The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (79)

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As we file out of the drawing room for dinner, Edward is plucked from beside me by Eleanor.

“You don’t mind if I steal him away, Harriet, dear?” she asks. “There’s one more clue to arrange before this evening. And I need someone tall.” She pats her son on the shoulder.

“Of course,” I demure, aware that if I’m unchaperoned I am open to Robert.

Edward plants a quick kiss on my cheek and mother and son slip back into the drawing room while I follow the rest of the Holbecks to dinner.

Robert’s hand finds my elbow on the threshold of the candlelit dining room, strong but gentle, tender almost. “A word?” His voice goes straight through me, hitting all my sweet spots.

I look up at him as the rest of the family find their seats, too busy juggling drinks and conversations to notice. We’re as alone as we could be.

“Yes,” I say carefully.

“Good.” His gaze falls on the flower on my lapel. “Thank you for following my instructions. The color suits you,” he says with a smile that undercuts everything, and I feel a giddiness for which I hate myself.

I cannot take my eyes off him, and I do not want to, partly because I fear what he would do if I did, and partly because I do not want to break this spell. It’s like he’s devouring me and I, in turn, him.

“You listened to it,” he says simply. “And you’re here. That’s a good start. I had a feeling you would be capable of engaging with this.”

“I’m here because I have to be,” I answer, and hope my meaning is clear. I am here to end whatever this is so I can live my life. My life with Edward.

“Aren’t we all, Harriet? Aren’t we all? We can speak more after the game tonight. I think you should have a better understanding of things by then.” He rips his gaze from me, eyeing his seated family. “Remember, whatever happens, you must play alone tonight. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Of course you do,” he says with finality.





42


The Rules


SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24



At the gleaming, opulently laid Christmas table, I find my seat next to Matilda’s.

Conversation bubbles on, crystal glasses sparkle, eyes crease with laughter. Down the middle of the table candles flicker in a braided evergreen centerpiece, the whole scene reminiscent of a Dickens illustration; a cornucopia.

Stuart is holding court on the Lila situation. Updating those who do not know on why she is absent.

I keep silent. I watch Robert in the flickering light; I watch them all. This odd family who are now my family, my future. I remember Robert’s warning about them, how any one of them could know about me. That they, like him, are not to be trusted. I wish I were Lila; I wish I were not here; I wish I were free. But then I would not get Edward, and that is all I want.

When he and Eleanor finally rejoin us, he slips into the seat beside his father’s with barely a look to the place card. I wonder if he knew he would be sitting there, beside his father, or if he’s just covering well.

“So you’re, what, twelve weeks now?” Matilda asks, snapping me back to reality. “When does that make you due?”

I rip my eyes away from father and son to answer her.

“Oh, so a summer baby,” she trills. Robert looks over and holds my gaze.

Sylvia and the other maid, Anya, flit silently in and out of the room with the first course. I watch the others delicately fork food into their mouths and force myself to do the same. It’s going to be a long night and I will need my strength.

The courses flow into one another. Voices rise and fall, peaking and troughing with the flow of conversation, and I watch the evening swirl around us. There are two murderers at this table, and I have no idea how many of them know that.



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Coffee is served back by the fire in the drawing room. The family’s eyes are glazed with festive cheer and alcohol as the clock in the hall sounds ten.

The first chime silences the room; the second summons knowing smiles and a sharp giggle from Fiona. Robert places his coffee down and stands.

“I should probably say a few words before we start this year. Unfortunately, Lila could not attend tonight, but Harriet is here. So for those who do not know, or possibly for those that need reminding, here are the rules,” Robert says gently as I watch Matilda shove Stuart hard in the ribs.

“There will be only one present on Christmas Eve. If you find your present, then you get to keep it; if you do not find it, then you do not. Most of you here know the rhyme well, but for Harriet’s benefit I’ll say it again:

“Nothing in this life is free

we work for what we have and see

if you cannot in the time you’re given

then harder harder you should have striven.”

The last phrase is said with such singsong cadence, it is clear that the words are ingrained in Holbeck family history. In my mind’s eye I picture Mitzi Holbeck, decked in 1930s evening wear, German accent thick, as she recites the rhyme Robert just intoned.

The sentiment of the poem is extremely questionable given the extraordinary wealth these people inherited before any of them lifted a finger, but perhaps that is the point of the rhyme.