A Game of Chess, Ch. 21 -- PG-13

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librarian_7
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A Game of Chess, Ch. 21 -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

Well, it's not often I get this updated, but I had this done, and wanted to post it as a holiday treat. It's also by way of thumbing my nose at the world, and saying, "I'm still writing!" I greatly appreciate all who read my work, and I hope to keep bringing you stories, and chapters of stories. Bear with me, if the updates are slow--patience is rewarded.

A Game of Chess

Chapter 21

The violent pounding on the front door startled Josef out of the book he was reading. He wasn't expecting any callers; it had to be past midnight. In his experience, good news waited until more civilized hour. He supposed he had better go see what new catastrophe had landed on his doorstep. Rising, he glanced over at Ned, fast asleep in the corner of the couch. He'd fed earlier, but the boy had begged to stay and keep him company. He suspected it was more likely that Ned found the solitary evenings lonely. In any event, it was time for the lad to be off to his own room.

He shook Ned’s shoulder. "Wake up," he said, smiling down at the boy. "Off with you, now."

The boy smiled back, sleepy, and gathered himself obediently to leave. "Thank you, Mr. Fitz.”

The knock came at the door again, more insistent, and Josef turned. By the time he got to the door, his housekeeper, Mrs. Davidson, had come up from her room off the kitchen, an embroidered Spanish shawl thrown around her shoulders to cover her faded calico nightgown, and a candlestick in her hand. Behind her, Fox the coachman trailed. Josef caught a whiff of gun oil and surmised that Fox had taken the precaution of shoving a pistol in the waistband of his hastily donned pants. He nodded approval to the servants.

On the doorstep, Schuyler Smith was raising a shaking hand to knock again when Josef opened the door. He almost fell across the threshold. He was clearly distraught, his clothing in disarray, and an ugly scrape down one side of his face. The blood from the abrasion had dripped onto his collar, and stained the linen.

"Do come in, Sky,” Josef said wryly. "Thank you, Fox," he said in dismissal. "Mrs. Davidson, if you'd be so kind, my friend looks in need of a little refreshment."

She nodded. "I’ll bring a tray to the study directly, Mr. Fitzgerald."

Josef drew Schuyler inside, closing the door behind them. "You look as though you've seen a ghost, old boy. What brings you to my doorstep?"

Schuyler took a deep shuddering breath. "I know it's late – damned late – but I didn't have a choice, Fitz." He put a hand up covering his face. "She said – she said she'd ruin me, if I didn't. And she knows, oh God…” His words trailed off, and he staggered, thrusting out his other hand blindly seeking support.

Josef caught him, and steered him towards the study. "You're not making much sense, Sky. Come have a brandy, and tell me the story from the beginning."

Sky nodded, and allowed himself to be led. He seized upon the idea of a brandy. A restorative, that's what he needed, a good jolt of liquor would give him the strength it would take to tell his tale.

In the end, he had several stiff drinks, a cool damp towel to mop his face, and a plate of Mrs. Davidson's excellent sandwiches to settle his nerves and bolster his spirit before Josef allowed him to talk in earnest.

&&&

All evening, Schuyler Smith had felt the shameful hunger growing in him, a need coiling like a serpent in the pit of his belly. Dinner was bad enough. Tedious. He’d listened with half his attention to his mother-in-law, although his attention wandered and he spent more time pondering the dark purple half-mourning, now worn with what she’d call touches of dove gray. Personally, Sky thought putting on mourning at all for an uncle the old biddy had barely known, and completely disapproved of, to boot, was a little pretentious. His wife had given him to understand, however, that "dear great-uncle Randolph" had left "dear Mama" a considerable nest egg, which he supposed made the old coot a sight more attractive. And certainly, "dear great-uncle Randolph" was much more loved in death than he had been in life. Leticia had refused to invite him to their wedding, although she'd made no fuss about accepting a nuptial gift. He supposed he ought to be immune to the hypocrisy by now. In fact, he reflected, if Leticia ever allowed herself to be aware of certain realities of their life, she would probably trot out some appropriate Biblical precept – possibly the one about ignoring the beam in his own eye. Somehow, though, he felt that there was a difference in the hypocrisy, the secrecy, imposed on him by an unforgiving society, and the pious greed his wife's family embraced so voluntarily.

