Chapter Sixteen #2
Eng gave me an inquisitive look. Then he shut the small black volume and handed it to me. “You might enjoy ‘Eloisa to Abelard’
as well.”
“Thank you.” I tucked the book in my pocket, my skin tingling where his fingers had touched mine.
Later, lying in bed, I opened the book and read “Eloisa to Abelard.” I was struck by the agony of Eloisa’s love—the raw, unyielding
longing Pope described with such precision. Her devotion was a torment, yet she clung to it, unable to let go even in the
face of impossibility.
Was love always like this? A pull between desire and sacrifice, between the life you want and the one you’re expected to lead?
I thought of Eng’s placid steadiness, the way he moved through his life with both resignation and resolve. How, like Eloisa,
he was chained by circumstance. Longing for more.
The following evening in the study, Eng and Chang sat at the mahogany chessboard, side by side. Eng hunched forward, elbows
on the table; Chang’s fingers hovered over a black piece as he weighed his move.
“Is chess your favorite game?” Addie asked, making idle talk as she worked on her embroidery. I was absorbed in Mansfield Park, dreading the fallout of Maria Bertram’s disastrous elopement.
Chang moved his piece diagonally on the board. “It’s a fine way to pass the time, but if I had a choice, I wouldn’t play against
my brother. We’re too close. I can read his mind.”
Eng lifted a white piece, his move hanging in the air. “If that were true, you’d win more often.”
“I’d say we’re pretty even,” Chang said.
“We are not. Especially when you’re drunk.”
Chang held up his glass, the liquid glowing burnt umber in the firelight. “Just trying to give you a fighting chance.”
Eng set the white piece down with finality. “Checkmate.” He smiled.
“Ah! Almost had you.”
“Maybe. But a miss is as good as a mile.”
I closed my book, unable to focus on Maria’s unraveling drama. “I’d like to learn how to play.”
Both brothers turned their heads to look at me.
Chang gave a dismissive laugh. “Ladies don’t play chess.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too complicated. You don’t wish to, do you, Adelaide?”
“Definitely not,” she said.
“Well, I do.” I set my book aside. “Let me try.”
Eng gave me a sideways look, as if trying to assess whether my interest was genuine. Then he began resetting the pieces on the board. “Sit here,” he said, nodding at the chair across from him.
I moved to the chair, avoiding Chang’s bemused gaze.
When all the pieces were in place, Eng tapped the board with a forefinger. “This is a battlefield. The two sides are at war.”
Chang smirked. “How apropos.”
“There are sixty-four squares of light and dark,” Eng said, ignoring him. “Each player begins with sixteen pieces. Eight pawns”—he
held up the smallest piece. “Two rooks”—he touched a piece shaped like a castle turret. “Two knights”—a horse’s head. “Two
bishops”—a sleek, pointed piece. “Then you have a queen. She’s your strongest ally, able to move in any direction, any distance.
You need to protect her.”
I picked up the black queen with its ornate crown and turned it in my hand.
“Finally, the king.” Eng held out the tallest piece. It differed from the queen only by the cross at its top. “The most important
piece, but also the most vulnerable. If your king gets trapped, you lose the game.”
“And he can only move one square in any direction,” Chang said, unable to resist chiming in. He reached across Eng for the
whiskey and poured himself another glass, then settled in, watching the board.
“Your goal is simple,” Eng said. “Trap and checkmate your opponent’s king. But the obstacles are formidable.”
Over the next hour, we played a halting game as Eng patiently taught me the rules. He explained strategies and pointed out
legal moves, offering gentle encouragement when I faltered. Chang, soon restless, wagged his head and tapped his feet, muttering
about Eng’s “pedantic” instructions.
I was acutely aware that as long as Eng and I played, Chang had no choice but to stay. Self-conscious and distracted, I made
a stupid move. Eng shook his head. “I just showed you that.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I tilted my chin toward Chang. “I think we should probably stop for now.”
Eng frowned. “I can’t worry about him all the time. He doesn’t worry about me.”
“Oh, Eng,” Chang said, “of course I do. To worry about you is to worry about myself, after all.”
Eng leaned closer to me and stage-whispered, “It helps to think of him as an appendage.”
I smiled. “A very large appendage.”
Eng smiled back. “Large, and largely useless.”
“That’s enough,” Chang said, but he couldn’t help smiling too.
The next day, Eng found me in the dining room, bent over my embroidery hoop. “I picked some flowers for you, but I fear they
wilted in the heat.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small bouquet.
“Oh. How sweet.” I took them and held them to my nose. The peonies had a honeyed scent, stronger for being bruised. His gesture
touched me. “Thank you.”
“What are you stitching?” he asked.
I lifted the hoop to show him the biblical scene taking shape under my needle: Leah’s figure outlined in backstitch, the water
jar gleaming in satin thread, the well rising in uneven cross-stitches to mimic stone.
Chang, beside him, gave a perfunctory nod. Eng leaned in, studying the cloth, his fingers grazing the figure of Leah. “I like
that you put her at the well.”
That evening, in the parlor, Chang read a newspaper while Eng was absorbed in a volume of poetry, brow furrowed in concentration.
Addie and I worked on our embroidery.
While I stitched, I watched Eng. I willed him to look up, to meet my gaze.
And then he did. He shut his book with a deliberate motion and gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Shall we play?”
I set aside my embroidery hoop and moved to the chair while he readied the chessboard.
“Well, what do you know,” Chang said from behind the paper.
Late that night, when the house was quiet, I put my forehead against the twins’ bedroom door. Addie, I knew, was in her own
room. Turning the knob, I slipped inside and crept around the frame to the far side of the bed. I stood in the faint light
of the moon for a few minutes as my eyes adjusted and Eng’s smooth face and black eyebrows came into view.
Then I touched his shoulder.
When he opened his eyes and looked up at me, I held his gaze.
At first, he was still, taking it in. Then he put a finger to his lips and adjusted to make room.
Gathering my long cotton gown around my legs, I slid into bed beside him. When he slipped his arm around my shoulders, I turned
away from him and nestled closer, feeling his sinewy length against my back. The coolness of the sheets soon gave way to his
warmth. I held my breath, thinking he might kiss my neck or touch my waist. But he didn’t.
And in that way, listening to his steady breathing in the still room, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.