What obligations? I nearly demanded. As far as I could see, Effie Hathaway had done nothing but have the misfortune to be born into a family distinctly lacking in imagination and grit. She had originality and spirit, and she was in grave danger of having her mettle ground away to nothing.
“I am afraid we are thoroughly unqualified to assess any such instruments for the purposes of acquisition for Lord Rosemorran’s collection,” I said. I gave Stoker a hard look and he cleared his throat, turning to Charles Hathaway with an apologetic gesture.
“Miss Speedwell is entirely correct. Not our area of expertise, as it were,” he said.
“Oh, well, that is a pity. Perhaps you will change your mind,” Charles said. He glanced around the depressing room and seemed to shake off the little drama his family had just enacted. “I should leave you to it. If you need help at all, just send for Anjali. As I’ve explained, she is Granna’s companion, but she will do anything you ask of her. A very biddable and docile creature, always quick to help.”
With that, he left us. I turned to Stoker, who lifted one heavy brow in query. “Astronomy is the only life that poor girl has. We are not going to be the means of annihilating it,” I told him.
“If Mary Hathaway has her heart set on using the observatory for her own purposes, I am quite certain Charles Hathaway will find a means of getting rid of the scientific instruments,” he replied as he peered beneath a shrouded figure.
“Perhaps,” I said firmly. “But there is no reason for us to aid him in his endeavors.”
CHAPTER
8
We spent the next several minutes in silence, removing dust sheets and acquainting ourselves with the lay of the land, so to speak. The Long Gallery was, as its name indicates, a chamber some fifty feet in length and perhaps twenty in width. A narrow carpet, once scarlet—although it was impossible to be certain between the hearty appetites of the moths and the wear of many feet—stretched from one end to the other, indicating a path the ladies of the house might once have trod on inclement days. A few smaller patterned rugs were scattered about, none matching. Like those of the Great Hall, the walls here had been hung with paintings, the marks of the absent frames still visible upon the cracked and warped paneling. A few chairs and benches, heavy with Jacobean carving, were dotted about, but otherwise the room had been given over to displaying the treasures of the natural world. Wardian cases, the glass streaked and murky, stood by terraria whose plants had long withered to dust. I did not dare to peer too closely into the fishbowls.
I had just uncovered a particularly nasty trahira—that is a Brazilian wolf fish—when Stoker spoke. “You do not like him.”
“Of course I do not like him. He has an ignoble face,” I said, gesturing to the wide, grinning mouth that displayed rather too many sharp teeth.
“Not him, him,” he said, jerking his chin towards the door through which our host had taken his leave.
“He is a type,” I said, dropping the dust sheet to conceal that grinning mouth. “Very John Bull, everything for England, ‘God Save the Queen’ sort of fellow.”
“Like every other man you meet in this country,” Stoker said.
“Not you,” I protested.
“Well, I am remarkable.” His voice was distracted now, and I turned to see he had bent over an unexpectedly lovely little marmot.
“That you are,” I agreed. “I do not like the way he speaks to his sister and I certainly do not like the way he speaks of his grandmother’s companion—Anjali, I believe he said. He talks of her as though she were some useful thing to be loaned—a book or a horse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stoker said absently. “That sort of man would never loan a horse.” He flicked me a quick smile, and I saw that he was attempting to sweeten my mood. I had been cross ever since we had arrived at Hathaway Hall—no, it was decidedly earlier. When had I first noticed the lowness of spirits that had settled over me?
At the first mention of Jonathan Hathaway’s name, I realized. I had mourned when I thought him dead along with Harry Spenlove. To hear from Sir Hugo that there was a possibility Jonathan had survived was almost more than I could bear. It touched a rawness within me that I had long buried. I had covered my grief and my anger at their fate. I had moved on with my life. But like most wounds left in darkness, this one had festered. There were too many emotions warring within me, and I liked none of them. Grief, guilt, sorrow. And rage. That one surprised me. As a woman of science, I prized intellect and reason. I had always attempted to keep my emotions in check whenever they threatened to interfere with logic. I gave vent to them when it was acceptable to do so, of course. I succumbed to laughter, to whimsy, to affection, to desire. I had been exalted in my happiness and occasionally maddened to frustration. But I had only rarely permitted myself to be truly angry. Anger robbed one of sense and perspective, I had always thought. And while I might hone the blade of my tongue, it was always in the service of impatience, annoyance, irritation.
And yet the knowledge that Jonathan Hathaway might have survived the eruption had caused a cataclysmic sort of rage to present itself, simmering just below the surface. My very skin felt hot, as though my blood were fevered. And yet I must master this irrationality lest I jeopardize the very reason I had come to Hathaway Hall. If Jonathan had survived, then a grave wrong had been done for his younger brother to have taken his inheritance. Charles Hathaway might be playing Jacob to his Esau, and I would see justice done.
But if some bounder had inserted himself into this family, unlikeable though I found most of them, I would turn that rage upon him, I decided.
“Veronica,” Stoker said. I detected from his tone that it was not the first time he had attempted to get my attention.
“My apologies. I was woolgathering,” I said.
“An apt occupation in this place,” Stoker said. “They are sheep mad.”
Just then, a soft tap at the door heralded a newcomer. A woman entered, dressed in sober grey. Her hair must have been glossy once, but it was a dusty grey now, although she had troubled to plait it neatly and coil it at her nape. She wore smoked spectacles, which rested just above a small, crescent-moon birthmark on her cheek. With her eyes obscured, it was impossible to judge her age. Based upon the colorless hair, I guessed her some years older than Mary Hathaway, although she moved with a quick, capable grace.
“Good morning, Miss Speedwell,” she said in a low voice. “Sir,” she added, inclining her head to Stoker. “Lady Hathaway has requested I come and make myself useful. I am Anjali.”
“Do you have a second name, miss?” I gave her an expectant look.
If my request startled her, she was too polite to show it. “Anjali is fine, madam.”