“Look up, Mama.”
She did, only to hear “Catch!” as Ian tossed the die a bit too far to her right.
Sophia stretched as far as her dress would allow and caught the die inches before it hit the floor, even though it set her off balance. Pulling herself back upright, she raised one eyebrow. “You forget that my cousins were more devious than you. I know that trick.”
Ian shrugged and grinned. “But you caught it.”
“Incorrigible.” Sophia shook her head. “That’s what you are.” She looked at the clock. She didn’t want to be lounging on the floor when Aidan arrived. They had plenty of time to finish the game. “Let’s see.” She cast the die. “Oh, dear.”
Ian laughed. “One. Double that is two. Now you’re on 40—oh no, the Lobster!” He held his hands out to her, opening and closing them like a pair of claws.
“Is that bad?” Though Sophia had played the game in her childhood, she pretended to have forgotten it entirely to give Ian the pleasure of teaching her.
Ian leaned over the rules and read them aloud. “It says here: ‘Who falls into his claws is pinched back as many pictures as his next goes will spin.’”
Sophia grimaced and moved her marker. “Well, if I have to go backward, let’s hope I throw another one. Your turn.”
Ian shook the die next to his ear, then blew on it.
Sophia laughed. “Where did you learn that?”
“From Nate. He says Uncle Sidney always does it when he plays. It’s for luck.” Ian blew on the die once more.
“That’s only a superstition.”
“We’ll see.” Ian cast the die. “Five.” Ian counted the steps as he moved his marker, the banner-bearer from his army set. “Number 33, the Magic Circle!”
Sophia reached for the die, but Ian snatched it from the board before she could reach it.
She held out her hand. “Isn’t it my turn?”
“Mama,” Ian offered in mock exasperation, “if you would read the rules, you would know.” He pointed at the rules. “The Magic Circle ‘immediately entitles the spinner to two new goes.’”
Ian threw the die. “One.” He moved the banner-bearer forward one step to step 34, Fortune.
“See, you shouldn’t have teased me,” Sophia gloated.
“No, see what it says here. At Fortune, I gain eight counters from the bank, move my marker to step 44, then throw again.”
Sophia added eight peas to Ian’s pile. “What’s at 44?”
Ian counted. “It’s the Heart. Here are three peas for the bank.”
“Why?” She took the peas from his hand.
“He has to pay ‘a token of his expected constancy.’” Aidan’s voice came from the doorway behind her. “Of course I always found constancy of a much greater value than three dried peas . . . and much harder to come by.”
Sophia stiffened and bit back a retort. With her back to Aidan, she closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself. Of course, he’d arrived early, and in time to offer a disquisition on constancy. But be gracious—gracious for Ian’s sake. You cannot afford to offend him.
Sitting on the floor, she twisted to acknowledge Aidan. “Dodsley did not announce you had arrived. If you would be so kind as to wait in the entry, we will join you momentarily.” To rise without damaging her skirts, she would have to perform a series of ungainly acrobatics, and she wished not to perform them in Aidan’s view. Any proper gentleman would retreat—but would Aidan?
Sophia turned back to Ian. “Count up your peas. We’ll note where we left off and finish tomorrow.”
Fine leather Wellington boots walked from behind her to the space between her and Ian.
“If you wish to finish, we have time.” Aidan crossed his ankles and lowered himself gracefully to the floor.
All on the floor together, there was no reason not to finish the game. She nodded assent, and Ian blew on the die once more.
“Ian, you don’t believe that works, do you?” Sophia prodded gently.
“It worked before, and I need a six to get to the center. All the steps between here and 50 make you lose turns.” He blew on the die and shook it beside his ear, then threw. “Six!”
Sophia watched Ian move his marker to step 50, symbolized by an illustration of a Knight at his ease. “You’ve won!”
“Not yet. Now I have to throw a one, two, or three twice before I win. Otherwise, I have to go back steps. It’s your turn.”
“This is too complicated.” Sophia pretended petulance, placing her hand to her forehead.
“Not if you read the rules,” Aidan echoed Ian genially.
