The Wicked Wager (17 page)

The mouse paused mid-flight, its nose
twitching and its eyes questioning. It gathered its courage and moved towards
the cheese, taking cautious steps.

The duchess smiled in delight and then frowned;
the mouse had reached the cheese, but that meant it was now closer to their
table.

They watched, stomachs churning in
anticipation as it sniffed the morsel and … then the door banged open.

“Did it get the cheese?”

The duke walked in to catch this last
query, with the earl following him in. He stared at all the ladies standing on
top of the chairs, and his right eye twitched at the sight of Mrs Barker
sitting amid the breakfast food with her skirts ballooning out awkwardly. Mr
Barker was hurriedly assisting his wife.

The duke finally spoke,

“Is this a new fashion in London of eating
breakfast? One must no longer sit on chairs but stand on them? And what in the
world is Mrs Barker doing … I am a little afraid to ask.”

“A mouse, father,” Catherine replied
meekly.

“A
mouse
?” he asked, staring at Mr
Barker.

Mr Barker turned bright red.

“And who was asking for cheese?”

“The mouse,” Emma spoke, embarrassed.

“I see, the mouse was asking for cheese.”

“No, oh! You have it all mixed up. It was
like this. We saw a mouse and were frightened, but then we all felt sorry for
the creature. He was a fetching thing, so we were just attempting to feed him a
bit of cheese when you walked in.” Prudence explained.

“I see, and did you name him as well?” he
asked, amused, and at the abashed shakes of heads, he added, “I will ask
Pickering to come and take care of our uninvited guest … who seems to have
disappeared at the moment. And no, I do not want to know how Mrs Barker came to
be a part of the meal. Hamilton, join me in the library for a cup of coffee.”

Pickering arrived shortly after the
departure of the duke and Lord Raikes. He was told not to kill the mouse but
put it away in a safe place.

“We are all very attached to the dear
creature. Leave some water and food by its side,” the duchess directed.

Pickering stared at the various lords and
ladies standing on top of tables and chairs, presumably because of that very
dear creature.

For the first and last time since joining
the duke’s household an expression crossed his face. Unfortunately, no one
present could decipher what that emotion was. It was a rare opportunity often
lamented upon being lost.

“What happened to it?” Lord Raikes asked
Catherine.

He had searched the entire house and found
her alone in the music room. He entered uninvited.

“The ‘
it
’ is a ‘he’. Pickering came
armed with a broom, a paper bag, and a stable hand. They spent some time
chasing it around the room, and finally he was cornered near the chimney. We
have been assured he is safe,” she replied primly, moving to shut the piano.

“Stay, I would like to hear you play,” he
said, catching her hand.

“Emma is in the morning room,” she replied
instead, pulling her hand back.

“But I would like to know her cousin
better.”

“You may, once you are married. I will
spend considerable time at your home after the occasion, so you can further our
acquaintance then.”

“I would like us to be friends now, for
Emma’s sake. She would want the two people closest to her to at least like each
other,” he said shrewdly.

She hesitated briefly, and then sat back
down on the piano seat.

“What would you like to speak of?” she
finally asked.

“We have something in common … books. We
both enjoy reading. Surely we can find a common author that we like?”

“I doubt my reading list would suit your
refined taste. According to you, we women should only read what is deemed
appropriate for us. I do not think you would like such authors.”

“Name an author you like, and I will tell
you what I think of him.”

“I prefer to talk of subjects rather than
authors. Travel accounts are far more instructive and colourful than the dry
pages of other texts. I envy you. You being a man can travel where you please,
while I have to find my adventure in the pages of books.”

He looked at her wistful face and suddenly
felt the urge to pack his bags and take her along with him to some exotic land.
He cleared his throat as he answered,

“Have you heard of an author,” he paused
and then continued “W.S. Raikes?”

“I have read one account of his trip to
India. Father keeps some of his books in the library.”

“What do you think of his works?” he asked
nervously.

“I think he must be an arrogant, selfish,
and an extremely annoying man. I imagine he is a hundred years old with a bald head
and crooked teeth. On his travels, he must carry a spy glass and peer at
everything and anything that comes across his way, always remaining the distant
observer.”

“You got all that from his writing?” he
asked angrily, and then seeing the startled look on her face, softened his tone
and said, “Why would you draw such harsh conclusions?’’

“He writes well, when I can understand it.
In every sentence, I feel he is trying to show how much better he is than the
rest of us. He uses obscure words that I can never find in dictionaries. He
fails to realise that not all of us have travelled to so many countries, and
hence our vocabulary is limited. I understand French and Latin, but how an
English reader is meant to understand Spanish, Italian, Greek, and goodness
knows what else, is beyond me. He writes for old, stodgy professors or his
fellow travellers. The rest of us mortals are left feeling foolish.”

“Perhaps he writes for himself?”

“Then why get it published? The whole point
of a book is to entertain or instruct. He does neither, for I cannot decipher
half of it.”

“Surely his accounts, if not entertaining,
are at least instructive? Sometimes it is inevitable that one uses words from
certain languages, since our own limited language cannot describe the intent clearly.
A whole plethora of emotions cannot be put down on paper if one is limited to
one script. Besides, I am sure the act of looking up the obscure words he
mentions taught you something.”

“I forgot the words as soon as I looked
them up. It would annoy people if I started speaking like an old university
professor. As for instruction, he does not in all his travel accounts mention
anything of women. He completely ignores their existence. How is that possible?
He cannot be that blind, and they form the other and very crucial half of
society.”

