Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  His musings were disturbed by a knock at the door.

  “Mr. Petrov” Harjit announced.

  “Ivan? Before noon?” David asked incredulously, rising to greet his friend.

  “I am to be needing your help, David,” the Russian said, the increased mangling of his English pronunciation betraying his agitation. “I am to be meeting Caroline this morning and you must be coming alongside with mine self.”

  “Is this some strange Russian custom? To have a friend accompany one upon an assignation with a lady?” David asked, teasing. “Here in England we usually conduct our tête-à-têtes by twos.”

  “Is why I am asking you,” Petrov said. “Her cousin is being there with her. I am wishing you to protract Sylvia, so I can be talking with Caroline.”

  “Distract,” David corrected. “You wish me to distract Sylvia.”

  “Is what I have been saying!” the Russian declared rolling his eyes in annoyance. “You detract Sylvia.”

  David chopped some sugar from the lump, staring into the cup as he stirred. The thought of facing Sylvia again so soon was almost unnerving. After he had left the Harwell ball the previous evening, David had fully intended to follow Mrs. Gabriel’s advice and keep his distance from her niece for a time. Even in the cold logic of the light of day, the memory of last night’s embrace still had the power to set his heart racing. Yet, despite the knowledge that he might be courting disaster, he wanted to see her. David slipped off his glasses, rubbing his eyes wearily.

  “Maybe you could be talking to her about the treasure?” Petrov suggested, accepting Harjit’s silent offer of coffee.

  “And the damnable will,” David said, picking up the sheaf of papers. “I have it here and I fear, Ivan that there seems precious little to discuss.”

  “Nothing unusual?” Petrov asked mournfully.

  “The baronet’s bequests are all within the normal realm, the dispensation of trinkets and tokens mostly,” he said, replacing his spectacles once again. “Gifts of money to old pensioners, a pianoforte to his niece Caroline-”

  “She plays divinely,” Petrov broke in.

  “I am sure,” David said acerbically, finding his place in the document once again. “His chess library to ... Sylvia? How odd...” David looked at his friend.

  “Is being a clue, perhaps?” Petrov said, seizing eagerly on the excuse. “You must be asking.”

  “Very well, Ivan,” David agreed, wondering if his friend had hit the mark. It certainly was an unusual legacy to bestow upon a female. “I shall accompany you. Harjit, has the new blue superfine jacket arrived from Weston?”

  “No, it is expected this afternoon,” the Sikh informed him.

  David strode toward the wardrobe, pulling it open to stand before it.

  “Where do we meet them, Ivan?” he asked, his head tilting in consideration as he eyed the array of clothing.

  “Park,” Ivan said. “They take the boy flying kite.”

  David recalled the scene in the nursery, Mile’s tow head nestled on Sylvia’s shoulder. “ ... you fly a kite better than any girl I know, don’t cut up stiff at frogs neither,” the boy had said. Well, David could only hope that she would not cut up stiff because of a moment of moonlit madness. Certainly, she had reacted well after the event, the previous night. So well, in fact that it verged on the annoying.

  “I shall wear the dove grey jacket,” David decided, lifting the sleeve. “The trousers to match. Appropriate for an outing in the park. Don’t you think?”

  Ivan nearly dropped the cup of coffee that he carried shaking his head in disbelief. “Highslip is making convert of you, I am vowing,” he declared.

  “I am merely following the terms of the wager,” David declared loftily. “Highslip has nothing to do with it.”

  And Miss Gabriel everything, Petrov thought glumly, not daring to venture the thought aloud.

  * * * *

  Above Green Park, a puff of clouds scudded across a field of clear blue. The hour was still too early for the invasion of nannies, maids and children that was sure to come on such a fine spring day. Sylvia, Caroline and Miles had the field to themselves while a maid hovered discreetly in the background. The boy licked his finger and held it up to the wind to ascertain its direction as the tail of the kite lashed about, almost like that of a living creature.

  “You see, Syl,” Miles called exulting. “Look! I almost have to keep it from flying. It’s the best kite we ever made.”

