A Game of Chess, Ch. 6 (PG-13)
Posted: Sat Feb 20, 2010 5:18 am
Yes, still June 1863, still New York City, and still Josef. Whom I do not own.
A Game of Chess
Chapter 6
The pendulum clock on the mantelpiece had barely finished chiming eight, when Honoria Marshall’s foot began to tap impatiently, and the motion of her fan became an indicator of her irritation.
“He’s late,” she announced needlessly. “I thought he had more courtesy.”
Schuyler Smith glanced at the third person in the room, but young Mrs. Cam had her head down, concentrating on her knitting. Wise girl, he thought. “I’m sure Fitz will be along any minute now,” he said soothingly. “I’ve never known him to fail in punctuality.”
“And you’ve know him what? A month?” Mrs. Marshall snapped.
“More like four,” Sky answered mildly. He gestured toward the window of the second story drawing room. “It’s still light out, and the streets stay crowded on fine evenings. His driver may be having trouble getting through.”
“Then he should have left earlier, to be sure of being on time.”
Schuyler didn’t reply. There was no dealing with the matriarch in this sort of mood. And he understood the near panic that was rising so close to the surface, really he did. The mere fact that she was reaching out to a stranger…well.
Mrs. Marshall became dissatisfied with merely tapping her foot, and abandoned her throne-like armchair, the one that had once been the domain of her late husband, and began to pace the room, snapping her fan open and closed, open and closed. Mrs. Cam, Sky noticed, seemed to shrink ever farther inside herself, the slight motion of her fingers and the muted click of her knitting needles the only sound she made. And that regular, gentle domestic noise was more soothing than anything else she could have done.
Mrs. Cam was happy to be unnoticed, happy to sink into the mindless work of her hands. There was little art to her task, but she’d promised months ago to turn out several pairs of plain, serviceable socks a week for the boys fighting so far away from home and comfort. She was hard pressed, sometimes, to keep up. The afternoons rolling bandages and doing other tasks “for the war effort” with the Ladies Aid Society were wearing, and she’d barely had time to change into an acceptable gown for dinner, after hurrying home this afternoon. As much as her mother-in-law approved of her activities as correct for a young matron at her level of society, “Particularly one with no family responsibilities, yet,” she would not brook Mrs. Cam being late to dinner, or poorly turned out. Sometimes Mrs. Cam thought resentfully, if she only had a baby, any minor transgressions would be forgiven. She didn’t think it was her fault Cam hadn’t given her one yet. Her fingers moved a little faster, until she dropped a stitch, and slowed down to rectify the mistake, guilty for feeling angry with her husband. Concerned, it was all right to feel concerned, but angry was wrong.
Still, she thought, Mama Marshall would take care of things. She always did, and she always would. Cam would listen to her, and everything would be right again.
The minutes were ticking by, and the awaited visitor did not arrive until a quarter past the hour.
Josef came in, apologizing for his tardiness. A disturbance in the streets, he had been delayed unconscionably. He begged forgiveness for it, and so on and so forth.
Schuyler frowned. “Disturbance? What sort of disturbance?”
Josef shook his head. “Some ragged fellows protesting the draft, I believe. Nothing to trouble us, I think. But it did have the effect of making me keep you all waiting on my appearance. And they should be tossed in jail for that, should they not, Mrs. Marshall?”
“Indeed they should, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She waved her fan to dismiss the inconveniences of the outside world. “Now then, may we offer you some refreshment? Coffee, perhaps? Or something stronger?” Her hand poised at the bell pull, ready to summon the waiting maid.
Josef smiled and shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”
“Damned rabble,” Schuyler observed.
Mrs. Marshall flashed a frown at him. “Language, sir.”
“My pardon, Aunt Honoria.” Schuyler used the old, affectionate term of address he had once been permitted, as Cam’s close friend. It was not often allowed, now that they were adults, but he thought it not unwise to underline the relationship he enjoyed with the family. Not that he didn’t trust Fitz,but Mrs. Marshall was right. He was almost a stranger.
