She rolled her eyes. “It would never be permitted. My brotherCharles is my guardian, you see, and while I might talk him around, Mary is a different matter entirely. She hasplans.” The last word dripped with scorn. “And if one is unfortunately relegated to the position of spinster, one must make oneself useful in every possible way at all possible times.”
“Such as carrying early morning tea to the guests?” I smiled as I held out my cup. She filled it again and settled herself once more on the bed, companionably.
“Heavens no,” she said, her eyes round. “I insisted upon coming myself because I simply could not wait any longer to meet you! You are the first woman of science I have had the pleasure to know—lady,” she amended hastily. “Lady of science.”
“I prefer ‘woman,’” I told her in a mild tone. “‘Lady’ sounds better suited to a horse.”
She grinned, a broad expression that revealed white teeth with a tiny gap in the front. “I feel as if we will be great friends,” she said, leaping to her feet. “That is presumptuous and rude, and I shall be in terrible trouble if you tell, but I do not think you will.”
She bounded to the door and stopped, her hand upon the knob. “I am meant to tell you that breakfast is in an hour’s time, downstairs, in the Great Hall. It is drafty, so mind you dress warmly.”
Before I could frame my thanks, she left, slamming the door behind her, a whirlwind in petticoats. I washed and dressed and made my way down to breakfast, making only two wrong turnings as I followed the aroma of fried ham and the sound of masculine voices. The table had been pushed near the fire, and it was laden with good country fare—eggs, kidneys, ham, breads, jams and jellies of every description, stewed fruit, porridge, and thick, fatty sausages that sizzled in the dish. A chafing dish of kedgeree stood in pride of place, and Stoker had taken a large helping of the savory rice and fish.
He was sitting at the table with a young man attired in the garb ofa country squire, tweeds and gaiters. His broad face was open and friendly, the auburn hair brushed back from a high forehead that would grow higher with each passing year, I had no doubt. His plate was heaped high and I could see where the buttons of his waistcoat were straining slightly. He had put on weight recently, I deduced, and would no doubt gain significantly more if he continued to eat like a gannet.
He leapt to his feet as I approached. At the foot of the table, a diminutive young woman kept her seat. Her hair, almost white-blond, had been pinned firmly under an exquisite lace cap, and her wool dress, perfect for a chilly country morning, was a rich bottle green trimmed in fashionable Parisian passementerie. A pair of luscious pearls hung at her ears and she wore a tiny lace collar fixed with a brooch of pearls and small garnets. She might be domiciled in the wilds of Devon, but she had no intention of letting herself become a dowdy country mouse. All of this I surmised in an instant as her husband came forward, his hand outstretched.
“Miss Speedwell! How good of you to come,” he said, taking my hand and pumping it furiously. “I am so very sorry we were not awake to greet you. We expected you would choose to stay in Shepton Parva on such a filthy night, and besides, we keep country hours here.” He was broad of shoulder and tall, thickly set with muscle that would require exertion to keep toned. I could well imagine him, twenty years hence, fat and bald as an egg and entirely happy with his life. An air of contentment hung about him, but also a slightly bewildered look, as if he liked where he found himself but could not quite understand how he came to be there.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” I told him. “Mrs.Desmond was the soul of hospitality.”
“I should hope so,” Mrs.Hathaway said placidly. “It is one’s duty to entertain angels unaware.”
I gave her a smile intended to hide the fact that I loathed her onsight. There are few things I despise more than people who constantly quote platitudes. It demonstrates a painful lack of originality. Apart from that, she delivered her words with the overly refined diction of one who had been schooled in gentility but not born to it. There was no trace of the Yorkshire dales in her voice, and while I did not begrudge her the desire to improve herself, I suspected it had been undertaken out of snobbery.
I settled myself into the seat allotted to me and applied myself to breakfast. We spoke of pleasantries as we passed platters and bowls and worked our way through the heaps of food.
As the last cup of tea was poured, a nanny entered with a string of children. The oldest, a boy, looked to be about six. He was followed by a girl a year or so his junior. Behind them came a pair of nurserymaids, each carrying an infant of some six months or so.
“Geoffrey and Ada,” Mrs.Hathaway said, beaming at her eldest offspring. “And the twins, Alice and Augusta.” The maids presented the babies like entries in a county livestock show, and Stoker and I made appropriate noises. The children had, at least, all been scrubbed and polished, and no unappetizing aromas emanated from their persons, but the boy had a sly look about him, and the girl, Ada, stared with a gormless expression, her finger hooked firmly in her mouth until the nanny swatted it aside.
Mrs.Hathaway surveyed them and gave a nod. “Nanny, the moor is too muddy for a walk today. Air them in the garden.”
“But I want to go to the moor,” the boy child said, thrusting out his upper lip. He pulled out a crumpled ball of wire from his pocket and held it up to his mother.
“What have you there, darling?” she asked, smoothing down his cowlick with a practiced hand.
“A cage,” he told her with ghoulish delight.
“And what do you need with a cage upon the moor?” she inquired.
“I am going to catch a faery,” he said solemnly.
“Why do you mean to catch a faery?”
“So I can make it give me all its wishes,” he said firmly.
“What a clever boy!” his mother said, turning to the rest of us with a fatuous smile.
“And what if the faery won’t give you wishes?” his father asked, winking broadly at Stoker.
“I shall poke it with a stick until it does,” his unlovely offspring said. “I shall poke it in theeye.”
His father gave an uproarious laugh, but the child did not appear to be joking in the slightest, and I fixed him with a stern look.
“I think,” I told him, “you might have confused faeries with djinns.”
“I don’t know a djinn,” he said, thrusting his lip out further still.
