by Goodman, Jo
It was incomprehensible.
“Shall I teach you Napoleon?” Olivia asked as she shuffled the cards. “Sometimes it is called écarté. Are you familiar?”
“Écarté,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her hands as the cards flew back and forth between her fingers. “I know that word. It means far apart. Lonely.”
“Just as Napoleon was on Elba and later, St. Helena, so it is all of a piece, isn’t it?” She stopped shuffling and passed the deck to him for a cut. When he simply stared at her, she explained what he should do. “It is your choice. Most players prefer to cut. They all do if they are concerned that the dealer may be moved to cheat on the deal.”
He glanced at the cards, then at her.
“I will not be offended if you make a cut. You have no reason at all to trust me.”
He separated the deck carefully, choosing to make two almost equal piles, then restacked them opposite of his cut.
“Very good,” said Olivia. She took up the cards and dealt them each three, then two. She explained the rules and object of the game. “It will become clearer after we play a few hands. As for the scoring, you and I should agree on what we’ll use to make our payments. Have you any money?” At his frown, she shrugged. “No, I didn’t think you would. It’s of no matter. I brought a purse of farthings with me.” She reached for the small leather bag she’d attached like a pocket to her morning dress and laid it on the table. “Go on. You open it and divide the coins between us. What you are able to win from me, you may keep, but what I am advancing you now must be returned. Do you understand?”
He nodded and divvied the coins with the same precision he’d used to cut the cards.
“If you bid that you can take all five tricks,” Olivia explained, “that is called a nap. Upon succeeding, I will have to pay you ten. But if you fail to make your nap, then you must pay me five. Bid a Wellington, and it means you bid to take all five tricks but have to give me ten farthings if you fail. Bid a Blücher, and the payout is twenty for one of us.” She paused, picking up her cards to examine them, then encouraged him to do the same. She stole a glance at him as he studied his cards. His small mouth was no longer set in the grim line that was his usual mien. Earnestness had caused his expression to take a different shape, and the point of his pink tongue peeked out from one corner of his lips. “You know who Wellington and Blücher are, don’t you? I didn’t think to explain.”
“Waterloo,” he said.
“I wonder if they know their names are now attached to a card game,” Olivia said, “and if they’re honored or find it lowering.”
He did not venture an opinion about Olivia’s musings, but said instead, “Wellington should pay more than a Blücher.”
“Ah, an Englishman through and through, aren’t you?” When he did not respond, she did not pursue and directed him to bid his hand. She was surprised, and not a little pleased, when he did so without hesitation. “I can do better than your three hearts, so let us see how you play out the deal.”
He won four tricks handily, while she managed to take the last. She settled a farthing on him and watched a glimmer of a smile surface. Satisfied, Olivia showed him how to make the deal and the play continued.
“He won twenty-three farthings from me,” she told Griffin at tea. “Can you imagine? And never played the game before. It was quite astonishing. I think he must possess a formidable intelligence.”
Griffin chose a slim slice of pound cake from the tray and slid it onto his plate. “I cannot say anything about his intelligence. What I imagine is that you pushed some very good cards on him.”
She made a face. “Oh, very well. In the beginning. Just to give him confidence to make a bid, and that has nothing at all to do with his cognitive powers. He still could have offered no bid, but he took the risk, and I found that reason enough to hope.” She wagged her fork at him. “Have you visited him today?”
“No.” A shade defensively, he added, “Other matters required my attention.”
Olivia merely raised a brow and let him make of it what he would before she tucked into her own serving of pound cake.
“I intend to speak with him later.” He took a bite of his cake, then washed it down with tea. “Did you find it awkward?”
“Conversing with him, you mean? A bit, yes. He was not so impolite as to ask me to leave him, but it is a certainty that he did not want me there. I am stubborn, though, and meant to have my way.”
“It cost you twenty-three farthings.”
She smiled, shrugged. “It is money well spent, in my opinion. He has kindly offered me an opportunity to win it back.”
“Thus the lamb is led to slaughter,” Griffin said, shaking his head. “I am all admiration.”
“Thank you. It does seem as if it may go well.” She regarded Griffin over the rim of her cup. “Did you have tin soldiers as a child?”
“Yes. A legion of them. Why?”
“There looked to be two or three score of the little men under Nat’s bed. I saw them when I was sitting at the table. Were they a present from you?”
“No. I have never seen them. It is doubtful my nephew shared his own. Did you ask him about them?”
She shook her head.
Griffin shrugged. “He had a small trunk and several cases when he arrived from Bath. I suppose he could have brought them with him.”
“Did you prize your legion?”
“Most definitely. I set up battlefields in my room, across my desk, on the bed, under it. Played at it for hours at a time. Boys do, you know.”
“No. I didn’t.”
She was a cunning strategist, he thought, in the way she could arrive at her point by any route. His acknowledgment of her aim was something less than gracious. “Oh, very well, I suppose it presents an opportunity for young Nat and me to find common ground.”
Olivia hid her smile behind her teacup. It was a beginning.
