  Nathaniel stretched out his legs. “I’ll write one for you. ‘Dear Hannah. When you make suggestions like that, I wish you were on the savannah.’”

  She pretended to dab at her eyes. “That was so beautiful! I may weep…for your lack of skill.” Struggling to sit upright, she added, “All right, be off with you, wretched brother. Unless you want to come to the stables with me?”

  “No, no. You go on and talk to your husband about…whatever it is.”

  “The stud farm. Jonah and Bart have some plan to lease buildings to each other, or horses, or maybe both. It’s changed so many times that I’ve threatened to step in and make all the arrangements for them.” Her brows knit. “Secretly, I think they like writing to each other. Bart has no brothers, you know.”

  “I know he hasn’t. But Jonah has.” Nathaniel felt a bit stung. He couldn’t remember the last time his taciturn brother had sent him a letter.

  “I never said he didn’t.” She held out a hand. “Come, help me up. I have become terribly unwieldy, like a pumpkin stuffed into a crepe.”

  He stood. “Why those two things in particular?”

  “Because I’m hungry.”

  She held out a hand, and Nathaniel heaved her to her feet.

  “I hate visiting the stables and not being able to ride,” she said. “Bart knows it, and he would spend more time with me indoors—but there is always so much to do. I don’t want to sacrifice anyone’s well-being just because I become maudlin at the sight of a saddle.”

  I hate visiting the stables and not being able to ride.

  Nathaniel had never considered such a thing before, but would it not apply to Sir William too? Once upon a time, he had taught all his children to be as comfortable on horseback as on their own two feet. Now he himself could neither stand nor ride.

  Sir William had never complained about no longer being able to sit a horse—but that did not mean it didn’t bother him. He hadn’t told Nathaniel he hated having his chair pushed, either.

  If Rosalind was right, such things ought to be understood without having to be explained.

  Nathaniel hesitated. “Hannah. Do you think Father likes to have his chair pushed?”

  She rolled a fist in the small of her back. “I don’t know. Maybe. If he asked for help. I can’t say I remember it ever coming up.”

  “But you were his secretary for years.”

  “Yes, but I’m a woman. And his daughter.” She linked her arm with Nathaniel’s and dragged him toward the doorway to the drawing room. “A father doesn’t ask a daughter for help. And a man certainly doesn’t ask a woman. Why, what brings on this question?”

  Rosalind Agate had brought so many uncertainties to his mind that Nathaniel could hardly untangle enough thoughts to reply. “Oh…just wondering.”

  This was not an answer, but Hannah knew when to let a small idiocy pass without comment. “Shall I come over some day soon? I’m not allowed to ride, but I can walk.”

  He blinked himself back to the dark entryway of Hannah’s home. “That might be a good idea, yes. If Miss Agate agrees to go to Epsom, Father will need your help again. But”—he had to drop a brotherly hint—“have a servant walk over with you. Bart and Father will take turns shooting me if I encourage you to venture over alone in your condition.”

  “That’s how they show their love,” Hannah said.

  Nathaniel knew when to let a small idiocy pass too. He only embraced her—tentatively, so as not to bump that human foal she was growing—and bade her farewell.

  “When you come again, bring some novels with you,” she called after him.

  He nodded, leaving her with a parting wave. Then he walked back to Chandler Hall with even more questions than before, and the suspicion that he wanted them answered as much to learn about Rosalind Agate as to lead a traveling party to Epsom.

  Six

  A few days galloped by. Long spring days that still seemed too short as Rosalind ran from study to stable and back again; days of water and walking and mineral oil and nux vomica and more of all of them, again and again. Of radishes to tempt Jake’s appetite to return, and plaits in Sheltie’s mane as the little pony leaned hard against Rosalind, each soothing the other.

  Rosalind welcomed the exertion. If it weren’t for the fatigue that knocked her into bed, deeply and dreamlessly asleep at the end of each day, she would have wasted her nights in wakefulness and confusion. And the reason was Aunt Annie—and so much more.

  The day after Sir William had decreed that everyone entering the stable must remain in pairs or groups, Rosalind had finally managed to slip into town to collect the post. “Our master is expecting some confidential letters,” she lied to the footman whose usual errand it was, and he gratefully accepted her offer of an hour of freedom while Miss Agate carried out his work.

  Within the usual shuffle of business was one sealed note for Rosalind.

  Stay where you are. I am giving you the opportunity to search.

