As a Dare, They Sat the Poor Companion at the Duke's Chessboard — Then She Took His Queen
Chapter 10
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Black was a man who signed his letters with a single initial,A, and whose letters were full of the war. She had never known who he was: she had guessed that he was an officer because he wrote like one; she had guessed that he was rich because of the paper, and lonely because of the hour he wrote at. She had never guessed that he might be a duke. She had certainly never guessed that he might sit across a card table from her and call her father's officers fools.She had not guessed tonight either—not until her fourth move, when his face went white. Then she had known, and she had kept playing, because there had been nothing else to do."You're lucky," she said aloud to the little board, in a low, hard voice that was very like his. "The board forgave you twice."Her eyes stung. She pressed the heels of her hands into them until the stinging stopped.There was a tap at the door. It opened before she could answer, and Miss Farquhar came in, in a velvet wrapper with a candle of her own."I only came to say goodbye," she said sweetly. "And to tell you that I have spoken to Mrs. Strickland. She was going to let you wait for the morning stage; I told her the night mail was much quicker. I thought you would be glad to be away."Thomasina looked up at her. "The night mail goes over the heath.""Does it?" said Miss Farquhar. "Well, I expect you will manage. You are so clever." She looked around the little freezing room at the trunk, the candle, and the pegs on the blanket, and she smiled. "What is that? Another parlor trick?""It is a game," said Thomasina. "It is not finished.""I am sure it isn't," said Miss Farquhar, and went out, and left the door open to the draft.Downstairs in the library, the Duke sat alone by a dying fire with a glass of brandy he had not touched and a letter he had not opened. He did not need to open it; he had read it perhaps a hundred times. It was the letter he carried in the inside pocket of his coat against his chest, and had carried since the autumn before last.The paper had gone soft at the folds. He had never shown it to anyone, not even Gallagher. He opened it anyway. The hand was small, neat, and very upright. The ink was violet. He had always noticed the ink; nobody else he knew wrote in violet.The move came first, as always, in a line by itself at the top. Then the rest:You asked me whether I think a man can be forgiven for the things he did in a breach, when the order was given and the wall was open and there was no time to be anything but what he was.