The Wicked Wager

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The Wicked Wager Page 12

by Anya Wylde


  “I don’t know, he is sort of adorable,” Catherine replied, and then loudly added, “he looks hungry.”

  “He does, the poor thing. The cold outside must have forced him to join us. Do you think we should feed him?” the duchess asked. No one moved from their position.

  Finally, Mrs Barker, tired of not being able to see the thing for herself, decided to climb onto the breakfast table and have a closer look. She carefully placed her knees on the edge of the table. She heaved herself on top and straightened unsteadily. She wobbled her way down the table, avoiding the various dishes and cups.

  She had gone a few paces when she misjudged the fourth step. Her foot landed in the dish of butter, and she went down with a crash. Her skirts flew up, and her arms flayed in the air.

  Concerned and horrified faces were momentarily diverted from the mouse.

  Mrs Barker’s voice came from within her voluminous skirts flung over her head, “I have an idea, why don’t we throw a bit of cheese to it?”

  Relieved giggles erupted around the table. They turned back to look towards the door.

  The mouse had frozen in fright from the noise of the crash. Not a whisker trembled as it sat exactly where he had sat for the last ten minutes.

  Prudence, being closest to the cheese, broke off a piece and handed it to Catherine, who was in the best position to feed the mouse.

  “What should I do?” she asked nervously.

  “Just throw it in the general direction. Not too close to it, mind you, or you will frighten it away from the food. See that spot near the side table? Now, aim it there, and hopefully the poor starved thing will smell it,” Mr Barker ordered, from his safe position on top of the table.

  He was the only man about, and he considered it his duty to lead the proceedings in the correct manner.

  Catherine bit her lip and flung the cheese towards the intended spot. Everyone watched the cheese as it soared high up towards the ceiling and then fell. It fell not at its intended spot but a few paces away from where Catherine stood.

  A collective sigh echoed in the room. A sigh full of many meanings, a sigh that spoke of their relief that the cheese didn’t smack the mouse on its head, a sigh that was sorrowful of the fact that the cheese was nowhere close to the mouse. A sigh that soon turned into nervous grunts and squeals as the mouse leaped in fright at this new form of attack.

  The mouse paused mid-flight, its nose twitching and its eyes questioning. It gathered its courage and moved towards the cheese, taking cautious steps.

  The duchess smiled in delight and then frowned; the mouse had reached the cheese, but that meant it was now closer to their table.

  They watched, stomachs churning in anticipation as it sniffed the morsel and … then the door banged open.

  “Did it get the cheese?”

  The duke walked in to catch this last query, with the earl following him in. He stared at all the ladies standing on top of the chairs, and his right eye twitched at the sight of Mrs Barker sitting amid the breakfast food with her skirts ballooning out awkwardly. Mr Barker was hurriedly assisting his wife.

  The duke finally spoke,

  “Is this a new fashion in London of eating breakfast? One must no longer sit on chairs but stand on them? And what in the world is Mrs Barker doing … I am a little afraid to ask.”

  “A mouse, father,” Catherine replied meekly.

  “A mouse?” he asked, staring at Mr Barker.

  Mr Barker turned bright red.

  “And who was asking for cheese?”

  “The mouse,” Emma spoke, embarrassed.

  “I see, the mouse was asking for cheese.”

  “No, oh! You have it all mixed up. It was like this. We saw a mouse and were frightened, but then we all felt sorry for the creature. He was a fetching thing, so we were just attempting to feed him a bit of cheese when you walked in.” Prudence explained.

  “I see, and did you name him as well?” he asked, amused, and at the abashed shakes of heads, he added, “I will ask Pickering to come and take care of our uninvited guest … who seems to have disappeared at the moment. And no, I do not want to know how Mrs Barker came to be a part of the meal. Hamilton, join me in the library for a cup of coffee.”

  Pickering arrived shortly after the departure of the duke and Lord Raikes. He was told not to kill the mouse but put it away in a safe place.

  “We are all very attached to the dear creature. Leave some water and food by its side,” the duchess directed.

  Pickering stared at the various lords and ladies standing on top of tables and chairs, presumably because of that very dear creature.

  For the first and last time since joining the duke’s household an expression crossed his face. Unfortunately, no one present could decipher what that emotion was. It was a rare opportunity often lamented upon being lost.

  Chapter 17

  “What happened to it?” Lord Raikes asked Catherine.

  He had searched the entire house and found her alone in the music room. He entered uninvited.

  “The ‘it’ is a ‘he’. Pickering came armed with a broom, a paper bag, and a stable hand. They spent some time chasing it around the room, and finally he was cornered near the chimney. We have been assured he is safe,” she replied primly, moving to shut the piano.

  “Stay, I would like to hear you play,” he said, catching her hand.

  “Emma is in the morning room,” she replied instead, pulling her hand back.

  “But I would like to know her cousin better.”

  “You may, once you are married. I will spend considerable time at your home after the occasion, so you can further our acquaintance then.”

