Mary laughed. “You surely do know how to live with zest, Mrs. Ophidian.”
“By the time you reach my age, dearie, you realize what a wisp life is. I have a word for you, ladies. Do not live your lives looking over your shoulder, wondering what others think of your behaviour. It is God you will answer to one day, not society. And as for me”—she winked—“I am fully prepared to explain to my Maker how I never read one verse of scripture forbidding a hefty pinch of snuff. Now then, I shall see about dinner.”
With a small symphony of grunts andoophs, Mrs. O wheeled herself around the grouse cage, shooed away a parrot, and vanished out the door, leaving Amelia with the paradoxical young lady in the midnight-blue gown.
Mary turned to her. “I applaud you, Miss Balfour, that you neither swooned nor scowled when discovering what an unconventional woman I am.”
“I have learned never to be quick to judge, for not all are as they appear at first meeting. Take Mrs. Ophidian, for instance. Who would have ever guessed a well-advanced lady in a wheeled chair might house such an avian sanctuary…or entertain a pinch of snuff?” She smiled. “And please, call me Amelia.”
“I think we shall be great friends, Amelia.”The dark pools of Mary’s eyes glimmered. “As my mother often wrote, the most holy band of society is friendship.”
“A kind sentiment. Your mother is a wise woman.”
“She was.” Mary looked away. “She died shortly after my birth.”
Amelia bit her lip. What a faux pas. “Forgive me. I am sorry for your loss.”
The little lady shook her head, the tight ringlets framing her face attracting the attention of the dove perched on the back of the couch. “Do not fret for me.” She swung her gaze back to Amelia. “I live my mother’s ideals every day of my life, as do many other women. Perhaps you’ve heard of her works?A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?A Vindication of the Rights of Men? Or perhaps, as is most commonly known amongst polite society,Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway and Denmark?”
Amelia’s mouth dropped open. “Do not tell me your mother is Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“Very well. I will not.” Mary leaned close and whispered, “But you have guessed it correctly.”
Amelia slapped her hand to her chest. “Why, she is a particular heroine of mine! Your mother’s travel writing is exquisite. I can only aspire to such well-crafted prose, for you see, I am a travel writer as well.”
“Are you?” A pixie-like smile graced her lips. “Well, if you like, I have some of Mother’s other writings that were never published—yet. Should you find yourself in need of inspiration, I am happy to lend them to you, though obviously I should expect them back.”
What a boon! Not even the constant flutter of wings annoyed her anymore. “That would be lovely.”
“I often find my mother’s words inspiring. I dabble with the pen myself. Haunting tales are my specialty.” Her voice dropped to an eerie tone. “Ghost stories, if you will.”
Not surprising, really. Not with the way the woman seemed to exude a dark shade of melancholy. Amelia countered with a lightness in her voice. “Then Bristol is a good place for you to be. The streets here are rife with ghoulish history.”
“Are they?” Mary tipped her chin. “And how would I find out about such legends?”
“I would be happy to share with you what little I know.” As soon as the words passed her lips, Amelia recanted. It wasn’t as if she could host the lady for tea, not with Colin about. “Unfortunately, I fear my time is filled and I don’t usually have the wherewithal for social visits. Tonight is an exception on behalf of Mrs. Ophidian’s, umm, persistence, shall we say?”
“Think nothing of it, for I have just thought of the best idea.” Folding her hands in her lap, Mary leaned towards her. “You should write it down, Amelia. Get your own little book of morbid folklore published. I cannot be the only one interested in such stories.”
Strangely enough, the idea lodged in her mind like a grappling hook, and she sank back against the cushions with the weight of it. Perhaps writing down tales of Bristol’s history would give her something to do other than worry about Colin. Maybe even give Mr. Moritz something with which to pacify Mr. Krebe until she could finish the Cairo project. Besides, she wouldn’t be—and hadn’t been—sleeping much anyway, not with her brother’s upcoming surgery.
But would it be wise to fill her head with thoughts of dark intrigue when she ought to be focused on tending Colin?
ELEVEN
“How all this will terminate I know not.”
Never had a sky looked bluer, despite being viewed through the curtains of the sitting room window. Colin fixed his gaze on that promise of freedom instead of paying attention to the pokings and proddings of Mr. Peckwood. Oh, to be outdoors beneath that azure dome. Flying free. Soaking in the warmth of the sun instead of enduring a salve that burned and jolts that singed. But it was not to be. Not now, at any rate.
“That’s troublesome,” Mr. Peckwood murmured, then stepped away from him and folded his arms. “Your progress is not as advanced as I had hoped.”
Colin’s lips curled in a derisive snort. “You sound like my old Latin tutor.”
His poor attempt at humour did nothing to ease the wrinkle in Amelia’s brow. If anything, it deepened, which concerned him as much as the crescent shadows beneath her eyes. Apparently she’d been sleeping as well as she’d been eating—which was minimal and troubling.
She skewered Mr. Peckwood with a pointed stare from her seat on the sofa. “What does that mean, Doctor?”
The thud of Mr. Lambert’s shoes grew louder from behind, until the man himself entered Colin’s peripheral vision. “More precisely, what specific progress did you expect?”
