The Games
After a fortnight confined to the blue guest chamber, Florinda had finally been pronounced well enough to come downstairs—provided she was carried, which was mortifying, and provided she did not attempt to walk, which was maddening.
She had read every Gothic novel in Carthedge Hall's library, critiqued the needlework on fourteen cushions, and developed an extremely inconvenient fascination with her host's hands.
This last development was particularly irritating. She was a sensible woman of six and twenty, not a schoolgirl prone to mooning over gentlemen's fingers. And yet here she sat in the morning room, watching Frederick set up a chess board, cataloguing the precise way he handled each piece.
Methodical. Deliberate. He lined up the pawns with military precision, each one exactly centered on its square.
"You are staring," he observed, without looking up.
"I am assessing my opponent." She folded her hands in her lap to prevent them from doing anything embarrassing. "You arrange the pieces as though preparing for an invasion."
"Chess is war in miniature."
"Chess is a game. War is rather more inconvenient for the pawns."
He glanced up at that, surprise crossing his features. "You have opinions on military strategy?"
"I have opinions on most things. It's considered one of my less attractive qualities." She reached for the white queen, turning it over in her fingers. "The palace library is extensive. Four years is a long time to entertain oneself during naptime."
"What did you read?"
"Everything." She set the queen back in place. "Natural philosophy. Agricultural theory. Three volumes of naval history that I suspect were shelved incorrectly. A truly alarming memoir about the French court that I am certain Ella does not know exists."
"And Clausewitz?"
She blinked. "How did you—"
"You quoted him. Just now. The bit about pawns." He was watching her with an odd intensity. "Most women do not read Prussian military theory for entertainment."
"Most women are not trapped in a palace with a two-year-old who naps for three hours daily and a library with no organizational system whatsoever." She gestured at the board. "Shall we begin, or would you prefer to continue cataloguing my eccentricities?"
"Both, I suspect." But he was almost smiling as he said it.
They played.
Florinda had learned chess from Jon, years ago, back when her brother still lived at Ashbourne and taught her everything their tutors said was unsuitable for girls. She had always played aggressively—sacrificing pieces early, building toward positions that looked disastrous until they weren't.
Frederick, she discovered, played defensively. Controlled. He built fortresses around his king and waited for opponents to make mistakes.
She sacrificed her queen on move fourteen.
He stared at the board. "That was—"
"Reckless? Foolish? The desperate gambit of a woman who has clearly lost her mind?"
"I was going to say unexpected." He captured her queen, frowning. "You have exposed your entire left flank."
"Have I?"
Six moves later, she had him in checkmate.
Frederick regarded the board with the air of a man who had just discovered his fortress contained a traitor. "You sacrificed your queen three moves before you needed to."
"I sacrificed my queen to win. There's a difference."
"Again."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Play again." He was already resetting the pieces, his movements faster now, less precise. "I was unprepared. I did not expect—"
"Did not expect a woman to beat you?"
"Did not expect anyone to sacrifice a queen for a bishop and somehow make it work." He met her eyes, and there was genuine admiration in his gaze that made her pulse skip. "Again. Please."
She beat him again. Different strategy—she played conservatively, let him overextend, then dismantled his position piece by piece.
"You adapted," he said, staring at the board. "You saw how I played and changed your approach."
"You sound surprised."
"I am." He looked up. "Most people do not adjust. They play the same way regardless of their opponent."
"Most people are not very good at chess."
He laughed—an actual laugh, surprised out of him, and Florinda felt it land in her ribs and take up residence.
This was dangerous. This was extremely dangerous. She was not supposed to enjoy making him laugh. She was not supposed to catalogue the way his face transformed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way he looked—for just a moment—like a man who had forgotten to be numb.
"You should smile more," she said, and immediately wished she could retrieve the words and stuff them back into her mouth.
His face shifted—not closed, exactly, but careful. "Should I?"
"I meant—" What had she meant? "You have a pleasant smile. When you use it. Which is not often. I was merely observing. As one does. About smiles. Generally." She was babbling. She never babbled. "Shall we play another round?"
"Perhaps later." But he was almost smiling again. "I should allow my dignity time to recover."
