The morning at Ashbourne dawned with a crisp, biting clarity that seemed to mock the "sensible" order Nicholas Hale tried so hard to maintain. Nicholas had invited the Beaumonts for the game a day prior, and by ten o'clock, the "brood" had gathered on the west terrace, their eyes bright with a predatory light that only appeared once a year.
"It is time," Noah announced, brandishing a mallet like a medieval mace. "The sacred tradition. The bloodsport of the north. Extreme Croquet."
Helena Beaumont stood on the stone steps, watching the Hales with a mixture of bewilderment and rising interest. She had expected a genteel game on a flat lawn, perhaps with polite applause and lukewarm lemonade. Instead, she looked out over the "Devil's Decline"—a steep, treacherous hill behind the manor house that was littered with jagged limestone outcrops, a babbling stream that cut through the center, and several muddy patches that looked deep enough to swallow a boot.
"This is not croquet," Helena noted, her "piercing gaze" scanning the vertical terrain. "This is an insurance liability."
"It is the only way to play, Miss Helena," Nora said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Nicholas says the world isn't flat, so why should our games be? It's about 'structural integrity' under pressure."
Nicholas stepped forward, his riding boots gleaming even in the grass. He looked like a man about to lead a "tactical briefing" rather than a lawn game. He held his own mallet—a sleek, heavy piece of polished mahogany—with the same "economical" grip he used on his stallion's reins.
"The rules are simple," Nicholas said, his voice a "low, steady cadence." "There are no rules, save for the requirement that the ball must pass through the wickets. The wickets, however, are placed in the stream, behind the rocks, and, in one instance, halfway up a tree trunk. We play as teams. Two captains."
He looked at the group, his "flinty" gaze landing on Catherine. For a moment, he considered choosing her to further his "plan" of courtship. But as he looked at the Diamond, who was staring at the steep hill with a look of profound "Gothic hysteric" dread, he knew she wouldn't last the first three wickets.
His eyes shifted to Helena. She was standing with her arms crossed, her "sensible grey" skirts tucked up slightly for movement. She wasn't afraid of the "abyss" of the hill. In fact, she looked like she was already calculating the "wind pick up" and the trajectory of the slope.
"Miss Helena," Nicholas said, a "predatory smile" touching his lips. "You will be the rival captain. Choose your team."
"I accept," Helena replied without hesitation. "I'll take Noah, Nora, and that shaggy retriever if he's allowed to participate."
"The dog is neutral," Noah clarified. "But he does occasionally steal the balls."
Nicholas chose Nathaniel, Ned, and a very reluctant Catherine, who looked as if she were being sent to the gallows.
"We need equipment," Helena said, walking over to the bin of mallets. She bypassed the elegant, polished ones Nicholas's brothers favored. Instead, she reached for a mallet that looked like it had survived a war. The wood was scarred, the head was slightly oversized and dented, and it had a weight to it that felt "solid and grounding."
"You want that one?" Nicholas asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's a relic. My grandfather used it to kill a badger in the cellar."
"It has character," Helena said, giving it a test swing that whistled through the air. "I shall call it 'The Smasher.' It looks like it understands the 'poetry of the heart'—brutal, direct, and utterly unyielding."
Nicholas felt a "jolt of genuine interest" that he quickly filed away. "Very well, Captain Beaumont. To the Decline. May the most 'economical' player win."
"Oh, I don't intend to be economical, My Lord," Helena said, her eyes flashing with a "fierce, protective energy" for the game. "I intend to be a catastrophe."
The game began not with a tap, but with a roar. Noah Hale led the charge, sending his red ball hurtling down the first forty-degree incline, where it proceeded to bounce off a limestone rock and disappear into a thicket of ferns.
"A 'random whim of nature'!" Noah shouted, undeterred, as he scrambled down after it.
Nicholas, however, played with the "precision of a buyer." He studied the slope, accounted for the dampness of the grass, and struck his ball with a "fluid and economical" motion. It glided through the first three wickets with sickening perfection, coming to rest on a flat stone in the middle of the stream.
"He's doing it again," Nora whispered to Helena as they watched him. "He's 'observing and filtering' the fun right out of it."
"Not for long," Helena murmured. She stepped up to the starting line, "The Smasher" gripped firmly in her hands. She didn't look for the "sensible" path. She looked at Nicholas's ball, sitting smugly in the water.
In Extreme Croquet, if you hit an opponent's ball, you earned a "roquet"—the right to place your ball against theirs and send them flying into the "abyss."