The basic social niceties had been observed, and Mrs. Marshall knew the time had come for her to lay out the reason for her summons. She settled, with careful adjustments of her complex attire, back into her chair, and snapped her fan closed, decisively.
“I realize,” she said, “that we’ve scarcely met, Mr. Fitzgerald. Somehow, though, the fond recollections I have of your uncle incline me to repose a greater trust in your character than our acquaintance would necessarily warrant.”
“In that case, I must make every effort to justify your regard, Mrs. Marshall, if only for the sake of Uncle Bobby’s reputation.”
Mrs. Marshall smiled bleakly. “I see you are a man of fine perceptions.”
Josef inclined his head slightly in response. “I do try, Mrs. Marshall.”
She looked around the room, taking in the bent head and industrious hands of her daughter-in-law. The riveted, sardonic attention of Schuyler Smith. He’d been a good friend to Cam, and she hoped his advice now was sound. Her instincts, the sense that had guided her through many dangerous social shoals, seemed to be deserting her now. She could not separate this newcomer from her memories of Bobby Fitz. He’d been dangerous and unpredictable, but he’d never played her false. And she’d be lying if she tried to forget the ache in her heart when he left. Still, she’d known then it was important for her to move on, to marry someone socially acceptable. Someone like Cam’s father.
Now, she needed help, and Cam’s father wasn’t here. Neither was Bobby Fitz, but this stranger, the nephew with his face, would do. One used the tools, she thought, that one was given.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said, “it’s an unforgiveable imposition, I know, but I have a problem. And something tells me you may be in a position to assist me.”
Josef smiled at her, his eyes thoughtful. Honoria Vane had been strong-willed as a girl, and he’d recognized the steel beneath her maidenly exterior from the beginning, had been drawn to it. He supposed he ought to decline politely and get out. What were these human affairs that he should trouble himself with them? He had business, serious business, to attend to. Only the bare memory of a laughing, willful girl whirling in his arms in a scandalous waltz stayed him. No obligation, but the whim to see Honoria’s youthful smile on the face of her son. He looked at the matriarch, his gaze warm with memory. “Mrs. Marshall,” he said, “tell me what you require of me.”
“Somehow I knew…” she said, and took a deep breath. “Mr. Fitzgerald—it’s my son, Cam.”
“Financial trouble?” Josef asked. That, he could turn to his own advantage.
Mrs. Marshall straightened in her chair. “No. Although that may come. I fear worse.”
Josef took a seat near her, and nodded encouragingly.
“It’s that woman, Mr. Fitzgerald. That Frenchwoman you met in our box at the opera.”
“Mlle. Duvall?”
Mrs. Marshall looked as though she smelled something unpleasant. “The same.”
So that’s the way the wind was blowing. “She’s very beautiful,” Josef said carefully.
“It’s like you men to notice that.” Mrs. Marshall shot a quick glance at Mrs. Cam. “If it were just a bit of dalliance…you’ve been about the world, Mr. Fitzgerald. Pardon my bluntness, but we would forgive Cam a few foibles. But this woman…she’s poison.”
You have no idea, Josef thought. No idea. “What’s she done, Mrs. Marshall?” Might as well find out if they had any clue how far things had gone.
Schuyler answered. “We’re not sure, so far. But Cam was steady. Hard-working. A walking reproach to wastrels like me. Or so my wife informs me.” Schuyler pursed his lips. “He’s taken to staying out half the night, and sleeping through the mornings.”
“It isn’t drink, Mr. Fitzgerald. Or laudanum, so far as we can tell. But he’s obsessed with this woman. It’s like she’s a demon, possessing him,” Mrs. Marshall added.
Josef noticed Mrs. Cam’s knitting needles had stilled, the young woman’s hands shaking against her skirt. She might not be voicing her thoughts, but to Josef, she was speaking volumes.
