Playing to Win by Diane Farr Page B

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.