by Regina Scott
“I’ll speak to Charlotte.”
She nodded. “Nothing coarse, I think. Silk, three-ply at least, undyed.”
Here less than a day and already she was dictating. “Rather specific. Your reasoning?”
“A hypothesis, if you will.” The world sounded strange on those rosy lips. “Miss Pankhurst reports that the more tightly woven fabric best meets the criteria you provided her, which she is, apparently, not at liberty to tell me. The combing and dying process must provide some stress on the thread. Therefore, tightly woven, undyed thread might also meet your criteria.”
Flawless. He bowed to her. “Madam, you impress me.”
She picked up her needle and drove it into the fabric. “I also hypothesize that you are too easily impressed.”
Worth straightened. “Based on what evidence?”
She began sewing again. “You must have accepted Beau’s word before pursuing me, though I’m certain you could have found evidence to suggest it wasn’t your best course. You accepted my word initially, with insufficient evidence in the end to sustain it. You obviously accepted someone else’s word against mine. I can vouch for my brother’s insincerity, and my own sincerity. Of course, I don’t know who commented against me or perhaps you simply realized your mistake.”
His heart was pounding again, as if each thrust of her needle pierced it. “Lydia, I…”
RIP!
She sighed. “Thirteen. I really could use that thread. Perhaps you could find some.”
As soon as he found his dignity again.
Chapter Three
Lydia wasn’t sure why she’d brought up their past when she’d been so determined to avoid it. Perhaps it was because his bizarre rules kept her isolated. Perhaps it was the task Miss Pankhurst had set her—attempting to sew the silken panels together with cotton thread as if she was apprenticing to be a seamstress and not a natural philosopher, as those who studied scientific matters were known. She could not complain that the work was hard. She was an accomplished embroiderer—what young lady on the ton wasn’t? But she had left Gussie’s employ because she’d wanted more, and sitting alone in a closet sewing did not suffice.
Now he inclined his head and left her. She’d pushed him away. At least this time she knew how.
She sighed, setting down the fabric lest she mangle it. She still remembered the night Beau had introduced them. She had become accustomed to her brother trotting her out to meet eligible bachelors—at the many balls they attended, during intermission at the theatre and opera, between races at the Royal Ascot and other sporting events. Beau wanted to see her well wed, but she’d noticed he favored the wealthy and titled, not necessarily men she might admire for their character or accomplishments. She’d also heard the whispers behind the painted and lace-covered fans.
Hunting a title.
Feathering his own nest.
Reaching above his station.
Most whisperers, she was glad to note, put the blame on her brother, but a few thought she was the one grasping at glory. To their minds, she wasn’t pretty enough, clever enough, accomplished enough, rich enough, or prestigious enough to win a titled, wealthy gentlemen’s hand.
She’d tried her best nonetheless. She’d learned to smile at every unkind or ridiculous thing her suitors might say, overlooking their foibles and finding reasons to compliment them. The only time she’d stood her ground was when one attempted liberties. Her brother might have let on she was for sale, but she would not come cheap.
Then, one night, at a ball to celebrate the prince’s birthday, Beau had steered her across the room to introduce her to Lord Worthington. She’d heard of his exploits from Lord Stanhope and other natural philosophers she cornered whenever she could. He studied the qualities of the airs, both breathable and noxious. He’d been the first to propose how air changed with altitude, the second to confirm its expansion in various forms. It had been no effort to look admiring.
And a thrill had gone through her when she’d realized her admiring look was being returned.
She had welcomed him to call, done all she could to encourage him. He was not what she had imagined of a natural philosopher. Instead of slow, methodical investigation and pedantic conversation, his mind moved in leaps, like a deer bounding over streams and rocks others would have paused to consider. When she was with him, her mind seemed as agile, the future limitless. She’d begun to hope, to pray, he’d offer for her.
