She leaned near enough that I could smell her toilet water. Something heavy with the fragrance of lily, which I have never liked.
“Effie, I do not mind telling you, has been only one of my trials here, Miss Speedwell. Lady Hathaway is occasionally imperious, forgetting that she is no longer mistress here. One wants to be tactful . . .” She trailed off and I made sympathetic noises. I hated giving any sign of encouraging confidences to someone I found frankly odious, but Mary was, after all, a source of information.
“And, of course, with the sudden appearance of Jonathan Hathaway,” I began.
She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “You have no notion the trouble it has caused us! I will not say he has been anything other than helpful with Lady Hathaway. His attentions in that quarter have been entirely welcome. He entertains and soothes her in a way none of the rest of us can. He has saved me a tremendous amount of work, I can tell you. But the scandal if it were to become public!” She put a fingertip to my sleeve. “I know I can trust your discretion, Miss Speedwell. After all, you are part of an earl’s household,” she added in a tone of respect. I understood her better then. She had the merchant class’s view of aristocracy—awed to the point of idiocy. Aristocrats, as I had excellent reason to know, put their trousers on exactly the same as everyone else, and sometimes with far less skill or assistance. That Lord Rosemorran and Stoker’s eldest brother, Viscount Templeton-Vane, were decent fellows was the exception, not the rule, for noble gentlemen.
But I assumed a smile I hoped she would interpret as one of agreement. “You must live in terror of the story being published in the newspapers,” I suggested.
Her own smile was one of accomplished smugness. “Would you believe, Miss Speedwell, one of those dreadful daily tabloids intended to write about it? But my father handled the situation, and we need have no further worry in that quarter,” she added, pressing her lips together. So, her papa’s fortune was a source of embarrassment until she had need of it to purchase the Daily Harbinger’s silence. I had not thought it possible to dislike her more, but this new hypocrisy had managed to do the trick.
Perhaps regretting the mention of her father—or else remembering that it was common to consort with anyone below one’s own social station—she drew herself up and bustled away, entirely forgetting to give me instructions on how to reach the observatory, but I did not call her back. I was perfectly delighted to be rid of her, and I fled in the general direction of the observatory. I followed the long corridors of the Hall until I came to the small black door set under the portrait of Sir Geoffrey. The knob gave way in my hand and I bent double to pass through the doorway. Immediately beyond lay a narrow staircase of lacy black metal that twisted upwards, spiraling around itself into the furthest reaches of the tower. My skirts somewhat hampered my progress, but I climbed steadily onwards until at last I reached a small door with a notice pinned to it. The words were printed in heavy block capitals.
DO NOT ENTER ON PAIN OF DEATH
I smiled and rapped once on the door. Through it, I heard a hasty scrabbling. There was a long delay before a voice called for me to enter.
CHAPTER
13
A table sat in the middle of the room, stacked high with charts and books and an orrery, a small model of the heliocentric universe with the various heavenly bodies fixed to brass arms. It was an impressive piece, the clockwork mechanism ticking as the small golden planets revolved around the larger sun. I had seen such an instrument only once before, in a private collection in Florence, where I had been shown the various intricacies, the way each hollow planet could be unscrewed and detached from the golden arms so that it might be packed away for traveling purposes. The continents and oceans of the Earth were identified with etched Latin names, so minute as to be visible only with the aid of the magnifying glass attached by its own arm at the equator. The whole thing was fitted with a clockwork mechanism so that the planets might revolve, each in its own time, with a tiny alabaster moon hovering gently about the Earth. It was meant to educate, but so lovely and intricate a device must be admired simply as a thing of beauty as well.
Effie perched upon the table, an open book resting upon the back of the Italian greyhound curled up in her lap. It lifted its head when I entered, gave a great sniff with its pointed noise, and settled again, clearly unimpressed. The walls had been fitted with enormous windows, and Anjali stood beside one, flapping her hand at the open casement, and the room’s atmosphere was thick with a pungent and distinctive odor.
“If you mean to disperse the smell of cigarette smoke, keep a dish of strong vinegar about,” I advised. “It does wonders to clear the air.”
Anjali pressed her lips together, but Effie burst out laughing. “Do you really not mind then? You won’t tell?”
I advanced into the room and closed the door carefully behind me. I extracted my own cigarette case and struck a vesta. “I think not.”
After that, we were entirely convivial. Anjali still demonstrated the caution I have often noticed in upper servants. Not entirely staff and definitely not family, companions—like governesses—were neither fish nor fowl. They enjoyed too many privileges to permit intimacy with the rest of those employed in the household, but too few to allow them equality with their masters and mistresses. Yet she seemed genuinely fond of Effie, and I was glad the poor girl had at least one person in the house who seemed to support her interests in science.
Not only support them, but share them—for Anjali was well-read, and we had a spirited conversation on the relative merits of Galvani versus Volta and Lamarckian versus Darwinian theory. She was passionately enthusiastic about Darwin and most appreciative of my recommendation of the work of Antoinette Brown Blackwell.
“I shall make a point of reading her efforts,” she promised. “Although so long as she is a critic of Lamarck, I have no doubt I will find her writings instructive.”
“I am delighted to hear such reasonable views,” I told her. “Mr. Templeton-Vane is decidedly too fond of Lamarck for his own good.”
Just then, the mantel clock struck the hour and Anjali smoothed out her skirts, resuming once more the sober mien of an upper servant. She inclined her head to Effie in what might have been interpreted as a bit of light mockery, for her lips twitched as she bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Euphemia,” she murmured. She turned in my direction. “Miss Speedwell.”
She left us then, and a peaceful silence settled over the observatory. From this vantage point, one might watch sheep and clouds, both formless masses of white, gathering and shifting over the moor. The clock ticked on, and there was a muted wet snuffle from the dog.
“It is nice that you have a companion,” I told her, gesturing towards the dog. As if sensing she was under discussion, the pup lifted her head and gave me a lofty look.
“A gift from my godfather—Sir Hugo Montgomerie,” she said with a tinge of pride. “But you must know him. He corresponded with Charles to arrange the sale of the collection to Lord Rosemorran.”