“Yes.” This was followed by a sob. And then another one. She looked down at her own lap. “I’m s-s-sorry.”
“But.” He paused. Did he really want to promise this? Anything to get her to stop crying. “When we are very old, if we haven’t married anyone else, I will ask you.”
She lifted her head. “What is very old?”
“Twenty.”
“When I am twenty or you are twenty?”
“You. Twenty isn’t old for a man. But you must promise not to cry anymore.”
She stared at him. No new tears came. But George could see her nose was still running and her face looked wet and sticky and dirty all at the same time. He went into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Here.”
She took it and wiped her face and her nose. She held it out to give it back, but he shook his head.
“You keep it, Bumblephee.”
“Thank you.” She played with the corners of the handkerchief.
“Now, I have an idea. What do you say to my teaching you how to play chess this afternoon?”
“Isn’t chess for men? And very hard?” Her lower lip stuck out and her tone was petulant.
“There’s a queen in chess. If there’s already a woman in the game, it can’t be just for men,” George said.
“A queen?” Suddenly, Phoebe seemed very interested.
“Two queens. A black one and a white one. And they’re very powerful. As for chess being difficult? The rules are simple. You’ll be able to learn them this afternoon. Shall we go see if your father will let us use his chessboard in the library?”
“Yes, please, George.” She leaned over and put her lips against his cheek. A kiss.
He got up very quickly then, picking up the candle he had brought with him, careful to stay leaning over and not to bump his head on the low ceiling. He held out his other hand to her and she took it and also stood, and they made their way out of the priest hole and into the bright sunlight of the upstairs hallway.
One
14 years later. June, 1819. London.
George Danforth had been out of sorts all week. The damnable thing was he had no idea why, and he had never been a man to suffer ignorance with good grace.
He paced the study of his London town house, reviewing the possible causes of his unease.
Of course, there were always the looming philosophical questions that haunted him at night when shadows gathered in the corners of both his bedchamber and his mind. Questions about his place and purpose in the world. But those worries weren’t bothering him right now. In fact, they seemed rather silly and irrelevant at the moment.
There was something else unnerving him. Something new. Something pressing.
He had no financial worries. Yes, he had unexpectedly had to spend a good part of last month away from London due to some flooding in his barony. But no lives had been lost and everything had been managed as well as it could be under the circumstances.
His sister Alice, the person most likely to plague him, was being remarkably well-behaved despite having been left alone in London for some weeks. He had heard no reports of a new scandal.
He felt physically well. True, in the last few days, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night and his appetite had been poor. But that wasbecausehe was out of sorts. His lack of sleep and his picking at his food were results, not causes. He was in a fine fettle. Despite being in town, he was well able to exercise, riding early every morning on Hampstead Heath and indulging in some long bouts of fencing three afternoons a week. But this week, the pounding of his heart and the use of his muscles had brought him no respite from the mysterious, gnawing thingthat kept him from sleeping and eating.
He had enjoyedthe chair, the best chair, the perfect chair at his club over the last four days. Even today, after his weekly visit to Jack MacNaughton’s bedside had put him behind time, he had managed to nab it. Frequently, George and Phineas Edge, the Earl of Burchester, competed forthe chair. This spoke well ofthe chairsince the earl was a self-proclaimed hedonist. But Phineas was currently out of town which meant George had been able to claimthe chaireasily and without any teasing from his absent friend who was also very much a rogue.
And on Monday, George had won his weekly chess match against Lady Phoebe Finch, his oldest and best friend in all the world. Handily.
Therefore, he should be in a good mood. Everything was in order, and he sought order even as he craved control. An iron grip on himself and on those matters which concerned him.
