Nevertheless, She Persisted

by Mindy Klasky

  It would also be quite impossible. A mere woman able not only to read Thucydides and Livy in their original languages, but also to understand the art of military strategy? No one would credit it. Jane had carefully concealed her education during these weeks in London, for it was a truth universally acknowledged that a bluestocking, no matter her possession of a good fortune, would never be able to attract a husband. Competing at Game Day would destroy her chances utterly.

  Still, what a dream…

  She sighed and looked up, and saw that Aunt Aspasia was watching her, a peculiarly…intense expression on her face. “Aunt?” she asked uncertainly.

  Aunt Aspasia gave herself a little shake. “I think,” she said, “that it’s a splendid idea. Jane shall play at Hatton’s in your stead, Jonathan.”

  “What?” Jane gasped.

  “What?” Jonathan stared, then gave a shout of laughter. “Good God, Aunt, I was joking! Janey can’t play at Hatton’s.”

  “Why not?” Aunt Aspasia asked. “Is there a rule at Hatton’s that states that women are not allowed to play the Game?”

  He blinked. “Er, n-no, not as such. But—”

  “On Game Days, women are allowed on the premises, are they not?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And Jane is an excellent player, yes? As good as you are, I believe you said?”

  “Better, I think, when it comes to certain historians. But—”

  “Then I do not see what the difficulty is.” She beamed at them.

  Jonathan took a deep breath, wincing as his ribs reminded him of their compromised condition. “Aunt Aspasia, she can’t. She would be ruined.”

  Aunt Aspasia raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see how that is possible, as I shall be at her side at all times.”

  He flushed. “I don’t mean literally. I mean that she would be made a laughing-stock, or worse. Any chance of her contracting a suitable marriage would vanish utterly. As her eldest brother, I can’t allow that to happen.” He caught Aunt Aspasia’s glance and held it. “Or do you want her to end up like you? What would you have done, if my mother had not died and my father called on you to take over bringing us up? Gone on being a drudge in Aunt Julia’s house, because you thought yourself too clever to marry?”

  “Jonathan!” Jane cried. “What a horrid thing to say! You know you never would have got your double firsts if Aunt Aspasia had not tutored you every summer.”

  Aunt Aspasia, unruffled, returned his gaze. “If we must discuss why I never married, nephew, it was because I was unwilling to settle for a husband who would not respect my intellect as much as I respected his.”

  After a long moment, Jonathan’s eyes fell. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, but I’m glad you did. To make such a marriage would be a death of the soul worse than not marrying. Is that what you would choose for your only sister?”

  Jane looked from one to the other of the two people she loved best in the world, clutching the seat of her chair to keep from falling off it. “Do you truly think I’m good enough to compete on Game Day, Jonathan?” she demanded. “Truly?”

  Aunt Aspasia opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to change her mind about what she was going to say. “Is she, Jonathan?”

  Jonathan stared fixedly at nothing, scowling. Jane had the feeling that if he hadn’t been trapped in bed by his injuries, he would have stalked from the room.

  “Jon?” she ventured, when the silence grew painful.

  He blew out his breath in a gusty sigh. “Yes, dammit!”

  “Language, dear boy,” Aunt Aspasia murmured.

  “Don’t ‘language’ me, Aunt,” Jonathan snapped. “If the pair of you are intent on destroying Jane’s future in this way, let it be on your own head.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Aspasia said.

  “Ah, Miss Wetherby! And Miss Jane, too! It wouldn’t be Game Day without Wetherbys in attendance!”

  Mr. Baldock, the present aedile of Hatton’s (of course the club’s staff had to have Latin titles), bore down upon them, the oak leaf embroidery on his blue tailcoat gleaming in the sunshine streaming through the front door’s fanlight.

  “Thank you, Mr. Baldock,” Aunt Aspasia replied. “A good crowd already, I see.”

  “Oh, yes, I believe we’ll be full today.” He bowed to her and to Jane, then rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Quite full indeed! May I escort you to the Greater Parlour? That is where the Battles Ancient will be played this year.”