Then, one day, a letter had arrived. She’d found it among the various invitations. Recognizing the sprawling hand, she’d hurried to open it.
“Miss Villers,” it had read. “It has been drawn to my attention that I may have raised expectations of a match between us. My apologies. I could never align myself with a lady of your interests. I will endeavor to ensure we do not meet again.”
The paper had fallen to the table, and she’d swayed on her feet. She hadn’t questioned what he’d meant by interests. He’d heard the rumors that she was after a title, and he’d preferred to believe in the story instead of in her. Her hopes were as thin as the air he studied.
Damp spots darkened the fabric in her lap now. She wiped at the material and blinked away her tears. She’d cried enough over Worth. She had a different path before her now, and she intended to make the most of it. She would not allow him to come between her and her dreams again. She seized the two halves she’d sewed together and pulled.
Nothing happened.
Lydia frowned, peering closer. She’d tried triple rows this time, her tiniest stitches, and she could see where the material strained against them. But the stitches themselves held.
Why?
She considered variables in material and construction, factored in conditions, timing. She could reach only one logical conclusion. Shoving the material from her lap, she gathered her skirts and ran to Miss Pankhurst’s room.
Charlotte and Worth were conferring with the other lady, and all looked up as Lydia skidded to a stop on the wood floor.
“I have a hypothesis,” she declared. “Cotton thread is stronger when it’s wet. If someone would fetch water, I’ll prove it.”
~~~
Worth had never seen Lydia like this—determined, confident, glowing with an idea. He rather thought he might look the same when a new thought beckoned. Her animation only made her more attractive, and that was dangerous.
“Your enthusiasm is noted, dear,” Miss Pankhurst said with a titter. “But I don’t believe we should pursue that line of inquiry.” The look she shot Worth was all apology, as if her prize pug had chewed on his boot.
His first reaction was umbrage. How dare she belittle Lydia’s hypothesis? Such thoughts were meant to be questioned. Lydia had every right to request a test, even though he doubted the results would help his current course of study.
Charlotte seemed to be of the same mind. “On the contrary,” she said. “My brother encourages innovative thinking, isn’t that right, Worth?”
The decision would always have been his. That was one of the stipulations of their employment, that he direct the course of all research. If Miss Pankhurst or Miss Janssen had approached him with the request, he would have considered it and given a reasoned response. Why, then, did every part of him demand that he allow Lydia her moment, with no further consideration, simply because she was Lydia?
“Science is built on innovation,” Worth allowed. “Tell me more about this hypothesis, Miss Villers. What made you suspect that water would improve the strength of the thread? I would have thought the opposite.”
“I was working on attempt number fourteen,” she said, eyes still shining, “a triple row of tight stitches. They did not give.”
“Then perhaps the stitches are the key,” Charlotte said with a look to Worth.
Miss Pankhurst hitched herself higher on her stool. “I have ever said so, my lord. You know this to be true.”
Indeed. The woman’s requested course of study was myopically focused. Perhaps that was why Lydia, as a n
ewcomer, had come across something more original.
Lydia shook her head. “I highly doubt it was the stitching. Triple stitches had failed before. I did not expect any difference even with a shorter length. It was the addition of water.”
Worth frowned. “What did you use for water? I saw none in the room.”
Rosy pink the color of heated helium brightened her face. “It was a limited source.”
Miss Pankhurst pressed a hand to her chest. “I do hope you’re not one to spit on her thread.”
“Certainly not!” Lydia wrinkled her nose. “If you must know, I shed a tear. I’m sure it was only from frustration.”
Her lashes did appear damp, for they were a darker shade than her brows and spikier. She had never been the sort to tear up easily. He could not believe the work could have caused her to cry now.
Had he?
Decision made. He had no right to concern her, and she had every right to test her hypothesis, regardless of the utility.
“Charlotte,” he declared, “ring for Bateman and have him bring as much water as Miss Villers desires.”
