Page 6 of Love Is A Draw
“Dobryi den,”Gail croaked, her voice too soft, too thin. She couldn’t hold his gaze—for he bestowed upon her a sort of half-smile, not practiced or polite, but distracted and warm in a way that made heat rise in her throat. A smile like that didn’t belong in this world of precise manners and controlled speech. It felt—earnest.And entirely disarming.
Gail liked to think the Pearler household was magical, not because Maia would push her queen into places queens should not go, but because kindness reigned. Even steps away from St. James’s Palace, where lords and ladies clung to their riches, in this home, deeds carved your shape in the world. Just this morning, Mrs. Pearler had given her best wool gloves to a scullery maid with chapped hands—no announcement, no fuss.
Rachel led the guests down the hallway, but Gail stayed quietly behind, hands busy straightening cushions and picking up stray things Maia had cast aside—ribbons, a bonnet, small boots made for darting everywhere. However, her eyes betrayed her, following the newcomer as Greg led him to the green drawing room.
She waited before entering, her pulse too loud in her ears. It wasn’t just an attraction—like memory. Or maybe something more dangerous.
And the worst part? She didn’t yet know whether this was familiarity or forewarning.
Victor couldn’t help thinkingthis home seemed magical, like the beginning of a fairy tale when a family’s life is perfect—until the plot twists, of course. For now, the children left after dessert,and soon thereafter, the women retreated upstairs to tend to them. Unlike at other grand homes, at the Pearlers, mothers—and even the grandmother, Eve—looked after their own children when possible. The servants seemed to support but not replace the family’s care. Unusual.
The lingering warmth of dinner hung over Victor like a comforting quilt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten so well—roasted meats cooked to perfection, rich gravies spilling over tender vegetables, and bread still warm enough to steam when torn open. The laughter and hum of conversation, the soft glow of candles—everything about the Pearler family’s dining room was far removed from anything Victor had known. Too generous. And too easy to long for.
The welcome left a quiet ache in his chest, a reminder of how foreign it all was to him. And there was the matter of the night ahead. No amount of good food or warm light could erase the thoughts unfolding at the edge of his every breath—the Boardman’s Tournament.
He shifted, leaning against the mantel as Greg and Fave exchanged a few words about a story they had shared at the table.
Victor straightened. “Where’s my bag?” His flat voice cut through the bubble of their conversation.
Greg turned, brows lifted. “Bag?”
“My leather bag.” Victor kept his voice even, resting his hands lightly at his sides, but his gaze fastened on Greg, sharper than intended. “My notebooks. My chess notation.My everything.”
A flicker passed over Greg’s features—too quick to be named, but telling. Not fear. Not yet. But the strain of calculation. “The butler brought it in during dinner,” he said after a beat. “Told him to leave it by the stairs.”
Victor strode toward the open doorway. His eyes scanned the dim corridor—then caught the familiar worn leather shape, slumped beside the balusters like a fallen soldier.
He exhaled, slow and quiet, tipping his chin in acknowledgment.Phew!He didn’t move to retrieve it. Instead, he looked past Greg to the high windows, his jaw slackening almost imperceptibly. Outwardly, he seemed calm, but an astute observer might notice a quick flick of his fingers against his side before going still again.
Then he saw her again.
She moved quietly, smoothing a chair cushion, lifting a ribbon from the floor—nothing extraordinary. Perhaps eavesdropping, judging from the blush when she saw that he’d seen her. Something about her movements stopped him—oddly composed and still, like a master player in check. She carried herself like someone who didn’t need to be seen to know her worth.
Too graceful to be a maid. Too poised to be invisible. He didn’t look away fast enough.
“So, Victor,” Fave spoke with the ease of someone used to being liked—“Greg tells me we were at Oxford together. What was it, mathematics? I don’t remember seeing you there.”
Victor offered the barest of smiles. “Yes. Mathematics. I hid well. Better than you most of the time.”
Fave and Greg shared a look.
“I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t so stupid as to sit in the lectures when students were there. I copied what was on the boards before I had to clean them off. That was enough most of the time.”
“You understood the higher-level mathematics lectures and taught yourself based on what was written on the blackboards after classes?” Greg’s eyebrows lifted sharply. “I’m impressed.”
Victor shrugged. “And I was impressed when your best moves were carved into the Clarendon Building. I memorized them.”
“Why?” Greg asked, as if this hadn’t been the first question that came to his mind but the only one he’d uttered.
“Analysis. Compute alternatives.”
Fave tilted his head, intrigued. “So, what were your lodgings if not student quarters?”
Victor hesitated, then lowered his voice a notch. “For a time, St?Edmund Hall. But it wasn’t official. It couldn’t be.”
Greg leaned in. “Because…?”
Victor straightened, his expression unreadable. “Jews weren’t allowed to attend Oxford. Not officially. Not then. So I worked as a janitor. Memorized the lectures I cleaned up after. Slept wherever I wouldn’t be noticed.”