  “It surely is,” Sylvia said, stifling a yawn as she watched the painted diamond shape dance against the boy’s hold.

  “Why don’t you hold the kite up, Caro,” Miles suggested, noticing his cousin’s weariness “I’ll run into the wind with it.”

  “I think not,” Caroline said, seating herself beneath a tree. “It might muss my hair.”

  Miles threw his sister an exasperated look. “Why did you come anyway?” he asked.

  “Give it here, Miles,” Sylvia intervened, although she would have liked to hear the answer to the question. Caro’s sudden taste for fresh air was not the least believable. “She would just tree it anyway,” she whispered, taking the kite from the boy.

  Miles grinned in agreement as he let out line and waited for the breeze.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  His pudgy legs pumped as he ran into breeze, pulling the string while he looked over his shoulder at the kite. Sylvia watched as he raced across the field, the kite weaving and dipping behind him. It was lifting but not high enough. All at once, it crashed to the ground.

  “Bother!” he declared, winding in his reel as he went to examine the kite. Luckily, it was undamaged. “Ain’t enough of a wind,” he complained, panting with effort as Sylvia came up beside him. Caro’s laughter came floating across the field. “Like to see her get it flying!”

  Sylvia looked at the boy in sympathy. Miles looked spent and bereft. “Shall I give it a try?” she asked.

  “You didn’t get much sleep last night,” Miles observed guiltily.

  “I could use the run,” Sylvia said, realizing that it was true. The restless energy within her needed some release. She was tired of keeping herself constantly under tight rein. In the small world of the Ton, it was as if she were forever on exhibition, every move watched, every expression analyzed, every utterance assessed. Now that she knew herself to be in love with David, she needed to be especially wary of her words. She must not let him know the true depth of her feelings.

  “You are a prime goer, Syl!” Miles declared, picking up the kite and holding it aloft.

  Sylvia gathered up her skirt, holding the reel in her other hand as she ran into the wind.

  “Faster, Syl!” Miles called. “The wind’s catching it. Let out some rope!”

  She could feel the resistance as the diamond of wood and paper sailed aloft and she paid out more line. Although the kite was now soaring above the trees, she did not want to stop running, savoring the sheer joy of unfettered motion, the feel of her blood pounding in her ears, the warmth of the sun upon her cheeks. Sylvia flew across the open space, heedless of any would-be watchers.

  ...

  David stood at the edge of the field, thinking that he had never seen Sylvia more beautiful. Her hair came loose from its mooring pins, streaming out behind her like a cloud of golden gossamer shimmering in the spring sunlight. Upon her face was an expression of wonder, a smile of elation that had little resemblance to the social facade of polite nonchalance he had seen of late. The cold wall of unapproachability had utterly crumbled. The kite sailed above her, miming her motion. It was like a dance, David realized, much like the prancing of a long-stabled filly let out into pasture after a hard, cold winter.

  “Look, Lord Donhill! Look how high we got it!” Miles called.

  Sylvia whirled in her tracks. Lord Donhill? What in the world? She saw Mr. Petrov standing near the tree where her cousin sat and knew at once why Caroline had risen at an unheard of hour to come kite-flying. Her aunt would be furious if
she were to find out about this assignation and Sylvia had little doubt upon whose head the fury and the blame would fall.

  David was smiling at her, probably holding back his amusement at her appearance. Sylvia suddenly blushed to realize the picture that she must present. Her hair had come all unpinned and was falling about her shoulders in a mane. The faded blue dress that she wore was one of her oldest garments, not even fit to give the servants but hitherto perfectly suitable for the rigors of kite-flying. She must look a veritable Gypsy, she thought as she handed the line to Miles before walking back toward her cousin, the prospect of wringing the girl’s neck at the fore of her mind.

  “Sylvia,” Caroline said, having the decency to color prettily at her cousin’s murderous expression. “who would believe that Mr. Petrov would find us here?”

  “Only an utter flat,” Sylvia said, refusing to play the game of pretense. “Oh, Caro, whatever will your Mama say should she find out of this?”

