“Very.” Lucy blushed to the roots at the warmth in her lover’s voice. Catherine’s smile hid behind her cup as she took another sip of coffee.
So Lucy felt well-armored for that afternoon’s scientific lecture. And she was in need of it: this was the first Polite Science Society event she would be attending since that disastrous dinner at Mr. Hawley’s home. She wasn’t certain whether they would even permit her to attend—but Catherine snorted at the suggestion and was immovable. “It is a public lecture. You wanted to hear Mr. Edwards’s thoughts on his chemical experiments, did you not?”
“Yes,” Lucy admitted.
“Then we’re going.” Catherine tugged her gloves into place, looking every inch the respectable town society matron, ready to brook no nonsense and stand for no insult. Her blond curls were pin-neat, her gown was cerulean cotton and tailored to perfection, and a strand of pearls hung gleaming around her throat.
Lucy wondered if the pearls were still cool, or if they had already borrowed some of the warmth of Catherine’s skin. She wanted to slide her lips over them, feeling the contrast between smooth gems and soft flesh.
She wished her own attire were even half as tempting, and again was glad Eliza Brinkworth had had time to do something with this gown. She wrapped the stellarium shawl around her shoulders and saw heat flare briefly in Catherine’s eyes.
That was no small thing—but still Lucy wanted more.
She was still feeling somewhat sparrowish when they arrived at the lecture hall. They had cut it rather fine, and the room was full in anticipation of the event. There was a roughly equal mix of earnest amateur philosophers, poets in search of good metaphors, andhaut tonin search of some way to fill the afternoon until they could besport themselves in a ballroom or a bordello. Lucy spotted Mr. Hawley, Sir Eldon, and Mr. and Mrs. Chattenden seated at the front of the room, talking and peering around with great interest.
Mr. Hawley caught Lucy’s eye and sent them a chilly smile that could not have saidStay awaymore clearly if he’d shouted it. Mrs. Chattenden contented herself with a perfectly polite nod. Mr. Chattenden took no notice: he was tense about the jaw, glaring around him as if every single member of the audience had offended him personally.
Catherine leaned close to Lucy’s ear. “Mr. Edwards brings in a great deal of money for the Society with these events, but he’s almost always destroying some new or favorite theory of Mr. Chattenden’s. The gentleman cannot escape, but he’s always perfectly enraged to have to turn up.”
Lucy grinned. “I oughtn’t be so amused by that—but he looks just like a teapot on the verge of boiling over.”
Catherine chuckled. “Once last year Mr. Edwards built a miniature volcano as a chemical demonstration. I overheard some young rogues from White’s making bets on whether the volcano or the ‘bloody furious git in the third row’ would erupt first.”
Lucy’s answering laugh was loud enough to catch Aunt Kelmarsh’s eye, above them in the gallery. She waved Lucy and Catherine up; they stepped carefully through the chattering crowd and ascended the stairs to reach her.
Mr. Frampton was there with her, and scrambled up as the ladies approached. “Delighted to see you again, Miss Muchelney,” he said, bowing over her hand. “You’re looking exceedingly well—may I hope that London life agrees with you?”
“You may, and it does,” Lucy replied. “I am enjoying the translating immensely, when it does not make me want to pull my hair out at the roots.”
Mr. Frampton bowed over Catherine’s hand as well. His tone stayed equally warm when he said: “I hope you are not giving the countess too much cause for anxiety.”
Lucy put in: “Lady Moth has been an exceedingly gracious hostess—and, dare I say, friend. In fact, we are growing rather inseparable.”
Aunt Kelmarsh’s grin was knowing and delighted.
Catherine’s blush was pure scarlet, but before she could respond, a murmur in the crowd let them know that Mr. Edwards had stepped up to the dais and the lecture was about to begin.
Ambrose Edwards had dark hair, thoughtful eyes, and a smile that dazzled with boyish charm. He also, Lucy soon learned, had an intellect as wide-ranging and fierce as any she’d ever encountered. Metaphysics and poetry and words plucked from the Gospel were liberally mixed together as he discussed newly uncovered secrets of the universe. Lucy could see the theatrics of it, how he used an actor’s poise and timing to draw in his audience, one careful sentence at a time.
But even knowing how it worked, she was herself enchanted, particularly toward the end when Mr. Edwards set aside the new, shining substance he had so patiently distilled before their eager eyes. “Much has been made of man’s intellect, in the pursuit of these new philosophies,” he said, his orator’s voice making the rafters ring. “But there is no brilliance of thought, no leap of logic that can take place without the power of imagination. Our learning requires intuition and instinct as much as pure intelligence. We are not simply minds, trained like lamps on the world around us, producing light but taking nothing in: we are bodies, and hearts, and hopes, and dreams. We are men, and we are women. We are poetry and prose in equal measure. We are earth and clay, but we are all—no matter our shape—lit with a spark of something divine.”
The applause was deafening. Lucy clapped as hard as she ever had. A few muttered objections, a few shaken heads could be seen in the crowd, but none of those could stop the chills running up and down Lucy’s arms and the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Those sensations meant only one thing to her: they were the proof that she had been hearing pure and undiluted truth. It buoyed her spirits and made her shake as though a star had spun down out of the sky and fallen to land at her feet.
The crowd began talking again, and the spell was broken.
Lucy sighed and looked back toward the Society president. Mr. Hawley sent one more pointed glance up to the gallery before dragging Mr. Chattenden and Sir Eldon toward the dais to talk further with Mr. Edwards. Lucy was almost convinced she could hear Mr. Chattenden’s teeth grinding all the way up here in the gallery. With them came Richard Wilby, who had escaped her notice at first by blending in with the young bucks of thehaut ton. He all but ran forward to shake Mr. Edwards’s hand and began speaking with great animation; almost as instantly, Mr. Edwards shook his head with a gentle frown and began arguing back.
Aunt Kelmarsh had a prior engagement, but Mr. Frampton happily accepted Catherine’s invitation to join her and Lucy for tea after the lecture. It took the whole carriage ride for him and Lucy to fully comb over what Mr. Edwards had demonstrated: Mr. Frampton took issue with a few of his chemical hypotheses, while Lucy was equal parts captivated and puzzled by his thoughts about Newtonian prisms and identifying gaseous matter.
Catherine poured tea for them all indulgently as the learned talk wound down. Mr. Frampton was lost in thought, gazing into the distance, and the combination of tension and relief there piqued Lucy’s concern. She thought of the way the mathematician had not been seated among the other Fellows of the Society during the lecture... “How are you getting on with Mr. Wilby?” she asked.
Mr. Frampton heaved a sigh as he accepted his teacup. “Not at all well, I am sorry to say. In fact, if you’re asking me to be perfectly frank and scrupulously honest... we have parted ways.”
“You have?” Catherine.
“Whatever for?” Lucy protested.
Mr. Frampton stared glumly into the eyes of the lizard on his teacup handle, which stared back as sympathetically as a porcelain creature could. “We had a serious disagreement over notation.”
