Chapter Nine #2
Ginevra flashed her best disarming smile.
“It’s an interesting language. I’d had quite enough of Latin, Greek, and French at finishing school, and the other Romantic languages seemed too easy.
German is different enough that it challenges me.
” She paused, considering her next words in light of Braithwaite’s caution about direct lines of questioning.
Surely a conversation about languages was an innocent route toward her real goal.
“Next year, I think I’d like to add Russian. ”
“You’ve given this some thought.” The corner of Neville’s mouth twitched as he moved a knight. “Yes, I can see how those are quite interesting to a linguist like yourself.”
“Do you speak either?”
“I understand more than I can say. I think everyone picked up a little German during the war.” He hesitated before moving a pawn. “And I’ve had a few Russian chess partners over the years.”
Gin tried to keep her face neutral as she captured the pawn. A chess partner could very well be an excellent cover for a Kremlin contact. “I would love to see a tournament in Moscow one day. Have you ever attended?”
Dr. Neville’s face brightened. “I had the pleasure of watching Botvinnik in ’48.”
So, the don had traveled to the Soviet Union. Gin kept a tight rein on her excitement as she slid her namesake across the board. “Were the Russians friendly? I’ve heard they’re quite hostile to tourists.”
“Aren’t we all, Miss Bishop?” Neville made a lopsided smile.
“Most were uncommonly nice to me, but then again, I visited as a humble chess player eager to take in the sights. The concierge at my hotel was quite keen on a set of magazines I’d brought along, and I was only too happy to leave them behind.
I sensed they were a novelty from which he could profit. ”
“How interesting. One hears such gruesome stories—people ferreted away by their secret police, never to be seen again.” Gin shuddered, taking another pawn, but she caught the way Neville blanched. When he did not respond, moving his next piece in silence, she sighed.
“I shall press on with my Russian then, and perhaps one day I shall be fluent enough to impress them.” Gin studied the board, considering her next move, but the queen’s carved crown arrested her attention.
There was a beautiful little trap waiting on the board that had nothing to do with their game, so clever she wanted to grin like the Cheshire cat.
“Though I fear it shall take a lifetime to truly master German.” She moved a rook, then pointed to the queen. “This piece is what, die Krone?”
She held her breath, watching through her lashes for any reaction to Mr. Tolliver’s mysterious final words, and her pulse ticked faster when she was sure Neville’s hand faltered on the knight. Quickly, he flexed his fingers before resuming.
“Die Konigin would be the queen,” the don said. “I believe die Krone would be simply the crown itself.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Gin gave a hapless headshake and sighed. “Don’t tell Dr. Radcliffe.”
Neville laughed affably enough, but his focus redoubled upon the board so intently that Ginevra could find no thread back into the conversation.
Soon, however, the endgame engrossed her, and she saw the finale play out with exhilarating clarity—she could have him in five moves, if he did as she anticipated.
So far, he had played an elegant yet simple game; Canfield had been much more devious, to be sure.
But the precision with which Neville anticipated her moves as well was unnerving.
“Where did you learn to play?” Neville murmured. “It’s not a skill one often finds in young ladies.”
“Perhaps you do not know enough ladies,” Ginevra quipped. “My mother taught me.”
Neville peered at her over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “Would that be Anne Aster-Bishop?”
Gin took his second rook and straightened in surprise. “Did you know her?”
“Yes, our paths also crossed here in the chess club. Anne Aster, as she was then.” The corner of his mouth lilted with a smile. “She was quite a force of nature.”
Gin was so shocked and pleased by the connection to her mother that she realized too late Neville had slipped his knight in the direction opposite of what she’d expected and found checkmate.
“You distracted me!” she chided, lips pursed in mock indignation. “That last question threw off my rhythm.”
“It is you who began an intense line of questioning at the beginning of our game,” Neville said with mild amusement, “for what I suspect were similar reasons. Turnabout is fair play, Miss Bishop.” He pushed back his chair, rising with a gentle groan of discomfort, and picked up his cap from the table. “I should enjoy a rematch sometime.”
The door burst open, cutting short the students’ groans and cheers, and Professor Leland strolled inside.
“Good Lord, what cabal of mischief have I uncovered? I thought we banned all disreputable clubs.” He tutted loudly, clapping his hands. “Come along then, I have a meeting with some gentlemen from London in this room, and the dean expects me to coax a great deal of money out of them.”
The students laughed and dispersed to pick up the boards and rearrange the tables while Hobbs began an effusive apology for running over the club’s allotted time with more glowering in Ginevra’s direction.
She slid lower in her seat, lest Leland spy her, but it was then she noticed Neville beelining for the opposite exit.
“Sam!” Leland called.
The don winced but halted his retreat. “Yes?”
“I need you to cover my Virgil lectures for the rest of the month. The class will be disappointed, but I’m swamped with the new book publishing.
I’d appreciate it—” Leland did not wait for a reply but strolled back into the hall—assured yet again by Hobbs they would clear the room momentarily—and Neville fled.
It was a peculiar snapshot into the nature of their relationship, Gin mused, settling the rosewood pieces inside their velvet-lined case.
Leland ordered Neville with presumptive familiarity, and Neville had been obviously keen to escape unnoticed—as if he’d expected a directive, perhaps.
But did Leland have seniority among the Classics tutors?
Gin was sure Neville had taught at Oxford longer, for Leland hadn’t accepted a position until after the war while Neville was a rare example of an active don conscripted to the army.
Why a classicist would have been singled out was a detail Ginevra ought to have investigated further, and she made a note of it.
“How the mighty have fallen.” Hobbs sidled up to the table and made a smug notation on his clipboard. “Many people underestimate Neville and rue the day. He’s not nearly as meek as he looks.”
“Killer instincts,” Canfield said reverently, walking past with one end of a table.
“Absolutely brutal,” the young man carrying the other end chimed.
“Yes, thank you.” Ginevra firmly closed the case of chess pieces and slid it toward Hobbs. “Such profound insight.”
His lip curled with disdain. “No need to be smart with me, Bishop. You may think yourself clever for winning a few games but notice you’re distinctly outnumbered here. Women’s minds aren’t built for chess. You’re an anomaly, and nature always corrects itself in due course.”
Hobbs stormed away, barking at Canfield to finish with the tables, and Gin glowered at the tabletop.
She had suffered plenty of men who thought her quaint for playing chess, but the condescension never lost its sting.
It irked her so much that for a moment she forgot that she’d embarked on this scheme to spy upon Neville, not to fuel her own competitive nature.
Gin brushed her finger down the mother-of-pearl inlay that edged the board.
Her mother had kept her hands clasped under her chin when she played, green eyes downcast at the board while she quietly analyzed or offered moves.
To everyone else she might have been the Viscountess Walsingdon of Chiseldon Park, a hospitable, gracious woman married to a loud, overindulgent man.
As a mother, she was tender and firm; but as a tutor, Anne Aster-Bishop was Machiavellian.
Chess resembles life, Ginevra: infinite possibilities if you have only the imagination to see. And it’s always best to hide what you’re planning next.
“We’ve got to clear the room, Bishop,” Hobbs snapped at her. “Come along, then.”