Sophia glared at Aidan, then cast the die. “Two. Ah, back to the Dove of Peace. Does landing on the Dove of Peace require me to throw again?”
“Yes, and double it,” Ian reminded. “But blow on the die, just in case.”
“I’ll brave the consequences of not blowing on the dice.” She threw. “Five.” She picked up her marker. “Doubled, that is 10.”
“I told you to blow on it.” Ian began counting the peas in his large pile.
Sophia counted ten steps, her marker landing on a symbol of a grave. “Oh. Is this bad?”
“That’s the Grave.” Ian returned his peas to the bag. “The rules say ‘who plunges himself in this dreary mansion is deemed dead and has entirely lost the game.’”
“I seem to have arrived in time, then, to save your mother from an early grave.” Aidan looked at Sophia’s tiny pile of peas. “I don’t think there’s any reason to count, do you?”
Sophia shook her head, and Ian began putting her peas into the bag. Sophia picked up the game and unsuccessfully tested several ways to fold it to return it to its box.
To Sophia’s surprise, Aidan reached out and took the game gently from her hands, then folded it on the first try. She didn’t know whether she should be grateful or offended.
“Mama pretends to like games she knows I like,” Ian said. Then he added more quietly, “Papa and I used to play.”
“I always enjoy being with you.” Sophia tousled her son’s hair and tickled him out of his fleeting sadness.
“See.” Ian grinned at Aidan. “Because she doesn’t like them, she loses, even when all she has to do is throw dice.”
“Well, perhaps I can play them with you,” Aidan suggested. “But I rarely lose.”
Ian picked up the banner-bearer and put it gently in his pocket. “I would like that, your grace.”
“If your mother doesn’t like games, what does she prefer?” Aidan focused his gaze on Ian, not Sophia.
“Ahem, I can hear you talking about me.” She waved her hand, as if they had not noticed her.
“Other than me, she likes plants and painting.” Ian looked at his mother, then at Aidan. “I’m not sure she likes you yet.”
“Ian!” Sophia chastened. “Remember your manners.” She tossed her son the bag of peas. “Return these to Cook.” She held the game up to him. “And the game to the nursery.”
Ian tucked the game under one arm and left, tossing the bag of peas up and down like a ball, clearly enjoying the sound of the peas falling against one another.
“We had to promise to return the peas before we left. Cook needs to set them to soak.” Sophia started to arrange her skirts, trying to imagine how to stand without looking like a cow struggling to escape a bog.
Aidan stood as gracefully as he had sat. “May I help you up, my lady?” He held out his hands. “Perhaps it will give you cause to like me . . . if only a little.”
She didn’t look into his eyes, only at his hands. “Your kindness to my son gives me ample cause already.” She adjusted her dress to keep it from getting caught underfoot and took his hands. They were strong and warm. Aidan pulled her up gently and set her on her feet. She ignored the warmth that spread up her arms and into her belly.
“Then perhaps I can find other kindnesses to perform.” But before she could respond, he bent down to pick up her marker, a green crystalline stone, flat on the
bottom, but with one vertical crystal emerging from a pool of other smaller crystals. “I don’t recognize the stone.”
“It’s vesuvianite,” Sophia offered, hoping to distract him from Ian’s revelation.
“From the volcano?” Aidan held the crystal in the light.
“Thereabouts. We had gone on an excursion to the side of the crater, and Ian traded for it because I liked it.” She watched Aidan examine the stone, turning it to catch the light in its facets.
“Traded?” Aidan held out the vesuvianite crystal to her.
“Ian treated our gardens as his personal bank, and cuttings from it were his currency.” Without her fingers touching his, she lifted the crystal from his palm and returned it to the mantel below Tom’s portrait.
“I didn’t realize Ian inherited your love of plants.” Aidan folded his hands behind his back, watching.
“Oh, he doesn’t love them; he loves what he can do with them.” She walked toward the partner desk to retrieve a long black cloak. “He’ll manage his estate well, but if he weren’t a lord, he’d be perfectly happy in trade.”
