All accidental events, of course, and none of them truly serious—but they were the kind of things that Lucy couldn’t remember happening before. Now they all seemed to be happening at once.
And they’d begun around the same time Eliza had started training as a lady’s maid for Lucy. Even though there were other older girls around who’d wanted the job. Catherine had insisted, according to Eliza.
Now Eliza was struggling, the staff were disheartened, and everyone’s lives were slightly worse off. If only there were somewhere else for the girl to go...
Lucy turned on her heel and marched downstairs.
Catherine was halfway through a reply to a very curious beekeeper in Melliton when she heard a throat being cleared behind her. She smiled when she saw Lucy—though a Lucy who looked unusually stern and serious. “What is it, love?”
“Mrs. Griffin is in need of a new apprentice engraver,” Lucy said. “I think we should ask Eliza Brinkworth if she’d like the job.”
Catherine set her pen down and turned in her chair. “Is Eliza not improving? Mrs. Shaw said—”
“Eliza is doing as much as she can, while knowing that she’s not doing as well as she ought,” Lucy said, her voice quiet but steady. She bit lightly at her lip, then continued: “I know it’s not my place—but I think she’d be happier with Mrs. Griffin than she is here with us.”
“But her talent with a needle—”
But Lucy was already shaking her head. “Talent is not the same thing as choice—and between embroidery and drawing, she evidently prefers the latter. She’s a sweet girl, and a clever one. But she said Mrs. Shaw is always catching her drawing, that she sneaks time for it.” The astronomer stepped forward and turned one palm out as she pled her case. “Why shouldn’t she consider an apprenticeship in the art she loves best? Something that gives her more scope than what a single household can offer her.”
And there it was; denial withered on Catherine’s tongue. Of course Eliza would want to spend her paid hours doing bigger and better things than embroidery—why settle for a craft so domestic and ephemeral when she could be learning to produce art, or at least the kind of work the public would notice. “You’re right,” Catherine said to Lucy. “We’ll ask her.”
Once settled upon, the change took remarkably little time. Within a week, Eliza was happily putting her drawing and drafting skills to work as Mrs. Griffin’s apprentice. Joan was promoted in Eliza’s place, and the whole house seemed to take a deep breath of relief. Joan turned out to be a living treasury of stain-removal recipes, and was even able to get the Prussian blue off Lucy’s gown. The occurrence of minor accidents dropped dramatically, and even Mrs. Shaw wastwicecaught humming cheerfully under her breath by the stillroom maid.
Catherine pulled another knot tight on the cushion she was covering with berry bunches. The mix of red and burgundy flowed under her hands like stage blood: dramatic and striking to the eye, but ultimately meaningless. Just something for an idle lady to do to pass the time.
As beautiful and useless as Catherine herself.
One afternoon not many days later, Catherine lifted the letter from the tray Brinkworth brought in and then dropped it again with a cry.
Lucy put down her teacup, concerned. “What is it?”
Catherine was scowling at the creamy envelope as if it were a serpent about to strike. “Mr. Hawley has finally written.”
Tight fear released her shoulders, and Lucy shrugged. “He couldn’t ignore you forever, I suppose.”
“No,” Catherine said, and Lucy paused. The countess’s eyes were angry and troubled, her lips thin with displeasure. “He’s written to you.”
“Me?” Lucy turned this over from every possible angle, but couldn’t decipher it. What could Mr. Hawley possibly have to say to her?
There was proverbially only one way to find out.
She slit the side of the envelope and once again found herself staring at the Polite Science Society president’s precise, restrained hand.
My dear Miss Muchelney,
I cannot express how deeply I regret the result of our last conversation. It pains me daily, as I’m sure it must pain you. Would you come to tea tomorrow afternoon, and see about how we might mend this breach in the name of Truth and Science?
Yours most sincerely,
Roger Hawley, President, PSS
Lucy handed the letter over to Catherine, trying not to find it adorable when the countess’s brow furrowed and fury sparked in her blue eyes. “This letter does not contain an apology,” she said, her consonants as crisp as corporal punishment.
“Maybe he wishes to apologize in person,” Lucy suggested.
Catherine’s skepticism melted into worry. “What will you do?”
Lucy picked up her cup again, staring into the dark depths as though guidance might be found there. But she was no mystic, to read the future in tea leaves. She could only drink, and hope whatever advice they had could be absorbed that way. “I suppose I’ll have tea.”
