Page 70 of Love, the Duke
“I remember it well,” he answered, looking for amoment as if distant remembrances raced through his thoughts.
“Well, I couldn’t have been more than three or four at most when I wandered down to the pond by myself one day, even though I had been told many times not to go near the water.”
He lifted one corner of his mouth and grunted a laugh. “So, I see you had trouble obeying as soon as you got out of the nursery.”
“Never mind about that,” she said in a good-natured tone. “Luckily, Winston found me before I decided to dip my toes into the water that would have been over my head should I have fallen in. He was very upset with me. Perhaps the only time he ever was. Papa gave him permission to teach me to swim.”
They started walking again. “Did Winston tell you he taught me to swim as well?”
“No,” she said, delighted. “Thank you for telling me. I like hearing things about him I didn’t know. He talked of how you two would often enjoy cooling off in the tepid water of the pond on hot summer days and on days when the water was so cold you both found slivers of ice in it.”
Hurst chuckled. “That’s true. There were occasions when our lips turned blue. Someday I’ll have to share more of my remembrances of Winston with you.”
“I would like that very much.”
Only a few steps farther she caught sight of something glimmer out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to see a booth set up with dark-red draperies tied back with gold-colored tassels on either side. Shelving had been erected on a wall and there in front of her were several gold and silver wine goblets, one that looked exactly like Chatham’s chalice.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe or move.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That looks like the chalice.”
“What?”
In the next instant Ophelia broke away from Hurst’s arm and rushed toward the booth.
“Wait!” he called.
But Ophelia was running blindly. Reaching the booth before Hurst, she immediately leaned her whole body over the table and stretched to grab the cup off the shelf. Just before her hand closed around it, the shaft of Hurst’s closed umbrella suddenly appeared like a gate in front of her, stopping her forward motion.
Shocked, she turned to Hurst. “I need to see it,” she whispered frantically
“Let the man behind the counter get it for you,” he said calmly, softly. “That’s his job.”
Ophelia looked over at the stout, red-bearded fellow who clearly didn’t know what to make of a lady who was all but crawling over a table to get an item on his shelving.
“Yes, of course,” she said, straightening her pelisse and forcing herself to smile at the confused man. “I would like to see it please if you would be so kind.”
“Which one would you like to see?” the man asked.
She pointed to the chalice and realized her hands were trembling. When she took hold of it her spirits fell like a heavy rock; she knew immediately it wasn’t the real cup. She had held the precious cup many times. This one wasn’t heavy enough. Still, not wanting to believe the obvious, she quickly looked under the stand of the stem for the markings of the maker. There were none. It wasn’t real gold. Her spirits, which had just soared so high, plummeted. Feeling lightheaded, she took several deep breaths.
Confident she was holding herself together and showing no signs of crumbling, she looked at Hurst and, somehow, found the willpower to say, “It’s not the real one.”