“Just last night,” Mrs. Marshall continued, “Cam was dining at home for the first time in a week, and she sent a note, commanding him to attend her. He rose from the table—the soup had not even gone out—and despite all our entreaties, left the house at once. He never came back, not until this morning.” She forgot her dignity, and let her hands pick at the fan in her lap with nervous intensity. “If this keeps up…if it becomes known…”
“You know what businessmen are like here, Fitz. All right to keep a discreet mistress tucked away someplace handy, but the way things are going, Cam won’t be received anywhere. And if society won’t receive him, three-fourths of his business contacts will be lost.”
Josef nodded. Someday, he thought, business would just be business, and social standing, or lack of it, not an issue. It was even worse in Philadelphia and Boston. He’d thought New York might be easier; it had the reputation of being more open to ability and ruthlessness. Instead, he found the same strictures applied. There were more self-made men, to be true, but it was not as open as he’d hoped. “I do understand the situation,” he replied, “but my dear Mrs. Marshall, what is it you think I can do to remedy this? She’s not the kind of person, I think, who can be bought off.”
“Not,” Schulyer said drily, “that we haven’t tried. That damned—pardon, ma’am—housekeeper of hers all but slammed the door in my face. She made the oddest comment, too. Positively sniffed at me, and said something about weak-blooded ninnies.”
Josef arched an eyebrow. “Indeed?” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. Separating a vampire from someone she’d chosen as prey…difficult. Not impossible, if it were put to her right, though.
Mrs. Cam looked up, for the first time, and caught Josef’s eye. “Mr. Fitzgerald, I saw the way you looked at Mademoiselle Duvall. And the way she looked at you. Please, you can talk to her. Make her give me back my husband.”
Josef tried hard to be the vampire he thought he should be. Heartless, pitiless. He found, however, that he was powerless to say no, against the combined pleas of these women. He rose and went to Mrs. Cam, to take her hand and bow over it. He’d thought her lifeless, dull, when they first met, but he was seeing more. She’d been overshadowed by the company, he thought. It was perhaps no wonder that Cam had been susceptible to the vivid charms of Coraline Duvall.
“Mrs. Cam,” he said gently, “I will do what I can. That I will promise you.”
A Game of Chess
Chapter 6
The pendulum clock on the mantelpiece had barely finished chiming eight, when Honoria Marshall’s foot began to tap impatiently, and the motion of her fan became an indicator of her irritation.
“He’s late,” she announced needlessly. “I thought he had more courtesy.”
Schuyler Smith glanced at the third person in the room, but young Mrs. Cam had her head down, concentrating on her knitting. Wise girl, he thought. “I’m sure Fitz will be along any minute now,” he said soothingly. “I’ve never known him to fail in punctuality.”
“And you’ve know him what? A month?” Mrs. Marshall snapped.
“More like four,” Sky answered mildly. He gestured toward the window of the second story drawing room. “It’s still light out, and the streets stay crowded on fine evenings. His driver may be having trouble getting through.”
“Then he should have left earlier, to be sure of being on time.”
Schuyler didn’t reply. There was no dealing with the matriarch in this sort of mood. And he understood the near panic that was rising so close to the surface, really he did. The mere fact that she was reaching out to a stranger…well.
Mrs. Marshall became dissatisfied with merely tapping her foot, and abandoned her throne-like armchair, the one that had once been the domain of her late husband, and began to pace the room, snapping her fan open and closed, open and closed. Mrs. Cam, Sky noticed, seemed to shrink ever farther inside herself, the slight motion of her fingers and the muted click of her knitting needles the only sound she made. And that regular, gentle domestic noise was more soothing than anything else she could have done.
