Page 20 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The riverbank had never been so colorful, the crowd cheering in fancy dress, counting down for the event after the regatta when they would have their turn at participating in a race of their own.

Rafe positioned his feet in the six-oared boat and readied for action.

Headley, sitting in front of Rafe, tossed his voice over his shoulder, “Remind you of Oxford?”

“Indubitably.” Rafe’s gaze combed the bank in search of Genevieve. When he did not see her, her family, or his family, he concluded they were further downstream, closer to the finish line.

“We need a name for our team. Bad luck without it.”

“Is it? I’ve never heard that. You made it up.” Rafe adjusted his robe so it would not tangle with his legs during the race.

As with the crowd, he and the team wore fancy dress. There would be no time to change between the regatta and the festival. A toga virilis was, perhaps, not the best choice for rowing. The entire team wore matching togas. In the boat next to theirs were the Eurwendin racers, dressed as pirates. One of the rowers Rafe knew from the Society, Mr. Gavin Proudie. They nodded in recognition. With luck, they could chat after the race.

Within Rafe’s boat, the fellow closest to the coxswain—this being the first year Giles Fitz-Stephens was not serving in the role—said, “An’t it tradition to name the team after the best tavern? I propose The Dragon’s Breath.”

All in the boat assented. Rafe chuckled. They would not sport the name for more than ten minutes, but if having a name boosted their morale, so be it. Pity they had not adopted the name earlier to enjoy it longer. Keep it for next year? Sure, why not? They had practiced together in preparation for today, all already experienced rowers, but they could hardly be considered a rowing club, not when they only rowed together each summer for the frolic. Regardless, the rowers celebrated their new team name in honor of the best tavern in Grant Lindis—never mind it was the only tavern in Grant Lindis.

Mr. Burgess, the coxswain, shouted something unintelligible. Between the crowd, the Eurwendin rowers, and the choppy waters, Rafe could not hear him.

Headley called over his shoulder again, his voice also nearly drowned out by the din, “Two minutes. Look lively.”

The crowd’s cheers increased in a deafening crescendo as both teams took their oars in hand, straightened their posture, and readied for the bugle. Rafe’s heart pounded with anticipation. His breathing deepened, steadied. His focus funneled.

At one minute, Rafe’s war cry reached all the way to the coxswain, “ Non ducor , duco !”

He knew his words reached them all, because the team echoed in unison, “I am not led, I lead!”

The bugle trumpeted.

The crowd disappeared. The cheers muffled. All Rafe heard was the rhythm of the row. His fingers cradled the oar. The blade dipped into the water cleanly, quickly, effortlessly. His back muscles contracted as he drove through his legs, swinging his body in an arc. His pull of the oar accelerated at the finish for a clean extraction of the blade from the water. He relaxed into the recovery as he leaned forward, controlling his body’s swing with a pivot from his hips, readying to repeat the whole process again.

His body synchronized, arms, back, and legs responding to his cues: catch, drive, release, recover. He worked in tandem with his teammates, each person contributing uniquely with strength, technique, or rhythm. It was not a professional crew, not by any stretch, but they worked well together and knew their business.

But so did the Eurwendin crew.

After forty strokes, Rafe felt the tension building, his muscles burning from the effort, an uncomfortable sensation that he craved. His body screamed for a reprieve, but his mind begged for more.

Their position in the competition informed the power behind his drive. He breathed through the cycle, counting his strokes.

The boats were neck and neck.

Rafe pushed through the drive.

His crew pulled into the lead.

He recovered for two strokes.

The Eurwendins nosed ahead.

Rafe pushed harder, matching the power of his crew.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he wondered if Genevieve could see him, if she was impressed, if she was proud, if she liked what she saw. Vain thoughts, but they fueled him to dig deeper into the pockets of his reserves to row harder, row faster.

Irrationally, he wanted to impress her.

Catch, drive, release, recover.

The bugle sounded. The finish line had been crossed. Rafe leveraged the oar out of the water and relaxed, then looked around to gain his bearings. Mr. Burgess, balancing at the stern, stood and released a chest thumping roar. Headley twisted in his seat just enough to show a profiled smile of victory. They had won.

Smiling so broadly his cheeks hurt as much as the rest of him, Rafe searched the banks until… Genevieve waved to him, looking quite fetching as Aphrodite. In truth, he had no idea what her costume was meant to resemble, but she looked like Aphrodite to him. He waved back, his smile more for her than for the win. Later, he could convince himself it was the heat of the moment, the excitement of the victory, but for now, he relished sharing a moment of affection with her, her radiance the only attribute he acknowledged.