The hell was particularly crowded that night. Word of mouth in and around Putnam Lane was all that was necessary to fill the halls and gaming rooms. Patrons came as much to pay their respects to Griffin as they did to make their wagers. The betting books were opened, the faro table attracted gentlemen three deep, and the tables where cards were played had onlookers waiting for a turn in one of the chairs.
Griffin politely accepted the condolences of those regular patrons who were little more than acquaintances. Those who knew him better had already expressed their regrets in missives that arrived at Wright Hall soon after the announcement appeared in the Gazette. Tonight, they simply made certain they caught his eye and conveyed their concern for him.
Griffin could have done without any particular attention being paid to the passing of his wife. He made no attempt to follow any mourning customs, knowing the effort would be regarded as hypocritical in as many circles as the lack of the same was regarded as disrespectful. Rather than try to do right by a society that could not be satisfied, he elected to please himself.
He was wending his way in the direction of the faro table when a movement on the upper stairs caught his eye. Turning quickly, he spied Nat ducking back into the hallway. Griffin decided against going after the boy and waited to see if he would reappear as soon as he thought it was safe to do so. When he judged sufficient time had elapsed for Nat to have returned to his room, Griffin waited just a bit more and was rewarded when a shock of russet-colored hair showed itself at the top of the stairs, followed by a pair of equally dark eyes.
Those eyes widened with the realization of having been neatly caught out.
Griffin held up his forefinger in a gesture that could signify a great many things but in this case meant stay. He did not expect Nat to bolt, but neither was he prepared for the fear he saw in the child’s eyes as he climbed closer. Because of that, he did not place his hand on Nat’s shoulder when he directed him to return to his room, but fell into step at the boy’s side instead.
Once they were inside the bedchamber, Griffin took up a chair so h
e was not towering over the child and motioned Nat toward the bed. Griffin chose not to be insulted when Nat responded rather too hastily.
Deciding to go at the matter directly, Griffin asked, “Do you think I mean to strike you?”
Nat blinked. His mouth was dry and his tongue cleaved to the roof. He tried to swallow but the lump in his throat was firmly in place and the sound that left his lips was an embarrassing gagging noise.
Regarding him warily, Griffin asked, “Are you going to be sick?” Nat’s quick shake of the head was unconvincing. “I have some experience with this. Much to my regret.” Griffin rose, went to the dressing room, and returned with the basin from the washstand. He set it on the bed beside Nat and went back to his chair.
“Perhaps it will be more productive for me to say some things rather than put questions to you.” Griffin did not wait for any sort of response, only gauged that Nat was listening, and went on. “I flatter myself that I am not strictly bound by the conventions of society. It is not always a wise choice to fly in the face of what is expected, but it is my choice. If you do not comprehend what I’ve just said, it is of little matter. It is merely a preamble to what I will say now, and in time, I think, you will appreciate it.
“I do not hold to the notion that sparing the rod spoils the child. Whether that benefits you remains to be seen. You may be confident that I will not lift a hand against you nor take up a cane. You may also be confident that I will not permit you to show such willfulness that you endanger yourself or others. That is what you did this evening by placing yourself at the top of the stairs. I appreciate curiosity, but it is misplaced in this instance. You may ask questions about this establishment, and you will receive answers, but you may not wander from your room while there are patrons about.”
Griffin’s left eyebrow lifted a fraction while his gaze remained frank and assessing. It seemed to him the boy grasped most of what he’d said well enough, but he had to be sure. “Do you understand?”
Nat nodded. When that response appeared to have been judged inadequate, he found enough spit had formed in his mouth to permit him to speak. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good. Then perhaps you can tell me what it is you hoped to learn by visiting the top of the stairs.” As Nat was dressed in his nightclothes, Griffin thought he could safely assume the boy had not meant to leave the hell. Also, the servants’ stairs would have been more the route to take in that event.
Nat was not proof against the long, expectant silence that followed. “I could not sleep for the noise.”
“It is frequently noisy. A cup of warm milk at bedtime will help you sleep. I will instruct Cook to make you a posset. You might have rung for it yourself, yet the noise drew you out of your room. How did you imagine that would help?”
Nat flushed a little and for the first time his eyes darted away. He pressed his lips together until they all but disappeared.
“Did you wish to find Miss Cole?” asked Griffin. When Nat offered up a single shoulder shrug, Griffin realized he’d hit close to the mark. He tried again. “Were you looking for me?” When the boy’s head shot up and the most alarming expression took shape on his face, Griffin realized his question had missed the target entirely. “Very well. You were not looking for me. I can surmise that you were not in need of one of the staff else you would have used the bell, so that brings us round to Miss Cole again. As much as I appreciate the challenge to my gray matter, it would be ever so much better if you would simply speak on your behalf.”
Nat said nothing.
Griffin sighed. “As you wish. I will have the posset sent to your room. Drink it all.” He stood. For the first time since entering the room, he felt awkward and uncertain of what should be done. “Nanny Pritchard used to tuck me in. When I was your age or thereabouts, I pretended I wanted none of it, but she managed the thing anyway. Do you…” He hesitated, wondering if Nat would make his own feelings known. He was encouraged when the boy neither blanched nor shied away and decided to save both of them from asking the question. Instead, he approached the bed and indicated that Nat should remove his slippers and robe. He took away the basin and held up the covers while the boy crawled under them, then made a neat cocoon around every part of him but his head.
