A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

  Pleasure collapsed, and Violet coughed to cover the terse laugh, schooling her expression. Memories crawled under her skin, and she inhaled deeply. During her marriage, Violet had struggled to breathe, no matter how many windows she opened or how loosely she tied her corset strings.

  “I thought so once. When Daniel courted me, he knew of my passion for chemistry and promised not to stand in the way of my discoveries. My parents were hesitant to approve, but I insisted. He was so steady and sensible, while I spent so much time in my head. I thought he could keep me from floating away. Only . . .” Violet broke off, pulling the soothing scent of chemicals and wood polish into her lungs.

  She’d been so lonely at her comeout. None of the other girls were interested in chemistry or physics, and none of the callow young men could be bothered to speak on the topics that interested her. While her peers drank and flirted, Violet had stood to the side, pretending interest in gossip and fashion—until she met Daniel.

  How to explain without placing blame?

  “Neither of us understood how much my duties as a wife would crowd out my work as a scientist. Once we were married, I put my theories aside to restore order to a household too long without a mistress. Daniel’s second wife was a leading light in society. I believe he imagined I would follow her. So did I. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for applying science to domestic arts dashed both our hopes.”

  All the members of Athena’s Retreat told similar stories, regardless of their class or wealth. Violet’s only surprise was how many of them were brave enough, or desperate enough, to seek her help.

  “I couldn’t set up an experiment if I had to attend a ball. I don’t have room in my brain for more than one project,” she explained. “One ball became ten. Two charity memberships became twenty. Then there was the estate. After two years of marriage, my husband became ill and needed my care.”

  Apoplexy had drained Daniel of his powerful intellect, and the decline had been difficult to watch. It left him querulous and childlike, demanding her full attention and resenting her work. The relief she’d felt at leaving Daniel’s company for the solace of her theories was outweighed by the guilt that plagued her after he died.

  “I would stay awake once everyone else had fallen asleep and try to carve out an hour or two to work on my formulas.”

  The distance between what Violet and Daniel believed marriage meant had taken time to sink in. Once it had, Violet spent her energy on bridging the divide instead of changing her expectations—or endeavoring to change Daniel’s.

  If she’d tried harder, could she have had everything?

  “Other women with far more talent and potential do the same thing every day,” she said. “They take care of everyone around them first, setting their heart’s desires aside to make someone else’s dreams come to life. I created Athena’s Retreat for them. A place of respite from the outside world for a few hours.”

  Arthur cocked a brow at her story. “But why the deception? The work you do here is far more impressive than anything I’ve read in the popular press. Why not bring it into the open?”

  “Show our work to the world? We cannot even study alongside men at university. We cannot own property. We cannot vote. Do you think men will allow us to outshine them with our scientific discoveries? Or let us threaten their beliefs?” Her voice rose with every word, jarring and out of place. Violet clamped her mouth shut, letting go of a slow exhalation through her nose.

  “If you weren’t a lady, I might think that made you angry,” Arthur said with gentle irony.

  The club’s event brought Violet’s insecurities to the fore. Daniel’s ghost had hovered too close for comfort these last few months.

  “A woman’s anger is warped, petty, and unattractive to anyone unfortunate enough to witness it.” When Violet spoke Daniel’s criticism aloud, it sounded less incisive and more small-minded than she’d remembered.

  “A man is allowed anger because the larger emotions are in his nature,” she continued. “His anger is righteous or pure. When a male god is in a rage, mountains appear. If a goddess is cross, she turns a man into a tulip or her rival into a cow.”

  “I’ve never considered a woman’s stronger emotions in that light.” Arthur paused. “Does that mean if I make you angry, you’ll turn me into a bull?”

  Was he teasing her? A bit giddy, she took a risk.

  “It means if you make me angry, I will turn you into a steer.” Violet had no idea what expression she wore, but whatever Arthur saw in her face was enough to make this unflappable man pale. In the next moment, when it appeared, his smile was devastating enough to set off an explosion.