Mrs. Cam was happy to be unnoticed, happy to sink into the mindless work of her hands. There was little art to her task, but she’d promised months ago to turn out several pairs of plain, serviceable socks a week for the boys fighting so far away from home and comfort. She was hard pressed, sometimes, to keep up. The afternoons rolling bandages and doing other tasks “for the war effort” with the Ladies Aid Society were wearing, and she’d barely had time to change into an acceptable gown for dinner, after hurrying home this afternoon. As much as her mother-in-law approved of her activities as correct for a young matron at her level of society, “Particularly one with no family responsibilities, yet,” she would not brook Mrs. Cam being late to dinner, or poorly turned out. Sometimes Mrs. Cam thought resentfully, if she only had a baby, any minor transgressions would be forgiven. She didn’t think it was her fault Cam hadn’t given her one yet. Her fingers moved a little faster, until she dropped a stitch, and slowed down to rectify the mistake, guilty for feeling angry with her husband. Concerned, it was all right to feel concerned, but angry was wrong.
Still, she thought, Mama Marshall would take care of things. She always did, and she always would. Cam would listen to her, and everything would be right again.
The minutes were ticking by, and the awaited visitor did not arrive until a quarter past the hour.
Josef came in, apologizing for his tardiness. A disturbance in the streets, he had been delayed unconscionably. He begged forgiveness for it, and so on and so forth.
Schuyler frowned. “Disturbance? What sort of disturbance?”
Josef shook his head. “Some ragged fellows protesting the draft, I believe. Nothing to trouble us, I think. But it did have the effect of making me keep you all waiting on my appearance. And they should be tossed in jail for that, should they not, Mrs. Marshall?”
“Indeed they should, Mr. Fitzgerald.” She waved her fan to dismiss the inconveniences of the outside world. “Now then, may we offer you some refreshment? Coffee, perhaps? Or something stronger?” Her hand poised at the bell pull, ready to summon the waiting maid.
Josef smiled and shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”
“Damned rabble,” Schuyler observed.
Mrs. Marshall flashed a frown at him. “Language, sir.”
“My pardon, Aunt Honoria.” Schuyler used the old, affectionate term of address he had once been permitted, as Cam’s close friend. It was not often allowed, now that they were adults, but he thought it not unwise to underline the relationship he enjoyed with the family. Not that he didn’t trust Fitz,but Mrs. Marshall was right. He was almost a stranger.
The basic social niceties had been observed, and Mrs. Marshall knew the time had come for her to lay out the reason for her summons. She settled, with careful adjustments of her complex attire, back into her chair, and snapped her fan closed, decisively.
“I realize,” she said, “that we’ve scarcely met, Mr. Fitzgerald. Somehow, though, the fond recollections I have of your uncle incline me to repose a greater trust in your character than our acquaintance would necessarily warrant.”
“In that case, I must make every effort to justify your regard, Mrs. Marshall, if only for the sake of Uncle Bobby’s reputation.”
Mrs. Marshall smiled bleakly. “I see you are a man of fine perceptions.”
Josef inclined his head slightly in response. “I do try, Mrs. Marshall.”
She looked around the room, taking in the bent head and industrious hands of her daughter-in-law. The riveted, sardonic attention of Schuyler Smith. He’d been a good friend to Cam, and she hoped his advice now was sound. Her instincts, the sense that had guided her through many dangerous social shoals, seemed to be deserting her now. She could not separate this newcomer from her memories of Bobby Fitz. He’d been dangerous and unpredictable, but he’d never played her false. And she’d be lying if she tried to forget the ache in her heart when he left. Still, she’d known then it was important for her to move on, to marry someone socially acceptable. Someone like Cam’s father.
Now, she needed help, and Cam’s father wasn’t here. Neither was Bobby Fitz, but this stranger, the nephew with his face, would do. One used the tools, she thought, that one was given.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said, “it’s an unforgiveable imposition, I know, but I have a problem. And something tells me you may be in a position to assist me.”
Josef smiled at her, his eyes thoughtful. Honoria Vane had been strong-willed as a girl, and he’d recognized the steel beneath her maidenly exterior from the beginning, had been drawn to it. He supposed he ought to decline politely and get out. What were these human affairs that he should trouble himself with them? He had business, serious business, to attend to. Only the bare memory of a laughing, willful girl whirling in his arms in a scandalous waltz stayed him. No obligation, but the whim to see Honoria’s youthful smile on the face of her son. He looked at the matriarch, his gaze warm with memory. “Mrs. Marshall,” he said, “tell me what you require of me.”