  Aunt Aspasia nodded and took his proffered arm. She cast a quick reassuring glance over her shoulder at Jane, who fell into their wake with a polite smile that might have been a trifle too bright plastered on her face. Hatton’s was crowded; curious how Game Day had become as much a part of the season as the Summer Exhibition or the Derby. The marble-paneled entrance hall of Hatton’s was thronged with visitors, all festively attired. She’d planned to wear her plainest walking dress, in dove gray, but Aunt Aspasia had scorned that idea. “There’s no reason for you to dress like a penitent,” she’d said firmly, and so Jane instead wore a spencer of rose-colored sarsnet, ornamented with braiding and puffs of satin at the shoulder, over a muslin gown frothily flounced around the hem with rows of lace, and a most elegant bonnet in the French style, adorned with a sweeping plume of pink ostrich feathers. She knew she looked well; if only that confidence could carry her through the next several moments.

  As she walked, she exchanged greetings with multiple acquaintances. It didn’t help her equanimity; would they still smile and nod at her when she took Jonathan’s seat? Would Mary and Sarah and Charlotte call on her tomorrow to gossip happily about today, as they did with any other social event they’d all attended? Would any of the young men who’d been asking her to dance at parties still seek her hand in a waltz or cotillion after this? Lord Towle’s eldest son, George Verrill, who’d been most attentive of late, had only smiled when she’d felt it incumbent on her to admit her bluestocking tendencies to him. Surely, if he came today, he would wish her well—

  “I see your nephew hasn’t yet arrived,” Mr. Baldock said, pausing in the entrance to the Greater Parlour, which was paneled in dark wood relieved by niches containing marble busts of the great historians of the ancient world. Most of the tables set up in the room, widely spaced to allow spectators to wander about and listen in to battles where their fancy led them, had at least one contender already seated, except for one where she could see a place-card inscribed J. Wetherby. “Did he come with you?”

  Jane clutched her reticule and hoped her voice would tremble less than her hands. “I’m sorry to report that my brother will not be playing today, Mr. Baldock. He suffered a most unfortunate accident and will likely be bedridden for some days. I shall be playing in his stead.”

  Mr. Baldock’s features, which had arranged themselves into an expression of sympathy during the first part of Jane’s speech, melted into blank astonishment at the second…before they relaxed into a broad smile. “Ha! Very witty, Miss Wetherby! You almost had me for a second there. I assume that your brother will be here shortly, then?”

  She had been prepared—mostly—for outrage and anger, but somehow, not for laughter. “I-I was not being witty, sir,” she stammered. “Jonathan is indeed confined to bed, and I am here to take his place.” She pointed at the table. “I am also J. Wetherby, by the way, if that helps.”

  Mr. Baldock’s smile faded. “Miss Wetherby,” he said, turning to Aunt Aspasia. “Surely there’s been some mistake—”

  But Aunt Aspasia had stepped back. “My niece is an accomplished player,” she said. “If she is willing to do her brother the favor of taking his place because of his indisposition, I cannot object.”

  “But—Miss Wetherby—this is most irregular! And on Game Day—”

  “Please don’t worry, Mr. Baldock,” Jane put in. The poor man had grown quite pale, and the starched points of his collar were wilting. “I truly am able to play the Game quite well.�
��

  “No, you can’t! It’s impossible!”

  She stiffened. “Impossible that I play the Game here today, or at all?”

  Mr. Baldock threw up his hands. “Oh, where is Lord Radleigh?” he moaned, and dashed from the room.

  Jane would have liked to follow him; a few nearby spectators were whispering to each other, their eyes fixed on her. Instead she sat down in Jonathan’s—no, her chair, set her reticule on the table, and untied her bonnet with what she hoped was an unconcerned air. She had won the first skirmish.

  The field was not hers for long. Within a moment a slightly familiar-looking young man, perhaps a year or two younger than Jonathan, ambled to her table. His brows rose as he saw her.

  “My dear young woman, there are seats for spectators at the edges of the room,” he drawled, surveying her through a gilt quizzing glass. “Permit me to escort you to one.” He held out a hand.