  * * *

  THE MUTED THUD from somewhere outside was not an explosion, but Arthur’s body reacted before his thoughts could catch up, and he raced down the hall. He staggered to a halt when a door flew open and a tiny figure stumbled into the hallway.

  In his shock, a startled curse slipped out. The diminutive woman flinched.

  “I beg your pardon, miss. Er, madam, er . . .” Arthur tried to ascertain her age and status, but that feat was beyond him.

  “It’s Pettigrew. Mrs. Caroline Pettigrew. And you don’t have to beg my pardon. You said exactly what I was thinking,” the woman replied in a trembling voice.

  It took a moment for his heart to stop pounding and the fear to leave him. He examined the person before him until he calmed down.

  Mrs. Pettigrew was small—smaller than Letty Fenley even. She wore a long canvas apron over her full skirts and sensible, thick-soled shoes peeked out from beneath her dress.

  “Good heavens, Caroline!” Violet came running up behind Arthur, slightly out of breath. “Whatever hap—Oh. Oh dear.”

  Violet opened and closed her mouth, groping for words.

  What was there to say?

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s entire self was spattered in pink. An alarming, violent shade of pink, which Arthur was confident had never occurred in nature.

  “Lady Greycliff, I am sorry. I don’t . . .” Mrs. Pettigrew’s hands fluttered with distress.

  While Violet murmured something calming, Arthur took the opportunity to move past the woman and peer into the room. On a large table stood a cupboardful of dishes, champagne glasses, punch bowls, serving platters, and tea services. The rest of the room was bare, walls covered in whitewash.

  Except for the huge zigzag lines of pink paint.

  There were pink streaks on the ceiling, the floor, the ivory curtains, and, most unfortunately, all over the pretty white china cups and dishes.

  Violet and Mrs. Pettigrew joined him and surveyed the damage together.

  Mrs. Pettigrew moaned. “I wanted to test the new aerosol delivery system.”

  “Aerosol delivery system? What is that?” Arthur asked.

  “Caroline has been working on the concept of an aerosol pump similar to the propellant in the canisters the Omnis use. I’ve asked her to help me.” Violet took in the vast swaths of paint. “Why . . . why pink?”

  “Since you haven’t finished your antidote and I needed to experiment with a liquid, I filled my canister with leftover paint from the upstairs cupboard. Miss Fenley mentioned the club’s china services showed signs of wear and we hadn’t the funds to buy new. I meant to spray the rim of that teacup there as an initial experiment.” Mrs. Pettigrew pointed to a lone teacup set apart from the other dishes.

  “I had just pressed the nozzle when an enormous spider—as big as my fist—jumped from a tower of teacups onto my shoulder. I tried to shoo it off. In my panic, I threw the canister at it. The nozzle stuck, then the canister fell to the floor and rolled all over.” She gestured to the shambles of the room as an illustration of what had followed.

  Arthur looked about the chamber. He saw no sign of such a beast. Big as her fist? Was she exaggerating, or lying for a more sinister purpose?

  “This can’t
be all the dishes and cups belonging to the club,” Violet said. Her face fell when Mrs. Pettigrew nodded. “Oh. Drat.”

  “You always tell us, ‘To every dark cloud there is a silver lining,’” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “It must be here somewhere. Some silver amidst the pink.” She hung her head, setting one pink-gloved hand to her pink-lipped mouth in shame.

  Violet examined the rows of glasses and stacks of plates, now streaked and spattered with the paint.

  “It was stupid of me to do this,” Mrs. Pettigrew moaned. “I’ve ruined the Evening of Information and Invigoration.”

  Head snapping up, eyes ablaze, Violet took Mrs. Pettigrew’s hands in hers. “Do you remember the vow we took as members? We promised never to call ourselves ‘stupid.’ You are the opposite of stupid. You are brilliant. Your invention works—it might not be designed to ward off an enormous spider, but it works.”