Dinner dragged, from the Mock Turtle Soup, and the broiled trout, through the larded quails, glistening golden with fat, and the entrée of beef fillet. At least there had been a concession to the heat, with a second, lighter entrée of lobster salad, and a truly delightful dessert of Charlotte Russe. Schuyler approved wholeheartedly of the airy confection, relishing the combination of sponge cake, whipped cream, and Bavarian custard, flavored with peaches poached in spiced rum. He thought the dessert even sweeter, when his father-in-law snorted and declared the dessert too feminine for his liking, sticking instead to the platter of assorted cheeses and fruit.

And if the smug self-satisfaction and pious platitudes of the women over the five excruciating courses of the dinner had not been bad enough, being trapped with his father-in-law over brandy and cigars after dinner made Sky contemplate suicide, or some even more egregious breach of propriety. He'd been spared politics over dinner, as Father Hubbard had always maintained that the governance of the State was no fit topic for the ladies.

After dinner, however, Sky was a captive audience for his father-in-law's fulminations about the President – in his view, Lincoln had not done one single praiseworthy thing since being elected; the war – the commanders of the army, he said, were incompetent and should have routed the enemy long before; and his most potent vitriol, reserved for the rebels. No matter that Lincoln was talking about a measured, almost gentle reunion of the country after the war. Father Hubbard, along with his cronies, was advocating withering retribution.

"We must crush the pride out of these vile rebels, with the boot of the Union grinding them into the dust." One of his milder pronouncements. Privately, Sky thought that oppression and revenge would hardly be productive, in the long run, but he was not going to argue the point with his father-in-law. Keeping his silence was easier, and made the ordeal shorter. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was keeping his silence.

Sky had heard this speech many times before. He let his mind drift, cautiously enjoying the anticipation of escape. Sometimes he thought the longing was better than actually achieving what he needed. There was shame in both, of course, and he knew well enough that the family pastor, Rev. Michaels, would tell him so. He sent up a brief prayer of gratitude that at least the family was not Catholic; even a private confession would ruin him.

Eventually, though, Father Hubbard began to wind down, and Sky consulted his watch, exclaiming, "My goodness. I'd almost forgotten. I was due to meet –" he tried to think of an innocuous name "– Josef Fitzgerald at the club half an hour ago." He offered up his most unctuous smile. "It's a business matter of some importance. I trust you'll forgive me if I leave you."

The older man waved a hand in dismissal. Dinner had been excellent, if simple, the brandy a particularly fine one, and the cigars exquisite. He didn't especially like his son-in-law, but the man set a fine table, and kept a fine bar. He could certainly entertain himself for a little while, until Leticia and her mother finished their chat. "If it's business," he said, "by all means, go."

Sky checked his coat and cravat in the hall tree mirror as he retrieved his glossy black silk top hat. That would do. He looked perfectly respectable; a gentleman out for an evening stroll.

The night air was warm and muggy. Before he'd gone ten steps from his front stoop, he could feel the trickle of sweat running down his back beneath his shirt. He paused for a moment, savoring the choice of destinations. There was a house, not far from his own home, a house that catered to his special predilections. But he'd been there just a few days ago, and he thought it was not wise to go back so soon. You never knew when someone might be watching, when someone might put two and two together. Sometimes he wished he had the nerve to do as certain friends of his had done, and set a regular lover up in a little flat somewhere. Ah, but there was still that problem of being noticed too often at the same place. It was too dangerous. Well, he amended, everything was dangerous. Everything except learning to do without. It would be safer to take up smoking opium. He'd heard the drug could substitute for other things. But the signs of it would be written on him more obviously than the secret of his hidden life, and he shuddered at the thought of Leticia praying over him.

By the time he had gotten to this point in his reverie, he was only a short distance from a park. The perimeter might be well-lit by gas lamps – this was a good neighborhood, after all – but the interior of the park was filled with long shadows. It was a good place for someone who did not wish to be seen.

He took a turn around the square, showing himself. To all appearances, he was taking the evening air, no particular goal in mind, nodding politely to the men he passed. He recognized no one. That was good. Chances were, no one recognized him either. Satisfied that his anonymity was at least relatively safe, he took advantage of a moment’s solitude along the promenade to turn into the interior of the small park, blending into the shadows.

