Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gerrit had the oddest impulse to grin like a maniac as he led Kathryn over to the chessboard, but he wisely suppressed it.
He had wanted to ask her to play for weeks.
Clearly somebody in her past had reacted poorly when they had lost to her.
Like anyone else, Gerrit did not like to lose—at anything—but he had done his share of it in chess as well as other competitive endeavors and liked to think he had always behaved in a sportsmanlike manner.
“Have a seat.” Gerrit gestured to the chair where the white pieces had been set up.
“No, we choose for it.” She picked up a white and black pawn and put her hands behind her back for a moment before holding out her closed fists.
Rather than argue Gerrit tapped her right hand: it was white.
“You first,” she said, taking a seat behind the black.
Gerrit sat and then moved his queen pawn forward two spaces.
She moved her king’s knight to bishop three.
Gerrit moved the queen’s knight to queen’s two.
Pawn to king’s four.
Pawn takes pawn.
Black knight to knight five.
White pawn to king’s rook three.
Black knight to king’s six.
Gerrit’s gaze slid from his queen—currently being menaced by her knight—to his king. If he didn’t capture the knight, his queen was gone.
He picked up his king’s bishop’s pawn and moved to take her knight.
But then he saw it and froze.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, breathless at what he had almost done.
He hastily replaced the pawn and mentally moved pieces before accepting the truth of his situation.
Bloody hell… he’d have to lose his queen!
But at least he could liberate his bishop.
He gritted his teeth, prepared to move his pawn, and then it hit him.
There was no move for him. At least nothing that did not lead to mate in two.
He looked up to find her watching him, dread in her eyes.
Gerrit swallowed down his disbelief and—yes, his anger, but at himself, not her—and laid his king on his side.
“I concede.” He cleared his throat, twice, and then forced the words out, “Excellent game.” He began to set up the pieces.
“Let us have another. God knows you beat me quickly enough that we’ve plenty of time for it,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Three-quarters of an hour later…
“Hell and damnation,” Gerrit muttered softly as he stared at yet another imminent loss. He choked down his disbelief and for the third time that night laid down his king.
When he looked up, his wife had the same anxious expression on her face that she’d worn the other times she won.
“Yet another excellent game,” he said, proud that he managed to conceal his profound irritation—fine, his fury—at three thorough trouncings.
“Thank you,” she said colorlessly.
“How—er, how are you so very good at this?” He barked a laugh. “Perhaps that is the wrong question. Maybe I should be asking how I am so very bad after all the years I have spent studying the game.”
Her smile looked a bit twisted. “I suppose everyone has one talent and this one is mine. For all the good it’s done me.”
“You have a good many more talents than just one, Kathryn.”
She looked unconvinced.
“You possess a knack for making others feel at ease in your presence.”
“Do I?” she asked, her forehead deeply furrowed.
“Assuredly.” He kept to himself the fact that he was often proud—and yes, a little jealous—of her ability to chatter easily with the others at the dig, regardless of their social station.
“Your needlework is nothing short of miraculous,” he went on. And you are bloody well astounding in the bedchamber, he wanted to add but did not.
“Oh. Yes, I am good at needlework.”
Gerrit frowned, trying to understand why she wore such a melancholic expression. “You sound unhappy about that. Do you not enjoy needlework?”
“I used to love it when I was younger, and we were poor.” She colored slightly at the word.
“Back then I used my skills to refurbish our rather threadbare clothing or to make something new. But…” She stopped, her green eyes looking past him to something not in the room.
He had the oddest feeling she was about to tell him something important.
But then her vague gaze sharpened, and she gave him a faintly dismissive smile.
“For a long time, I took little enjoyment in it.”
“But you have engaged in needlework every night since coming to Briarly,” he persisted.
“I first picked up a needle again to help your mother. But I have come to enjoy it again after years away from it.”
Gerrit snorted. “I saw my mother’s work. I am surprised you did not merely start over rather than rescue her dismal projects.”
She opened her mouth but then closed it.
“What is it?” he asked, even though he suspected he should not.
“I am curious as to why you dislike the dowager so much.”