  “I would like us to be friends now, for Emma’s sake. She would want the two people closest to her to at least like each other,” he said shrewdly.

  She hesitated briefly, and then sat back down on the piano seat.

  “What would you like to speak of?” she finally asked.

  “We have something in common … books. We both enjoy reading. Surely we can find a common author that we like?”

  “I doubt my reading list would suit your refined taste. According to you, we women should only read what is deemed appropriate for us. I do not think you would like such authors.”

  “Name an author you like, and I will tell you what I think of him.”

  “I prefer to talk of subjects rather than authors. Travel accounts are far more instructive and colourful than the dry pages of other texts. I envy you. You being a man can travel where you please, while I have to find my adventure in the pages of books.”

  He looked at her wistful face and suddenly felt the urge to pack his bags and take her along with him to some exotic land. He cleared his throat as he answered,

  “Have you heard of an author,” he paused and then continued “W.S. Raikes?”

  “I have read one account of his trip to India. Father keeps some of his books in the library.”

  “What do you think of his works?” he asked nervously.

  “I think he must be an arrogant, selfish, and an extremely annoying man. I imagine he is a hundred years old with a bald head and crooked teeth. On his travels, he must carry a spy glass and peer at everything and anything that comes across his way, always remaining the distant observer.”

  “You got all that from his writing?” he asked angrily, and then seeing the startled look on her face, softened his tone and said, “Why would you draw such harsh conclusions?’’

  “He writes well, when I can understand it. In every sentence, I feel he is trying to show how much better he is than the rest of us. He uses obscure words that I can never find in dictionaries. He fails to realise that not all of us have travelled to so many countries, and hence our vocabulary is limited. I understand French and Latin, but how an English reader is meant to understand Spanish, Italian, Greek, and goodness knows what else, is beyond me. He writes for old, stodgy professors or his fellow travellers. The rest of us mortals are left feeling foolis
h.”

  “Perhaps he writes for himself?”

  “Then why get it published? The whole point of a book is to entertain or instruct. He does neither, for I cannot decipher half of it.”

  “Surely his accounts, if not entertaining, are at least instructive? Sometimes it is inevitable that one uses words from certain languages, since our own limited language cannot describe the intent clearly. A whole plethora of emotions cannot be put down on paper if one is limited to one script. Besides, I am sure the act of looking up the obscure words he mentions taught you something.”

  “I forgot the words as soon as I looked them up. It would annoy people if I started speaking like an old university professor. As for instruction, he does not in all his travel accounts mention anything of women. He completely ignores their existence. How is that possible? He cannot be that blind, and they form the other and very crucial half of society.”

  “Perhaps he does so to protect the modesty of the English mind. Cultures differ and if not understood properly can become a source of misplaced humour. He keeps the women out of his works to protect the women of all cultures and to maintain a level of respect that comes with the unknown.”

  “You are making no sense. The author needs to respect his readers as well, to allow them the sensitivity to judge for themselves. An educated man or woman would not deride other cultures simply because they are different. I think this W. S. Raikes does not like women and does not consider them important. He must have been jilted sometime in his life, and I applaud the woman for her good sense. I also think that he is your bosom friend, since you seem to be getting angry on his behalf.”

  He stared at her in shock and anger. She had touched a nerve when she mentioned the author being jilted.

  He had at eighteen been in love with a woman who had spurned him for an older, more successful man. He would have come into his title too late for it to suit her. It was that very reason which had prompted him to escape England and travel.

  He had not realised his old hurt still affected his writing. He had wanted to hear words of praise, since he was lauded by his peers for his works. No one had criticized him so bitterly, and the underlying truth hurt him.

  “Just because you are not intelligent enough to understand his works, which are well received by the general, educated public, you stoop to malign his character. I had asked you about his works, not an analysis of the man’s personality. You have never met him, you know nothing of him, and yet you judge him. You have never ventured out of this tiny village, and unfortunately it has had the effect of making you petty and bitter. You wish you had his freedom, and you hate him for exactly what you blame him for. You hate him for being a man and able to do what you can never hope to do. You are a hypocrite, My Lady, considering yourself better than others simply because you had the good fortune to be born in this household. Please respect a more learned man, and if you find fault with not understanding the context of his works, then blame yourself for your intellectual shortfall.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Emma called out. She had been standing in horror, listening to them argue for a while. These last angry words from Lord Raikes had caused Catherine to whiten. Her eyes threatened to spill, and Emma had broken out of her trance to speak.

  He turned away in disgust, not bothering to reply. He strode out of the room without a backward glance.

  “Why did he turn on me like that?” she asked, bewildered and hurt.

  Emma glanced at her helplessly. She had no idea how to explain to her cousin that the author she had been deriding so lovingly was, in fact, the man she had been arguing with. Finally, she contented herself with,

  “He did not mean a word. He spoke in anger. Perhaps this author is a good friend of his that he highly respects. I know you better than anyone. You are not a hypocrite, nor do you believe you are better than others. Forget it, Cat, it would not do to dwell on it. You are entitled to your own opinion, and you did no wrong in airing it.”