Helena swung. The sound of "The Smasher" hitting the wooden ball was like a "snapping branch." Her blue ball didn't just roll; it flew, skipping across the grass, catching a ridge, and slamming directly into Nicholas's ball with a concussive clack.
"Roquet!" Noah screamed from the bushes.
Nicholas stiffened, his "hard-set" shoulders tightening. "A lucky strike, Miss Helena."
"Logic is not luck, My Lord," she replied, walking down the hill with a "restless energy." She reached the stream, her boots splashing into the cold water without a second thought for the "aesthetic appreciation" of her footwear.
She placed her ball against his. She looked up at him, her "piercing gaze" meeting his "flinty" one. The "static" between them was so thick that even the younger Hales went silent.
"Where would you like to go, Lord Ashbourne?" she asked, her voice a "low, vibrating" challenge. "The ferns? The mud pit? Or perhaps the 'abyss' beyond the hedge?"
"You wouldn't," Nicholas said, his jaw tightening.
"I believe I told you," Helena said, "I prefer the rain."
She swung "The Smasher" with every bit of "protective energy" she possessed. The strike was true. Nicholas's ball soared into the air, cleared the stream, and disappeared with a distinct plop into the center of the duck pond at the bottom of the hill.
The silence that followed was broken only by the indignant quacking of several ducks.
"That," Ned whispered, "was magnificent."
Nicholas looked from the pond back to Helena. He was "furious"—his "plan" for an orderly demonstration of his prowess had been utterly dismantled by a woman with a badger-killing mallet. Yet, as he watched her stand in the middle of the stream, her hair "unraveling" and her face flushed with victory, he was "visibly impressed."
She wasn't just a "variable" anymore. She was a "force of nature."
The rest of the game was a "ruthlessly competitive" blur of mud, sweat, and insults. Nicholas played with a "flinty" desperation, attempting to claw his way back from the duck pond, while Helena led her team with the "tactical briefing" of a seasoned general.
"Cover the left flank, Noah!" she commanded. "Nora, the wicket is behind the oak tree—aim for the root and let the 'wind pick up' the curve!"
By the time they reached the final wicket—a hoop placed precariously on a narrow ledge overlooking the lake—the two captains were neck and neck. The rest of the family had gathered at the bottom of the hill, watching the "clash" with bated breath. Even Catherine had forgotten her fear, cheering softly for her sister.
Nicholas stood over his ball, his breath "ragged" but his focus "iron-clad." He had managed to bypass the mud pit and was now inches away from the win.
"If I make this," Nicholas said, looking at Helena, "the 'work of a century' is complete. Stability wins."
"Stability is just another word for 'stagnant,' My Lord," Helena countered, leaning on "The Smasher." "If you don't take the risk, you aren't really playing."
Nicholas struck the ball. It rolled toward the hoop, slowed by the "damp London-like" mist of the afternoon grass. It hit the wire of the wicket, wobbled, and stayed—perched exactly in the center, but not through.
"A stalemate," Nicholas muttered, his face pale with frustration.
"Not quite," Helena said. It was her turn. Her ball was several yards back, buried in a patch of long grass.
She didn't try to roll it. She used "The Smasher" to scoop and loft the ball into the air—a "random whim" that required incredible "structural integrity" of the wrist. The ball sailed over the ledge, clipped the top of Nicholas's ball, and knocked both of them through the hoop and into the lake below.
"I believe that counts as a Beaumont victory," Helena said, wiping a smudge of dirt from her forehead.
The "brood" erupted into cheers, Noah and Nora racing up the hill to hoist Helena's mallet in the air.
Nicholas stood alone on the ledge, looking down at the ripples in the lake where his "sensible" victory had sunk. He was "insulted," "rattled," and "vibrating" with an emotion he couldn't name. He turned to look at Helena. She was laughing—a real, "memorable" sound that filled the "abyss" of his heart.
He walked toward her, his movements no longer "economical" but driven by a "spark of genuine interest" that had finally caught fire.
"You are a 'catastrophe,' Miss Helena," he said, his voice dropping so only she could hear.
"And you, My Lord," she replied, "are finally 'observing' the right game."
As they walked back toward the manor house, the "heavy oak doors" waiting to receive them, Nicholas felt the "Great Northern Oak" of his resolve finally "sway" and break. He had planned to propose to the Diamond, but he realized with a "stabbing clarity" that he had been "observing the wrong sister" all along. The "poetry of the heart" had finally found its rhythm, and it sounded exactly like the strike of a mallet against stone.