Playing to Win (12 page)

Oh, heavens, she had forgotten that!
This was no casual conversation. She was being interviewed by a
prospective employer! It was difficult to keep in mind, somehow,
while addressing a man seated on a kitchen countertop. She
hurriedly snatched up an apron.

"I beg your pardon," she said, with
dignity. "You are right to chide me, sir. I will adopt a more
respectful tone."

"Chide you! Heaven forbid," said Mr.
Whitlatch. "But if you adopt a respectful tone, I will spank you
soundly." Ignoring Clarissa's gasp, he picked up a spoon and
pointed it at her. "Spare me your propriety, Miss Prim! I can think
of no worse fate than to be confined in a cottage with a servile
woman."

Now thoroughly ruffled, she rounded on
him and spat out the first words that rose to her lips. "I can
think of no worse fate than to be confined in a cottage with a
mannerless yahoo!"

Horrified by her own rudeness, Clarissa
clapped her hands over her mouth. But Mr. Whitlatch roared with
laughter. "Bravissima!" he cheered, saluting her with the spoon.
"It's always best to say exactly what you think."

"But it’s not what I think!" cried
Clarissa, distressed. "I beg your pardon, sir. I must be very tired
and hungry. I don't know what made me say such a thing to you,
after all your kindness."

"Kindness?" The frown returned to Mr.
Whitlatch's features. He set down the spoon and hopped off the
countertop. "What kindness have I shown you? Don't talk fustian,
Clarissa."

"It isn't fustian," she said
indignantly. She decided to pass over his repeated use of her
Christian name. "You have done me a great kindness, and I am
exceedingly grateful to you. This morning I was a prisoner in my
mother's house. I had no hope of escape short of a miracle. I must
tell you, Mr. Whitlatch, that I spent many hours earnestly praying
that God would send me such a miracle." She busied herself in tying
the apron behind her. "And He sent you."

She marched over to the pantry and
began examining the contents of its shelves. "Are you fond of
pepper, Mr. Whitlatch?" she asked, holding up a small box for his
inspection.

When he did not immediately reply, she
glanced inquiringly at him. He had a very queer expression on his
face, she thought. "It isn't red pepper, you know," she said
uncertainly. "It's black."

Mr. Whitlatch looked at her. Just
looked at her. A slender, aproned girl, clad all in white, with her
head cocked inquiringly to one side, holding up a pepper box. The
fading sunlight gave her a golden halo and bathed the scene in an
other-worldly glow.

He had never before pictured himself as
a response to someone's prayer. It was a humbling experience,
especially when he was uncomfortably aware of his own designs for
Miss Feeney's future. Looking at her, he felt almost as if he had
stumbled across some beautiful wild creature in a wood; she was as
lovely, as graceful, as fascinating, and as unconscious of her
charm as a wild thing would be. And he, the predator, planned to
ruin this trusting creature with no more regret than he wasted on
shooting a pheasant.

It was not a comfortable thought. He
struggled to banish it. After all, if he failed to seize his
opportunity some other man would have her. A man who might mistreat
her, or eventually cast her off penniless. She deserved better. And
who better than Trevor Whitlatch? It was nonsensical for him to
suffer these qualms. Conscience be damned! The chit was completely
and utterly unmarriageable.

Clarissa Feeney was born to be bachelor
fare, and by God, he was going to be the bachelor.

"Do as you wish. I'll light the lamp,"
he said abruptly. He suddenly found he could no longer meet her
eyes, and turned away from the sight of her.

They spent the next forty-five minutes
cobbling together a meal. Clarissa began by rather nervously
confessing that her only real talent in the kitchen was brewing
tea. Once it was clear she had no more notion than he how to cook a
dinner, Mr. Whitlatch unearthed a bread knife and decreed that
toasted cheese would be the order of the day. Clarissa, delighted,
expressed confidence that toasting cheese would not overtax her
culinary skills. She began slicing bread and carving cheese with a
will, and sent her host to forage in the larder. He emerged
victorious, triumphantly bearing a bowl of fruit, another of nuts,
and half of a large apple pie.

