The Firebird

Anna rolled her shoulder slightly to relax the cramping muscle as she tried to keep her focus on the tiny, even stitches she was placing in the fullness of the fabric that would be the petticoat of her new gown, when it was finished. She liked sewing. Liked the steady repetition that allowed her thoughts to drift, and the unequalled satisfaction of creating something functional, and sometimes even beautiful, with her own hands. Embroidery, for her, had never held the same appeal. The whorls and leaves and flowers worked in thread were wasted effort if they did not have a use.

The general’s wife, who sat with perfect grace upon her stool before the harpsichord, said, ‘Leave him be, Pierce. Mr Taylor surely does not wish to be a soldier.’

‘No, indeed.’ He was a pleasant-faced young man, with fair hair slightly tinged with red and clear blue eyes that held no guile. And coming as he did from Perth, he also had a Scotsman’s practicality. ‘I’ve not the nature for it, I’m afraid. I have no quarrel with most men, which makes me disinclined to choose a path in life that leads me into conflict.’

Edmund asked him, ‘And if conflict came to you, how would you meet it, then?’

‘With honour, I should hope, sir, if it could not be avoided.’ Mr Taylor sipped his wine, and with a flash of humour added, ‘But I’d still prefer to be among my ledgers and my books than on a battlefield.’

The general’s wife agreed. ‘So would we all.’

Anna said nothing, for it would not have been ladylike to say where she’d have wished to be, in any time of conflict, but she felt herself observed from all sides while the talk devolved to talk of trade in general, and the weather, and the rumour that the elder princess would at last be married to the Duke of Holstein.

‘He has waited long enough for it,’ was General Lacy’s wry opinion. ‘And he’s been more patient in his suit than many men would be, but patience often wins the day in love, eh, Mr Taylor?’

Mr Taylor, diplomatically, chose not to make reply to this. Instead, he paid a compliment to Mrs Lacy on her home, and one to Anna on her sewing. ‘I do mind that very silk arriving at the Custom House,’ he said, ‘and I said then to Mr Wayte, “Just see if we don’t have Vice Admiral Gordon in to buy it”, for I saw it was the colour of your eyes.’

Mrs Lacy smiled approval. ‘So it is, and she is making a fine job of it. A most accomplished seamstress.’

Edmund cut in languidly. ‘I do confess I’ve never yet seen Mistress Jamieson remain so still and quiet for so long. Are you quite well?’ he asked her.

Biting back the first retort she would have liked to make, she told him, ‘Very well, I thank you, sir.’

‘I see my pawns are safe, this afternoon,’ he said. Then, looking past her shoulder, ‘Mr Taylor, will you have a game of chess?’

‘I do not play it, I’m afraid.’

Edmund made no comment, only glanced at Anna pointedly, then back at Mr Taylor. ‘Cards, then.’

General Lacy, turning in his seat, said in a murmur, ‘Edmund.’

Mr Taylor was already answering, ‘I do play Piquet, sir.’

‘Excellent.’

A servant brought the folding table covered with green plush, and cards, which Edmund shuffled rather clumsily, as though he had not done it in a while. He dealt, and Mr Taylor gathered up his hand while General Lacy settled nearby in a chair to watch, and Mrs Lacy played a flowing tune upon the harpsichord.

As Anna sewed her seam, she kept one part of her attention on the game. She found it difficult, no matter how she tried, to not compare the men at play. In looks and manners, and in dress, young Mr Taylor should have won and drawn her eye; so it was frustrating to her that he did not, that more and more her eye returned to Edmund’s roguish face, his plainer clothes, the square hands with the scars across the knuckles. And the more she watched, the more she grew aware that he was not as unaccomplished with the cards as he appeared.

His hands were lazy in their actions, and she did not truly see how he controlled the play, and yet she grew convinced he was controlling it. But not for his own gain. When it seemed certain that he would not lose, the cards turned very suddenly in Mr Taylor’s favour, and it seemed to Anna she had not imagined the faint smile in Edmund’s eyes that vanished even as it formed, as though it were enough amusement for him just to play the game.

He turned his head, and caught her looking. If he guessed at her suspicions, he said nothing, only, ‘Will you play the winner, Mistress Jamieson?’

‘No, thank you. I must finish with this seam.’

‘Aye, for ’tis of great concern to finish with a gown you cannot wear, in time of mourning.’

Mr Taylor, seemingly surprised at Edmund’s tone, said mildly, ‘But the mourning will not last for ever.’

Anna gave a nod. ‘As Mr Taylor says. Afflictions pass, Mr O’Connor, just as surely as the winter brings the spring. You ought to know this, with your Cailleagh.’

General Lacy roused himself from deeper thoughts at that, and looked between the two of them. ‘What’s this about the Cailleagh?’

Anna said, ‘Mr O’Connor shared a piece of Irish folklore with the children and myself, a few weeks past.’

‘I was that surprised,’ Edmund remarked to the general, ‘they’d never yet heard of it, being half-Irish and all. ’Tis a piece of their heritage, surely.’ His dark eyes touched Anna’s with meaning as he added, ‘People should know who they are.’