Nine
1811. The Duchy of Abingdon.
It was going to happen. Phoebe could barely tamp down her excitement. He had a rook. She had a rook and a pawn. They both had kings as well, of course, since the game would be over if one of them were to lose a king. As George was about to lose his. She was sure to win with her superior number of pieces. She allowed an exchange of rooks, knowing she would take him with her pawn. Finally, finally, finally, after six years of playing George, she would finally win.
But she didn’t. He forced a draw. A draw had happened before in their games. It was nothing to celebrate, not like a win would have been.
Carefully, he explained her error, how she should have gone for the Lucena position and then she would have won.
She noticed him looking at her several times as he talked and expounded in his George way and moved the pieces on the board. He had looked at her several times in much the same manner during their game, his eyes resting for long periods of time on a spot just a little bit lower than her face.
My breasts. He has been looking at my breasts.A flush of something ran through her. Who cared about the draw? George was looking at her breasts.
Finally, he stopped talking and sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
“I don’t think you’ve been paying attention to me, Phee.”
Her face grew hot. “Of course, I have.” Then, in as brave a voice as she could muster, “Have you been paying attention to me?” She looked down at her own chest and then back up at him meaningfully.
He averted his eyes and blushed. George never blushed. Yes, his face went red when it was summer and he had been horseback riding for a long time. Or when he had been fencing on the lawn with his fencing instructor. But he did not blush, not sitting across a chessboard from her.
“Yes,” he said. “And I think you had better wear a higher-necked dress from now on, Bumblephee. For your chess lessons. When you lean over the board.”
She fled the room, wracked by shame.
Two days later, when he came again to play with her, she wore a dress that came up to her collarbone as well as a fichu. As she came into the library, he nodded, his face grave. It was his only acknowledgement that she had chosen well for her lesson.
She sat. He sat. They played. He won. She congratulated him. He showed her blunders to her. She listened, she nodded, she paid attention to what he said. But she also paid attention to the woodsy, cedary smell of him. How big and strong his hands were, moving the pieces on the board, as he explained something to her. How deep his voice was. The fluttering feeling she got when he praised a particular move she had made.
Six weeks later, she won her first game. He looked up from the board and grinned at her.
“That was bloody brilliant, Phee.”
She pushed her chair back and ran around the table and threw her arms around his neck.
“I won.”
“Yes, you did.” His voice was muffled by her chest. “Congratulations.” She pulled away and he looked up at her and smiled. “Well done, Phee.”
He was happy. Happy for her.
“I knew it was coming,” he said. “You almost did it six weeks ago. I’ve been holding my breath for ages, waiting for you to vanquish me.”
“You didn’t let me win, did you, George?”
“Of course not.” He was suddenly serious and took both of her hands in his. “I would never do that. That would be dishonest. That would lessen your accomplishment.” Then he grinned again. “You won fair and square.”
She trembled, her heart raced. She had won. He was happy for her. He was holding her hands.
And I’m in love with him.
She was fourteen, after all. She had breasts and monthly courses and was a woman now. She felt well able to say she was in love with him.
“It’s all to do with your teaching, George.” She squeezed his hands. Suddenly, she realized her breasts were at his eye-level and moments ago his face had been buried in them.
He looked away from her and let go of her hands. “You shouldn’t say that, Bumblephee. You are very good. At chess.”
There was a finality to his words, and he began to replace the pieces, setting up the chessboard as he liked to leave it, eleven moves into Philidor’s 1783 bishop’s opening against Bruehl.