He hadn't noticed the boy following him, a slender youth in ragged breeches, shirt, and an open waistcoat, the bill of his stained cloth cap pulled down to hide his face. When Sky turned into the park, the youth smiled, an oddly mature expression on what could be seen of his downy cheeks. This was going to be easy.

Sky found an empty park bench, partly protected from view. He'd passed several already occupied. The sight of the couples, and the muffled noises he could hear, began to excite him. He settled on the wooden slats of the bench, his pulse quickening. Now, all he had to do was wait. He’d been here before, and he knew the drill.

He heard a faint sound of footsteps on the gravel path, and looked up in expectation. His breath caught. This was perfect. He gauged the boy to be 16 or so. Just the right age. Neither child nor quite adult. There was no question in his mind that the lad might be an innocent – from his clothes he was little more than a street urchin, and that kind of boy knew all too well what happened in the parks at night. Sky felt in his pocket for his note case. This one was experienced; he wouldn’t come cheap.

He cleared his throat, to draw the boy's attention. The lad stopped, and Sky thought he was being closely scrutinized, although it was hard to tell from under the cap. The boy stepped closer, and gave Sky a lopsided smile. “You waitin’ for me, mister?" he asked. His voice was a little rough, as though it barely changed. As though it might break and shift into a higher register. And he had a faint accent. Sky couldn’t quite place it, but it was charming.

“All my life,” he replied.

&&&

Sky fell silent, staring unseeing into his glass, his thoughts on what should have been. He knew, vaguely, that he would have to explain to Fitz what had actually happened. To anyone else, he would have lied, but somehow he knew it was pointless.

It was odd, he thought. He wasn’t a stupid man. He knew that. He was successful in business. Even if he’d gotten his start due to family connections, his insufferable father-in-law among them, it was his own efforts, his own hard work, that had paid off. And if the price he paid was a life of discreet deception, he was prepared to live with that. Now, he was going to have to tell a friend things that he barely had the vocabulary to express. Or he could fall back on the old circumlocutions and innuendo.

He looked up, desperately, and found himself the focus of Josef’s whiskey brown gaze. He had the oddest feeling that nothing he could say would shock the other man, that behind those brown eyes, there was a depth of wisdom that might not accept everything, but that understood. Fitz was young, but—there was something there. And Sky didn’t have the vocabulary to describe that, either.

“What happened?” Josef asked, softly.

Sky pulled in a long breath, feeling embarrassed that it had a weak, shuddering quality to it. “That boy—I smiled at him as he walked up.” He paused, wondering how to explain himself. “Do you know what it’s like to have power? That feeling you get when you’re in charge, and there’s nothing to stop you from doing whatever you want?”

Josef nodded. “I’m not—unfamiliar with the sensation,” he said dryly.

“Sometimes it’s business. Buying out a rival, cornering a market. Sometimes, it’s…” He gestured, one of those meaningless motions that conveyed volumes. “…more personal.”

“What happened, Sky?” He tried to curb the impatience in his voice. Josef might understand all this, but he really wasn’t ready to listen to verbal fumbling for the rest of the night. For having such short lives, he thought, humans had the most irritating way of delaying and stringing things out.

“That’s just it, Fitz. I—I’m not sure I know exactly what happened. I was sitting on the park bench, and this boy was walking up to me. I had my hand in my pocket, ready to offer him some money. I’m generous, Fitz, I swear I’m always generous with them. And the next thing I know, I’ve been picked up and slammed into a tree trunk. This boy, who’s maybe half my size, had me completely overpowered….”

&&&

The small hand tightened inexorably on his throat, but Sky still managed to gasp out, “Let go of me!”

He could feel the warm trickle of blood on his cheek and knew that the harsh bark of the tree had scraped him. It stung. He thought he must’ve hit his head, that he was confused, because how else could someone so slender and small be holding him so easily? The hand tightened.

“Shut up, cochon.” The voice was a melodic alto, and that confused him further. This was no boy holding him, he realized. It was a woman. He didn’t understand how it could be possible. “You listen to me,” she said, “or I’ll gut you like the pig you are. And how would your family like that? Scion of prominent family found in a park noted for unsavory activities? That’s what they’d call it, wouldn’t they? Unsavory activities? When you’re out looking for little boys to screw?”

If Sky could have spoken he would have denied it. Or tried, anyway. There was really no question that she had the right of it. “What—do you—want?” he managed to gasp out. “I can pay.”

