Chapter Eighteen
When Marchand returned to his room, he discovered the flowers in his vase had been replaced before they could finish dying.
Just one of the little ways the Grand Palace on the Thames tenderly cared for their guests. Protecting them from the illusion that all things must die, he thought mordantly.
He’d learned early in life that sex was an appetite, a commodity, an escape. He’d never truly been innocent. In St. Giles,
everyone did indeed do what they needed to do in order to survive another day. He’d fended off the advances of both men and
women when he was younger. Later, he’d found surcease from loneliness and the endless struggle of survival courtesy of women
who took his money. Together, they’d helped each other get through another day.
He was grateful to the women who took pains to show him what it meant to be a lover and not just a fucker. But the beauty
and mystery of women’s bodies taught him that, too, because they begged for exploration. He savored the power to make a woman
lose her mind with pleasure. He believed it ought to be an equal exchange.
He’d never considered that his own battered, orphaned, bastard hide might possess any specific intrinsic value to anyone because it contained him. He knew he was good looking, and he understood that came with advantages. But when he thought about it at all, he’d assumed
his worth was measured in how much money he had, or in what he could do for someone else. It hadn’t bothered him. He’d never
known any different.
He hadn’t considered that his touch—his touch—could be a soul-baring gesture of radical trust. That the way he touched could be a confession. A gift freely given.
He’d never before thought: I want to kiss her there in the hollow of her throat, so I can feel her pulse against my lips, feel the hum of her moan of pleasure, so I can savor the stunning miracle that this particular maddening, beautiful woman exists in the world
at the same time that I do.
He’d never before thought: I want to watch her eyes go hazy when I trail my fingers over her skin. I want to watch the play of emotion and pleasure on
her face as we make love.
In the cozy, loving confines of this room, he was forced to think about all of that now.
When he touched her that way, there was no way Ginny wouldn’t know that he loved her.
And God help him, he understood now what a gift that trust was.
He wanted her trust, freely given.
But he also wanted her to be able to choose to whom she gave it.
He wanted to be chosen.
He had never once been chosen in quite that way. Not in his entire life.
He wanted to be naked with her in every sense of the word. Equal. Not as part of a financial transaction involving a giver and a taker. He wanted to share with her something entirely new.
In so doing, for the first time, he would be in some ways as innocent as she was.
His heart ached for the girls in St. Giles who had never had that choice.
He also understood devastation lay on the other side of it. Because after he made love to her, he would need to let her go.
And she would take a piece of him with her.
He hadn’t lied. She would indeed ruin him. For any other woman.
He’d considered as he stood there in the garden just telling her that he’d go ahead and strike the four-thousand-pound debt
from his books. But what if she thought he was willing to pay any price not to have sex with her? Very darkly amusing.
And then . . . and then she’d tested him yet again.
Now he was curious about her motives.
He thought he understood why she’d taken that one last risk.
He loved that about her as much as he rued it. She was never boring, that girl.
And if he was right about her reasons, it meant for him a glimmer of hope that he hardly dared nurture.
Ah, Guinevere, sweetheart, he thought. Just as I told you before that I wouldn’t let you ruin me, I also told you that no one ever gets the better of me.
And so, though he was as afraid now as he’d ever been in his life, he harbored one spark of hope.
He knew there really was no other way to know the truth for sure.
He was going to need to call her bluff.
Little battles of both the overt and covert varieties raged all over the sitting room that night.
While Dot indecisively twiddled a pawn between her fingers and hummed tunelessly, Mr. Delacorte waged a heroic inner battle
against the urge to bellow “Just move the bloody thing!” But if she did move the bloody thing, he would win a rook. Which on the one hand would be satisfying—who didn’t like winning a rook? But
on the other hand would be maddening, because he’d explained several times that she shouldn’t leave her rook exposed like that. And Dot would then be crushed. And he would feel as though he’d failed as a teacher. What
would they call him when he became a martyr? St. Stanton, his first name? Or St. Delacorte? He imagined himself depicted on
tapestries in churches, riding a donkey.
