Simon

“Right sporting of you to allow other men to court your wife.” Everett’s words felt like blows, but Simon noticed his friend busily engaged in cleaning his gun for that morning’s shoot.

“I don’t have a wife.” Simon’s response sounded surly even to himself. Cora’s face filled his mind’s eye—waking up with her each morning, her rosy lips, her teasing smile, and her laugh being the music behind it all. Wife. He had to admit there was more than a little charm to thinking of her that way.

“Seems that Cora is considered a diamond with the bachelors we know.” Everett’s voice held a note of sarcasm in it. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Everett only seemed to be studiously cleaning and reassembling his rifle. Simon saw it for what it was—bating him. “Wonderful,” Simon agreed without a smile, returning to work on his own gun.

Everett kept his eyes trained on his work, but Simon looked at the man. “Why bring this up?” What was he playing at? Simon determined to remain indifferent to the conversation. “And why would she not? She’s beautiful and intelligent. She …” Simon held back the thought that she deserved the best life offered—love, loyalty, security. How had this group of men infiltrated her life? Not one of them was worthy of her. “Cora’s being pursued by fools and rakes.” His voice grew louder. “She won’t take any of them seriously.”

So much for proving his indifference.

Everett’s head tipped up, and his gaze locked with Simon’s before he asked, “Why do you care?”

He threw his cleaning rag to the floor and stood with his gun. “I don’t.” Simon stalked to the back door to join the rest of the men.

“It sounds like you do,” Everett commented as they strode across the veranda.

The gentlemen gathered on the back lawn. Not long after, a dozen young women in walking dresses assembled behind them. Although Simon stood quietly with the group of men, a roaring conversation filled his head.

If I held her in special regard, I would have singled her out. I would have changed my plans for her. I would gladly accept her company at whatever personal cost. Simon thought back to the moment he’d met her behind the curtains in the music room and every moment since then. He sighed. Everett is right—I’ve done all of that.

Cora was just outside his view, but he knew her exact location within the women. He couldn’t hear her words, but recognized the tone that was uniquely her, and now and again her laughter. If he were to look, he’d see her confidence in the way she stood. He would recognize her quick humor by the twinkle in her eye. From a glance as the women walked up behind him minutes ago, he knew she was wearing the palest green and carried a parasol as did two other women though he couldn’t say exactly who.

Something about Cora stayed with him long after she was no longer in his sight or location, like looking at the flame of a candle, then closing his eyes.

       The image of Cora’s face disappeared when Everett jabbed his elbow into Simon’s ribs. He noticed the group beginning to move toward a thin tree line that separated the back lawns and gardens from a field beyond. They weren’t going far from the house, but the group seemed to be walking inordinately slowly. Many of the men looked behind them toward the women.

“What's the quarry today? It’s a competition, right?” asked a woman directly behind his right shoulder.

Cora replied loudly enough for Simon and probably all of the women to hear. “Yes, it is. For us, like every day, the quarry today is men.” Giggles broke out among the women, completely capturing the attention of many men.

Simon noticed Wetheridge step off to the side and stop as if to wait for the ladies. Simon guessed he was waiting for Cora. Simon quickly did the same, and the entire men's group came to a halt.

       “May I escort you to the field, ladies?” Simon asked Cora and the woman next to her. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wetheridge scowl in his direction. Simon wondered if it was bad timing to anger a man right before handing him a loaded gun.

       “Of course,” Cora answered, resting her hand on his extended arm.

       For the last few yards, the gentlemen escorted the women.

When they arrived in the field, Lord Cottrell stood in front of the group. “Three teams have volunteered for this competition. You may use your own shotguns or one of those provided on the tables. Members of the team will take turns at the shots in a set rotation. A kill point will be awarded for any broken glass bulb. We’ve made an innovation this year to our contest. Instead of throwing the glass balls into the air, they will be launched via slingshots to throw them at an angle better simulating the flight of a bird. Our gamekeeper and his assistants will toss the globes for us.”

       Wyndham and Wetheridge joined with May’s brother, James, as the first team. Simon, Lord Saalfeld, and Everett stepped up as the third team. The table for the second team was yet unattended.

Lord Cottrell called the group’s attention. “On the women’s team this year will be my wife, Lady Cottrell, my daughter, Lady May Cottrell, and Miss Cora Rey.”

James groaned, then said to his team, “My mother and sister shoot very well, but perhaps Miss Rey can’t shoot. Then the other teams may have a chance.” His voice lifted at the end as if he were asking her a question.

Cora’s eyes brightened, but she offered no clarification. The flat smile across her lips told Simon she was holding back a laugh. He knew—she could shoot, expertly.

Wetheridge asked across the table that separated him from the women’s team, “Are you a crack shot, Miss Rey?”

“I shoot, and today, we’ll find out how well.” Though her voice was teasing, Simon heard confidence.

Lord Cottrell listed the rules. “The first team may take a shot at the globe during the ascent of the target tossed for them. If they miss, the next team …” He smiled warmly at the women. “… may take a shot at the ball on its downward arc to steal the point. If both teams miss, the third team may take a shot after the second. If the second team fails to make an attempt before it falls to the ground, the last team is awarded a point by default. We’ll declare a winner after three sets of three rounds each.”