Gerrit’s eyebrows shot up. That was direct indeed.
She sighed. “I apologize. You needn’t answer that.”
He really did not wish to, but he had asked her to be direct, hadn’t he?
“It is not a story I enjoy telling, but I daresay you will hear about it eventually. It has to do with my mother’s lover.” Her cheeks flared to life, and his own warmed, as well. “I apologize for raising such an indelicate—”
“I asked the question, Dulverton. Like you, I would have plain speaking.”
“Her lover was one of my father’s servants.”
Her eyes widened. “I see.”
Gerrit wondered if she was recalling her footman lover but quickly banished the unhappy thought and went on.
“The man came to England with her.” He cleared his throat, which had constricted at sharing the next part.
“His name is Helmut Berg and he is the illegitimate offspring of my paternal grandfather. My father’s half-brother, in other words. ”
“Ah,” was all she said. But then what else could a person say to such a sordid tale?
He grimaced. “I am ashamed to admit that my grandfather fathered numerous children outside of wedlock. In any case, he sent this woman back to Utrecht to have her child. When Berg was old enough, he found a position in my mother’s family’s household.
My father did not know of the man’s existence until he arrived as part of my mother’s bridal retinue. ”
Gerrit rubbed the back of his neck, squeezing the tendons until they hurt to distract himself from this next part of the story.
“My father and Berg bore a striking resemblance to one another. I did not know the nature of their relationship until I was much older, but I daresay every adult in the area was aware they were related.” The rife speculation he saw in everyone’s gaze was one of the reasons Gerrit loathed going to Spenwood.
“My father rarely spent time at Spenwood, and until I was eight years of age I only visited him here at Briarly once a year. That meant it fell to somebody else to see to my instruction in riding, hunting, and so forth.” He moved his jaw back and forth to loosen it.
“I spent a great deal of time with Berg and he taught me all those things a father would normally teach his son. He was the stablemaster at Spenwood by the time I was born. As such, he had his own cottage on the estate, and I grew up treating it as a second home.” Gerrit swallowed.
“Until the day I inadvertently came upon Berg and my mother in bed together.”
Gerrit looked up. Her face was a fiery red, but he saw the sympathy beneath her embarrassment.
He shrugged away the unpleasant memory, which was still vivid even after all these years.
“I ran away and came to Briarly. My father allowed me to spend my school holidays here and I did not see my mother for some years afterward. Berg still lives at Spenwood and it is he my mother went to see when she left here so hastily. Evidently, he suddenly took ill. I was very fond of Berg when I was a lad, but naturally after that day—” He stopped, vaguely nauseated at having to recount the sordid tale after all these years.
He shook away the past and looked at his wife.
“So that is part of why I do not enjoy her company. And then there is her interference in household matters that do not concern her.” She nodded at him, but Gerrit could see a glint of something in her gaze.
“You do not think those two reasons are sufficient?” he could not resist asking.
She gave a humorless laugh. “I am not one to point fingers when it comes to filial relations. My own mother is currently barred from visiting any of my sisters’ homes and I have no intention of allowing her to darken my door, either.
I am not sure if my brother has forbidden her to visit Wych House.
But if he is wise, he will do so. I know that sounds cruel,” she said, although Gerrit had not made a sound.
“But my mother is… Well, she is not a kind or pleasant person. To be honest, I think she is far more content living away from us. All of her children are, in various ways, disappointments to her.”
Gerrit frowned. “I know our betrothal began in scandal, but surely she cannot be displeased by our marriage?”
“You do not know my mother,” she said, her gaze grim and distant.
“You mentioned your brother was on the Continent,” he said, wanting to keep her talking about her family, but perhaps not her parents.
“He went to see my father, who fled to Naples last year. I am sure you have heard of the earl’s… affliction.” She snorted. “Indeed, who has not?”
“I know he has an unfortunate weakness for cards, which is not unusual among our class.”
“It is more than unfortunate; it is catastrophic. By the time I was ten-and-five he’d gambled away everything—including his children’s futures.”
Gerrit had not known it was so bad. “You say your father fled to Naples. Is he evading his creditors?”