At the opposite end of the room, Mrs. Pariseau, Delilah, and Angelique were earnestly debating what book they ought to read
aloud tonight, while Delilah’s conscience continued wrestling with the fact that she hadn’t yet told Mrs. Peck that she’d
shouted “Shite!” in front of her son. Like a draft or a leak, she sensed the longer it remained unattended, the worse it would
get.
Mrs. Peck had not yet brought Daniel down for a nightly visit.
Ginny occupied her own little table. She had only herself to blame for the agony of anticipation that made her incapable of doing anything but staring at the page of the book she’d brought down to the sitting room with her. The words had gone blurry.
She inwardly waged a battle over what she would do if he summoned her.
But she thought she already knew. There was only one thing she wanted. And only one way to get it.
Unbeknownst to Ginny, inside Gabriel Marchand, who as usual wasn’t shy about staring at her, a battle over a decision had
already been concluded. He had brought correspondence into the room and was apparently writing a letter at a little table.
Just as Mrs. Peck entered the sitting room holding Daniel by the hand, Dot at last, at long, long last, moved that pawn.
Mr. Delacorte sighed heavily. He made a tsking sound as his black queen sailed confidently across the diagonal to take Dot’s rook. “Dot, do you remember what I told you
about that particular pawn? You left your rook exposed, and my queen was waiting right there to take it. A better move might have been—”
But Dot was already clopping her knight over to the F3 square. She sat back and gave a gleeful clap. “Ha! Now your queen is
in jail!”
Delacorte froze.
He stared at the board.
On the back rank, courtesy of the positions of two knights, a few pawns, and a bishop, his queen was well and truly trapped.
Lord Bolt, sitting at a table with Captain Hardy, leaned over and gave a low whistle. “Well. Look at that. She got you. You
aren’t getting out of that one. Not with your queen, anyway.”
This was one of the most dire things that could happen in a chess game, everyone knew.
Delacorte reeled. “Dot . . . did you . . . did you plan that? Have you been planning that? Did you do that on purpose?”
His voice had gone a little croaky. Surely Dot hadn’t been silently planning a tactic?
“Well, it all began when Adolfo decided to make the ultimate sacrifice,” Dot explained.
“Who the bloo—” Mr. Delacorte darted a glance at the Epithet Jar. “Who is Adolfo?”
“The rook! He decided to sacrifice himself! That way, Sir Horatio, her true love, could be the one who heroically trapped
your queen. She can’t get out now. She’s in jail!”
“Yes, we all see that,” Delacorte said tensely. “Horatio is . . .”
“This knight.” She pointed to the knight that had sealed off his queen’s escape from the back rank. “He yearns for her, but
she’s married to Theodore the Second.”
“Is Theodore the king?” Despite herself, Ginny was invested in this story.
“Yes!” Dot was thrilled with Ginny’s insight. “You see it, too?” She looked triumphantly at Mr. Delacorte, feeling vindicated.
“And little Peter helped.” She pointed at the pawn.
“And her bishop is clearly there to administer last rites to your queen, Delacorte,” Captain Hardy contributed.
Mr. Delacorte shot him a filthy look, and Captain Hardy grinned.
“Perhaps you should name your pieces, too, Mr. Delacorte,” Dot said kindly. “That way you might be more careful with them.”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
“How badly do you want to curse right now?” Lucien asked him.
“SHITE!” Daniel Peck bellowed.
Delacorte and Dot jumped so violently that the chess pieces keeled over and rolled, as if in agony. They hadn’t noticed Daniel
creeping up to the table.
Everyone in the room gave a start.
Mrs. Peck, who had just sat down, shot to her feet.
“Daniel Edward Peck!” She was blazing with embarrassed fury. “Where did you learn that word? From Mr. Delacorte? It was Mr.
Delacorte, wasn’t it, Daniel?”
Everyone stared at Mr. Delacorte.
Whose mouth dropped open.
Eventually nothing but an arid squeak of outraged injustice emerged from it.
