suggest that we weren’t up to the challenge. That we should be running back home to England by Easter.”
“Did he?” Abigail tried to quash the excitement that rose up from her belly, lifting the black anvil of despair and tossing it effortlessly overboard, into the muddy track beneath her boots.
“Quite. The cheek. I put him in his place at once, of course. I insisted we’d outlast their party with ease.” Alexandra made a little cough. “I . . . well, that is, I even accepted a wager on the matter.”
“Alexandra! You bet him?”
“Of course not. Ladies never bet , my dear,” Alexandra said, pronouncing the word bet with distaste, as if referring to some unmentionable function of the body that ladies never committed, either.
Abigail laughed. “But how marvelous! You darling, Alexandra! I could kiss you. What are the stakes? A hundred pounds? A thousand?”
“Heavens, no.” An injured air. “Nothing so crass as money, my dear. I’m amazed you would even think such a thing. Where do you get such ideas? No, no, the thought of money never once crossed my mind.” She smoothed her coat with one hand and clenched Abigail’s forearm with the other.
“What, then?”
“Oh, Mr. Burke suggested something. A newspaper advertisement of some sort, I believe, conceding the superiority of the other sex. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we made our point.”
“What point?”
“Why, that women are equally as capable as men in academic endeavors, if not more.”
A pit of mud lay before them. Without a pause, Abigail dragged her sister around its rim, her mind racing, melancholy quite banished, ideas and possibilities and hope— oh , blessed hope—making her very sinews vibrate with delight. A wager with Wallingford! Of course! Here it was, the intervention of fate, bringing them together again as inevitably as the dice collided on a gaming table. Or perhaps that was not quite the right metaphor. In any case: “But I thought the academic superiority of women was quite self-evident. Why else would men require entire universities to further their studies, whereas we have always made do with a room and a few books?”
“You should have seen the look on his face,” said Alexandra.
“I’m sure His Grace was positively thunderous.” Abigail sighed longingly.
“Not Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “Mr. Burke. He was silent about it, of course, but I could tell he was enraged at the idea. He left the table in an absolute state .”
“And Wallingford? What did he say?”
“Oh, the duke? I don’t recall. I left myself, directly after.”
Abigail laughed aloud.
“What is it?” Alexandra said crossly.
“I was only thinking. Wouldn’t it be jolly fun if the gentlemen were bound for the same castle as we are? All unknowing?”
“That’s quite impossible. I have the lease right here in my pocket.” Alexandra patted the breast of her coat with satisfaction. “All signed and sealed and airtight. I shan’t allow so much as Mr. Burke’s right toe upon the property, I assure you. Besides,” she added, “there must be dozens of other castles about. The odds of such a coincidence are therefore . . . something like . . . er . . .”
“Yes?” Abigail said eagerly.
Alexandra patted her pocket again. “Incalculable.”
Several hours later
T he Duke of Wallingford stood in the middle of the drizzle and stared at the two papers in his hands. He looked back and forth. His heels dug into the stony earth, seeking further security; his back stiffened into iron.
In the course of his duties as head of one of Britain’s most august families, Wallingford was often called upon to adjudicate disputes of one kind or another. He found the ritual more bemusing than anything else. The faces trained upon him, eager and anxious. The weight of respectful silence, suffusing the air with expectancy. The universal belief that he, Arthur Penhallow, had somehow been endowed by nature with a
“Did he?” Abigail tried to quash the excitement that rose up from her belly, lifting the black anvil of despair and tossing it effortlessly overboard, into the muddy track beneath her boots.
“Quite. The cheek. I put him in his place at once, of course. I insisted we’d outlast their party with ease.” Alexandra made a little cough. “I . . . well, that is, I even accepted a wager on the matter.”
“Alexandra! You bet him?”
“Of course not. Ladies never bet , my dear,” Alexandra said, pronouncing the word bet with distaste, as if referring to some unmentionable function of the body that ladies never committed, either.
Abigail laughed. “But how marvelous! You darling, Alexandra! I could kiss you. What are the stakes? A hundred pounds? A thousand?”
“Heavens, no.” An injured air. “Nothing so crass as money, my dear. I’m amazed you would even think such a thing. Where do you get such ideas? No, no, the thought of money never once crossed my mind.” She smoothed her coat with one hand and clenched Abigail’s forearm with the other.
“What, then?”
“Oh, Mr. Burke suggested something. A newspaper advertisement of some sort, I believe, conceding the superiority of the other sex. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we made our point.”
“What point?”
“Why, that women are equally as capable as men in academic endeavors, if not more.”
A pit of mud lay before them. Without a pause, Abigail dragged her sister around its rim, her mind racing, melancholy quite banished, ideas and possibilities and hope— oh , blessed hope—making her very sinews vibrate with delight. A wager with Wallingford! Of course! Here it was, the intervention of fate, bringing them together again as inevitably as the dice collided on a gaming table. Or perhaps that was not quite the right metaphor. In any case: “But I thought the academic superiority of women was quite self-evident. Why else would men require entire universities to further their studies, whereas we have always made do with a room and a few books?”
“You should have seen the look on his face,” said Alexandra.
“I’m sure His Grace was positively thunderous.” Abigail sighed longingly.
“Not Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “Mr. Burke. He was silent about it, of course, but I could tell he was enraged at the idea. He left the table in an absolute state .”
“And Wallingford? What did he say?”
“Oh, the duke? I don’t recall. I left myself, directly after.”
Abigail laughed aloud.
“What is it?” Alexandra said crossly.
“I was only thinking. Wouldn’t it be jolly fun if the gentlemen were bound for the same castle as we are? All unknowing?”
“That’s quite impossible. I have the lease right here in my pocket.” Alexandra patted the breast of her coat with satisfaction. “All signed and sealed and airtight. I shan’t allow so much as Mr. Burke’s right toe upon the property, I assure you. Besides,” she added, “there must be dozens of other castles about. The odds of such a coincidence are therefore . . . something like . . . er . . .”
“Yes?” Abigail said eagerly.
Alexandra patted her pocket again. “Incalculable.”
Several hours later
T he Duke of Wallingford stood in the middle of the drizzle and stared at the two papers in his hands. He looked back and forth. His heels dug into the stony earth, seeking further security; his back stiffened into iron.
In the course of his duties as head of one of Britain’s most august families, Wallingford was often called upon to adjudicate disputes of one kind or another. He found the ritual more bemusing than anything else. The faces trained upon him, eager and anxious. The weight of respectful silence, suffusing the air with expectancy. The universal belief that he, Arthur Penhallow, had somehow been endowed by nature with a
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