“He has a ready mind and quick wits, traits valuable in any pursuit . . . which must lead us to the question: how do we convince him he is wrong?”
She pulled the cloak over her shoulders, then turned to her reflection in the garden window glass. “Wrong?” She used the excuse of arranging the shawl over her décolletage to avoid facing him.
“Do you harbor an aversion to me?”
“I harbored an aversion to sharing the guardianship. Ian noticed my reticence and presumed it was tied to you. Nothing more.” She set her face in a grave reserve and turned back to face him.
“Yet if Ian believes it is dislike, it will make my role as guardian difficult. Unless you help me convince him he is wrong.” Aidan had moved to stand near her. He was closer than she’d expected, or wanted. For just an instant, she once more imagined Aidan as a large predatory cat hunting her. But his voice was conciliatory, even deferent.
She wanted to object, but it was her fault for letting Ian, her ever-perceptive son, see her discomfort. “I have no idea how to be other than I am. What do you propose?”
“When Ian is present, you pretend to feel comfortable in my presence. If it helps, pretend I am someone else. Seth, perhaps, or Clive. Pick someone of your circle with whom you feel most at home, and behave to me as you would to them.”
“Malcolm, though I haven’t seen him for some time.”
“Then pretend I’m Malcolm.”
“You and Malcolm are nothing alike,” she interjected before she could catch her words.
“I always thought we were much alike.” Aidan looked bemused.
“Oh, no. Malcolm wears his childhood in Kentucky like a badge of honor, and when it suits him, he even puts on a hint of Daniel Boone.”
“And me? What am I like?” Aidan quizzed.
Ian came to the door of the library. “Mr. Fletcher says to tell his grace that only God can stop time.”
“Mr. Fletcher?” Sophia asked, grateful to avoid more explanation.
“My coachman. He’s been with the estate since before I was born, which gives him the right—or so he tells me—to order me about. Shall we go?” Aidan offered her his arm, and, aware of Ian’s careful gaze, she took it.
* * *
“Eighteen carriages for a family dinner?” Sophia groaned as Fletcher drew up to the Masons’ large Kensington home.
“Nineteen if you count ours, Mama.” Ian leaned out the window, waiting for the carriage to stop and allow his escape.
“Ophelia defines small somewhat differently than most. But take heart: she’s limited by the word family.” Aidan unlatched the door and allowed Ian, already perched at the threshold, to jump down. Ian ran to the front door and let himself in.
“I assure you that I did rear my son to have manners.” Sophia shook her head.
“Ophelia is his aunt; Nate is his friend. Besides, he’s saved us the trouble of being announced.” Aidan stepped down from the carriage, then held out his hand. Sophia took it, steeling herself against the thrill of his touch. “I am certain you will manage the hordes admirably, but if you require assistance, I am at your service.”
The front door flung open, and Ophelia greeted them.
“A small family dinner?” Sophia pointed at the line of carriages.
“I didn’t invite anyone you don’t like.” Ophelia embraced Sophia, then Aidan. “Of course some, like Malcolm’s wife, you haven’t met yet.”
“Malcolm is here?” Sophia peered into the open hallway for her cousin.
“Yes. I knew you would be pleased.” Ophelia took Sophia’s arm in hers and walked toward the door, Aidan following. “So you must forgive me the others.”
“You said there was no one I didn’t like.” Sophia pulled away to look Ophelia in the face.
“There isn’t.” Ophelia waved Sophia’s objection away. “Just a few that you might not prefer. Come along. Aidan, show her into the saloon. Now that you are here, I’ll call for dinner.”
“Are we late?” Sophia whispered to Aidan, lapsing without meaning to into old patterns of familiarity.
“No, the others came early.” Ophelia had overheard. “I thought it would be easier, if they were already here when you arrived. It’s your first excursion in company since your mourning ended, and you are the guest of honor, you know.” She moved away to call the servants and to announce Aidan and Sophia’s arrival to the company.
“I thought you said she was limited by the word family,” Sophia accused in a whisper.