Miss Pankhurst clucked her tongue as if she could not condone such an extravagant waste of time, but Charlotte went to the bell pull and summoned his man.
“You want what?” he demanded when Worth ordered him to bring in a bathing tub and fill it with water. He glanced around at the women in the room, then turned to Worth, heavy brown brows down.
“It’s not for my brother, Beast,” Charlotte explained, clearly amused. “Miss Villers has a hypothesis she’d like tested.”
He turned to Lydia, and his brows lowered further. “And she can’t test it herself? Lord Worthington has an appointment.”
One of standing duration, with Bateman himself. Worth had never allowed other matters to interfere before. His life, and Charlotte’s, might depend on it.
“It can be postponed,” he said now. “If you’d be so kind, sir?”
With a nod, his man left.
Miss Pankhurst shivered. “Such a difficult fellow. I don’t know why you keep him on, my lord.”
For good reason. Bateman might not have been trained for service, but he had other skills Worth found indispensable.
Before he could defend the man who had become a friend, however, Charlotte rounded on the woman.
“Mr. Bateman is an asset to this household and my brother’s work,” she informed Miss Pankhurst. “I will not have him denigrated.”
Miss Pankhurst pleated the fabric in her lap. “How commendable that you will so readily defend the fellow, Miss Worthington. It speaks for your heart.”
Charlotte’s cheeks darkened.
Worth stepped between them to hide her from Miss Pankhurst’s inquisitive gaze as she gathered her normal composure. His sister offered him a grateful smile.
“Still, I cannot advise dumping all my thread in water,” Miss Pankhurst maintained. “It could take days to dry out sufficiently. Surely that would affect your schedule, my lord.”
“We have a schedule?” Lydia asked, glancing around.
Worth turned to meet her gaze. “One that brooks no delay, I fear. But I shouldn’t think you’d need to dunk all of the thread.”
Lydia shook her head. “Only a few pieces of the fabric with some stitching attached. We’d only proceed further if the effect proves useful.”
That part was doubtful, but he wanted to see what she’d do either way. She claimed she wanted to study. Natural philosophers must accept that some hypotheses did not end well.
Bateman banged through the door to thump a copper bathing tub on the floor. He straightened and glanced at Charlotte. “Hot or cold?”
“Excellent question,” she said. “Miss Villers?”
“Cold,” Lydia said without hesitation. “But please begin heating some in case that doesn’t work.”
With a nod, he left. Lydia excused herself to fetch her fabric and hurried out.
“Such initiative,” Miss Pankhurst said. “I can see why you hired her, my lord.”
Something more than admiration simmered under the words. Did she know about his history with Lydia? He had made no secret of his admiration a year ago, and a year ago Miss Pankhurst had been serving as companion to another lady. She could easily have seen them together and question his altruism now.
Charlotte gave no indication that she had heard the same tone to the words, for she merely smiled. “In all actuality, I hired Miss Villers,” she said. “And she is every bit as clever as I’d hoped. We have been behind on the fabric task for some time. Perhaps this will give us the advantage.”
Lydia was back before Miss Pankhurst could comment. Her fingers held threaded needles, and fabric trailed in her wake.
“If you would each take two panels and stitch them together,” she said, holding out the needles. “It doesn’t matter how wide or long the stitches. Variety would be appreciated.”
Charlotte and Miss Pankhurst took up a needle. Lydia turned to Worth. “You too, my lord.”
Worth glanced up from the needle she offered in surprise. “I’ve never sewed in my life.”
“High time you learned,” she said. “You never know when a button will come undone, a hem snag, and there you are with no valet to help.”
Had she had to learn that lesson? There’d been rumors her brother was hunting a title for more than the increased prestige it would offer him to be related to a great house. He was punting on the River Tick, with debts mounting. Had circumstances forced her to be her own maid?
“Quickly,” she urged him. “We don’t want Bateman’s efforts to be in vain.”
