I stifled my exasperation. “When you first spoke of her, you remarked upon her dissatisfaction. I cannot see that it will be in any way improved in the future, governed as she is by her brother and his wife. She ought to be educated for her vocation of astronomy.”
Sir Hugo shrugged. “I am afraid it is out of my hands. Charles wishes her to remain at home, and it would be inappropriate of me to interfere.”
I faced him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “She is your goddaughter. You have an obligation to her!”
His brows rose nearly to his hairline. “To her spiritual development, and she is a confirmed member of the Church of England. Beyond that, it would be the grossest intrusion upon Charles’ authority within his own family for me to speak upon this matter.”
“She is unhappy with her place,” I began.
“She is a woman,” Sir Hugo said simply. “And she has no money. It is up to her brother to look after her, and it is her lot to make herself happy within that.”
“You cannot seriously believe that she deserves less happiness than anyone else simply because she is a woman,” I said, my temper rising.
“My dear Miss Speedwell, I am merely pointing out that all of us must be useful if we cannot be independent. Now, I have every intention of settling a small annuity on Effie upon the occasion of my death. One hopes that by the time of that event, which I trust will be some years in the future,” he said with a touch of acerbity, “she will have acquired the necessary discipline and self-control to conduct herself appropriately and manage her independence. Until then, it will be instructive for her to learn to master her wilder impulses.”
“You speak of her as though she wanted to run away and join the circus,” I retorted. “Sir Hugo, I can assure you, Effie does not want to tame tigers. She wants only to work, to establish herself as a scientist in her own right after a suitable course of study.”
“And as I have said, it is not my place to interfere in her family’s arrangements for her,” he said dryly. “We must, after all, accept that they know best.”
“Must we? I should like to point out that a few days ago you seemed concerned about her tendency towards melancholy. You dance to a different tune today and I am left to wonder why.”
He flapped an impatient hand. “I have had a letter from Charles. He discovered that Effie has been writing to me and wanted to give me his personal assurances that she is improving.”
“His assurances! Charles Hathaway is more concerned with his sheep than his sister, I can promise you. He is the very last person to understand a personality like Effie’s.”
Sir Hugo stroked his moustaches, his expression indulgent. “And you think that after the acquaintance of what was it? A day? Two at most? That you are better placed than her own brother to comprehend Effie?”
“Her own dog is better placed,” I retorted. “And yes, it wanted only a very short acquaintance to make it perfectly apparent that she is a highly strung and thoroughly frustrated young woman who needs her talents to be appreciated and directed.”
“And they will be,” he countered smoothly. “Mary Hathaway will supervise her and ensure she is not idle. Charles thinks they have been too indulgent with her, allowing her to spend her days in fanciful pursuits and that this has led to her melancholia.”
“It is not melancholia, it is grief! She has lost the only person in the world who seemed to understand her—her grandfather. And no one else bestirs themselves to know her. It is a wonder she has not drowned herself in a bog.”
“She would not dare,” Sir Hugo countered roundly. “The Hathaways are an eccentric family, but they have never been given to hysteria.”
“She is not hysterical,” I said through gritted teeth. “She is unhappy because she is treated like a child or a drudge when she wants only a little kindness and respect. She needs intelligent conversation like a plant needs the sun, and she will not find it in that house.”
Sir Hugo threw up his hands. “I find we are at an impasse, Miss Speedwell. I can only thank you for your time and say that I hope you did not find the task too arduous.” He rose and shot his cuffs. “Good day to you. Stoker,” he called with a nod. He let himself out and Stoker went to liberate Harry from his sarcophagus. Harry emerged with a wheeze.
“Is it dusty inside?” Stoker inquired.
“No, no,” Harry said, his expression bland. “I quite like the dirt. It adds a certain piquant charm. In fact, I am growing rather fond of the place. I am thinking of moving in permanently. Perhaps putting up a few shelves and installing a stove.”
“Ass,” I said distinctly. I turned to my correspondence and began to open envelopes with a silver fruit knife, slicing with a certain satisfying savagery.
“Whatever did those letters do to deserve such brutality?” Harry asked, plucking an apple from Stoker’s desk. He polished it upon his lapel and took a healthy bite.
“Better the letters than your hide,” I warned. “Or yours,” I added with a glare at Stoker. “You were suspiciously quiet during Sir Hugo’s visit. You might have spoke in favor of Euphemia Hathaway’s liberation.”
“To what end?” he inquired with a shrug. “Sir Hugo will do as he pleases. He is not to be shifted from his position.”
“I do not remember his being so pompous,” I said.
“He received a fair bollocking from the newspapers and Parliament over the Ripper affair,” Stoker reminded me. “I think it has disarranged his confidence. He was comfortable taking risks, entertaining new ideas. But his failure to catch the Ripper has left him vulnerable. J. J. Butterworth alone has written five pieces calling for his resignation over the past few months,” he added, invoking the name of our sometime adversary, sometime friend. J. J. was an intrepid and engaging reporter, but she could also be the very devil if she were hot upon the heels of a story. She was the most ambitious creature I had ever met, and I was not surprised she had taken steady aim at the head of Special Branch.
Harry had been listening raptly as he ate his apple, his head swiveling from Stoker to me and back again. He swallowed, then looked at us brightly. “I say, does anyone want to explain why you are such close chums with the head of Special Branch? That was Sir Hugo Montgomerie, was it not?”
“It was, and no, we do not,” I replied.
“Then perhaps we could discuss my diamond—its current whereabouts and when I can have it back,” he suggested.
“It is not yours, and no, you may not,” Stoker said calmly.
“You were the one who said we would have a council of war,” Harry protested.
“I have changed my mind.”