“Yes, thank you,” I said, reaching out and relieving him of his mallet, then his wooden ball. I sauntered over the lawn, toward the metal hoop, and dropped the ball onto the grass.
Liza trailed behind. “Come and watch, Charlie. You can play the winner.”
“Come and watch two gently bred ladies take fifty hits to arrive at the arch?” He did not sound intrigued.
“I can make it in four,” I said, measuring my swing. “Easily.” How hard could it be?
“I should give myself six hits.” Liza squinted an eye. “No ... seven.”
Mr. Winston laughed. “I swear, if either of you makes your goal, I shall give you each whatever you want.”
Liza sucked in a breath. “The opera?”
My list?
I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Winston stood a few paces away. He took off his straw hat and fluffed out his dark-brown hair before replacing it.
“I shall hold you to that,” I said sweetly. Then I turned forward and traced a mental line from where the ball sat in the grass all the way to the metal hoop. I would need a strong first hit with enough control to send the ball straight where I wanted it. My fingers wrapped tightly around the mallet. As though on instinct, I turned sideways to give myself ample room to swing.
“Steady, Ros,” Liza whispered. “Steady.”
I reared back slowly. My muscles seemed to know what they were about as they coiled up, focused on that invisible path I’d drawn in my mind.
One practice swing to test my trajectory, then another. Mr. Winston laughed, and I turned to scowl at him.
Focusing once more, I drew my mallet back, then with awhoosh, I swung it and sent my ball flying across the lawn. It landed and bounced, bounced, bounced, rolling a little to the left, but surprisingly, incredibly, stopping over halfway to the hoop.
Liza’s jaw dropped. Then I realized mine had too.
“Good heavens,” she breathed. “When was the last time you played?”
“I honestly cannot remember,” I admitted. Childhood? With Ben?
“Well done,” Mr. Winston said, still staring out into the distance.
Liza found her footing where I had stood. And after similar preparations, hit her ball nearly halfway to the hoop. She jumped and shrieked in delight before clearing her throat and straightening her skirts. “This is rather exhilarating.”
We squeezed hands as I passed by, walking ahead to where my ball waited. Liza and Mr. Winston followed close behind. I’d need one solid hit to ensure that two more would be enough to see my ball through the hoop within four total hits. Then Mr. Winston would have no choice but to follow me along on my list of adventures, and with Liza in tow!
I crouched down low, measuring that same invisible line with my eye. This hit would need far less strength.
“Careful, Miss Newbury. You must temper your hits.”
“Are you master of pall-mall as well as pugilism, Mr. Winston?” I made a show of ignoring him, rising from my spot with as much confidence as I could muster. I had this game nearly won.
The ball made a pop sound when my mallet connected.
But it was too loud. Too hard. Too fast! It flew past the arch and kept rolling. I dropped my mallet and covered my face with my hands. “Noooo,” I wailed, crouching low. “No.”
“Oh, Ros. What rotten luck.” Liza rubbed my back. It was over. I’d lost. I could not recover from such a poor hit with only two left to spare.
Mr. Winston stepped beside me. “I tried to tell—”
I stood and pointed a finger at him. “You distracted me on purpose.”
Mr. Winston reared back a bit and laughed. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Perhaps you can recover and still beat me,” Liza called to me, hitting her ball a few paces toward the hoop. But beating Liza wouldn’t win me my prize.