He took the needle gingerly from her, picked up the fabric and began sewing, mimicking the way Charlotte held the needle and pushing it into the fabric.
He immediately pricked himself.
Sucking his wounded thumb, he glanced up. Lydia and Charlotte had their heads down, needles flying along the silk. Miss Pankhurst was watching him, blue eyes bright. He bent once more to the task.
He managed a credible set of stitches without maiming himself before Bateman reappeared, bucket of water in each grip. He dumped them into the bathing tub.
“That enough?” he asked Lydia.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, knotting off the thread. She snipped it from the fabric, then stuck her needle in Miss Pankhurst’s pincushion and handed the plump ball around for the others to do the same. Setting aside the cushion, she gathered up the fabric pieces from each of them, then dumped all but one of them into the water and pushed them down.
“Bateman,” she said, and he stood taller. “I suspect you’re the strongest among us. Would you concur, my lord?”
Vanity ordered him to claim otherwise, but he knew she was right. “Yes.”
Bateman shot him an amused look. He’d make him work the next time they sparred together.
“If you would be so kind,” she said to his manservant, “take each piece and attempt to rip it apart at the seams, starting with this one.” She handed him the dry piece. By the neat, orderly stitches in triple rows, Worth assumed it was her own.
Bateman tore it apart without so much as a ripple of muscle.
Charlotte gasped. Miss Pankhurst tutted as if she knew Lydia’s stitches wouldn’t survive such a test. Worth was more interested in how the wetted stitches would fare.
Bateman chose a wet piece next, and Worth recognized his own ungainly stitches. They popped like dried corn under the man’s hold.
Charlotte’s was next. Worth knew because her head came up, and she leaned forward eagerly. Bateman had to work at her more-accomplished stitches, sweat trickling down one side of his face, but her piece finally gave. He offered her a commiserating smile before turning to the last piece, the one Miss Pankhurst had sewn, and yanking hard.
It didn’t budge.
He tried again, until muscle stood out like cords on his neck. Still Miss Pankhurst’s stitches held.
“Imagine that,” she said. “And it wasn’t even my best
work.”
“You see?” Lydia turned to the others as Bateman dropped the fabric back into the water. “It worked. There is your answer, my lord. If you want the stitches to remain tight, you must keep the cotton thread wet.”
It was an intriguing discovery. She had every right to be pleased. She’d developed a hypothesis, seen it tested. Normally he would have called for repeated testing, under different conditions. Her tear would have been composed of more than water. What additions to the liquid they had used would improve the strength? Which would lessen it?
Unfortunately, time was tight, and he could not afford to spend any more of it on a line of questioning that could have little bearing on his plans.
“Thank you, Miss Villers,” he said. “I will take it under advisement.”
She blinked. “Under advisement? What more proof do you need?”
“None,” he assured her. “Your hypothesis seems sound. Unfortunately, the application I have in mind cannot be kept wet.”
“Oh.” Miss Pankhurst deflated. “Pity. And here I thought we’d found something useful.”
“Let me understand,” Lydia said, and there was a tone in her voice he hadn’t heard before. “You went through with all this knowing it had no possible use to you?”
He had meant it as a compliment to her ingenuity, a way to reward her efforts. Every natural philosopher had a right to test, to advance. And he had wondered whether she would exhibit a less-than-logical response should the effort prove fruitless.
Now he was aware of a distinct sinking feeling, as if the floor was at a greater incline than usual. It appeared he had been wrong, a rarity to which he still could not accustom himself.
Worse? Lydia knew it.
Chapter Four
Lydia’s hands were shaking as she gathered up the needles and thread. She’d had jealous young ladies spill punch on her gown more than once, had a gentleman step on her hem and rip the flounce, and heard dowagers complain about her forward nature or her brother’s financial woes. But of all the unkind things people had done to her over the years, this was the worst. He’d placated her, treating her like a well-meaning child. She expected better.