Mr. Rowe stepped into the great hall.
Ella’s heart jolted. How handsome he was. How exciting and intriguing.
Mr. Bauer stepped closer to be heard above the others, and the sharp scent of sandalwood almost overwhelmed her and snapped her focus back to him. “I’ve an unusual request, and I hope that you, as the mistress of the house, will grant it.”
She raised a brow, fighting the protest already rising within her.
“It is more of a favor, actually,” he continued. “It would be my great honor if you’d permit me to be seated at your side during dinner.”
The odd request stunned her—one so impudent it could beconsidered rude—yet she could not refuse. Phoebe’s disappointment at Mr. Bauer’s dismissive behavior flashed in her mind. Perhaps this would be the perfect opportunity to learn more. Plus, her father’s eyes were upon her . . . expectantly.
Ella smiled her prettiest smile. “Of course, Mr. Bauer. I shall speak with Mrs. Chatterly and have her make the arrangements.”
He clasped his hands heavily before him. “I am elated.”
Mr. Bauer turned to her father, and Ella did not miss the pleased expression flushing her father’s face. For Phoebe’s sake and because her father had asked her, Ella would be civil toward Mr. Bauer, but her guard was raised.
Chapter 13
RARELY WAS KEATLEYHall’s Ivy Chamber so full of people. Over the centuries this room had traditionally been used as a music room, but because of its immense size and narrow rectangular dimensions, it was transformed, once a year, into a dining chamber. A single long table was pieced together to span the room’s extraordinary length, making it large enough for all the guests to dine simultaneously in one room.
Elegant ivy-patterned relief work carved into the ceiling gave the chamber its name. Large tapestries and portraits covered the dark paneled walls, and two identical chests of drawers with dark walnut inlay flanked each side of the main door. Two-pronged sconces hung at regular intervals along the walls, and at the moment the room hummed with conversation and cutlery clinking against porcelain bowls. Under normal circumstances Ella would enjoy the activity, but Mr. Bauer’s nearness put her on edge.
“I do hope I did not offend you with my request to be seated next to you.” Mr. Bauer wiped his mouth with his napkin and lowered it. “I realize what a brazen request that was, but I had a very specific reason, you understand, and I was unsure if or whenyou and I might have a moment to talk privately.” A more somber tone emerged. “I’ll be blunt, Miss Wilde. My very good friends, the Hawthornes, who were instrumental in my participation at this symposium, shared that you believe I’m in part responsible for the pamphlet that circulated about your mother and, ultimately, you.”
His bluntness was surprisingly refreshing—and it emboldened her. Her appetite for the meal’s second course had faded, and she pivoted and pushed a bit of mutton across her plate with her fork. “But you did have a hand in writing it, did you not?”
He hesitated. “Several phrenologists contributed their thoughts to the report, but it was written in the very early days of phrenological study. The intention was to collectively comment on one case of familiarity. It was never intended for circulation.”
“I see,” she responded flatly. “Surely you understand my resistance then. Those accusations were damning.”
“They were not accusations, my dear. The objective was simply to document how certain behaviors could be explained via phrenology, but I am older now and I daresay wiser, and I can see how such a publication might have led to unnecessary scrutiny.”
Ella fumed. Unnecessary scrutiny? Perhaps more like a lifelong albatross she’d borne since the pamphlet had become available. “The purpose of the writing might have been a private study, but someone was responsible for its dissemination.”
He lifted a piece of mackerel with his fork but did not eat it. “Not long after we collaborated on that study, the group fell out. I can only imagine one of the others published it.” He shifted and rested his elbow on the table. “I can see I’ve upset you.”
“No, sir, on the contrary,” she said, doing little to mask her sarcasm.
He narrowed his eyes and studied her. “You do not support phrenology, do you, Miss Wilde?”
Her father had asked her not to contradict his teachings to others. But he’d said nothing about sharing her opinions with him.
“No, sir. I do not.”
“My goodness, you are direct.”
He no doubt intended his comment as a slight, but she refused to perceive it as such. She lifted her chin. “I am sure Mr. Hawthorne informed you that some of the Society members might not be all that receptive. That report, regardless of its intention, caused a great division in the Society. Some endorsed the study and others unequivocally denounced it. There is a mixture of those people here. It might be beneficial for you to keep that in mind during your presentations.”
“Time has a way of softening attitudes, I’ve come to learn, and I hope that those who are against it—such as yourself—will at least consider the facts behind it. I’ve devoted my life to this study, and I’m confident it will one day, in the not-so-distant future, shape our entire understanding of human behavior. Whether we like it or not, there are those who will always bend knowledge to their benefit. I cannot explain why someone shared the pamphlet publicly, but I can say I am sorry for the repercussions for you and your family.”
For the first time she turned to face him fully. “Will you defend her then?”
The first break in his domineering countenance flickered. “II’m not sure what you are asking me to do.”
“You knew my mother, yes? So you knew the truth about her—that she was rational and in no way capable of the things they claimed.”
A nervous, throaty chuckle emanated from him. His formerly confident eye contact faltered. “You are asking me to do something I ethically cannot do. I think the best thing Icando is to educate people and let them make their own decisions.”