  Anweledig

  The Welsh signature made the letter seem more like a secret and less like an edict. Anne Jones was neither Rosalind’s aunt, nor did she truly bear a Welsh name meaning “invisible.” When Rosalind had begun to work for her a decade before, she had been young and raw and frightened of everything, her burns hardly healed, her muscles weak from her long recovery. Then Anweledig was the counterpart to Rosalind’s Cyfrinach, or “secret.” The two of them stood against the world that had taken so much from them both. Together they would conquer.

  Now, at twenty-three, Rosalind went under her own name. She knew better than to think she would conquer, but she was determined not to be beaten.

  Aunt Annie had told her about the man known as Tranc who had bought up the debt the sainted Widow Jones incurred to save young Rosalind’s life. The name Tranc meant death—and worse than that, Welsh death, which was somehow more intimidating than the English sort. Tranc could hire anyone anywhere. With a shilling’s worth of poison and five minutes unobserved, he could kill thousands of pounds of horseflesh. And what could be done to an animal ten times Rosalind’s size could easily be done to Rosalind herself.

  Though this letter, brief though it was, implied that Aunt Annie—not Tranc—had arranged to sicken Sir William’s horses. That she had arranged for the animals to be ill so that Rosalind could search the baronet’s papers in the resulting confusion.

  The only thing that would take Sir William from his house was his stable. If Aunt Annie knew this, then Sir William was more than a stranger to her. And this was, perhaps, why Anweledig was so certain the answer lay at Chandler Hall. The answer to whatever had happened in Spain in 1805.

  Year after year, each of Rosalind’s positions had included secrets and searches. And each seemed to have pulled Aunt Annie closer to the answer she sought. Rosalind had no idea what it might be, or even of the question. She had asked, but queries sent by letter could be easily ignored.

  She always wrote to Aunt Annie in care of the foundling home the woman had helped to establish in East London. Return letters came from different parts of the country. Among all her charitable works, perhaps Anne Jones pursued a hunt of her own.

  If she did, Rosalind did not know the purpose of that either. She knew only that once she found the right papers, Aunt Annie would turn them over to Tranc, and they would both be safe.

  In darker days, Rosalind had wondered if her life was worth the layers of debt she had incurred to save it. But now, for the first time in a decade, she saw the promise of choice ahead of her. Of a life free from secrets and spying. A life that was real.

  She just needed to carry out one last betrayal, and then she’d be an honest woman.

  * * *

  “You look like a half-laundered cloth that someone forgot to wring out,” came a familiar voice. “Are you all right, Rosalind?”

  She hadn’t heard the study doo
r open—but then, Sir William’s latest order had hit her with an unexpected force that left her ears ringing in disbelief.

  With a quick tug of breath, she tried to pull herself together before looking up from her usual litter of papers. Nathaniel Chandler crouched next to her chair, blue eyes at the level of her own. “I’m fine.” She turned away with the excuse of neatening a stack of paper. “I think I just ate some moldy hay.”

  “Very amusing. Ten points for wittiness. But I think”—he stood, then rested his weight on the corner of his father’s long table-turned-desk—“that you spoke to my father, as I did just outside the study. And that what he told me, which put a smile on my face, has put a frown on yours.”

  A broad, tanned hand came down on the stack of papers. “Rosalind. Truly. Will it be that bad to come to Epsom with me? I had hoped you’d be happy to receive such a sign of my father’s trust.” His tone was dry; they both knew that trust in Rosalind was a sign that his father’s confidence in Nathaniel was lacking.

  If only she had what they had: the fraught pairing of parent and child, so near at hand that they could be wary of each other. Test one another in everyday ways.

  But if she had that, she wouldn’t be wary. She would be grateful if her father were near.

  She rummaged for some explanation that might serve as an adequate excuse. “I don’t feel that I can leave my work. Or travel. At this time. To Epsom.”

  “Your short sentences. Do not. Convince me. Of anything.” He hopped himself up the rest of the way, sitting atop the table and letting his booted feet swing free. “What about a poem instead?”

  Rosalind looked up into his face. “Happy to oblige. ‘Roses are red. Nathaniel, I wish you would get Epsom out of your head.’”

  “I’m impressed. Your poetry is even worse than mine.”

  Despite herself, she smiled. “Why, what are your poems like?”

  For some reason, he blushed. “Never you mind.”

  A thought struck her. “If you just spoke to your father outside the study, why were you originally coming this way?”