“Mathematics? I have never heard of a woman teaching mathematics.”
“She has a mind as sharp as her tongue; I know that as well as anyone. When we were children and home on holiday, my parents would quiz me on my studies, but she would beat me to the answer ten to one. It did her no favors since my mother would send her away so that she might praise me disproportionately to my successes, but I think the personal triumph of beating me was important to my sister. Learning was the only aspect of her life she had any control over.”
“Is she happy as a teacher?”
He looked up at Sabrina, as serious as he’d ever been, and held her eyes for a beautiful eternity of four seconds.
“I believe she is bitter about the course of her life, but then I have also been bitter despite having many more advantages than she ever did. There was a great deal of discord in our household when we were young, and it stayed with my sisters and me as we grew. Each of us fled in one way or another as soon as we were able, and none of us has a great deal of trust in the others.
“I hope Hazel is content, but to expect happiness amid the circumstances in which she finds herself feels rather unrealistic. After all, she has a clubfoot and a worthless brother who has not supported her the way he should have, which means she has had to work for her own support.
“The last time I corresponded with her—other than the letter of apology I sent last week—was to ask to borrow money nigh on a year ago. How is that for brotherly kindness?” He let out a humorless laugh. “Her response was less than ladylike.” He shrugged, perhaps to take the point off the painful truth. “Every word deserved, however.”
“And your other sister? What was her name—Hannah?”
“Yes.” His expression softened, leading her to believe that even if none of the siblings was close to the others, there was something more between Mr. Stillman and Hannah than he could claim with Hazel. “She is married, though it was not a good match. Her husband is a fisherman.”
“A fisherman?” Sabrina could not hide the surprise in her voice. Hannah was a gentleman’s daughter.
“Yes,” Mr. Stillman said, looking at the board.
“And is she happy with her life?”
“I have not seen her since my mother’s funeral, which took place a few months after Hannah’s wedding. She seemed well enough, if not a bit disenchanted. Her fairy-tale expectation turned out to be a small house in a fishing village far away from anything, and anyone, familiar. She has a child, though I’ve never met her.” He looked up from the game and met her eyes again. “Are you happy, Lady Sabrina?”
She opened her mouth to give a glib answer that would deflect his attention, but he’d bared his life far more openly than she’d expected when she’d begun asking questions. “I am not rightly sure, Mr. Stillman. I am . . . content and secure.”
“Which can feel like happiness if it contrasts significantly enough against feelings that are the opposite of contentment and security.”
“A contrast which then becomes . . . enough, I suppose.”
He nodded thoughtfully and smiled. “You are a very intriguing woman, Lady Sabrina.”
The compliment was like champagne, filling her with a fizzy warmth—but also filling her with the knowledge that she would need to stay on her guard.
“I am not intriguing,” Sabrina said breezily, debating on moving her bishop two spaces. “In fact, I’m quite boring. I spend my days managing investments, following politics, and networking within society on behalf of my brother.”
“Lord Hattingsham, heir to your father’s dukedom?”
He did know of her family history, then, and yet his expression held no censure. “Yes. My brother is one of my dearest friends.”
Mr. Stillman smiled. “You have done well for yourself.”
She looked away, needing to hide her discomfort. She’d done well with what she had, yes, but she would never discount the grace that had brought her there. Nor the price she had paid along the way. From the outside it looked easy—a rich father followed by a rich husband who’d had the good manners to die before he’d spent through his inheritance. What luck.
“All that any of us can do is our best with the cards we are dealt,” she said finally.
“And you enjoy living as an independent woman?”
“Very much.”
“It is never lonely?”
Oh, but he had arrows aplenty tonight. There were a few ways his question could be interpreted, so she chose to believe he wondered if she were lonely living by herself. “I think anyone who lives alone is lonely at some point or another, but it is not so bad that I have plans to remedy the situation.”
“You do not want to remarry, then?”
“No.” The word came out strong and tight and bound up with the same determination she’d expressed to Nathan so recently. Why were the people in her life asking this question of her? Uncomfortable with Mr. Stillman’s focus, she finally made her move even though she’d lost track of which was the better one.
Mr. Stillman’s attention went back to the board. “I have no desire to marry either,” he said, as though it were a white flag. “It feels so very confining.”
“Marriage is not confining for a man,” she said with a sharp laugh. “They are the party who reap all the benefits.”
“And the confinement.”
“What confinement?” she asked incredulously.
He looked up as though surprised by either the tone or the question, perhaps both. “Of responsibility,” he said. “Of saddling themselves with one woman and taking on the burden of children.”
She felt heat rising in her chest and tried to keep her voice calm. “Rare is the man who reserves himself for one woman, married or not, and children are a legacy, not a burden. Save for bouncing them on a knee every week or so, how are they a burden to the father?”
He held her eyes for several seconds, and though she wanted to look away, she didn’t. “You have a very low opinion of men, don’t you, Lady Sabrina?”