  “Daisy will not tell,” said Caroline, gesturing toward the maid. “Neither will Miles; for all his fits and starts, my brother is no tell-tale. That leaves only you, Syl.”

  “I am not being fond of deceiving either,” Mr. Petrov said solemnly. “But your aunt is meaning to force Lord Highslip on your cousin. Do you wish this?”

  Sylvia’s countenance had become closed once more. “No,” she said, softly. “I would not want you to marry Hugo, Caro.”

  The expression in her eyes betrayed something of her inner turmoil and David wondered if it was entirely for her cousin’s sake that Sylvia agreed to assist in foiling her aunt’s plans. There was an adamant quality to her words, as if she would move the very earth to prevent Hugo’s proposal.

  “Oh thank you, Syl,” Caroline said, hugging her cousin close. “I knew that I might depend on you.”

  “You have mine thanks, as well, Miss Gabriel,” Ivan said, bowing in acknowledgement. “And now, we must talk, Caroline and I.”

  “I think we are being dismissed,” David said. “Shall we go help Miles with the kite?”

  Sylvia tried to calm the tempest of emotion within, as she fell into step beside David. His very proximity was enough to send her soaring like Miles’ kite, to rise and fall with the currents of his looks, his words. It was unforgivably dangerous, to allow herself to be swept away like this, to fly upon the memory of last night’s moment, stolen in the darkness. But it was like trying to quell a storm. She watched Caroline and her beau enviously, vowing that she would not allow Hugo to destroy her cousin’s happiness. “I will not let Hugo have her,” she said, half to herself.

  Sylvia’s words were quiet, but they had the force of an oath, throwing David into confusion. Was it was possible that Sylvia still desired the earl for herself? Certainly, it was no business of his if she wished to wear the willow for that conceited fop! Yet, the thought that she might be unable to see beyond Highslip’s handsome, stylish facade was curiously irksome.

  Over the years, David had come to consider himself something of a shrewd judge of character and he knew that there was an under-current of malice in the earl. Highslip exhibited a true malevolence that manifested itself in that wicked tongue of his. He would never marry Sylvia, not without her fortune to line his pockets. Fortune ... David’s attention focused back upon that damnable will. What if the chess library held the key? It would certainly give her the means to marry Highslip.

  “I am told you received a copy of the will?” Sylvia ventured. “Did you get a chance to peruse it.

  It was almost as if she could read his mind. David nodded. “I read it through briefly,” he admitted, his native honesty warring with his desire to spare her from Highslip.

  “Anything that struck you as unusual,” she asked, hope in her eyes.

  David’s sense of honesty won. “The bequest of the chess library,” he said, reluctantly. “That seemed most peculiar to me. Do you think it might be a clue, Sylvia? Why else leave a chess library to a female?”

  Why, indeed? Sylvia thought, scrambling for a logical explanation for her uncle’s disposition of his most treasured possession. “My brother Will is terribly careless with books,” she lied. “And some of Uncle’s volumes were quite valuable. I suppose that he trusted me to take care of them properly.” She prayed that he would accept her ploy.

  “I had thought when I initially heard the bequest that the books might contain a clue. I went through every one of the volumes thoroughly; both in the library here in town and at Crown Beeches. I found nothing. However,” Sylvia recalled. “I did remember something that I found in my search that might be of some use to you. Uncle wrote down the details of almost every game that he played. In his youth, I believe, he played Horace Greenvale most frequently. If Lady Helena’s manner of play is in any way like onto her father’s, Uncle’s play-book could be of help to you. I shall loan it, if you would wish.”

  David berated himself. She was offering him her help in retaining his freedom, yet all he could feel was a profound sense of relief that her fortune remained lost. As long as she was poor, she was safe from Highslip. “Thank you, Sylvia, I would appreciate the book,” David said.

  She avoided his eyes, afraid that he would discern the truth. It was utter selfishness that had prompted the offer of the book: that and the fear of losing him to Helena Greenvale. She wanted him to win, as much for her sake as for his. It was a foolish hope, she knew, but if given time he might come to care for her. At that point, she would reveal her chess-playing skill so that she might release him from his wager. But, until that unlikely time, she did not dare reveal her feelings else the fragile friendship between them might be broken. That was to be avoided at all cost, for it would be more than she could bear to lose him completely.