“Good night.” He tousled Nat’s hair. The texture was fine and silky. “You may sit at breakfast with me and Miss Cole, if you like.”
Nat stared up at him. “Do you mean it, sir?”
“Yes, of course. I find it less confusing if I say only what I mean. I am also appreciative when others do the same.”
“Then I should like it, sir.”
Griffin nodded. He was on the point of leaving the room when he caught a hint of Nat’s small voice adding, “Above all things.”
There was no breakfast room or family dining room in the hell. The rooms that had been intended for such use had long been turned over to gaming. So it was that Griffin, Olivia, and Nat took their breakfast in Griffin’s study at a table carefully cleared for just that purpose.
Olivia watched with amusement as Nat’s eyes darted about the room. The child was evidently impressed that so much in the way of clutter was tolerated. He had been gently warned upon his entry that he should not touch anything, and to his credit, his hands had not left his sides. He’d made one slow, but complete circuit of the room, gazing at the books with something like yearning in his face, making a cursory examination of the porcelain and jade figurines crowded together on the drinks cabinet, and finally pausing to study his own narrow face in the mirror above the mantel. Olivia did not think she would ever forget how he’d turned his head, just so, to better make out the line of his scar. Her own attention had darted to Griffin then, and she saw that he had been riveted by the very same.
“I imagine you are wondering how Lord Breckenridge finds anything,” Olivia said. “It remains a mystery to everyone, including his lordship, but if he wants a particular item, he knows precisely where to go.”
Nat bit off a piece of toast and chewed thoughtfully. “The Castle of…” He paused, his tongue working around a word he didn’t know.
Griffin set his cup down and arched one eyebrow sharply. “Otranto. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Otranto. Yes. That’s the one.”
“That is too easy.” He pointed to the stack of books to the right of the chaise. “Third up from the bottom. It is not a particularly good representation of a Gothic novel, but it helps support the candelabra nicely.”
“He is rather too confident,” said Olivia, finding her voice after a moment’s astonishment had left her without words. “I would not trust him. It is all right if you wish to look.”
“No, that’s where it is. I remember.”
Olivia looked from Nat to Griffin. Her accusing glance took in both of them. “You arranged this. I have never heard of The Castle of Otranto.”
“Horace Walpole,” they said as one, but Griffin was looking at Nat oddly while Nat was sinking his small teeth into a muffin the size of his fist.
Olivia excused herself from the table and went to the stack. Dropping gracefully to her haunches, her gray morning dress wreathing her like smoke, she counted three up from the floor and tilted her head to read the spine. “You are both unnatural.”
She returned to the table and regarded Nat with an expression only marginally less surprised than Griffin’s. “You have read the book?”
“Only the side of it.”
Griffin found he could only shake his head. “He is a quick study, I think. What else did you observe, Nat? Can you tell me, for instance, where I might find The Vicar of Wakefield?”
Nat licked at the muffin crumbs above his lip as he applied considerable thought to this challenge. He closed his eyes, scanning the room in his mind’s eye, and said slowly, “Bottom shelf. Left side. Between four and eight from the far end, I should think.”
“Six, actually,” said Griffin as Nat opened his eyes and looked at him expectantly. “Now, have yo
u seen a deck of cards with a blue backing?”
“No, sir.”
“That is too bad. Neither have I, and I was most particularly fond of them.” He dipped the point of his toast into the yolk of his soft-boiled egg. “Miss Cole?”
“They are in your desk drawer. I put them away.”
Griffin sent Nat a look that put them on the same side against the sole female in the room. “You see? She has put them away. It is an annoyance, but one that must be occasionally suffered if one wants—”
“Wants?” Olivia asked pointedly when Griffin suddenly fell silent. “Wants what, exactly?”
“Harmony,” said Griffin, inspired to respond in this fashion by Olivia’s look, as well as the tines of the fork she was pressing into his thigh. “There are certain advantages to harmony, Nat.”
“Does it hurt, sir?”
“Harmony? Why, no, it is—” He stopped this time because Nat was shaking his head. “Oh, you are referring to the fork in my leg.”
“Yes, sir.”
Olivia removed the fork and stabbed a thin slice of ham with it. “How did you know?” she asked Nat. “I am not always so easily caught out.”
Nat was uncertain he could explain it. He’d seen it in their faces—one pained, but more as a pretense than fact, and one grim, but slyly so. There was also the matter of a missing fork and the hand that had held it, as well as the exchange they’d made in which no word passed between them. It was not easily explained when he understood almost none of it. He’d simply said what came to his mind.
“It just seemed you might be moved to take a poke at him,” Nat said. “I think he meant to push you to it.”
“Sometimes his lordship doesn’t require a push. He just steps into it. I acquit him of cruel intent.”
“You are too kind,” Griffin said dryly. He glanced at Nat. “Miss Cole tells me you won twenty-three farthings from her yesterday.”
“Yes, sir. It was her money.”
Griffin considered that. “Yours now, though I understand what you mean. Would you like to have some money of your own? Like it enough to earn it?”