Assembling a meal was a novel
experience for both of them. Since Mr. Whitlatch was uncommonly
fond of novel experiences, he tackled the project with an
enthusiasm that reminded Clarissa strongly of a puppy fetching
sticks. He was not offended by her stifled giggles—on the contrary,
her amusement seemed to please him. The funnier she found him, the
more outrageous he became, until the kitchen rang with their united
laughter.

After an exhausting and increasingly
hilarious search, they found plates in the butler's pantry, silver
in a drawer of the adjacent dining room, and napkins in the linen
closet. The dining room was discovered to be cold and dark, and it
seemed silly to eat their humble fare in its arctic grandeur. They
rejected the dining room, therefore, in favor of the warm, lamplit
kitchen. Perching rather precariously on wooden stools, they spread
their feast on the deal table.

This cozy and cheerful meal exactly
suited Mr. Whitlatch's taste for informality. It also soothed
Clarissa's sensibilities. She found it impossible to feel nervous
of a man while eating bread and cheese in the kitchen with him. In
fact, by the time dinner had been consumed, she was chatting and
laughing with Mr. Whitlatch as if she had known him all her life.
She could not remember a time when she had felt more relaxed and
lighthearted.

Mr. Whitlatch eventually pushed back
from the table with a contented sigh, patting his elegant
waistcoat. "My compliments to the chef," he said
approvingly.

"I'll tell him how much you enjoyed
it," Clarissa promised. She pulled the wooden fruit bowl from the
center of the table and tilted it, examining its
contents.

"That was your cue to rise gracefully
from the table and excuse yourself," Mr. Whitlatch informed her
kindly. "I am to sit here with a glass of port for twenty minutes,
then join you in the drawing room."

Clarissa chose an apple and pointed it
reprovingly at Mr. Whitlatch. "If you send me out of this room
alone, you do so on your peril," she announced. "I have no more
idea than a babe unborn where your drawing room might
be."

"Probably less," he mused. "You are
right. It would be cruel to send you off into the uncharted wastes
of Morecroft Cottage. Daylight would find you, spent and panting,
still seeking the drawing room—"

"—and very likely not ten feet from
where I began," she finished, chuckling. "I always walk in a
circle, however hard I try to keep a straight line."

"Well, you wouldn't be able to keep a
straight line in this house, try as you might. Belowstairs it’s a
crazy-quilt of rooms, upstairs all the passages look alike,
and—"

He broke off, distracted by Clarissa's
actions. She was twisting the apple with her right hand while
holding the stem in her left, and apparently counting under her
breath while she did so. "What are you doing?"

"What? Oh!" Clarissa stopped, looking
down at her hands as if just discovering their business. She
laughed, shaking her head. "Force of habit, I suppose. Pray do not
regard it."

He was mystified. "What is it? For a
moment I thought you were practicing witchcraft."

"Oh, dear! No, it's just a silly—well,
game, for want of a better word." To his surprise, he saw she was
blushing. She cast him a look half shamefaced, half laughing. "The
girls at the Academy do it. You twist the apple off its stem while
reciting the alphabet. For each twist you say a letter, and the
stem eventually breaks."

"What fun," said Mr. Whitlatch
dubiously.

A ripple of laughter escaped her.
"Well, you see, it is a fortune-telling game! The stem is supposed
to break when you speak the initial of the man you are to
marry."

"Ah. That sheds an entirely new light
on the practice. Very scientific," he approved, seemingly much
struck. "And they say female education is a waste of time! I can
see your father's money was well-spent."

She choked, but he went blandly on. "Am
I never to marry, then? How disappointing. If my parents were still
living, I would write them an unfilial letter on the subject. My
future blighted! And due solely to their hideous carelessness in
naming me! Really, it is quite unfair."

"How absurd you are!"

"Not at all. I defy you to twist an
apple long enough to reach either of my initials without the stem
coming off in your hands."

Clarissa looked thoughtful, rolling his
name around on her tongue. "Trevor Whitlatch. Hm. T and W. I fear
you are right, sir."