  At Violet’s words, Mrs. Pettigrew transformed from despairing to elated. “It does work, doesn’t it? The problem before was the pressure-to-solvent ratio.”

  The disaster surrounding them melted away as the women chattered like magpies, about sulfates and pressure and solvents and springs. They leaped to examine the path of the paint, and within seconds, Violet was also covered in the pink mixture.

  “As you can see,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, “the paint carried a good three feet from where it began, and out to a width of seven feet.”

  “Amazing,” cheered Violet. “Caroline, you have outdone yourself.”

  Arthur interrupted the conversation with a more pressing question. “Who else have you told about this invention?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s movements stilled as she examined the splotches of paint on her apron. “I suppose . . . Well, no one other than Lady Greycliff.”

  Each word dropped like a brittle stick, and Mrs. Pettigrew shrank in on herself. Arthur squinted at the woman with mistrust. Why would she cower over such a simple question? A guilty conscience? Could coincidence alone account for the fact that the Omnis had developed a canister that emitted gas from a nozzle as well? And what was this nonsense about a giant spider?

  “You invented this on your own? Without speaking to anyone?” Arthur didn’t bother to cover his disbelief.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s hands twisted imaginary tools as her shoulders rose in discomfort. “I have what Mr. Pettigrew calls an ‘unquiet mind.’ I get an idea in my head, and the urge to create consumes me until I finish it, whether I know what the result will be or not.” The woman gazed at Violet. “There is no one outside of the club with whom I can speak. Mr. Pettigrew worked hard to secure his clerkship. If the bank managers find out about my tinkering, they might assume he’s reaching above his station. He’s warned me not to make any wild claims, to keep to myself and not to draw any attention to my projects.”

  She sighed. “What will he say when I come home covered in pink? What will the upstairs neighbors say? I’ve dropped hints that I go out to help with charitable works. What possible explanation could there be for . . . Is it in my hair as well?” Mrs. Pettigrew touched her cap, pink lashes fluttering with distress.

  Violet pinched the bridge of her nose, then shook her head and lifted her shoulders. “We will use china from Beacon House. Due to a few unfortunate incidents of my own, we don’t have any matching sets large enough for the Evening of Edification. Let’s hope no one will notice if we mix patterns. Everything will work out for the best.”

  In a telling gesture, Violet’s head ducked as she spoke, as if expecting someone to contradict her as she took command, bracing herself for a blow.

  Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for applying science to domestic arts dashed both our hopes.

  We promised never to call ourselves ‘stupid.’

  Embarrassed by the disconcerting tightness in his chest, Arthur strode to the table of dishes and made a show of examining them. What did he care if their event was ruined? A ridiculous waste of time and added work on his part.

  He opened his mouth to tell them so, then peered over at Violet. “It is a very bright color. However, I find it appealing.”

  She turned to regard him with surprise.

  Did sympathy prod him to speak? No, it was common sense. If she was worried about the Evening of Eduwhowhatsit, she’d have less time to work on the antidote. The faster she worked, the quicker he could quit her household.

  Addressing Mrs. Pettigrew, he gestured to a dish with pink stripes down the center. “What if you fixed the nozzle and sprayed the entire plate with the paint? Or created new patterns? The result might be . . . innovative.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew cocked her head. “I suppose if I narrowed the opening and adjusted the propellant, I could better control the flow of paint. It’s worth a try. What do you think, Lady Greycliff?”

  Although she was answering Mrs. Pettigrew, Violet stared at Arthur when she spoke. “It’s a marvelous, thoughtful idea.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He mistrusted her expression. Was it gratitude? This had been a gesture of expediency, not friendship. “You are needed here. I will call for Winthram to go over the damages with me instead.”

  Despite his clipped tone, Violet continued to beam as he took his leave, a wide smile lighting her face. Arthur fought its appeal.

  He’d seen plenty of smiles before, and Violet’s was simply one of many.

  As he left the room, the lie followed on his heels.

