The chasm between them yawned a little wider.
Lucy took her seat at the table and dropped her gaze, only to find a fresh horror awaited her there.
A formal place setting. A full battalion of forks bristled on one side, and a series of spoons yawned ominously on the other. And good heavens, there was even a miniature matched pair stationed at the top of the plate, the fork’s tines facing one way and the spoon the other. Like fellow soldiers pressed back to back during the last desperate stand of a siege.
Albert Muchelney had been a gentleman, but an impoverished one. Some of Stephen’s artist friends had titles that stretched back into the mists of British history—but they’d prided themselves on being deliberately wild and improper, leaving the tedious business of etiquette to more commonplace minds. Lucy knew how to curtsy and comment on the weather, but this embarrassment of cutlery was beyond her experience.
Fortunately, there was an expert sitting right beside her. Lucy’s gaze flew up and fixed avidly upon the countess. When the lady nodded at Brinkworth to begin, Lucy took a deep breath and gathered her fortitude.
“I expect your journey has left you with an appetite,” Lady Moth said, reaching for the largest spoon in the row. Not, Lucy observed with dismay, thefirstspoon. Logic would be no guide here. “Have you traveled much, while helping your father in his work?”
The countess took a dainty sip of soup. Lucy clutched her spoon as though it were a talisman. She couldn’t both eat and answer. She chose to talk first. “My father preferred to stay at home. I was sent north for schooling, and saw a bit of the country then, but afterward, Father’s health took a turn and he required my help at home.” She dipped the spoon in her bowl and took a quick sip—the broth was warm and salty and rich, and bolstered her courage. “Certainly, my experience pales in comparison to all the journeys you’ve undertaken.”
Lady Moth made a polite murmur and took a drink of wine.
After a beat, Lucy did, too. She licked her lips, and tried another tack. “Out of all the places you’ve seen, is there one in particular that you treasure most?”
The countess blinked as though surprised.
Lucy took the opportunity to spoon more soup into her mouth.
After a moment the lady replied: “On our way back from Egypt we stopped for a few days in Rome. I woke at sunrise on the second day and decided to walk in the direction of the Colosseum. There were birds singing in the trees, and all that old, weathered stone—and everything so quiet. A hidden place in the heart of a city. It felt like the ancients had built the whole thing just for me, and left it waiting there until I happened along.” She blinked again, and the mask of politeness came back into place, her lips pinching in a smile that Lucy could tell was half embarrassed, and not at all sincere.
Lucy felt a ghost of loss, as though someone had blown out the brightest candle in the branch.
Her hostess reached for her wineglass again, and Lucy followed suit. The silence lengthened, as she turned over the countess’s story. “Did you ever go back?”
If Lucy had hoped for more confidences, she was doomed to disappointment. Lady Moth’s smile tightened still more. “George didn’t care for Italy. There were too many other astronomers already there, you see.”
Lucy swallowed more wine. “No wonder he went all the way to the South Seas.”
“Precisely.” Lady Moth spun the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, an odd light coming into her eyes. “You should have seen the look on his face when he found that the natives all knew the southern stars better than he did. With so many islands, and so much ocean between, they all grew up reading the night sky.”
“A whole nation of astronomers,” Lucy laughed. “I’m envious.”
The countess looked up sharply, and the light in her eyes faded away.
Lucy’s laughter went cold on her tongue. She set her wineglass down in silence and followed the countess’s hand to the next fork.
The soup was taken away and the next course began: Lucy only recognized half the dishes set down. Brinkworth stepped forward to carve, sliding paper-thin wisps of beef onto Lucy’s plate. She sent a longing glance at a platter of roast partridges, but since Lady Moth didn’t take any, Lucy couldn’t know and didn’t dare guess which utensil to use.
She let the partridges be and took another sip of wine. “What was Mr. St. Day’s favorite place in your travels?”
The countess chewed her meat a long time before answering. “None of them. He hated being abroad. Things were never English enough for him. The food was always wrong, the tea never properly brewed, the heat and the scent of the air always irked him.”
Lucy shook her head. “Then why do it?”
“For science, of course,” Lady Moth said. Her gaze stayed low, on her plate. She pressed the tines of her fork down until they punctured the morsel of meat, but didn’t lift it to her mouth. “He wanted to be a discoverer of something. Anything. A planet, a comet, it didn’t matter, so long as he could attach his name to it. Or failing that, to be first, or best, or most memorable in some field.”
“He was a very accomplished astronomer,” Lucy offered.
“Yes.” Lady Moth’s gaze flicked up, and Lucy smothered a gasp. That glance was sharp enough to cut. The countess dropped it again almost immediately and went on: “He would have been happier in an earlier age. Making that daring first voyage to Otaheite, standing beside Charles Green observing the transit of Venus. He spoke of it often, lamenting that he was born too late for that one and too soon for the next. They only come around every century, you know. If George could have boarded a ship that sailed across the years instead of the seas, I think he’d have left us all behind to try it, and thought it an excellent bargain.”
“Probably easier to live until the next one, instead,” Lucy offered. “Fifty years is a distance off, but at least you’re already traveling the right way down the road.”
Her hostess stilled, wineglass against her lips. When she spoke, her words were deliberate and her tone was wry. “I’m sure his death came as a great disappointment.”
Lucy went scarlet.