He liked the sound of his name on her
lips. He smiled. "My lady will have to begin at ‘z’ and count
backwards."

Clarissa caught up another apple. "I
have never tried that!" she exclaimed, laughing. "To play the game
backwards, I think one should hold the apple backwards, don't
you?"

"Oh, yes," he said promptly.
"Consistency is key to any scientific experiment."

She held the fruit solemnly aloft in
her left hand, took the stem in her right, and began twisting. "Z,
y, x," she counted. "W—" And the stem broke neatly off.

"It works!" she cried, her eyes
dancing. She tossed him the stem and bit lustily into the apple
with her perfect, white teeth. Mr. Whitlatch felt his heart turn
over.

He caught the stem and tucked it
solemnly in his waistcoat pocket, wondering why he had ever thought
Clarissa resembled her mother in any way whatsoever. It suddenly
seemed a sacrilege.

"Thank you, Miss Feeney. You have
relieved my mind," he said gravely.

Chapter 8

The kitchen stools did not prove
comfortable enough for protracted use. Mr. Whitlatch, spurning Miss
Feeney's suggestion that they clean the kitchen for Mrs. Simmons,
led her back to the library. Since he had lit a fire there earlier,
the room was tolerably warm. A few seconds spent wielding the poker
sent light and heat leaping cheerfully forth.

Miss Feeney was nearing the end of what
surely must be the longest day of her life. Her tired eyes
brightened when she spied the comfortable wing chairs before the
hearth. Moving as if in a dream, she sank gratefully into the
cushions of one of the chairs, curled her feet up beneath her and
rested her head against the left-hand wing, drowsily watching the
flames.

Mr. Whitlatch observed these signs of
relaxation with amusement. Lowering her guard, was she?
Good.

The corners of the room had grown cold
and dark, but the two of them were wrapped in a cocoon of warm
firelight. He settled himself in the chair opposite and leaned
back, idly playing with the poker. He was content for a time merely
to watch the light play on Clarissa's lovely face. Soon a slight
frown began to mar the serenity of her features. Ah, thought Mr.
Whitlatch. An opening.

"What troubles you, Miss Feeney?" he
asked softly.

Her eyes focused and she lifted her
head, blinking at him. "What troubles me?" she repeated. The ghost
of a laugh shook her. "I wonder you can ask, sir."

She returned to her contemplation of
the dancing flames. "It is very kind of you to treat me as a guest
tonight," she said, in a low voice. "Very kind."

He shrugged. "There’s nothing wonderful
in that. You are my guest."

Clarissa shook her head. "No. It cannot
be. If there is no employment for me here, I must seek it
elsewhere. And I cannot stay here while I seek it. You know that as
well as I."

"I know nothing of the kind," he said
lightly. He leaned forward and busied himself for a moment in
replacing the poker among the fire irons. Diplomacy had never been
Trevor’s strong suit, and he was keenly aware that he must tread
carefully in the next few minutes. He kept his tone casual and
friendly. "In fact, I was hoping to extend a more formal invitation
to you, now that you have seen Morecroft Cottage. You have stepped
inside the dragon's lair and discovered it is not so alarming after
all. Why should you not stay awhile, as my guest? It is a pleasant
enough place."

She looked up at him again. "Oh, it is
a lovely place!" she said quickly. "You know that is not the reason
why—it has nothing to do with—oh, surely there is no need to
explain it to you!"

"You are speaking of the proprieties."
Mr. Whitlatch relaxed into his chair again, stifling an elaborate
yawn with one hand. "I never think of them."

Clarissa's small hands clenched in her
lap. "Why should you think of them? You are a man. However long I
stay beneath your roof, your reputation will not suffer." She
looked bleakly back into the fire. "It is very different for me. I
do not need to tell you how different. You must see for yourself
how impossible this is."

Mr. Whitlatch yearned to tell her what
he really thought—that there was no point in protecting her fair
name. She had none! It seemed ridiculous to him, to pour effort
into "saving" a reputation that her birth had placed forever beyond
her reach. But, with an effort, he kept his tongue between his
teeth. This was no time for blunt truths. He must turn her thoughts
down another path.