And Hortense, well, she wasn’t. While she contained a deep well of information, much of it couldn’t be found in books or museums. Most of it, she’d happened upon in dark alleys or in grand corridors whilst wearing servant’s garb. Education arrived in many forms.
Mariana wasn’t finished yet. “I simply cannot adopt Cuvier’s view that the world was formed by one catastrophe after another, or Lamarck’s that animals transmutated from one generation to the next.” Her brow furrowed. “Something is missing.”
“Dearest, if you put your mind to it, I’ve no doubt you will find that missing link.” This from Nick, who was sitting on the floor with his son of thirteen years, Geoffrey, the two engaged in a riotous game of tug with Sir Bacon. The little dog weighed barely a stone, but, pound for pound, he was strong as an ox. Lavinia, Geoffrey’s twin sister, sat quietly on a chair near the fire, engaged in needlework, a smile curving her mouth as her eye kept wandering toward her father, brother, and Sir Bacon.
“But I would likely have to travel the world,” continued Mariana, “and I cannot leave you and the children for such an extended period of time. I’m afraid some clever chap will have to do that legwork, and I’ll have to content myself with reading his scientific extract. I hope it’s within the next decade or two, is all.”
“Patience, my dear.”
Mariana sighed dramatically. “It never was my virtue.”
Monday nights with Nick’s family settled and set Hortense’s week to rights. Although, this picture of connubial bliss hadn’t always been so perfect. For a decade of their marriage, Nick and Mariana had been estranged, living completely separate lives and only occupying the same room for the sake of their children. Then, a few years ago, they’d reconciled in Paris. She didn’t know the exact details, but they hardly mattered when the two were so clearly besotted with one another.
A small, sharp pang of envy shot through Hortense. She’d never shared that sort of bond with anyone.
“Aunt Hortense,” said Lavinia. “Would you like to see my needlework project? It’s a pattern from the latest issue ofThe Lady’s Magazine.”
“Of course,” she said. Being calledauntnever failed to stir something joyous inside her.
The girl extended her hoop. It was a delicate sprig that wound elegantly round and round, splashes of yellow, red, and blue flowers here and there. Hortense’s only surprise was that a horse wasn’t grazing in the background, for Lavinia was mad for horses. Hortense held the fabric to the light, inspecting it closely. “Your stitching is quite uniform and intricate.” She handed the piece back to the girl. “Well done.”
Lavinia blushed with quiet pleasure.
“Lavinia,” began Mariana, “I have shared the writings of Mrs. Wollstonecraft and Mary Lamb on the subject of needlework with you. They refer to it as a technology that oppresses the intellectual advancement of women. Neither I nor your school require it as part of your education.”
The girl set the hoop down and met her mother’s eye. “I enjoy it.”
Lavinia may have been a sweet and quiet girl, but so, too, was she possessed of a backbone of steel. Her parents would need to keep a close eye on her. Those still waters ran deeper than they likely suspected, and, at thirteen years of age, the girl was already developing into quite a beauty with her honey-colored hair and complexion to match, like her mother, but silvery gray eyes like her father’s.
And her uncle’s, offered a stray thought.
“Auntie,” interrupted Geoffrey, who had stopped playing tug with Sir Bacon and was now beckoning Hortense over to the games table in the corner. At nearly six feet tall, Geoffrey was looking less and less like a boy these days. It was easy to make out the man he would be. The spitting image of his father.
“What do you have here?” Hortense asked, taking in the impressive spread of weaponry.
“It’s my knife collection.” The boy’s eyes shone bright with pride.
“And a superb one at that.” Particularly for a boy who recently entered his teen years.
“They’re from all over the world.”
“Can you name each blade?”
“Of course.” He sounded offended, and she couldn’t help smiling. “This one”—he picked up a petite knife with an ivory handle and thin, double-edged blade that narrowed to a sharp point—“is a stiletto Papa picked up in Italy.” He laid it down and reached for another, this one more weighty, with a wickedly curved blade that meant business. “And here is my favorite. A kukri knife from Nepal that Mama found in Paris a few years back.”
“I hope you don’t have plans to use it any time soon.”
Geoffrey’s expression took a turn for the thoughtful. “Who is to say? If an intruder breached our house, I would be ready. I keep them beneath my bed.” The boy was most definitely his father’s son.
“Do you know how to use them in such a case?” she asked, interested in the answer. A weapon could easily be turned against its owner if the owner didn’t know what he, or she, was about.
Geoffrey grabbed a knife and took a wide stance.
The spy inside Hortense sprang to life and scanned the boy with a critical eye. “Your feet are how they should be, but your hold on the knife is wrong.”
“Oh.” He looked crestfallen.
She picked up a knife. “Like this.” She demonstrated how best to hold a knife if an attacker was advancing. “You don’t want them to be able to disarm you.”
