I had always refused to entertain the possibility of marriage, and he had respected this, having had his own unwholesome encounter with that state. But I knew that in his heart of hearts, there was a most traditional and conventional part of him that would have married me if I were willing to have him. In spite of his pain and his scars, he would have taken me as his wife, and the knowledge that I could not, would not, do the same troubled me. Was my love the lesser because I would not risk myself to keep it? Was I selfish or pragmatic? Was I true to my own nature or was I everything nature abhorred, a woman who would not tie herself to a mate for the duration of her life?
And now Harry had returned, blithely stepping into my life as a reminder that every day I had spent with Stoker had been a lie, a stain upon my conscience because I had withheld from him the facts of my own past. Stoker had, in due course, laid himself bare, giving me every part of himself, no matter how imperfect. And I had returned the favor by drawing a veil over that which I wished to conceal. I had not trusted him, and so I was repaid in betrayal, I reflected bitterly.
It was with considerable self-loathing that I at last tumbled into an uneasy sleep full of fitful rest and broken dreams. I woke to find another grim morning had begun, the sun nowhere in evidence, hid as it was behind a bank of gloomy grey cloud. I completed my ablutions and went down to breakfast, my footsteps slowed by dread. I did not anticipate telling Stoker the truth with anything like pleasure. In fact, I was not at all certain of what words I should employ. How does one even begin such a conversation?
And of course, there was the obvious temptation not to speak of it at all. For all his failures of character, Harry did have a certain soft charm, and whilst I did not doubt for a moment he had come to Hathaway Hall for his own mercenary purposes, I also knew he was entirely capable of following his capricious heart. That Lady Hathaway had roused his affections, I was certain. I had observed his little courtesies to her at dinner when he thought no one was looking. The dropped spoon he retrieved, silently exchanging it for his own so she did not have to wait to enjoy her pudding. The steadying hand when she rose to leave the table. The quick, assessing glances when her color rose or faded. He was adept at playing the attentive grandson, but even Harry Spenlove was not so gifted an actor as that. He did sincerely care for the old harridan, I was convinced. And unmasking his deceit would unquestionably devastate her, a distinctly unhappy possibility given her state of health.
And beside the matter of Lady Hathaway, I had excellent reasons of my own for not exposing Harry’s masquerade. When we had been married, the secret of my true parentage was one I had not yet penetrated. Now that he had returned, the revelation that I was the semi-legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales was not information I cared to share, least of all with an opportunistic estranged husband. My father and I had never formally met and I had never been acknowledged, but I had upon more than one occasion been called into service for the family, lending such talents as I possessed. Ours was an uneasy partnership, and I did not even know if I wanted my father’s acknowledgment. But if there were ever to be a chance of a relationship with him, Harry could never know. Guarding my own secret seemed a good deal likelier if I gave Harry a wide berth, I reflected. Although I had made up my mind that I must somehow find the words to explain my situation to Stoker.
Breakfast provided no opportunity, for Stoker had already finished and begun his work in the Long Gallery, according to Charles Hathaway. “I was hoping you might go to the observatory, Miss Speedwell,” he continued. “My sister is still rather sullen about the notion of giving up our grandfather’s celestial instruments, and I thought she might be a little more amenable to giving them into your care. She admires you so,” he added with a little sop to my vanity.
I repressed a sigh. All my sympathies lay with Effie, and I had little inclination to be drawn into family quarrels. But before I could frame my refusal tactfully, Mary Hathaway appeared with a few of her offspring. “Children, say good morning to Miss Speedwell. You remember her, my darlings. The lady scientist.”
She managed to make the phrase “lady scientist” sound faintly obscene, but my greater objection was to the children themselves. Geoffrey was still carrying his cage, although I was relieved to see it contained nothing living, and the unlovely Ada was once more sucking at her finger. Her long, straight hair was tied back with a bow so enormous it looked like ears.
“Come, children, let us show Miss Speedwell where the observatory is,” she urged. “She is going to speak with your aunt Euphemia,” she told them firmly.
I had promised no such thing, but there seemed little chance of escaping Mary Hathaway’s domination as she herded us all up the stairs. Geoffrey walked next to me, one hand clutching my skirts as he waved the little cage at me. I realized then how much it looked like a gibbet and shuddered.
“So, no luck catching faeries then?” I asked meanly.
He gave me a dark look. “You couldn’t see it if I had. Faeries can be invisible when they want.”
“Then how will you know when you catch one?”
“Because it will scream when I poke it with my stick,” he assured me.
We had come to the top of the stairs and Mary Hathaway looked fondly at her children. “Such a consolation, children,” she said. “And such a responsibility. The rearing of them is extraordinarily taxing,” she confided as she handed them off to their nanny and a small cadre of nursemaids.
“I have no doubt,” I said, twitching my skirts out of Geoffrey’s sticky grasp before he trotted off with his nanny.
“That is why I appreciate you speaking with Effie,” she said. “The sooner those instruments are out of the house, the better.”
“But why? Surely there is no harm in Miss Euphemia having a hobby,” I protested.
Her mouth was set in a firm and unflattering line. If she kept up the habit of disapproving of things, she was going to age very poorly, I reflected.
“It is not, I am afraid, merely a hobby. If it were, no matter how unladylike, I might be able to condone it. But Effie wants to pursue science as an occupation, and that is simply not acceptable.”
“I am doing it,” I told her roundly.
Her expression turned frankly pitying. “And that is certainly admirable in your case. Spinsters must, after all, earn their crust of bread somehow. But Effie has family and ought to have a husband. She has no call to earn a living. Besides, her unwomanly pursuits have led to other bad habits,” she said, pursing again. “She consorts with servants, particularly that Anjali who attends Lady Hathaway. I have attempted upon numerous occasions to put a stop to it, but unfortunately Effie is entirely ungovernable, and Anjali is engaged by Lady Hathaway and I have not the authority to remove her.”
“You would dismiss her over her friendship with Miss Euphemia?”
“Friendship?” The word was uttered on a genteel shriek. “Miss Speedwell, I beg you, do not use such a word. It is unthinkable. And I will have my way in the end,” she added with the complacency of a cat surveying a plump mouse. “But for now, please do what you can to reconcile Effie to the fact that the observatory will be cleared out—whatever her thoughts on the matter.”