The woman laughed. Straining his eyes to the side, he could just see her, the fair face lit with merriment, a few strands of blonde hair slipping from beneath the cap she wore. She looked familiar. She looked like someone he’d seen before. But where? Who? It didn’t make any sense.

A few minutes earlier, he’d been hoping for privacy. Now, he could only wish that someone, anyone, would come by. That he could somehow escape from the bruising grip of his attacker. What she was saying to him sank in, slowly. For him to be found here, dead or alive…his family would be ruined. He would be tainted with a stain that no time could remove. His wife, her parents—it would be unforgiveable. And who knew how far the ripples might spread. Every one of his friends would suddenly be looked at, with a jaundiced, knowing eye. All of New York society would assume that they were complicit in his sins. He felt sick. It was the old hatred rising up out of his gut. He probably should have killed himself long ago, but he hadn’t quite had the courage to do it. He still didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

He at least wanted to listen to what was on offer, to find out if there was some way he could survive, that he could at least get out of today’s mess.

She laughed. “What do I want?” She moved in even closer, put her lips against his ear. “I could do things to you, little piglet, that you’ve never even dreamt of, and you’d only beg me for more.” She ran the point of a catlike tongue around the intricacies of his outer ear, and involuntarily his teeth chattered. “You see,” she said, “what a little thing it takes to make you—mine.”

“No,” he moaned. “No.” And he heard her chuckle, low in her throat, stirring things in him, feelings he hadn’t thought possible. Before he could even begin to digest this, the sound of a tongue clicking in disapproval penetrated his consciousness. He had heard no footsteps, no movement of leaves, but there was another figure he could just see from the corner of his eye, standing next to them.

“Cynthia,” another voice said, and this one made him start with recognition. It was the Frenchwoman. Mlle. Duvall. “Cynthia,” she repeated, “I didn’t tell you to play with him. Besides, we need him to deliver the message.”

“Yes, mistress,” Cynthia answered, but her tone was defiant and sulky. She gave an exaggerated sigh. “He was just so easy.”

Coraline laid a hand on her shoulder, caressing her. “I know. You haven’t had enough fun lately, and we’ll see to that soon. But this one—this is business, not pleasure.” She paused, and her tone changed. “Well, Mr. Smith, I suppose the light has dawned by now.”

He managed a small nod. He was starting to see red spots dancing around the edges of his vision.

“Oh, Cynthia, do let go of the poor man’s throat.”

She complied, but as she stepped away, she gave him a good blow to the solar plexus with the edge of her hand, and had the satisfaction of seeing him double over and fall to his knees, gasping for breath. It was nice to know she hadn’t lost the skills she’d picked up, during their travels in the Orient.

Coraline smiled at her indulgently. “Really, now, that was uncalled for.”

“But very satisfying.”

Coraline stepped in closer, and pushed at Sky’s shoulder until he straightened up. He was still panting, trying to catch his breath. “We didn’t really come here with the intention of killing you,” she said. “It would be so rude, to strike you down in the midst of your pleasures. But it was important for us—for me—to know that you would be taking our side, from now on.” He looked dully at the two women before him. Mistress and maid and…he thought, as he saw Cynthia’s hungry gaze hanging on Coraline’s every word, a little more. Definitely a little more.

“I’m not really,” Coraline went on, “a very complicated woman. Mostly, I just need to know that all this blasted interference standing in between me and Cam Marshall is going to stop. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of this game, and I want you to start telling your friends, and Cam’s family, that there’s nothing to be done. Do you understand?”

Sky nodded. He wasn’t sure how well his voice would do, if he tried to speak.

“And especially,” Coraline said, “I weary of Josef Fitzgerald. He thinks because he’s found the shallows, that the river has no current. But you can tell him from me, that if he doesn’t get out of my way, that current is not only going to sweep him away, it’s going to take him right onto the rocks. Tell him I may be new in this town, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have friends.”

The next thing Sky knew, there was a delicately shaped little finger that felt like an iron rod, underneath his chin, forcing him to look up, and directly into her eyes. “Now Schuyler, dear Schuyler, tell me you understand.” She seemed to have eyes like bottomless pools, and he could feel himself falling into them deeper and deeper, unable to contradict her, unable to do anything but agree.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said. “Tres bien.”

And Sky felt mesmerized, helpless.