Genevieve helped her sisters and Miss Headley climb aboard the makeshift longship, their vessel looking more in keeping with a miniature Viking craft than a chariot fit for goddesses, which was how they were all dressed, Genevieve as Artemis, which had been Mrs. Fitz-Stephens’ idea. All along the river, villagers prepared to race in the capture-the-boat event. Rafts, fishing boats, sculls, and unidentified vessels not fit to stay afloat littered the shallows of the river.

From what Genevieve understood, the misnamed capture-the-boat event originated from an older tradition when the regatta used rowboats rather than single-seated sculls. Once the regatta racers crossed the finish line, the villagers would literally capture the boats from the rowers, tossing them overboard and commandeering the crafts. Now, however, not-quite-safe-for-water crafts were prepared in advance of the frolic, decorated with flags, household items, handcrafted sundries, anything to make the boat unique and entertaining, be it themed or not. The boat next to Genevieve’s was decorated in kitchenware, old pots and ladles adorning the sides.

The challenge of this race was first to stay afloat and second to paddle using anything except an oar. The owners of the kitchen boat, she noticed, wielded pans for paddles.

“Look! There’s Rafe,” said Miss Headley, pointing to a raft further downstream.

Genevieve, holding a tea tray as her oar, searched the river. With so much chaos, she could not find him. She would have to paddle swiftly to beat the boats around her if she wanted to catch up to him. So quickly had the event changed from the official race to this silly fancy dress race that she had lost sight of him on the water and not yet been able to congratulate him on his team’s win. She thought it best not to mention how magnificent he had performed. He was vain enough as it was. And she certainly did not wish for him to think she had been the least besotted with him.

Somewhere, a fiddler struck up a lively tune. Picnic linen perched on grassy knolls as those not participating set about to be entertained. A few groups danced together to the music. As with yesterday, kites rode high in the breeze. Genevieve did not deceive herself into believing life in Grant Lindis was like this year-round. It had been quiet before this week, after all. Nevertheless, she was enamored by life here. Could they not stay? Could this not be their permanent home? They could not live in Devington Priory, of course, past the lease, but what of another house nearby? This was the first time in her life she felt she b elonged .

Before Genevieve was ready, the bugle sounded to begin the race. She braced herself for the boat to lurch forward. Instead, hardly any boat around her moved an inch. Grabbing her tray, she positioned herself near the edge and began paddling, laughing more than progressing. Her sisters, using umbrellas for oars, splashed each other more than moved the boat. Miss Headley, also using a tray, made better headway. Genevieve mimicked her method of paddling, and the boat drifted forward.

There was more laughter than movement, but surprisingly, their trays were more effective than some of the other tools around them. They passed a rowboat decorated as a dragon, the oars of choice being boots worn over hands like gloves. The owners of the dragon boat were having far too good a time to notice they were mostly moored and were being passed by a longship of goddesses with umbrellas and trays. The first boat to pass Genevieve was adorned by garlands, the tools of choice being shovels. The captain of the vessel waved as they passed.

“Paddle faster, Miss Slade! We’ll never catch Rupert and Rafe at this speed!”

Genevieve was tempted to abandon hope in favor of joining her sisters’ water fight. Alas, she could not disappoint Miss Headley.

Dipping her tray in with vigor, she looked up and shrieked, “Wait! Stop paddling!” They were heading towards two boats at war.

The sailors of one were bucketing water into the other, while the sinking crew were trying to board the other vessel before theirs went under. Genevieve’s crew watched in one part horror and one part amusement. Before their eyes, the crew of the sinking boat leapt aboard the other vessel, shifting the balance and capsizing it, the lot tipping overboard into the water.

Well, the saboteurs deserved it.

What she expected to discover, as the goddesses’ boat drifted past, was a few Grant Lindis villagers dunking and squabbling with Eurwendin villagers. Instead, the boat swept past a band of brothers engaged in a water brawl, in no hurry to swim ashore, all good humor without malice.

Was it possible to fall a little in love with a man from his parish of residence?

Just as she thought this irrational bit of silliness, she spied Rafe on a simple raft. He and Mr. Headley held cricket bats for oars. He had not yet seen her approaching. His raft floated without progress, bobbing in place so he could chat with the people in the punt a little further ahead, the people being Mr. Fitz-Stephens, Rafe’s two younger brothers, and—oh! And her father! How delightful to see him enjoying the event. The Fitz-Stephenses were dressed as a king with his two court jesters, while her father was disappointingly plainly attired.

“Rupert!” called Miss Headley, waving her dripping tray with triumph to have caught up with the raft.

Mr. Headley prepared for their approach. As his sister’s bow knocked into Mr. Anthony Fitz-Stephens’ stern, Mr. Headley leapt aboard the longship, which was an impressive feat of its own merit, but more so since his flying lunge was accomplished in a toga. Cecilia and Theia watched with mouths agape as he defied gravity, then dissolved into giggles and sighs when he arched a brow in their direction.