* * *
That evening brought Whist—and the Dowager Duchess.
Florinda had encountered Frederick's mother precisely twice during her convalescence: once at dinner, where the Dowager had surveyed her with the warmth of a tax assessor, and once in the corridor, where she had received a nod so glacial it probably lowered the temperature of the entire wing.
Now she sat across from the woman, partnered with her against Frederick and Penelope, wondering if it was too late to develop a convenient headache.
"You are the Ashbourne girl," the Dowager observed, arranging her cards. "The one who was engaged to that poet."
Florinda kept her face pleasant through sheer force of will. "I am indeed the Ashbourne girl, Your Grace. The poet was rather less memorable."
The Dowager's eyebrow rose perhaps a quarter inch. "He wrote an ode about you in the papers, as I recall. After the dissolution."
"Did he? I make a point of not reading anything that rhymes 'betrayal' with 'portrayal.' The quality is invariably poor."
Across the table, Penelope made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh. Frederick appeared to be examining his cards with tremendous concentration.
The Dowager said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Your lead, I believe."
Florinda led with a seven of hearts and prayed her partner was not the sort to hold grudges about bidding strategy.
They played three rounds. The Dowager, it transpired, was an excellent Whist player—ruthless, strategic, and possessed of a memory for cards that bordered on supernatural.
She communicated through the barest movements: a tightening around the eyes meant lead with trump; a minute thinning of the lips meant you have disappointed me, but I shall permit you to redeem yourself.
By the second round, Florinda had learned to read her. By the third, they were winning handily.
"You play better than I expected," the Dowager said, as Frederick swept up the cards with the air of a man accepting defeat. "Most young women sacrifice strategy for sentiment."
"I find sentiment clouds judgment, Your Grace. In cards and elsewhere."
The Dowager's gaze held hers for a beat longer than comfortable. "Hmm."
It was not approval, exactly. It was closer to acknowledgment—the recognition of one strategic mind by another.
Florinda told herself this should not feel like a victory. She told herself the warmth spreading through her was merely satisfaction at the game well played.
She told herself many things that evening. None of them were true.
* * *
The letters arrived the following morning.
Florinda recognized Charlotte's handwriting from across the room—large, dramatic loops that had been improving when she left and had apparently continued to improve in her absence.
The second letter was in James's careful, wobbly script.
The third appeared to be a series of enthusiastic scribbles that might have been from Charles, assisted by a patient nursemaid.
She waited until she was alone to open them.
Dear Aunt Flor, Charlotte had written, The pond has been declared OFF LIMITS for swimming because Cook says it is too cold and Mama agrees but I think they are being ridiculous. I am not a baby. I am nearly SEVEN.
James has learned to write his name without the letters going backwards. He is very proud. I told him you would be proud too.
Charles drew you a picture. I do not know what it is. He says it is a horse but I think it is a potato.
When are you coming back? Nobody plays pirates properly anymore. Miss Hendricks says pirates are not appropriate but she does not understand ANYTHING.
I miss you. James misses you. Charles misses you but he cannot write that himself so I am writing it for him. Please come home soon.
Your loving niece (not really but almost),
Charlotte
James's letter was shorter: Dear Ant Flor I can rite my name now. JAMES. I mis you. Love James. P.S. I had jam today.
Charles's contribution was, as advertised, a potato. Or possibly a horse. The distinction was unclear.
Florinda clutched the papers and let the tears fall.
This was absurd. She was a grown woman weeping over a six-year-old's complaints about pond access and a four-year-old's breakfast report.
She had no claim on these children—they were the Queen's, Ella's, and Florinda was merely the aunt who played pirates and read stories and would, eventually, return to being a convenient visitor rather than a daily presence.
They were growing so fast. Charlotte's letters had improved visibly since Florinda had last seen her. By the time Florinda returned—if she returned—James would probably be reading chapter books and Charles would be speaking in full sentences and she would have missed all of it.
She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve. This was foolish. She was being maudlin. She would see them again soon, and in the meantime, she had letters, which was more than many aunts could claim, and she should be grateful rather than weeping like some sort of—
"Lady Florinda."