“I did promise Cynthia a little bit of fun. Give me your wrist.”

He didn’t want to, Lord, he didn’t want to, but he seemed unable to stop himself. He raised a hand slowly, held it out to her. And then Cynthia was beside him pushing back the sleeve of his jacket, ripping the button from his cuff and pushing back his shirt sleeve. “Just look at me, Sky,” Coraline said. “Look into my eyes, and it won’t hurt a bit.”

The next thing he remembered, he was waking up on the park bench. It might have been a few minutes later, or a few hours, but it was still full dark, and he suspected that not too much time had passed. He patted his pockets. Watch, notecase, everything was there. He hadn’t been robbed, at least. He leaned forward, buried his face in his hands. What was he going to do? And a little voice in his head said, “Whatever she tells you, you fool.” She had told him to do something, now what was it? Oh, right.

He stood, wavering and light-headed, leaving a perfectly good hat on the park bench, and staggered off. He had to get to Waverly Place.

&&

Sky took another long swallow of his brandy, and closed his eyes briefly. “So,” he said at last, “you know everything.” He paused. “You probably don’t believe me. Why should you believe me? It’s so…insane.”

Josef didn’t reply at first. His eyes flicked down to Sky’s wrist, noted the loose, bloodstained cuff. This was a complication he really could have done without, he thought. A hundred years ago, he might have just, somewhat regretfully, snapped Sky’s neck, and contained a possible problem the most direct way possible. But—Sky had been very useful, and if he’d come into knowledge that he would have been far better not knowing, it was not really his fault. Damn that Duvall woman, anyway. He frowned. Those French vampires had always been too arrogant and incautious for their own good. And see where it had gotten most of them.

Sky was waiting, almost holding his breath. He should never have come here. He should—

Josef stood, and paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth, as Sky watched. The clock struck two, and Josef stopped, and pivoted to look at him. “We need to get that wrist bandaged properly,” he said. “And I’ll have Mrs. Davidson open up a room for you. I think you’d better stay here for what’s left of the night.” He paused. “I can’t promise you that I can protect you entirely from Mlle. Duvall, but—we’ll talk tomorrow. For tonight, you’ll be safe here.” He turned to reach for the bell pull to summon the housekeeper. “And you should know, I’m even better at keeping secrets than you are.”
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allegrita
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Re: A Game of Chess, Ch. 21

Post by allegrita »

Oooooooooh, my GAWD, this chapter was well worth the wait! :clapping: Poor Sky--what an awful situation to be in. He's been a disaster waiting to happen--no wonder Coraline chose him to be her pawn. Josef is the perfect confidant for him, but what can Josef do to protect him, under the circumstances? :shrug: There are so many complications and twists to this whole situation, I'm really wondering what Josef can do to get himself, and everyone else, out of this mess. :dizzy:

Lucky, this is one of the best Moonlight stories I've ever read. :notworthy: I'm absolutely hooked on it, and I look forward eagerly to the next chapter. But I'm patient... after all, the faster you write, the sooner this wonderful tale will be over! :mdrama:

Thank you for this New Year's present! :hug: :hearts: :rose:
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Re: A Game of Chess, Ch. 21

Post by cassysj »

I saw enjoy every new tidbit of this story. Coraline and Josef more like equals or peers. As wonderful as Mick is he doesn't have centuries behind him. Poor Sky is in a mess and I look forward to finding out what happens next.
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darkstarrising
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Re: A Game of Chess, Ch. 21

Post by darkstarrising »

Very much worth the wait, Lucky :hug:

Poor Sky - he has his own secrets, but now has been drawn into a world he can't begin to fathom and probably doesn't want to. He's now a pawn in this game of chess between Coraline and Josef and pawns are usually the first to be sacrificed. What will Josef do with him and how will he answer Coraline's challenge?

BTW, the description of the dinner was amazing - so many delectable dishes in one setting!!
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librarian_7
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Re: A Game of Chess, Ch. 21

Post by librarian_7 »

Thanks, ladies! I actually googled menus from the time period, and it seems in society, that was an informal meal! They weren't counting calories, in those days.
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Re: A Game of Chess, Ch. 21 -- PG-13

Post by NightAir »

I love to find an update to a favorite story!

Coraline has made an unexpected play. I'm eager to see Josef's countermove.
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