  Jane willed hers to remain quietly in her lap rather than gripping the table edge. Here, regrettably, was her opponent.

  Jonathan hadn’t known against whom he would play today, but he’d had an idea of who was competing in the Battles Ancient form and gave her a précis of each of them, once he’d gotten over his disapproval of her playing for him. This young man in his dark blue coat cut a little too narrow in the waist and a little too padded in the shoulders could only be Mr. Edmund Paice-Storey, second son of the Earl of Claviston…and was, in Jonathan’s words, a “self-impressed popinjay” who, while an indifferent scholar of ancient history, just happened to be extraordinarily good at military strategy.

  She forced a polite smile on her face. “Thank you, sir, but I believe I am in the correct seat. Jonathan Wetherby is unable to be here, as he has suffered a serious injury. I’m his sister.”

  “Oh.” The quizzing glass dropped. “What’d Wetherby do? Stub a toe rather than play against me? I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

  No, she would not kick him in the shins. “He has several broken bones, and since no one knows beforehand who their opponent will be on Game Day, that hardly seems likely.”

  He shrugged and examined his pocket watch, the chain of which was overburdened with seals and fobs. “That doesn’t explain your presence—your continued presence—at my table, Miss Wetherby.”

  “I am here to play in his stead.”

  “You’re what?” The watch nearly slipped from his fingers. He shoved back into its pocket. “Good God, is this some sort of joke your brother put you up to?”

  If one more person accused her of joking, she would kick him. “It is not a joke, Mr. Paice-Storey. I assure you I am quite able to play in his place.”

  “Of course you are. And I’m Emperor Bonaparte, on my way to see the spring flowers at the Tuileries. Enough, Wetherby, you’ve had your fun,” he called, looking around him.

  “My brother is not here,” Jane said through gritted teeth, rising from her chair. “And I—”

  “Now then, Miss Wetherby.” Mr. Baldock had returned, accompanied by a frowning man of distinguished years and a blue-coated footman bearing a large silver bowl. He halted before Jane and tried to twist his face into a jovial expression. “It’s almost time for the battles to begin. Won’t you sit over here in one of these nice chairs? Look, Lord Radleigh himself has come to sit with you.”

  Lord Radleigh ignored him. “Jane, what is this nonsense about?” His white brows bristled alarmingly.

  She gulped. She’d known Lord Radleigh forever; he was consul of Hatton’s, one of Papa’s closest friends, and Jonathan’s godfather. “Sir, I—”

  “She proposes to play against me in Wetherby’s place,” Mr. Paice-Storey interrupted. A small, cold smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “I propose to let her.”

  Mr. Baldock’s joviality vanished. “But—”

  “And I shall enjoy every moment of defeating her,” Mr. Paice-Storey continued. “I think it will provide a salutary example for females with ideas above their capabilities, of whom I have the misfortune to know more than one.” He smiled thinly.

  Before Jane could retort, Lord Radleigh took her arm and turned her slightly away from them. “I’m sorry about Jonathan, child—but this is not at all the thing! You don’t have to defend his honor just because he can’t compete today. Why are you doing this?”

  Why was she? Volumes of reasons raced through her mind, but in the end, they came down to one thing. She met his eyes squarely. “I think the better question, sir, is why shouldn’t I be doing this?”

  He recoiled. “I cannot think your father would approve of your making a spectacle of yourself playing the Game in public.”

  “As my aunt does not mind my doing so, I do not see what can be wrong with it.”

  “Your aunt should have your best interests at heart!”

  Jane looked over to where Aunt Aspasia sat in one of the spectator seats, not far away. Aunt smiled and waved at them cheerily. Jane smiled back. “She does,” she said quietly.

  Lord Radleigh stared at her silently for a long minute, his lips compressed. “Very well—on your heads be it. I shall write your father and tell him so.” He made a shooing gesture at Mr. Baldock, and stalked from the room.

