Startled, he jerked to a stop, twisting to stare back at her in surprise. “What is it?”
“The—the meeting,” she blurted between ragged breaths. “All the scientists and thinkers you invited from all over Britain. When do they arrive?”
He regarded her curiously. “Eight, I believe.”
Violet groaned, hoping against hope that she’d misremembered the date. “Eight... days from now?”
“Eight o’clock. Tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 21
Alistair had planned to awaken at first light but, in his excitement, skipped the time-wasting act of sleeping entirely. He was bathed, dressed, and glued to the front door long before dawn. Today was the day. He could feel it. If not today then tomorrow, which might as well be today, for surely it was only a matter of hours before a cure was discovered, and if not discovered, then at least invented, which was all the same to Alistair so long as Lily was finally cured of her cursed sunsickness and—Good Lord, how many pots of tea had he drunk?
He needed to settle down. If he could barely keep up with his own racing thoughts, how could he expect anyone else to follow along? He should sit back and wait, maybe have some milk and a biscuit. No, not a biscuit—too much sugar. Maybe some nice plain bread. Or a carrot. Or—
Were those hoof beats? It could be thunder, he supposed, but it also could be hoof beats, and if it were hoof beats and not inclement weather, then one could assume the first of his guests was to arrive at any moment. It was time! They were finally here!
He rushed outside and craned his head toward the wind. Definitely hoof beats. Many horses, in fact. Scads. Multiple carriages might mean one of his guests forbore to pack lightly, but it could as easily mean that multiple guests were arriving at once. Oh! Inside. Quickly, now, before he was spied all but clapping his hands on the front steps.
Perhaps this was a good opportunity to rouse Miss Smythe. Wait—what was the hour? Half six? No, no, he ought to let her sleep. A bit, anyway. The more brains the merrier but he needed her rested, not sluggish. Or coffee-addled. Not the best mind frame for critical thinking, as he could attest. He really shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea. Although his guests might appreciate some, he supposed. He strode to his office to ring the bell for breakfast service and gather a few key volumes of medical and scientific thought.
“Master?”
“Roper! Did I ring you? I meant to call the kitchen. In any case, that was exceedingly prompt. I’ve scarcely had a moment to collect my wits, much less—”
“Master,” Roper said again, this time with no small amount of empathy and amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Your first guests have arrived.”
“Oh, have they?” Alistair said innocently, peeking over Roper’s shoulder to verify they weren’t right there, right now, witnessing him prattle like a madman. “Which ones?”
His manservant brandished a pair of calling cards. “Doctor Hughes and Mr. Colin Knightly.”
“Splendid. Please show them to their chambers and ring for anything they might need. Let them know I’ll have the kitchen bring refreshments to the dining area for whenever they’re ready.”
“As you wish.”
As Roper left to oversee the guests’ comfort, Alistair replaced the pile of books in his arms back atop his desk. Had he truly been about to force anatomy and disease theory upon his guests before they’d had a single moment’s repose? Not only would there be plenty of time for discussion after breakfast, his guests were, by design, far more knowledgeable in their subjects than Alistair would ever be. He ought not to let his enthusiasm and his hubris impede their genius.
In fact, instead of spine-creased tomes and technical drawings, what he should bring to the table would be blank parchment and plenty of ink for note-taking. With the quantity of brilliant insights about to bandied across his dining table, he’d best concentrate on committing every one of them to paper.
“I promise you, Lily,” he murmured as he gathered his portable secretary and a vial of ink. “This time, I will not disappoint.”
Chapter 22
By mid-afternoon, Violet was crawling out of her skin.
She hadn’t left the safety of her bedchamber since arriving within its protective walls the night before. The last of the fire’s embers lent the windowless chamber a sensation more of a crypt than a sanctuary. And despite the fragile state of her nerves, for the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey her empty stomach was in danger of consuming itself out of desperation.
For the hundredth time since waking, she pressed her ear to the locked door. Just as before... nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no indication that she was anything but alone.
None of which meant anything, of course. The abbey’s many outbuildings were spacious enough to have rooms to spare. Most likely, the esteemed guests were offered more distinguished accommodations in another area. But where? And for how long?
Her forehead thumped against the solid wooden door. She had no idea. She couldn’t risk being seen—not if her face was posted on bills from Lancashire to Cornwall—but another day or two without fire, food, or water, and prosecution would be the least of her worries.
She stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence and her own uneven breathing. She pushed away from the door and picked her way through the darkness to the bell pull. As a glorified servant herself, ringing for a maid made her feel hypocritical, not special. Particularly since she’d already rung it once this morning, in the hopes of summoning Mrs. Tumsen.
No one had heeded the call.
She warred with herself, then gave the cord a firm tug before she could change her mind. Above all, she had no wish to be seen as the spoiled governess incapable of waiting her turn, but above even that, she’d rather be the obnoxious entitled governess than the incarcerated waif set to hang for murder.