Rafe balked at being abandoned.

Before Genevieve realized what was happening, Mr. Headley apologized profusely, then hoisted her overboard with an unceremonious grunt. She screeched, her fate too horrific to fathom. Squeezing her eyes closed and gulping air, she prepared for the splash. Rather than caught by the murky water, strong hands embraced her.

“Welcome aboard,” Rafe said, his face shadowed by the sunlight behind him.

He steadied her on her feet. Orienting herself took more than a moment. Her boat nudged past Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ crew and left her behind on Rafe’s raft. Oh! Her tray. She must have dropped her tray. A quick glance down showed she was still in one piece, had not so much as lost a shoe, only the tray.

Rafe handed her a cricket bat. “Shall we show them how it’s done?” He pushed his bat against the riverbank to propel them forward and regain momentum.

“What a heathen!” Genevieve said with a huff and nod towards Mr. Headley. Her outrage was unconvincing, considering she was grinning, a laugh on her lips.

“Pity Diana. She’s had to tolerate him her entire life.”

“I formally retract my idea regarding him—you know to what I refer. How could anyone with sense prefer him to you?”

He said nothing, merely cast her a curious glance before returning to his paddling.

They were not far from the finish line. Was she disappointed? Yes, undeniably. They had no time to exchange more than pleasantries. She had not yet congratulated him on the regatta. As their raft sidled with the shore, a gentleman she did not know approached to help them disembark.

Rafe accepted the man’s help first so he could be the one to bring Genevieve ashore. “May I introduce an old friend of mine? This is Mr. Proudie.” In a teasing whisper, loud enough for Mr. Proudie to hear, he added, “A Eurwendin, if you don’t mind fraternizing with the enemy.”

“How do you do?” Genevieve extended a hand.

“This is Miss Slade,” Rafe said.

He was on the cusp of saying more as she shook Mr. Proudie’s hand, but she did not learn if he was to introduce her as his betrothed, a member of the family letting his house, or otherwise, for Miss Headley interrupted to slip her hand into the crook of Genevieve’s elbow and steal her away. With a lingering glance over her shoulder, Genevieve cast an apologetic look at Rafe and his companion.

Beneath a stately yew, Mrs. Fitz-Stephens, Mr. Thorpe, and Mama were arranging picnic treats.

Genevieve quizzed Miss Headley, “Where are my sisters?”

“Rupert volunteered for the clean-up crew to help remove the boats from the river.” Miss Headley tittered.

“Ah, and so they volunteered, as well. How magnanimous of them.”

Her heart bled for poor Mr. Headley. She would have thought Theia, at least, would have more sense than to ogle the gentleman, least of all since her age did not predispose her to romance, but Cecilia had a curious way of influencing Theia until an onlooker would be challenged to tell them apart in ages.

“Look. Mr. Thorpe is wearing the garland I made.” Miss Headley tittered anew, not that she had stopped since her report about Rupert’s whereabouts.

Mr. Thorpe was as plainly dressed as Papa but wore a garland over his brow and a wreath about his neck. He greeted them both with a hearty welcome, then struck a pose. “I’m Dionysus. Did you guess?”

Miss Headley fussed over his wreath while Genevieve shook her head, all astonishment. Staid Mr. Thorpe was the antithesis of Dionysus.

Mrs. Fitz-Stephens patted next to her for Genevieve to join but Miss Headley turned away from Mr. Thorpe’s wreath long enough to say, “Oh no! We aren’t joining yet. I wish to take a turn with Miss Slade first. May we?”

Mama whined to delay the picnic.

Mrs. Fitz-Stephens, however, obliged. “Yes, of course, dear. You’ll want to find your land legs after the race. Will you both want to proceed from here to the dower house for the archery lesson, or will you want to rest first?”

Genevieve offered, “I venture we have the lesson first. It would save a great deal of walking back and forth between houses, and once I lie down, I might not rise again until dinner.”

“Splendid. It is as I had hoped,” Mrs. Fitz-Stephens said, but then added with a mock scold, “You misled me, Miss Slade. You and my son. I was led to believe you had little skill with a bow. How surprised was I to learn otherwise.”

“Oh! Not a whit! You flatter me. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve hit the target.”

Chortling, Mrs. Fitz-Stephens said, “I’ll not fall for your false modesty twice.” Crooking a finger for Genevieve to come closer, she said in a low voice, “After the frolic ends, you should try fencing.”

“ You fence ?” Genevieve could not disguise the awe in her voice.

“Avidly. And I would be delighted to teach someone with an aptitude to learn.”

Whispering, she asked, “But isn’t it inappropriate for women to fence?”

