The story was apt. But he hadn’t been clever enough to fix his colors. The glass hadn’t been fired well after he had painted it, and the paints had bubbled and dimmed, the colors smoky.
Oh, well. It still looked better than Aunt Matilda’s greasy red-painted baroque table.
He heard Emily shriek, heard the others laugh, and realized his sister-in-law had been paired with Jem after all. So someone else would come to join Henry at the fireside now. Fair enough. He could handle these small bites of friendship, which he need not lift a finger to consume. Which was well, since he had only half the usual working complement of fingers.
He gritted his teeth. It was tedious how his mind worked sometimes. How dearly he would love to forget that anything had changed. Or barring that, have it not matter.
Enough.
He shoved himself out of the chair and joined the rest of the party.
“What’s all the screaming about?” he said in a jovial voice as he skirted the card players.
“Oh, Hal,” Emily collapsed into a chair at the velvet-draped card table. “I am ruined. Your brother can never remember the cards that have been played, and I shall lose all my pin money.”
“And I shall win it,” said Frances, snapping and bridging the cards before handing them to Jem to deal. “Or we shall, Mr. Crosby.” She flashed a bright smile at her partner, Bart.
Henry suddenly wished very much that he were part of the game.
But if he was not, Caro was not either for this rubber. “So you have been dealt out, Lady Stratton?”
Caro smiled. “Indeed. I am not sure now whether I have been lucky or unlucky.”
“You are lucky if you were partnering Jem. I only thank heaven Hal is not playing,” Emily said with mock innocence. “He cheats.”
“I do not,” Henry protested.
“Good lord, Em,” Jem interjected. “It’s a good thing you’re not a man. You’d be called out for saying such a thing.”
Emily rearranged the cards in her hand. “My dear husband, it’s a good thing I’m not a man for many reasons besides that one. Besides, I am only teasing Hal. I do it out of my bitterness, knowing that I am going to lose my pin money.”
“I’ll give you more,” Jem said. “Only you must remind me what trump is. Hearts?”
Emily shot Henry a what-did-I-tell-you look. “Yes, my dear heart, it is hearts. Caro, would you be willing to sing something to keep us company?”
Frances didn’t even look up from her cards. “I would consider Lady Stratton’s singing to be a blatant attempt to undermine our concentration.”
“Would it?” Bart sounded interested. “Are you very accomplished, my lady?”
Caro shook her head. “Not at all. I sound like a raven crowing. Or croaking, or whatever they do.”
“Caw, maybe.” Henry peered over Bart’s shoulder. Not a trump in his hand, poor fellow. “Good lord, Bart. Seven trumps? Jem is clearly the one who cheats, since he’s dealt you so many.”
“You are a child, Hal,” Emily said, her brow furrowing as she selected her next play. “You are almost as bad as my Stephen, who reads out everyone’s cards, and he is only eight years old.”
“I was the one who shuffled the deck,” Frances said. “Does that mean I cheat at cards too?”
Henry smiled. “I would believe you capable of anything, Mrs. Whittier. You are sinister; you told me so yourself.” He was inordinately pleased to see color rise to her cheeks.
Caro began to peep at the hands of each of the card players. “My, my, Emily. Your pin money is surely gone. Frannie is frighteningly capable. I believe she could have cheated at cards anytime, and none of you would have suspected a thing.”
Frances slapped a low diamond onto the table with a frown. “If I truly cheated, I would have made certain that I got a better hand.”
“Or that I did,” Bart murmured. “I only wish I truly did have seven trumps.”
Jem tossed his cards onto the table, facedown. “Jupiter’s nightgown, how am I to think with you all talking? Is everybody cheating now?”
“Jemmy, how unkind of you. I shall call you out if you say such a thing again,” Emily said. “Drat; no, I won’t. With you dead, we would surely lose the rubber.”
Jem blinked. “Was that a compliment, Em?”
She sighed. “I suppose, though I only implied that you played better than a corpse.”
Before Jem could reply, there was a scratch at the door then the butler Sowerberry peeped his angular head into the drawing room. “I beg your pardon, Lord Tallant, but Master John and Master Stephen are asking you for a…” He paused and enunciated the next words as if they were in a language he did not understand. “A bedtime story, my lord. They insist that you promised them one if they spent the evening without breaking anything. They have requested that it be horrible.”
Henry smirked. “Oh, it’ll be horrible.”
The cuff on his shoulder as Jem stood felt blessedly normal. But after Jem left, Henry felt slow and stupid as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Or anything to say at all.
Because if there was one thing he could not do, it was take his brother’s place in the game and hold a sheaf of cards for whist. Not with one hand.
Maybe Emily noticed his sudden awkwardness, because she shrugged off the idea of further cards. “Well, that game was brief and combative. I am sorry for that. Though I am relieved not to lose any money to you flock of carrion crows. Mrs. Whittier, do come and play the piano, so Bart and I can have a dance.” She laughed when Bart’s face reddened at her teasing.
Briskly, Emily sorted them all out. Frances shuffled through music, and Caro joined her, exclaiming over a waltz. “Rather fast of you, isn’t this, Em?”
She looked as light and lovely as one of Leonardo’s angels as she shifted a lamp into place to study the music and began humming tunelessly. Next to her, Frances fell into shadow.
“Not a waltz, please,” Bart said, growing still more red.
Caro laughed again and set the scandalous music aside. “Perhaps a reel, then, for two couples? Frannie could play for us.” Her bright eyes twinkled as she held a hand out to Bart.
It felt like she’d slapped Henry with it.
So, she would write to him in private, but she wouldn’t acknowledge their closeness even in such a small party? And yet close was exactly how she wanted to hold him. She had written him so.
He felt hot-headed and hot-blooded, wanting to cut in and take her hand, wanting her to extend it to him.
Instead, he beat a strategic retreat to the fireside, unwilling to watch himself be defeated.
“I think I’ll sit out the dancing, ladies, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Though I’ll be happy to observe and critique your form.”
When all three women pulled faces at him, Henry knew his grin had stayed in place and no one suspected the truth.
Namely, that he had to fabricate a new kind of courage or he would never get even the ashes of what Baucis and Philemon had shared.
With a rustle of fabric, a woman dropped into the chair next to Henry. The faint, crisp scent of citrus told Henry it was Frances, even before he turned his head.
“Mrs. Whittier.” He straightened in his chair, glad she sat to his left, his good side.
“Mr. Middlebrook,” she mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you. I have been evicted from the piano. As it turns out, your friend Mr. Crosby is by far the best musician of us all.”
“So Emily is dancing with Caro?” He twisted, peering around the broad circular back of his chair. Hmm. So she was.