  David sensed her discomfort and thought he knew its source.

  “Sylvia, about what occurred ...” he began.

  “There is no need,” she murmured.

  “Oh yes, there is,” David asserted. “I would not have it hanging here between us. We were friends, I would have us remain so.”

  “We still are friends, David,” she said focusing upon Miles’ kite. She would not cry. She would not let him know what that kiss had completely undone her. Before that kiss, she had been able to lie to herself, to half-convince herself that she was not in love with him. Now, there was no denial, only profound pain.

  “I am sorry,” David said. “Doubtless, I am not the first man who has ever made a fool of himself because of your beauty.”

  Fool. The word made itself heard above the others. He counted the kiss an act of foolishness, prompted entirely by her looks. She was glad that he found her attractive and yet, perversely, she cursed her own beauty. In a strange way, he had not really kissed her at all, just her shell, the chimera of her appearance. He accounted her in the same way that one would a lovely painting or an excellent sculpture; one might admire a work of art but it was foolish to kiss it.

  “Oh no, milord,” Sylvia said taking refuge in ridicule. “You are certainly not the only one who has made a cake of himself over me, by no means. I would not stoop to compare your kiss with the myriads of others that I received. ”

  In some contrary way, her assertion was in no manner comforting to David. He removed his glasses taking comfort in the familiar motions of cleaning the lenses. The thought that he was but one among many who had tasted her lips was almost a shock. There had been an innocence to her kiss, a delight that sprang from new experience.

  “Although I lived in the country, milord, I was no hermit. Uncle saw to it that I attended the usual run of balls and dinners,” Sylvia asserted, running on when she noticed that David had so forgotten himself and was, once again, using his neckcloth as a wipe for his spectacles. “I have had odes written to my eyelashes, sonnets to my earlobes and rhymed couplets, if you would believe, to my nostrils. Why, one young man even composed an epic to my entire anatomy, much of it mere speculation, of course.”

  “Of course,” David agreed weakly.


  His countenance became a pattern-card of consternation and her sense of the ridiculous took control. “The recital took an entire afternoon. It began ‘Oh, divine left toe were I thee-‘” she intoned. All of a sudden it all became too much and she began to sputter, trying to hold the laughter at bay.

  A choking noise disrupted the morose direction of David’s thoughts. He returned his glasses to his nose and realized that Sylvia was nearly overcome, trying to stifle her amusement.

  “Myriad’s, eh?” he shook his head at himself, wondering why he was behaving with such total irrationality. What did it matter to him how many men might have kissed her? “Epics?”

  “If you could but have seen your face, David!” Sylvia let go in a gale of mirth, allowing her tears to masquerade under the cover of amusement.

  David too, began to chuckle, trying to cover his own confusion, wondering at his own pain as she dismissed the entire episode, made light of it. Surely, that was what he had desired, wasn’t it?

  “What’s so funny?” Miles asked, as he played the kite on the breeze.

  “Nothing youngling,” Sylvia giggled.

  “Awful lot of fuss for nothing, if you ask me,” Miles grumbled.

  “He is right, you know,” David said. “It is a lot of fuss about nothing. Pax?” he asked, offering his hand.

  “Pax,” Sylvia agreed, putting her palm in his, enjoying the grasp of his strong fingers as they shook hands with the mock solemnity of two children. She squinted up at the kite and allowed the tears that his new avowal had caused to mingle with the old. Nothing. He accounted that kiss as nothing. The flame of hope was flickering low, indeed.

  “Did you find anything else of interest in the will?” she asked, moving the conversation from the dangerous topic of the previous evening.”

  “I had not known that your Uncle had left me a chess set,” David said.

  “Unfortunately, due to the sorry state of affairs after Uncle’s death, I was unable to have it sent off until several months had passed,” Sylvia said, bending down to pull a blade of grass and twisting it distractedly in her fingers. “There was much debate over the clause in Uncle’s will forbidding mourning.”