“Somehow I knew…” she said, and took a deep breath. “Mr. Fitzgerald—it’s my son, Cam.”
“Financial trouble?” Josef asked. That, he could turn to his own advantage.
Mrs. Marshall straightened in her chair. “No. Although that may come. I fear worse.”
Josef took a seat near her, and nodded encouragingly.
“It’s that woman, Mr. Fitzgerald. That Frenchwoman you met in our box at the opera.”
“Mlle. Duvall?”
Mrs. Marshall looked as though she smelled something unpleasant. “The same.”
So that’s the way the wind was blowing. “She’s very beautiful,” Josef said carefully.
“It’s like you men to notice that.” Mrs. Marshall shot a quick glance at Mrs. Cam. “If it were just a bit of dalliance…you’ve been about the world, Mr. Fitzgerald. Pardon my bluntness, but we would forgive Cam a few foibles. But this woman…she’s poison.”
You have no idea, Josef thought. No idea. “What’s she done, Mrs. Marshall?” Might as well find out if they had any clue how far things had gone.
Schuyler answered. “We’re not sure, so far. But Cam was steady. Hard-working. A walking reproach to wastrels like me. Or so my wife informs me.” Schuyler pursed his lips. “He’s taken to staying out half the night, and sleeping through the mornings.”
“It isn’t drink, Mr. Fitzgerald. Or laudanum, so far as we can tell. But he’s obsessed with this woman. It’s like she’s a demon, possessing him,” Mrs. Marshall added.
Josef noticed Mrs. Cam’s knitting needles had stilled, the young woman’s hands shaking against her skirt. She might not be voicing her thoughts, but to Josef, she was speaking volumes.
“Just last night,” Mrs. Marshall continued, “Cam was dining at home for the first time in a week, and she sent a note, commanding him to attend her. He rose from the table—the soup had not even gone out—and despite all our entreaties, left the house at once. He never came back, not until this morning.” She forgot her dignity, and let her hands pick at the fan in her lap with nervous intensity. “If this keeps up…if it becomes known…”
“You know what businessmen are like here, Fitz. All right to keep a discreet mistress tucked away someplace handy, but the way things are going, Cam won’t be received anywhere. And if society won’t receive him, three-fourths of his business contacts will be lost.”
Josef nodded. Someday, he thought, business would just be business, and social standing, or lack of it, not an issue. It was even worse in Philadelphia and Boston. He’d thought New York might be easier; it had the reputation of being more open to ability and ruthlessness. Instead, he found the same strictures applied. There were more self-made men, to be true, but it was not as open as he’d hoped. “I do understand the situation,” he replied, “but my dear Mrs. Marshall, what is it you think I can do to remedy this? She’s not the kind of person, I think, who can be bought off.”
“Not,” Schulyer said drily, “that we haven’t tried. That damned—pardon, ma’am—housekeeper of hers all but slammed the door in my face. She made the oddest comment, too. Positively sniffed at me, and said something about weak-blooded ninnies.”
Josef arched an eyebrow. “Indeed?” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. Separating a vampire from someone she’d chosen as prey…difficult. Not impossible, if it were put to her right, though.
Mrs. Cam looked up, for the first time, and caught Josef’s eye. “Mr. Fitzgerald, I saw the way you looked at Mademoiselle Duvall. And the way she looked at you. Please, you can talk to her. Make her give me back my husband.”
Josef tried hard to be the vampire he thought he should be. Heartless, pitiless. He found, however, that he was powerless to say no, against the combined pleas of these women. He rose and went to Mrs. Cam, to take her hand and bow over it. He’d thought her lifeless, dull, when they first met, but he was seeing more. She’d been overshadowed by the company, he thought. It was perhaps no wonder that Cam had been susceptible to the vivid charms of Coraline Duvall.
“Mrs. Cam,” he said gently, “I will do what I can. That I will promise you.”