George’s last three letters to Phoebe had not yet been returned. He took that as a hopeful sign. He had written to her about the Audley Street Chess Club tournament at the end of August and about meeting the great French chess player Valois. How small the man was, probably the same height as Phoebe. How swiftly he had defeated George. How elegant the man’s play was. How George thought Phoebe would have certainly put up a much better fight than he had.
Tonight, he would write to her about his trip to Sudbury. It had been a short hunting trip out to the estate of the marquess, Edmund Haskett’s father. Edmund, Phineas Edge, William Dagenham, and Sir Matthew Elliot had all been there. George had hoped to find relief from his heartache in a change of scene, just as Alice was seeking to do, but he had only felt worse being far from London, unable to check the post to see if a letter had come from Phoebe.
Of course, no letters had arrived in his absence when he got back to the town house last night. But the trip had given him something to write to Phoebe about, something besides how much he loved her and wanted to see her.
He might travel to the barony soon. He was usually there this time of year and being out in Sudbury had made him long to be in the country for the autumn.
But he knew being so physically close to Phoebe would drive him mad. With the duchy of Abingdon just a few miles away, he might see her at any time, around any corner. And he had no good reason to think she would do anything besides cut him dead.
He shook his head as if the physical movement might clear away some of his melancholy. It was a Thursday afternoon in London. It was time for George to work on his monograph on the origin of the wordclue, the same monograph he had been working on since June when his whole life had been turned upside down and inside out by an engagement and a chess game and a wager. And by a woman he had both loved and ignored for years.
He must get back to his routine.
He reread what he had written last week. Ah, yes. He must get this bit down about Theseus and the labyrinth. The ball of string orclewhe uses to get out the labyrinth after slaying the minotaur. Theclewgiven to him by Ariadne who he later abandoned.
Not who, whom. Whom he later abandoned.
George threw his quill down. Even simple grammar eluded him these days.
And why must he get back to his routine? What had his routine ever done for him? Maybe it had damaged him. Maybe it had been the reason he hadn’t seen, right in front of him, the woman he now desperately wanted. Because she had slotted into his routine and his calendar aschessandpupilandchildhood best friendand not asloverorwifeorthe person I want to see every dayorthe person who makes life worth living.
The person for whom he would abandon all routines and calendars, forever. The person who had given him so much joy and so much relief from his tiresome self.
Because the terrors which used to come to him at night now came to him in the daytime, too, and he found himself continually tormented by the questions that had haunted him since his father died.
What was George Danforth’s place in God’s grand scheme? What was his use? What was he doing in the world and what good was he?
He was no good. He was doing nothing. He had no use. He had no place.
His life was not just hopelessly banal, but fruitless. His speeches, his monographs, the things he did every day—all of them were just time-fillers, temporary patches on a leaky boat calledLifethat would not hold water for long.
And chess—the activity he had long called his greatest comfort—suddenly seemed flat and empty, too, without Phoebe. He saw now it was she who had given him comfort, not chess. He had delighted in winning a game at the chess club so he could boast about it to her, recall the moves and show her how he had won. He had read Philidor a hundred times so he could teach Phoebe the master’s secrets. And he had reveled in her daring and her cleverness, the way she saw things he couldn’t, four or six or eight moves ahead.
He heard a noise. It was the door opening at the base of the stairs of the special entrance, the one that hadn’t been used since Lady Starling had gone out of this room for the last time in June.
It was Horatia, coming back to him. Phineas had told George in the carriage on the way back from Sudbury that he intended to break it off with Lady Starling. She was likely on the hunt for a fuck to soothe her wounded vanity. That was what George had been for her seven or eight months ago when Thornwick had left her. The viscountess was seeking that type of consolation from George again.
He put his head in his hands. Not now. Please, not now. He didn’t have the patience or strength for an encounter with Horatia. He would likely rip her simpering head off with his own raw feelings, his savage temper fueled by his dire outlook.
He took his head out of his hands and pushed his chair back from the desk but stayed seated, waiting for her and her languidhello, lover.
But it was the opposite of what had happened in June when he had expected Phoebe and Horatia had come instead.
A knock and Phoebe, dressed in black, a veil covering her face, came through the door.
He sprang to his feet. “Phee.”
She closed the door behind her. “Lord Danforth.” She curtsied.
He bowed. He tried to read her expression behind her veil, but he couldn’t.
She said, “I tried to see you yesterday morning. But you weren’t here when I came up.”
“I-I just got back last evening from a trip.” That sounded horrible. As if he had been out carousing, not pining for her as he had been, as he had confessed in his letters to her.
“I knew you would work on your monograph today. May I sit?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Please. Yes. I’m so glad you’re here. I wasn’t even aware you were in London. I would have called at your house immediately.”
