“Are you interested in butterflies?” I asked, sipping at the tea. It was scalding hot, a rich Darjeeling with a dainty floral note. The Hathaways might live in a desolate and remote place, but they spared little expense in their food and drink, I decided.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Flying worms, I call them. But I know where the best ones are on the moor. I can show you if you want to collect some specimens whilst you’re here.” She looked awkward standing beside the bed, so I patted the edge.
“Sit and tell me what does interest you if not butterflies,” I invited.
She settled herself and I noticed her feet were shod in ungainly black brogues. A small lace collar had been pinned at her throat and she tugged it as she sat.
“My sister-in-law makes me wear it,” she said with a grimace. “She thinks it makes me look respectable.” I suspected the brogues were not Mary Hathaway’s idea. They looked like a boy’s castoffs, and Effie, seeing my gaze, waggled them, clicking the heels together.
“They are miles too big, but I stuff the toes with paper to make them fit,” she confided. “They are excellent for walking out on the moor. Mary says they are definitely not respectable.”
“And must you be respectable?” I took another sip of the warming tea.
“I should very much like not to be,” she said, her hazel gaze holding mine. “I should like to have adventures. Like yours. You have seen the world. I read your expedition notes on your Costa Rican trip in The Gentleman Lepidopterist. Granfer used to subscribe to all of the major scientific journals. Your work is superb,” she said.
“I am glad you enjoyed them.”
“Of course, I have no interest in Costa Rica per se,” she went on. “Jungles are no proper place to study stars. I am an astronomer, you see. I must have altitude and very clear skies. I should like a nice Greek island or perhaps a lovely desert . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully.
“There are plenty of accomplished astronomers on these shores,” I reminded her gently. “I believe the University of Edinburgh is considered to be a superior institution. You might study there. They have made great strides in educating women.”
She rolled her eyes. “It would never be permitted. My brother Charles is my guardian, you see, and while I might talk him around, Mary is a different matter entirely. She has plans.” The last word dripped with scorn. “And if one is unfortunately relegated to the position of spinster, one must make oneself useful in every possible way at all possible times.”
“Such as carrying early morning tea to the guests?” I smiled as I held out my cup. She filled it again and settled herself once more on the bed, companionably.
“Heavens no,” she said, her eyes round. “I insisted upon coming myself because I simply could not wait any longer to meet you! You are the first woman of science I have had the pleasure to know—lady,” she amended hastily. “Lady of science.”
“I prefer ‘woman,’” I told her in a mild tone. “‘Lady’ sounds better suited to a horse.”
She grinned, a broad expression that revealed white teeth with a tiny gap in the front. “I feel as if we will be great friends,” she said, leaping to her feet. “That is presumptuous and rude, and I shall be in terrible trouble if you tell, but I do not think you will.”
She bounded to the door and stopped, her hand upon the knob. “I am meant to tell you that breakfast is in an hour’s time, downstairs, in the Great Hall. It is drafty, so mind you dress warmly.”
Before I could frame my thanks, she left, slamming the door behind her, a whirlwind in petticoats. I washed and dressed and made my way down to breakfast, making only two wrong turnings as I followed the aroma of fried ham and the sound of masculine voices. The table had been pushed near the fire, and it was laden with good country fare—eggs, kidneys, ham, breads, jams and jellies of every description, stewed fruit, porridge, and thick, fatty sausages that sizzled in the dish. A chafing dish of kedgeree stood in pride of place, and Stoker had taken a large helping of the savory rice and fish.
He was sitting at the table with a young man attired in the garb of a country squire, tweeds and gaiters. His broad face was open and friendly, the auburn hair brushed back from a high forehead that would grow higher with each passing year, I had no doubt. His plate was heaped high and I could see where the buttons of his waistcoat were straining slightly. He had put on weight recently, I deduced, and would no doubt gain significantly more if he continued to eat like a gannet.
He leapt to his feet as I approached. At the foot of the table, a diminutive young woman kept her seat. Her hair, almost white-blond, had been pinned firmly under an exquisite lace cap, and her wool dress, perfect for a chilly country morning, was a rich bottle green trimmed in fashionable Parisian passementerie. A pair of luscious pearls hung at her ears and she wore a tiny lace collar fixed with a brooch of pearls and small garnets. She might be domiciled in the wilds of Devon, but she had no intention of letting herself become a dowdy country mouse. All of this I surmised in an instant as her husband came forward, his hand outstretched.
“Miss Speedwell! How good of you to come,” he said, taking my hand and pumping it furiously. “I am so very sorry we were not awake to greet you. We expected you would choose to stay in Shepton Parva on such a filthy night, and besides, we keep country hours here.” He was broad of shoulder and tall, thickly set with muscle that would require exertion to keep toned. I could well imagine him, twenty years hence, fat and bald as an egg and entirely happy with his life. An air of contentment hung about him, but also a slightly bewildered look, as if he liked where he found himself but could not quite understand how he came to be there.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” I told him. “Mrs. Desmond was the soul of hospitality.”
“I should hope so,” Mrs. Hathaway said placidly. “It is one’s duty to entertain angels unaware.”
I gave her a smile intended to hide the fact that I loathed her on sight. There are few things I despise more than people who constantly quote platitudes. It demonstrates a painful lack of originality. Apart from that, she delivered her words with the overly refined diction of one who had been schooled in gentility but not born to it. There was no trace of the Yorkshire dales in her voice, and while I did not begrudge her the desire to improve herself, I suspected it had been undertaken out of snobbery.
I settled myself into the seat allotted to me and applied myself to breakfast. We spoke of pleasantries as we passed platters and bowls and worked our way through the heaps of food.
As the last cup of tea was poured, a nanny entered with a string of children. The oldest, a boy, looked to be about six. He was followed by a girl a year or so his junior. Behind them came a pair of nurserymaids, each carrying an infant of some six months or so.
“Geoffrey and Ada,” Mrs. Hathaway said, beaming at her eldest offspring. “And the twins, Alice and Augusta.” The maids presented the babies like entries in a county livestock show, and Stoker and I made appropriate noises. The children had, at least, all been scrubbed and polished, and no unappetizing aromas emanated from their persons, but the boy had a sly look about him, and the girl, Ada, stared with a gormless expression, her finger hooked firmly in her mouth until the nanny swatted it aside.