“She Can’t Understand Us,” They Laughed — Then the Duke’s Bride Silenced Them in Fluent Italian
Chapter 9
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A little ripple of relief went round the table. Of course: luck. The world was the right way up again.At the sideboard, Thomasina set down the shawl she was holding. She folded it carefully over her arm. She did not let her face move at all.Mrs. Strickland put down her fork. "There," she said. "You hear that, Miss Carew? Luck. You made a spectacle of yourself and of my house before the ambassador of the Tsar, and it was luck.""Ma'am, I only played the game I was sat down to.""You were sat down to lose it! Any girl of sense would have known that." Mrs. Strickland's voice rose. "I will not keep a companion who makes me ridiculous at my own party. You are dismissed. Your quarter's wage is stopped. You will be out of this house tonight.""Tonight, ma'am? It is past midnight. It is snowing.""The night mail stops at the crossroads inn at two. The gig can take you down."Every face at the table turned toward the Duke. He was the one man there who could have said a word; he was the one man they would have listened to.He looked down at his plate. He reached for his wine. He said nothing.Thomasina looked at him for the length of a breath. Then she curtsied to her employer—a small, correct curtsy—and went out through the servants' door.Her room was at the top of the house under the slates, and it was colder than the terrace. There was frost on the inside of the window. Thomasina lit her candle with fingers that would not stop trembling, knelt, and pulled her little trunk out from under the bed.It did not take long to pack: she had two gowns besides the one she wore, both gray; she had her father's Bible, a bundle of sermons tied with tape, a hairbrush, three handkerchiefs she had hemmed herself, and a small bottle of violet ink, nearly empty.And she had the letters.They were in a flat wooden box at the bottom of the trunk. Each of them was sealed with the same plain black wax, and every one was addressed in the same strong, slanting hand to T. Carew, Esquire, at the Post Office in Chatham, to be sent on. Every one had cost her money to receive: tenpence, a shilling once, one-and-fourpence when he had written three sheets instead of one. She had paid each time out of her wage, and gone without gloves one winter to do it, and never once regretted a penny.She did not open the box. She did not need to; she knew what was in them by heart.Instead, she took the pocket board out of her gown and unfolded it on the blanket. The little pegged pieces stood in their holes exactly where she had left them three nights ago, after she wrote her last move, sealed it, and gave it to the carrier. White had just given up a castle to open the file; Black had not yet answered.