  Catherine smiled to reassure her cousin, but her mind was in turmoil. She escaped to her room to think over his words. In spite of Emma’s reassurance, she was aware that somewhere in his tirade had been a grain of truth.

  She was honest enough to admit that she had been unfair in her scathing and very personal description of the author. She also admitted that she did feel a touch of jealousy every time she read accounts of travellers, who were almost always men.

  Some sadistic part of her made her seek out such books over and over again. She would enjoy the detail and descriptions, yet the process of reading such material left her bitter sweet.

  She was disturbed to know that a man as good as a stranger had been able to list her faults so easily.

  Meanwhile, Lord Raikes too had sought out his rooms. He had instructed his valet to allow no one to disturb him. He then pulled out a number of his personal travel diaries and made himself comfortable for the next few hours.

  ***

  Lord Raikes did not come down for dinner that day. Everyone felt his loss keenly. He was an outsider; hence, his presence had injected a vein of interest during meal times.

  Catherine appeared with blood shot eyes and an excuse of allergies. Perhaps no one felt his loss as keenly as Catherine did on seeing his seat empty.

  The duke thoughtfully noted his daughter’s eyes repeatedly falling on Lord Raikes’ empty seat.

  ***

  Emma entered her room that night with a heavy heart. Richard’s smile froze as he noticed her expression.

  “What is it?” he asked, pulling her towards the chair by the fire.”

  “Cat and Lord Raikes, they are constantly arguing. I think Cat hates him, and instead of leaving her alone he tries to rile her up all the more. I don’t know him well enough to understand why he is doing this, but Catherine is behaving just as oddly. I have never seen her argue with anyone so passionately. She is normally demure and shy. I have rarely seen her lose her composure.”

  Richard curbed his smile. Instead, he took her hand and said softly, “They are attracted to each other. William understands this, but your cousin is confused. She is using anger as a means to keep her distance from the man, who she believes is your betrothed.”

  “No, I don’t believe that. She hates him, and I have seen the dislike on her face every time she looks at him. I know my cousin, and you are wrong, Richard. It’s all your friend’s fault. I am sure he is teasing her mercilessly and deliberately annoying her. He may be attracted to her and trying to get her attention, but he is going about it the wrong way.”

  “Em, my friend is experienced and well-travelled. He has met all sorts of people in his life. He knows what he is doing. Don’t worry about it. Your cousin will be fine, and I will warn William to curtail his behaviour in case others may notice and jump to conclusions. He will have all the time to woo her after our wedding.” His tone gentled as he added, “Don’t worry, Em, I don’t like seeing you upset. I will talk to William and sort things out. Now, smile.”

  Emma glanced at Richard leaning next to her chair and offered a tremulous smile. He gently touched her cheek and pulled her off the seat into his arms.

  Chapter 18

  Lord Raikes had spent the previous evening and most of the night coming to the conclusion that he was a pompous idiot with a decided prejudice against women.

  He had initially started writing to please himself, and using words he learnt on his travels had been a way for him to remember all he had seen. The indigenous words brought up the flavour of the country like nothing else did.

  He had continued writing in a similar vein in spite of his publishers request to simplify his work for his readers. He wrote to reflect his intelligence rather than his desire to instruct or tell the world of the various curiosities he discovered.

  He wanted to prove to that long forgotten love that he was better than anyone. He wanted her to regret letting him go, and over time, as her face faded from his memories, his methods became a habit.

  As for Ca
therine, she had been unaware of the identity of the author. She did not know she had been insulting him every time she spoke. He could hardly blame her, for had it been another writer he would have laughed and mayhap joined in with his own scathing observations.

  He had forgiven her, and he intended to make up for his earlier harsh comments.

  He entered the morning room and found Catherine in the midst of unravelling a blue yarn.

  He paused briefly to take a deep breath, and then composing his face into a mildly curious expression asked, “What are you knitting?”

  Catherine eyed him silently, and then tilted her head in Emma’s direction, who sat staring out of the window.

  He ignored her hints and took a seat next to her.

  “A sweater,” she finally answered his question loudly, hoping her cousin would look up and join her fiancé.

  Emma glanced up and smiled encouragingly in their direction, then went back to searching the landscape.

  “Are you supposed to miss three stitches in a row?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is part of a pattern,” she lied. She had never missed a stitch since she had turned sixteen. What in the world was wrong with her?

  “I see. What do you think she is trying to find?” he asked, nodding in Emma’s direction.

  “It’s raining, I doubt she can see anything. Perhaps she is just thinking.”

  “What do you think requires such deep concentration?”

  “Why don’t you ask her, My Lord?”

  “Oh, but I do not want to disturb her. She may be untangling some difficult problem. I may interfere in her train of thought.”

  “But you have no qualms in disturbing me?”

  “No, since knitting cannot require a great deal of concentration.”

  “I could be solving some great, urgent problem while my hands remain occupied. Like you pointed out, I do not need to think to knit.”

  “True, so was something bothering you?”

 

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