Page 4 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Really? Where have you—” He quickly covered the amazement in his voice. “I mean, ah, you have been studying it?”

Thisbe let out a little laugh. At least he had tried to cover up his astonishment. “My family is quite keen on education, you see, for all of us—the boys and the girls. I learned alongside my brothers. After that, I went to Bedford College. They didn’t allow women to read for examination at London University until this year, I’m afraid.”

“The school for women. I see. How interesting.” He looked as if he meant it, which was not usually the case. “I always thought it seemed unfair that Oxford and Cambridge won’t admit women.” He made a wry face. “Not that they would have taken me, either. No menial laborers’ sons need apply.”

Yes, it had been a good idea to conceal her connections to aristocracy. “They are rather hotbeds of snobbery.”

“I attended London University. Well, for two years. There really are very few classes in scientific subjects.”

“Exactly.” It was one of Thisbe’s greatest grievances against English education, right after its prejudice against women. “England lags far behind other countries in recognizing the importance of scientific research.”

He nodded. “It’s still considered a gentleman’s hobby. There’s far too much emphasis on philosophy and dead languages.”

“Yes.” She and her father had had a few heated discussions about that. “That’s why I went to Germany to study under Herr Erlenmeyer.”

“Emil Erlenmeyer! Are you joking?”

“No. You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course. His theory regarding naphthalene was brilliant!”

They launched into an animated discussion of naphthalene, fused benzene rings and experimentation that lasted several minutes. It wasn’t until Mr. Andrews appeared at the open doorway and gave a subtle clearing of his throat that Thisbe realized that everyone else had left. There wasn’t even a noise from the outer lobby.

“Oh. I believe Mr. Andrews would like to close the lecture hall.” Of course, Andrews would let them stay if she asked, but there was no reason to make the poor man remain here just on her whim.

“Oh.” He glanced around. “I hadn’t realized...”

“Neither had I.”

They trailed over to the doorway. Andrews bowed and said, “Good day, miss.”

Thank goodness he hadn’t called her “my lady,” as he had in the past. She had managed to break him of the habit, but every now and then he slipped. It was clearly painful for him. He could not bring himself to address her as “Miss Moreland” and he apparently was unable to call her mother anything but “Your Grace.”

They lingered in the lobby. It would take Andrews a while to straighten up in the lecture hall, so they had a few more minutes. Wanting to keep the conversation going, she said, “I’m sorry, we have been talking about my interests all this time. I haven’t even asked what your field is.”

“Oh. Well.” He looked a trifle wary. “I have been working on a project with Professor Gordon.”

“Archibald Gordon?” Thisbe stared. “The one who believes in ghosts?”

He let out a sigh. “That is all anyone says about him. He’s a well-respected scientist.”

“He was well-respected until he started dabbling in frauds like spirit photography,” Thisbe retorted, then blushed. “I’m sorry—that was rude. Everyone says I am too blunt. I didn’t mean to—to disparage your beliefs. If you are a Spiritualist...” It would be beyond disappointing, but, of course, she couldn’t say that.

To her great relief, he grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Nor am I a Spiritualist. I don’t believe in superstitions or legends. They are rife in Dorset, where I was raised, and my aunt used to spin me tales of ghosts and magic and such—a bullock’s heart pierced with thorns in the chimney to keep a witch from coming down it and that sort of thing. I knew they were nonsense. However, one cannot ignore that people have seen spectral images—and I don’t mean those claiming to witness Lady Howard in her ghost carriage riding across the moors. I’m talking about people who awakened to find a loved one standing beside their bed.”

“Those are dreams. Everyone has peculiar dreams from time to time.”

“But dismissing it offhand is ignoring evidence. Personally, I doubt that spirit photography actually captures the images of ghosts, but one has to consider the proof that’s offered. Mr. Gordon saw the pictures—saw them taken and could see no sign of chicanery—so he believes in it. You have to admit that no one has come up with an explanation for how spirit photographers get the ghostly image on the photographic plate.”

“Perhaps not, but didn’t a woman in Boston say that the ghost in one of the photographs was actually a picture of her that she had had taken at that same studio? I would say that’s conclusive proof.”

He nodded. “That is why I find it difficult to believe in it. But if we accept that woman’s words as proof, how can we then refuse to believe the people who have sworn that the images are of their loved ones? Surely a mother would recognize her own child.”

“It is my opinion that grieving relatives want so much to believe it’s the person they’ve lost that they imagine the features are much more like their loved one than they really are. The images are pale and vague, are they not? One baby in a christening gown and cap looks a good deal like any other, and if the face is a little blurry, it is easy to see what you long to see.”

“What if you saw it? What if you had the evidence right in front of your face?”

“I would still be skeptical.”