Page 7

“Come along,” Harriet said to the three girls. They passed into the round lecture hall with its high ceilings, tall yellow columns, and ascending half-circle of seats and found a place on the cushioned benches about halfway up the chamber, looking down on a table set with glass and metal tubes, stoppered vials, and candles. Harriet loved the drama of the scene. The speaker would set before them some common mystery of the world in all its puzzling detail and unveil the scientific principles behind the seeming magic.

Once seated, Octavia retrieved the book from her reticule and held it in her lap, nodding politely as Anne and Camille pointed out the features of the room and named people around them.

“There are children here,” Octavia said to Harriet during a break in the other conversation, the statement more accusation than observation.

There were children, especially on the packed lower benches directly in front of the speaker’s table and instruments. It was Mr. Faraday’s intention to make science exciting to the young. “Yes,” she said, “but you may ignore them and concentrate on the eligible gentlemen if you like.”

“I must, mustn’t I?” Octavia said with sudden resolve. “Won’t they all be dreadfully old, like Charles?”

Harriet suppressed a laugh. “What do you consider the ideal age for a husband?”

“My book says… “ Octavia idly turned the pages of the volume in her lap. “Well, I don’t remember precisely what the book says, but I think three and twenty the right age.”

“No older?”

“Not at all, for a man must be independent of his parents and must have some experience in managing his affairs, but he must not be hardened.”

“And a man of twenty-four is, in your opinion, hardened?”

“Terribly.”

Harriet resisted the impulse to give the girl’s hands a quick squeeze, as she would for Anne or Camille. She did not yet understand Octavia’s situation though she strongly suspected some recent heartache. There had been a time when Harriet, too, had thought four and twenty a most advanced age. She guessed that a young man wielding his wider experience of the world had wounded Octavia. From the way the girl clung to her book, Harriet suspected the wound was both deep and new.

A distraction at the entrance drew all eyes. A group of young men, Ned Luxborough among them, entered the hall, talking and laughing and exchanging playful whacks with their hats. Octavia sat up straight and put on a bright smile. One young man looked up and waved at Anne and Camille before he and his companions swarmed up the aisle and clambered over several benches into the upper reaches of the seats, passing Octavia without a glance her way.

Only one of them paused at the entrance to their row to apologize for his friends. He was a sturdy young man with a sweep of golden hair, ruddy cheeks, and deep blue eyes, soberly—almost clerically—dressed in charcoal gray. “Miss Swanley, isn’t it?” he asked Harriet.

She nodded.

“Thought so,” he said, his gaze on Octavia. “John Jowers, friend of Ned Luxborough from school. We’re all Wykehamists, you know.” He shrugged, as if the school affiliation explained their behavior, and cleared his throat. “Could you present me to your friend, Miss Swanley?”

Harriet nodded again, and made the introduction.

Octavia offered an artificial smile.

“Are you keen on science, Miss Davenham?” Mr. Jowers asked.

For a moment Harriet thought Octavia would acknowledge an interest, but some struggle seemed to occur. She clutched her reticule and, with an affected air of boredom, said, “Not really.”

“Oh,” he said. “You might change your mind, you know.”

He bowed and retreated up the benches.

A moment later Octavia lamented, “No one even looks at me.”

“Mr. Jowers looked at you,” Harriet said, offering a mild correction. She could hear the pain in the girl’s voice, a pain that no doubt made it impossible for Octavia to see clearly.

“I will have to change my appearance.” Octavia turned the pages of her book again.

“Shall we plan a shopping expedition?” Harriet asked.

“Oh yes,” said Octavia, “it says right here that ‘the husband hunter must be seen, and therefore, must take great care of her appearance.”

The clock struck the hour, and the lecture began. It was possibly the least attention Harriet had given to a lecture in a long time. Next to her, Octavia alternately slumped or straightened, occasionally letting the lecture capture her interest then retreating into her stance of bored indifference.

“What sort of cousin are you, Miss Swanley?” she asked at one point.

“A fourth cousin,” Harriet whispered. “We share a great-great-great-grandfather.”