“It wouldn’t be half as much fun otherwise.” Mrs. Fitz-Stephens winked at Miss Headley, who had been listening to every word.

Genevieve looked from one to the other. Was it possible to admire others over fencing ?

With a tug, Miss Headley guided her away from the picnic and through the maze of the crowd until they found open ground to walk.

“Let’s not beat about the bush,” Miss Headley said. “The direct approach is always best. Rather than dancing around what we wish to say, saying all the meaningless things we don’t truly want to say, all to avoid saying what it is we intend to say, it is far superior to have out with the main intent, then we’ve said what we desired, have our reply, and needn’t be left wondering what it would have been had we not danced about saying all the things and—”

“Miss Headley, please, say whatever it is you have to say.” Genevieve was more amused than curious. Knowing Miss Headley, all the young lady wished to say was that which she had just said, a treatise on direct speaking.

“Diana, if you please. We’re good friends now, aren’t we? So good we’re nearly sisters. And being as close to sisters as we could be—I’ve always thought it would be lovely to have a sister—we should vow to tell each other everything.”

Telling her sisters anything was usually a recipe for disaster, but she held her peace.

“Now, Genevieve , dear sister. Tell me about Mr. Thorpe.”

So surprised at the turn in conversation, Genevieve slowed her pace. “Mr. Thorpe?”

“Yes, Mr. Thorpe. You see, Rupert and I have been talking. Rupert says he’s a friend of yours, but Rafe introduced him as a friend of his , and since neither of you has known the other for terribly long, we find it difficult to believe he can be a friend to you both, although I suppose he could be if we believe in coincidences, which I don’t, and that has led us to wonder—us being Rupert and I, of course— who is Mr. Thorpe , and why is he ingratiating himself with both families?”

Caught off guard, Genevieve hesitated to reply. She did not wish for whatever she said to contradict whatever Rafe might say, or Mr. Thorpe, for that matter. It was fortuitous this question had not been posed sooner, though, for had she thought Mr. Thorpe meant to win her from Rafe, she would have an altogether different answer.

“He’s my friend, but since learning of the betrothal, he’s done his best to befriend Rafe, as well. It’s his way of approving the match.”

Diana thought for a moment, then said, “Let me understand you. He’s your friend , and he wishes to approve the betrothal between you and Rafe.”

“Yes.”

“He disclosed traveling from Gloucestershire. He traveled all this way to approve the betrothal? I’ll be the first to admit I wish I had friends so devoted. Take the two of us—would you travel all the way to, let’s say, Oxfordshire to set eyes on my betrothed if I hinted to you about a love interest?”

With confidence, Genevieve confessed, “Yes, I would. It is unusual for a gentleman to do so for a lady, I grant you, but here he is, nonetheless.” Squeezing Diana’s arm, she said, “I can’t say this is what friends do because I’ve never had any friends. Mr. Thorpe was the first friend I made, which sounds pitiful when it was only a couple of years ago that we first met, when Papa had secured a lease in Gloucestershire, next door to the Thorpe family, as it happened. Mr. Thorpe is like no one I’ve ever met, Diana. He cares . He puts friends and family first. He’s genuine.”

“This is all reassuring. You see, and don’t laugh, but Rupert and I feared he meant ill. That, perhaps without your realizing it, he had fallen a little in love with you and came to cause mischief. We sound so unchristian for our worries, don’t we? Only, Rupert thought it strange, Mr. Thorpe being an unmarried gentleman, that he would come running at the first mention of your betrothal. Who does that unless they mean mischief?”

“A friend does that.” Genevieve did not feel so much as the tiniest stab of guilt, for everything she said was true. It was she who had meant mischief in thinking she could convince Mr. Thorpe to take Rafe’s place. Mr. Thorpe had been doing exactly what he was characterized as doing in Genevieve’s pretty defense of him—being a friend.

Diana laughed gleefully. “I’m so happy we’re the best of friends. And how lucky you are to be marrying Rafe! Everyone envies you, you must realize. Rafe has been much sought after but he’s too much in his own head, I think, to notice.”

Turning to see the dreamy gaze in Diana’s expression, Genevieve ventured, “And you? Did you ever… consider Rafe?”

“As soon as I would Rupert! Good heavens no. He’s like an older brother, an obnoxious older brother to boot, but don’t consider that a reflection of him, merely how I know him. And before you think he’s thrown his eye at his friend’s little sister, rest assured he would never consider someone as silly as me. He needs someone sensible. He would never waste his time with silliness, and I’m the first to admit I am very silly indeed. And now that I’ve had my say, and you’ve had yours, and we’ve not beat any bushes, I’ll race you back to the picnic.”

Hiking the hem of her goddess robe, Diana skipped away from Genevieve before darting in the direction they had come.