Delilah couldn’t bear it. She rose at once. “It was me.”
A shocked gasp went up.
“Oh, honestly,” Captain Hardy said irritably. “It’s just a word.”
Another gasp went up at that.
“Was it your first time?” Mr. Delacorte asked Delilah sympathetically.
Mrs. Peck was staring at her, aghast. “Mrs. Hardy! I was assured this was a genteel, exclusive boardinghouse. Why on earth . . . please help me to understand!”
Delilah was scarlet. “Mrs. Peck, Daniel was wandering alone on the third floor. I was bent over to look at a bit of peeling wallpaper. He pinched me and . . . that was the word that burst forth. He startled me badly.”
“He pinched you? Where did he pinch you?” Mrs. Peck’s tone was now indignant.
“On the third floor,” Delilah repeated hopefully.
“But where?”
“Oh, it hardly matters, does it?” Delilah said desperately. Although she knew it rather did.
“On the bottom!” Delacorte cheerfully guessed. As though there would be a prize for the first correct answer.
“Thank you, Mr. Delacorte,” Delilah said grimly. She was scarlet now.
Mrs. Peck’s hands went up to cover her mouth. She was now clearly distressed. “Oh my good heavens. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs.
Hardy. I’ll have a word with our nurse! Four-year-olds can be so slippery. Daniel, why on earth did you do that?”
Daniel stared mutely at his mother with his big calf eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d done that. He was
four years old. Reason and impulse had not yet begun to work as a team.
“Round,” he finally said.
“Round?” His mother was confused.
“And squishy.”
Delilah closed her eyes.
“All right, that’s enough.” Captain Hardy stood. “Your son pinched my wife, Mrs. Peck. He frightened her. She shouted. She
has already apologized to him, and now I think Daniel should apologize to her.”
Daniel’s face began to crumple.
“Daniel, do not cry,” Captain Hardy requested reasonably.
So surprised by the conversational tone was he that Daniel, perhaps accidentally, obeyed.
“It hurts to be pinched, and it’s an unkind thing to do,” Captain Hardy continued gently and matter-of-factly, trying his
best not to sound like a blockade captain. “You scared Mrs. Hardy. And while she is an adult, adults have feelings, just like
you. You wouldn’t like it if she pinched you, would you?”
He was careful not to sound accusing. He was presenting Daniel with a simple yes or no question.
Daniel shook his head.
“Daniel, tell Mrs. Hardy that you’re sorry for pinching her.” Mrs. Peck nudged her son.
“I’m sowwy for pinching you,” he whispered.
“I accept your apology, Daniel,” Delilah said with dignity. “And I’m sorry again for shouting a naughty word.”
“Now, Mr. Peck, we would like you to put a pence in the jar,” Captain Hardy told him. “Those sorts of words are not allowed
in this room, so there is a small penalty.”
As it turned out, Mr. Delacorte had an available penny. He passed it to Mrs. Peck, who gave it to Daniel, who bravely strode
over to the jar and dropped in the penny.
Everyone began to cheer, then stopped abruptly when it occurred to them that it might just encourage Daniel to shout “SHITE”
with abandon.
“Now, Daniel, sweetie,” Delilah said, “do you want to come with me to see if Helga has any apple tarts left in the kitchen?”
“TAAAARRTS!” Daniel roared, and gave a gleeful hop.
Delilah led him off by the hand. He hopped the entire way down the stairs to the kitchen.
When Mr. Marchand abruptly stood, it was as if someone had swung a hammer at Ginny’s heart like a gong.
It leaped into her throat.
“Well, on that note, I’ll bid everyone good night,” he said. “It’s far too salty in here for my delicate constitution.”
To good-natured laughter, everyone bid good night to him.
He didn’t so much as glance at Ginny as he passed her table on the way out of the room.
In fact, so subtle had he been that she didn’t notice the small, ragged scrap of paper on the table in front of her until
he was gone.
She stared at it.
She turned it over with shaking hands and read:
Come to my room at eleven.