She looked back at the board quickly even though it was his move. “Perhaps I do,” she admitted, though she’d never thought of it so directly as that. She thought well of Nathan, and Richard’s father had been kind, but he’d been nearly seventy years old when she’d joined the family, and he was not necessarily inclined to form a bond with his son’s nervous wife.
“And a man like me does little to improve your opinion of my sex.”
She waved toward the board, her jaw tight. “It is your move, Mr. Stillman.”
He tapped a finger to his chin. “I have tried and tried to remember our acquaintance from those years ago. Do you remember which party it was where we first met? I did not make the rounds in high society for so long that I have a great many to choose from.”
Sabrina, distracted by the many conflicting emotions in her chest, said without thinking, “The Gilmores, perhaps.”
“Lady Constance Gilmore?”
His excited tone caused her to lift her head, and her breath caught at the look of recognition on his face. What had she said? She had not really wanted him to remember. “Y-yes.”
He smiled in relief. “She is the aunt of an old school friend of mine—Nathan Williams.” He paused, looking to the side as though searching for the memory she fervently hoped he would not find. Why had she not been more careful with her words?
“I had only been in Town a few weeks, and she invited us to a party and I . . .” His eyes moved back to her, and she watched the memory bloom across his features. His expression turned instantly to confusion. “You were in the garden.”
She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat as a flush shot up from her chest. She could not look away from him, though she feared he was seeing far more in her expression than she wanted him to.
“You were hiding in the garden,” he clarified, his voice soft as realization connected to the memory. “You were afraid, and—”
“I was ill.”
He squint
ed as though trying to focus on the details he had not yet captured in the net of memory.
She spoke before he could. “You fetched my friend, Lady Townsend, for me.”
“Yes. She had a green ostrich feather in her hair. But there is something more.”
She forced a smile and cocked her head to the side, determined to cut into his recollections. “I have always had a question about that night. The young woman you were escorting to the darkened corner when you came upon me—what was her name?”
His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as she’d expected they would when she put the focus on his actions that night instead of hers. It was a mean trick, but it worked. He was the one to look away, and they were silent for a full minute until he made his next move. It left his queen open to her knight, which meant she could end the game in only a few more moves. She moved her bishop instead. What was she doing? What did she hope to gain by extending the game?
“Is that why you are set against me?” he asked quietly. “Because of who I have been?”
Sabrina should have ended the game when she’d had the chance. “I am no more set against you than I am any man, Mr. Stillman.”
“I know I am not a good example of my sex, Lady Sabrina, but you must know that a good number of men are decent and kind—far better than I am.”
“And faithful?” She raised her eyebrows in challenge.
“Yes, there are faithful men.” He smiled, probably an attempt to lighten the conversation, but she found it patronizing.
“Name me one.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Give me the name of one faithful man you know well enough to be certain he can claim credit of that virtue.”
“My cousin Peter,” Harry said easily. “And my cousin Timothy as well. I’ve no doubt they will remain faithful to their wives. Peter’s first wife passed away, and he’s recently remarried. And Timothy . . .” Harry’s smile grew larger. “He once told me he hopes to have ten children.”
Sabrina thought back to the letter she’d received from Harry’s uncle some weeks earlier, stating how he’d planned to bestow inheritances to each of his nieces and nephews upon marriage. Had Peter and Timothy already claimed theirs? That seemed reason enough to question the virtuous intention of these men, but only Lord Damion knew those details, so she bit her tongue.
“Well, ’tis a shame they are both married already. I’d have liked to have a chance with one of the only two men of virtuous character left in England.”
Mr. Stillman laughed. “So if there were a man of virtuous character, you would consider marriage? That means it is not that you don’t want to marry but that you do not trust to marry.”
Sabrina felt herself bristle like a cat, but to react with claws would be contrary to the confidence she wanted to convey. What a mess she had made of this conversation! She took a long, deep breath, determined to give him her undivided attention. Though uncomfortable, this was still a better topic than their first meeting in the Gilmores’ garden.
“When a woman marries, she becomes an appendage to her husband. Anything she owns or has built for herself becomes his, and she is left to live at his whim. If he should choose to gamble away money she brought into their marriage, she cannot say a word. Should he choose to take a mistress, she is powerless against it. He can cheat her, use her, abuse her, cut her off from family and friends and treat her as wickedly as he wants without accountability or reproach.
“If a woman found herself in a situation of equality, perhaps she, too, would take advantage of the same power and freedom men take for granted, but that is not how our society operates. If there were a guarantee that only good men were in positions of power, it might be different. But any kind of man can run this country and their homes, while women are considered barely human. Men pat us on the head and compliment our stitching while denying us education and occupation that would free us to make decisions toward our own best interest.