  The sibilant murmurs from the crowd redoubled as Jane resumed her seat. She glanced around her and saw that the room was now filled with spectators; they were standing on the chairs, even, to get a better look, and more were pressing in at the door. Young women whispered to each other behind gloved hands; someone tittered. Male spectators wore expressions ranging from condescending amusement to outright hostility.

  Mr. Baldock, looking as though he were about to burst into tears, jerked his head at the waiting footman, still clutching his silver bowl. The young man stared at him. “What do I do?” he asked.

  Mr. Paice-Storey sighed. “Let the young lady draw a battle, oaf. We mustn’t forget the niceties. Game Day shall go on, despite…irregularities.”

  Jane flushed and reached into the bowl the red-faced footman offered her, pulling out a folded scrap of paper. She unfolded it, read it, and took a deep breath, her mind racing. She’d refought this battle just a few weeks ago, with Aunt Aspasia, and the two of them had come up with a strategy that was both unconventional and chancy—but could also be wildly effective. Did she dare try it here?

  “Might I also be informed as to which battle we are to fight today?” Mr. Paice-Storey asked, only the smallest trace of sarcasm edging his words.

  She flushed again. “The Battle—” Her voice shook. She stilled it and said, more loudly, “The Battle of Watling Street. Boadicea against Suetonius Paulinus.”

  The room erupted in exclamations and hurried explanations for the less knowledgeable, which quickly transformed into a tide of laughter. The Battle of Watling Street, in which a queen of the British tribes had attempted to crush the occupying Romans and failed. And today Jane—for the person who drew the battle slip took the first-named general’s place—would refight the fallen Boadicea’s battle.

  Within seconds, a footman had brought their Box. As the Game had established itself, the members of Hatton’s had commissioned handsome tooled leather maps of battlegrounds for game play; each resided in its own box in the Game library. With the maps were special ceramic pieces, designed by Josiah Wedgwood himself, a great admirer of the Game, representing the known combatants—infantry and cavalry, archers and artillery and more—that the generals had available to them for battle. An Order of Battle—detailed instructions for the placement of forces at the start of the battles—was included as well, all agreed upon by past Hatton’s members and occasionally altered when new scholarship called for it.

  The footman spread their battle map on the table, set out the smaller box containing the pieces, and bowed. Mr. Paice-Storey reached for the box, then paused. “By your leave, madam; it is the host’s privilege to lay out the battle.”

  She managed not to snap that she knew the rules quite well. Instead she smiled sweetly and said, “It is indeed, sir. Ju
st as it is the guest’s to watch and correct.”

  His lips tightened, but he made no reply. Jane watched closely as he read over the Order of Battle and slowly began to set the pieces on the grid of the map, often hesitating to consult the paper in his hand. Her own hands itched, wanting to snatch the pieces from him and set them up herself; she could have set this battle out in her sleep.

  Which meant that Jonathan’s assessment of her opponent as a poor historian but excellent tactician was probably an accurate one. She watched more closely to see if his hesitations were manufactured; such gamesmanship was supposed to be a feature of play here… “I believe that cavalry piece belongs there,” she said, pointing to a square two places to the left of where he’d just placed it.

  He checked the Order of Battle again, and his frown deepened into a scowl as he moved the piece. He set out the remainder of the pieces more quickly—Jane had to correct him twice more—and finally put the Order of Battle aside. “Does this finally meet with your approval, madam?” he asked with ironic courtesy.

  She hesitated. “We—we did not roll for weather.”

  He sighed. “Are you afraid Boadicea’s new bonnet will get wet, Miss Wetherby? Heaven forfend!”

  She gritted her teeth and stared pointedly at the small horn cup holding the dice until he picked it up with an exaggerated gesture. “Oh, very well. Dry low or high?”

  “High.” Please, let it be high—

  He cast the dice. “Well, well. Sixteen. It looks like Boadicea’s bonnet’s safe. Now do you approve?”

  Jane was too relieved to care much about his tone of voice. A sixteen meant that the battleground was quite dry, with little rain having occurred for the previous several days—which was exactly what she needed. “Yes,” she said, and held out her hand for the customary handshake.