  5

  THE DOORMAN HAD better things to do than watch Arthur study the burnt remains of the second-floor room where the explosion had occurred. He didn’t say so, of course. Too well trained to comment on the proceedings, Winthram communicated his dissatisfaction by shifting his weight from side to side and puffing through pursed lips. His thick brows were many shades darker than the auburn hair pomaded back from his forehead, drawing attention to his bright blue eyes. Because he had no sideburns nor a hint of a beard, the few freckles splattered across the thin bridge of his nose stood out, the splayed constellation giving his face a mischievous air, at odds with his ill-concealed antagonism.

  Arthur ignored him for the moment. Sitting on his haunches, he tried studying the undulating patterns of soot across the walls, but his thoughts kept circling back to Violet. Unlike the evidence of the explosion before him, some damage leaves no outward trace.

  A lady doesn’t get angry.

  What must it be like to swallow one’s rage, year after year? Did it resemble the pain of living with unspoken grief and guilt?

  Arthur took hold of himself. Best to abandon such questions. He had no business trying to peer behind the formidable wall of relentless good humor Violet had maintained over the years. If he were to turn his attention toward a mystery, it should be the question of who set off the bomb. Quashing a surge of sympathy, he ran a finger through the rubble.

  “Any number of chemicals are stored in here. One or two might have fallen from a wobbly shelf,” the doorman opined.

  “You think this explosion was accidental?” Arthur asked, sniffing at a chunk of plaster.

  The young man threw his shoulders back and boasted, “I know who comes in and out of the club each night, sir. No one in this club didn’t belong. The ladies would never do anything to hurt Lady Greycliff.”

  Arthur rose and walked out of the laboratory into the hallway. “This part of the building shares a wall with Beacon House, does it not?”

  Winthram tucked his chin in a surly nod.

  Knocking on the wall opposite the lab, Arthur’s knuckles came away smudged with blackened whitewash. “Which room lies on the other side of this wall?”

  Comprehension dawned on Winthram’s face. On the other side of the wall, not two feet from the explosion site, lay Violet’s bedchamber.

  Violet’s bedchamber.

  The images those two words conjured comprised a bomb of their own.

  It would be far easier to keep h
is distance if the woman weren’t so damn compelling. Arthur rubbed his face, summoning attention back from his nether regions and onto the problem at hand.

  “But . . . but who would want to hurt Lady Greycliff?” The doorman shook his head. “Nay. It doesn’t make sense.”

  The business of sorting out motives for inflicting cruelty and pain made Arthur tired. Years of seeing people as objects—as weapons—had drained him. Would any humanity remain by the time he found a home? Did he even remember how to talk to another soul on a subject other than their likelihood of being murdered? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d tried to make a friend.

  No matter. Time enough to contemplate his unsuitability for society after he finished this job.

  “Who would want to hurt Lady Greycliff?” Walking toward the doorman, Arthur allowed a touch of menace to show on his face. “Someone with secrets in their past. Who in this club might have something to hide?”

  At Arthur’s approach, Winthram widened his legs and stuck out his jaw in a pugnacious flourish. Good show, but Arthur smelled fear.

  “This has nowt to do wi’ me,” Winthram insisted in his high-pitched voice, tossing his head as that fear peeled away the sharp point of his consonants, revealing a touch of the north. A thatch of auburn hair slipped over one eye at the gesture, no doubt nudged by a duplicitous cowlick that wouldn’t be tamed despite the copious application of pomade.

  “But you’ve been to a meeting or two of the Chartists, haven’t you? If I asked around, would anyone have seen you at an Omnium Democratia meeting?” Arthur asked the questions as he backed Winthram against the dirty wall.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Winthram’s temple, and his hands clenched shut. “That was ages ago. I went to see m’ brother. I don’t have anything to do with anyone from home anymore. I would never—”

  “Far as I can figure, that bomb was timed to go off when Lady Greycliff was in her bath. By the grace of God, something went wrong. Otherwise, she would be in pieces right now,” Arthur said. “Your brother is Adam Winters, is he not?”