Lord Cottrell lifted one finger and announced, “If anyone cares to make a wager, I’ll act as the bank and hold the vowels for it. Again, any proceeds earned by the bank will be donated to the children’s home.”

Simon noticed that although he tried to sound nonchalant, Lord Cottrell, too, was confident. James boasted among the men that one weak member of a team was all the women needed for a loss, raising bets for the men’s teams to win.

Simon called out, “I’ll double the bank’s position. If your team should win the bet, the award will be paid twice.” That encouraged the stakes to rise.

When the teams and spectators returned to their positions, May waved daintily at her father. “Would you permit Cora to take a practice shot before we begin the competition? She’s never shot this type of gun before.”

He gestured to the men’s teams, and they agreed. May carried a glass goblet out into the field at an even distance to where the gamekeeper would be throwing the orbs, set it on the ground, and walked back to her team.

Cora sighted down the barrel to where the wine glass glinted in the sun. Simon considered how that angle would affect the trajectory if the sights were inaccurate. Apparently, she did too. The better position for the practice would have been prone on the ground except that her arms wouldn’t have been free to move. Besides, she could hardly do that in the contest. Instead she knelt and sat on her right foot while holding her body at a forty-five-degree angle to the goblet as she leveled the gun.

Simon wished he could have the stability Cora demonstrated in that position. She would make an army marksman proud. The children’s home was going to add another sizable gift to its coffers today.

“I wish to change my bet,” called one of the gentlemen.

With the butt of the gun against her right shoulder, Cora pulled the trigger very slowly. Neither the explosion nor the recoil seemed to bother her, and she watched steadily to see where her bullet hit in the ground—about a foot short.

“On second thought, I’ll double it,” the same man called out.

“I’ll take that bet,” Simon called back, and then he smiled at Cora and nodded to Lord Cottrell. She now knows by how much she needs to adjust her shot. She’s brilliant.

Everett nudged him. “You’re betting against us.”

“Quite.”

Lord Cottrell called for the teams to take their positions. Lady Cottrell stood in front of May, who stood in front of Cora. On team number one, Wetheridge lined up even with Cora as the third shooter for his team. Simon stood in the front of the line for his team.

Lord Cottrell called out, “Shooters, to your mark.”

Simon, Bethany, and James stepped forward and raised their guns. A glass globe filled with feathers was launched into the air, and James took the first shot. The glass burst, sending shards glinting in the morning light and feathers floating on the wind.

“Point,” called Lord Cottrell. The spectators clapped. The next two tosses ended with the same result. Following Lady Cottrell’s kill shot, the women in attendance cheered. During the second round, Wyndham missed his shot, and May was able to score that one and her own as a kill for the women’s team, making them the leaders.

Cora stepped into position for the third round. Simon watched her steady hands and the concentration on her face as she followed the orb tossed for Wetheridge until his shot broke it. Cora scored a point as well on her turn. Lord Saalfeld missed his shot, and Wetheridge waited until the ball nearly grounded to take a shot. He missed it, but Cora didn’t have a chance to fire before it shattered.

“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” she asked Wetheridge.

“Strategy is part of battle,” he replied to the amusement of several men.

Simon saw her smile and nod but knew it was not an agreement, just acknowledgment that she could play that game.

In the next set, James, Lady Cottrell, and Simon all made their shots. Wetheridge was up for the first shot of the second round. The gamekeeper slung the glass orb into the air as May stepped behind Cora and tickled her, causing Cora to giggle and draw the attention of every man, including Wetheridge, whose shot went wide. Cora quickly sited her gun and squeezed the trigger. The ball blew apart.

“Your behavior borders on being dishonorable,” Wetheridge barked out toward the women.

Immediately, Cora replied, “Strategy is part of battle.”

Simon considered how lovely that sounded coming from her lips. He loved her wit.

In the third and final set, the women’s team was ahead of James’ team by two points and even with Simon’s team. The last competitor, Everett, missed his shot. Wetheridge waited as the ball descended. Waited. Waited. Everyone knew that if he missed, it would be inches above the ground. Again Cora knelt and pulled the trigger as soon as Wetheridge’s gun discharged, her shot blasting the ball apart just before it disappeared into the grass.

Simon cheered. Lady Cottrell and May hugged her. Simon wished he were able to put his arms around Cora in celebration. That he was able to pick her up, twirl her … kiss her.

Everett was right. He’d chosen his wife—she didn’t know it yet, but now he did.

He’d not shown interest in any other lady, and he knew he wouldn’t. She completely anchored his heart and soul. There was certainly no commitment or understanding between them. There had been no talk of courting, even. As far as the rest of the world knew, he wasn't partial, but Simon knew he couldn't fool Everett, who might know Simon’s mind better than he knew his own.

The women came from the sidelines and hugged their team, cheering and shouting. When the celebration calmed, Lady Cottrell shouted, “The children’s home thanks you for your generous donations, gentlemen.”