“I managed to find a break in the wall meant to keep me in. I was widowed without an heir for my husband and nothing he owned was entailed upon a male relative. The fact that he died before he found a way to keep me under someone else’s power gave me a freedom very few women will ever know. I will never give up my power again. The very potential of the risk that would be is unacceptable to me. So, yes, I am lonely sometimes, but, no, that loneliness will not drive me to give up my rights to myself ever again.”
She’d said too much. She could feel it in the air between them as he held her eyes and absorbed her words. She braced herself for a rebuttal—either something easy and light or insightful and pointed; he’d shown himself equally capable of both.
After enough time for Sabrina to feel foolish and vulnerable for having said so much, Mr. Stillman smiled at her, and then moved his bishop without looking away from her.
“Checkmate.”
Sabrina arose the next morning feeling foolish about her rant that had allowed Mr. Stillman to win the game. Again. She wasn’t sure how to talk to him now—she’d left rather abruptly last night—so she tried to distract herself with work. She went over the household accounts in detail, planning out the months she would be gone week by week.
Joshua, Maria, and Constance had all made arrangements for temporary work at other homes in Wimbledon, though she would continue to pay a percentage of their wage to ensure they returned to her when she was back from Naples. Therese would manage the house on her own, with Steven maintaining the grounds and stables.
The planning moved naturally into Sabrina making detailed lists of what she needed to do before she left, what she would pack, exact times she would be leaving one place for another, and even setting out most of the dresses she would be packing to make sure the trunks she’d chosen were the right size. Poor Joshua ran up and down the stairs to the attic storage half a dozen times helping her find the right luggage. She decided on the yellow trunk; it was the right size and would be easy to identify amid the other passengers’ luggage. Eventually she ran out of lists and packing, though she would not leave for Brighton for another fortnight.
She took a walk and tended to her roses, which did not need her tending. Later, when she lay down to take a nap, she only stared at the ceiling and wondered what Mr. Stillman was doing and how it would be perceived if she looked in on him during the afternoon. It would be two days in a row she’d visited before dinner. Would it give the wrong impression?
Had she given the wrong impression already?
What did he think of her?
Did he think of her at all?
If he had other companions to choose from, would he still want to play chess with her?
Even after her rant and quick departure last night?
Did she owe him an apology?
It was nearly five o’clock before she gave in, deciding it was late enough in the day that she could claim having finished her work in time to look in on him. Therese was adding new levels of movement for his routine every day, including the use of a Bath chair so he could maneuver around the room. In a few more days, Joshua planned to take Mr. Stillman outside in the chair so he could get some fresh air and practice with the crutches Steven was making for him. Sabrina could reasonably ask Mr. Stillman how the activities of the day had gone and how his leg was faring.
At the door she knocked twice before pushing open the door in time to see Mr. Stillman quickly stuff something under the bedclothes.
The taskmaster within her instantly wielded a willow strap.
“What are you hiding?” she demanded, taking authoritative strides across the room. If he had talked one of her staff into giving him a bottle of wine, so help her . . .
“Nothing,” he said with a nervous laugh. He smiled wide, and her suspicions deepened. He knew what effect his smile could have on a woman.
“I saw you put something under the bedclothes,” she said as she reached his side. “Show it here.” She put out her hand.
His smile fell. “Lady Sabrina, it is noth
ing.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“I’m sure that is true.” She reached over and pulled back the covers, revealing . . . a skein of pink yarn, a square of stitches, and wooden knitting needles. After a moment, she reached forward and stripped the covers all the way from the bed as she had the night she’d found the brandy just in case there was something more.
His nightshirt was high on his legs, exposing a portion of the lingering bruise on his left thigh, but there was nothing else hidden beneath the bedclothes. Sabrina stepped away from the bed as Mr. Stillman leaned forward and pulled the coverlet back over himself, restoring some level of decency. He then extracted the yarn and needles and set them on his lap.
“Knitting?” she asked after a few seconds.
“Therese has been teaching me,” he said with a touch of defensiveness as he squared his shoulders. “She claims I am a quick study. I was hoping to surprise you, but apparently you still distrust my assertion that I am a new man capable of more noble pursuits.”
Sabrina blinked. “Knitting?”
He gave her a wounded look. “You said I needed to find constructive things to occupy my time.”
“Well, yes, reading and . . . whittling perhaps.” Wood shavings would be intolerable in a bed, however.
“Appropriate male pastimes, you mean?” He raised a single eyebrow in reprimand. “You are the one who says a woman should have the same opportunities as a man, so why can’t a man knit? Especially if he is inclined toward the skill of it, for it most certainly takes skill to do well.” He paused his work to look at her, then lifted his chin defiantly.
It seemed he had listened to her rant about the inequality of the sexes with greater attention than she’d expected.
“I owe you an apology, Mr. Stillman,” she said once she’d swallowed her pride. “Well, two, now, I suppose. I became rather . . . energized last night and left abruptly; I am sorry for the rudeness. I am also sorry for assuming the worst just now.”
Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency) Page 17