“Well, everyone here is someone’s family . . . just perhaps not yours or mine or Ophelia’s.” Aidan brushed his wavy hair back from his face.
Sophia stopped in panic. “But what if I don’t remember them? It’s been ten years—some of them were children when I left. What if I don’t recognize members of my own family?”
“Then, if you allow me, I will remember them for you. Leave it to me: no one will suspect if you don’t remember them.” Aidan extended his arm. “Ready?”
She took a deep breath before tucking her fingers into the bend of his elbow. “Yes.” They entered the dining saloon.
“Sophie!” a slender blond man wearing an embroidered green waistcoat exclaimed. He began to make his way toward them.
“Your youngest Elliot cousin. Ralph. One of the twins,” Aidan offered sotto voce.
“Ralph, is that you? Why you were barely out of Uncle Lawrence’s nursery when I left!” Sophia extended her arms and offered an embrace.
“We were eight.” He waved toward another man at the pianoforte. “John is here too.”
John, wearing a pink waistcoat instead of a green one, came to embrace her. “We’re thrilled with our gift. Thank you.” He kissed her on both cheeks.
The two men, nearly perfectly identical, stood side by side, grinning. Colored waistcoats aside, Sophia knew a way to tell the twins apart, if the difference had not disappeared as their faces aged. She watched for the telltale double-dimple in Ralph’s right cheek, his twin having only one.
“Yes, the cage is perfect,” John continued. “We’ve wanted a larger iron one for some time, but haven’t had the funds.”
“We certainly couldn’t get the money from Father.” Ralph jostled John’s arm.
“Not given how much our evil stepmother Annabella hates Fire and Brimstone,” John jostled back.
The twins laughed. The twins spoke so quickly, one almost on top of the other, that Sophia had no time to ask “what gift?” before they moved on. She looked to Aidan for help, and reassuringly he patted the hand she had placed on his elbow.
“I hadn’t realized Fire and Brimstone were still alive. How old are they now?” Aidan asked.
“At least twenty. Macaws can live for more than fifty years in captivity. With the larger cage—it’s as long as the side of our study—they seem much happier.”
“Yes, they must have known it was a gift from So
phie, because they have been singing her lullabies since we put them in it,” John offered sweetly.
Sophia remembered. After her marriage, she’d wept at leaving the twins, whom she had sung to sleep since their own mother had died when they were four. To appease her, Tom had brought his birds from his estate and convinced her they could learn her songs. But in the weeks she’d sung to them, all they had ever offered were imitations of various street singers’ calls. “They learned the lullabies?”
“Yes, all of them. When we closed our eyes, we could imagine you were in the nursery with us, they imitated your voice so well.” Ralph’s cheeks reddened at the revelation.
“Of course, over the years, they’ve parsed the songs together in their own way,” John added. “But we still find them . . .”
The twins looked shy for a moment, then continued in one voice, “comforting.”
“Didn’t they have different names when Tom had them?” Sophia questioned.
“Oh, yes, but at eight, we found Heraclitus and Parmenides a little daunting.” For the next several moments, the twins shared the conversation, finishing each other’s ideas, often in mid-sentence.
“So, we converted them from Greek philosophers into religious enthusiasts.”
“In honor of Annabella’s puritan leanings.”
“We thought she might like them better if they were named after something she liked hearing about.”
“And the birds took to their new names with appropriate enthusiasm.”
“Yes, within days, they were calling each other Fire and Brimstone.”
“Especially whenever she came to the nursery.”
“Which wasn’t often once we got the birds.”
“We were very grateful to you and Tom for that.”
As quickly as they’d begun talking, the pair fell silent.
Overwhelmed, she held out her arms and enfolded both young men together. Both whispered at once, “We missed you, Sophie. The birds couldn’t replace you.”
“Perhaps some day I could hear the birds sing?” she asked when the embrace ended.
The twins suddenly looked sheepish. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. They lived with us at Harrow. Now they stay with us at Oxford and at our club between terms.” Their voices trailed off, and they turned to Aidan for help.
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