“Perhaps he does so to protect the modesty
of the English mind. Cultures differ and if not understood properly can become
a source of misplaced humour. He keeps the women out of his works to protect
the women of all cultures and to maintain a level of respect that comes with
the unknown.”

“You are making no sense. The author needs
to respect his readers as well, to allow them the sensitivity to judge for
themselves. An educated man or woman would not deride other cultures simply
because they are different. I think this W. S. Raikes does not like women and
does not consider them important. He must have been jilted sometime in his
life, and I applaud the woman for her good sense. I also think that he is your
bosom friend, since you seem to be getting angry on his behalf.”

He stared at her in shock and anger. She
had touched a nerve when she mentioned the author being jilted.

He had at eighteen been in love with a
woman who had spurned him for an older, more successful man. He would have come
into his title too late for it to suit her. It was that very reason which had
prompted him to escape England and travel.

He had not realised his old hurt still
affected his writing. He had wanted to hear words of praise, since he was lauded
by his peers for his works. No one had criticized him so bitterly, and the
underlying truth hurt him.

“Just because you are not intelligent
enough to understand his works, which are well received by the general,
educated public, you stoop to malign his character. I had asked you about his
works, not an analysis of the man’s personality. You have never met him, you
know nothing of him, and yet you judge him. You have never ventured out of this
tiny village, and unfortunately it has had the effect of making you petty and
bitter. You wish you had his freedom, and you hate him for exactly what you
blame him for. You hate him for being a man and able to do what you can never
hope to do. You are a hypocrite, My Lady, considering yourself better than
others simply because you had the good fortune to be born in this household.
Please respect a more learned man, and if you find fault with not understanding
the context of his works, then blame yourself for
your
intellectual
shortfall.”

“Am I interrupting?” Emma called out. She
had been standing in horror, listening to them argue for a while. These last
angry words from Lord Raikes had caused Catherine to whiten. Her eyes
threatened to spill, and Emma had broken out of her trance to speak.

He turned away in disgust, not bothering to
reply. He strode out of the room without a backward glance.

“Why did he turn on me like that?” she
asked, bewildered and hurt.

Emma glanced at her helplessly. She had no
idea how to explain to her cousin that the author she had been deriding so
lovingly was, in fact, the man she had been arguing with. Finally, she
contented herself with,

“He did not mean a word. He spoke in anger.
Perhaps this author is a good friend of his that he highly respects. I know you
better than anyone. You are not a hypocrite, nor do you believe you are better
than others. Forget it, Cat, it would not do to dwell on it. You are entitled
to your own opinion, and you did no wrong in airing it.”

Catherine smiled to reassure her cousin,
but her mind was in turmoil. She escaped to her room to think over his words.
In spite of Emma’s reassurance, she was aware that somewhere in his tirade had
been a grain of truth.

She was honest enough to admit that she had
been unfair in her scathing and very personal description of the author. She
also admitted that she did feel a touch of jealousy every time she read
accounts of travellers, who were almost always men.

Some sadistic part of her made her seek out
such books over and over again. She would enjoy the detail and descriptions,
yet the process of reading such material left her bitter sweet.

She was disturbed to know that a man as
good as a stranger had been able to list her faults so easily.

Meanwhile, Lord Raikes too had sought out
his rooms. He had instructed his valet to allow no one to disturb him. He then
pulled out a number of his personal travel diaries and made himself comfortable
for the next few hours.

***

Lord Raikes did not come down for dinner
that day. Everyone felt his loss keenly. He was an outsider; hence, his
presence had injected a vein of interest during meal times.

Catherine appeared with blood shot eyes and
an excuse of allergies. Perhaps no one felt his loss as keenly as Catherine did
on seeing his seat empty.

The duke thoughtfully noted his daughter’s
eyes repeatedly falling on Lord Raikes’ empty seat.

***

Emma entered her room that night with a
heavy heart. Richard’s smile froze as he noticed her expression.

“What is it?” he asked, pulling her towards
the chair by the fire.”

“Cat and Lord Raikes, they are constantly
arguing. I think Cat hates him, and instead of leaving her alone he tries to
rile her up all the more. I don’t know him well enough to understand why he is
doing this, but Catherine is behaving just as oddly. I have never seen her
argue with anyone so passionately. She is normally demure and shy. I have
rarely seen her lose her composure.”

Richard curbed his smile. Instead, he took
her hand and said softly, “They are attracted to each other. William
understands this, but your cousin is confused. She is using anger as a means to
keep her distance from the man, who she believes is your betrothed.”

“No, I don’t believe that. She hates him,
and I have seen the dislike on her face every time she looks at him. I know my
cousin, and you are wrong, Richard. It’s all your friend’s fault. I am sure he
is teasing her mercilessly and deliberately annoying her. He may be attracted
to her and trying to get her attention, but he is going about it the wrong
way.”

“Em, my friend is experienced and
well-travelled. He has met all sorts of people in his life. He knows what he is
doing. Don’t worry about it. Your cousin will be fine, and I will warn William
to curtail his behaviour in case others may notice and jump to conclusions. He
will have all the time to woo her after our wedding.” His tone gentled as he
added, “Don’t worry, Em, I don’t like seeing you upset. I will talk to William
and sort things out. Now, smile.”