Lady Elizabeth's Comet

by Sheila Simonson

  "Yes, indeed." Pink with pleasure, she stood tiptoe and kissed my betrothed handsomely on the cheek. "And the bride, too. My dear Lady Elizabeth..."

  "What's all the pother?" Jean's voice rang shrill.

  I composed myself hastily and watched as she came down the curved stairwell. For a moment, no one spoke, not even Maggie.

  I cleared my throat. "Jean, darling..."

  Clanross had returned to the newell and stood looking up at her. "I'm glad you've come down, Jean." His manner was friendly. Avuncular? Not quite, but then he wasn't her uncle. "Elizabeth has promised to wed me. Will you wish us happy?"

  Jean stopped on the last step. She had gone pale and her jaw was set. I couldn't stand it. I crossed to the stairs myself and extended my hand to her. "Jeanie..."

  Standing on the step she was level with me. Our eyes locked. She licked her lips as if they were dry and took a long breath. "I wish you very happy." She took my hand. Hers was cold. She glanced over at Clanross, blinking, then, incredibly, she smiled at him, a blazing, beautiful grin. "If you don't mind, Clanross, I'll congratulate Elizabeth."

  I hugged her to me fiercely. My little sister was growing up.

  "And only fancy, Jean, we're to be bridesmaids!" Maggie shrieked, bouncing to her twin.

  "Really?" Jean pulled away from me. "Truly, Liz?"

  I nodded.

  An expression of extreme craft crossed her flushed features. "May we put up our hair?"

  "Oh, Jean...oh, dear. Yes."

  She let out a whoop and dragged Maggie in a victory dance to the withdrawing room door from which Alice, looking sleepy, was just emerging.

  That called for another round of explanations. Drawn by the pandemonium, Agnew emerged from the pantry and cook from the kitchen. The parlourmaid and Dobbins followed, and Clanross and I found ourselves the center of a battery of congratulations. I don't believe the commotion carried to the stables--otherwise Jem and Harris and the stableboys would have joined the circus, too.

  Freed of our now steaming outer garments, we gained the withdrawing room, and Agnew and cook went off to concoct a splendid tea.

  There was no chance for quiet meditation. Maggie and Jean chattered like daws. I believe they were planning their gowns. Alice, abetted by Miss Bluestone, still emitted little shrieks of delight. I was sitting by Clanross. When I caught my breath, I stole a glance at him. He was watching the lot with a very masculine expression of baffled amusement.

  I jabbed his arm. "Stop gloating."

  He met my eyes. "I'm entitled to a moment of gloat. Are you happy, Elizabeth?"

  "Yes. It would do your amour propre no good to know how much. What is the mysterious article you're meant to be pleased with?"

  His eyes gleamed and his voice cut through the hubbub. "Miss Bluestone, show Elizabeth my article."

  "Your article?" I took the journal, bewildered.

  "Certainly. And I particularly want you to notice...no, not there, clunch." He took it impatiently and riffled through to the end. "There."

  I looked. The article was signed. 'Thos. Conway, Lincs.' in dark type. I felt my cheek flame.

  Clanross said, dulcet, "As you see, at least one member of the family is willing to take the blame for his work."

  "But, Tom..."

  "No buts. In future I'll expect you to sign all articles with your full name. None of this cowardly business of initials."

  "You didn't use your title."

  "In the Republic of Letters?"

  I had to smile. "My full name. Elizabeth Alexandrina Jane Maria?"

  "Elizabeth Conway will do. How fortunate you won't have to change it."

  I sighed. "I've always yearned for a hyphen--like Willoughby."

  "Conway-Conway?" Miss Bluestone had been listening to our banter and now she frowned, puzzled. "Would that not sound a trifle odd, my lady?"

  Clanross's eyes lit. "Like a firm of furniture removers."

  "Or the Brighton coach?" We dissolved into remembered laughter.

  Miss Bluestone looked at us with fond incomprehension.

  I gave Clanross my hand. "I promise to sign my name in future, Tom. How comfortable it is to know you don't object."

  "Object!" His eyes darkened. "I think you know my feelings." He kept my hand in his warm clasp.

  I heaved a luxurious sigh. "I'll be spoilt from too much approval. Do you think you could toss a word of criticism my way now and then--just to keep things in proportion?"

  "Possibly, my dear wasp."

  "Tom!" I jerked my hand away.

  He grinned.

  My mind took a leap backward. "Good God, let me look at this." I fumbled with the thick paper of the journal, which was called Engineers' Miscellany. "When did you write it?"

  "This spring. I had time on my hands, if you recall."

  I recalled. Not surprisingly, considering the work he had engaged in for Dunarvon, the article dealt with safety in coal mines and detailed the virtues of a type of steam-driven air pump. I meant to skim rapidly, but as is usual with me, I was soon absorbed.

  Much of the general statistical material was a closed book, but the description of the theory of the pump rested on Boyle's work and something of M. Lavoisier's. How strange to think of air as having composition, of coming in different varieties, like plants or minerals. Fascinating. The practical details of the pump itself I found baffling. I have no education in mechanical devices at all. What a pity Papa had discouraged me from grinding my own lenses.

  I looked up at last to find Clanross regarding me with amusement. "Does it work?" I asked.

  "It worked in Lancashire. Join us, Elizabeth."

  I peeked at the article longingly. "Will they still need their canaries?"

  "The miners? To be sure." He removed the journal deftly from my grasp. "What is a miner without a canary?"

  I reached for the article. "I was just beginning to understand it, Tom."

  "Wonderful. I may say the same of your piece. We can spend the next sixmonth clarifying our meanings for each other. Just now I think you should address the matter at hand."

  I cocked my head, inquiring.

  "Our marriage, my dear. When?"

  "Tomorrow?"

  He flushed, then affected exaggerated shock. "What about the banns?"

  "You could send for a Special License," Alice offered.

  We both started. We had forgot her presence.

  "The Archbishop of Canterbury," she said helpfully. "It's done all the time."

  I looked round the circle of faces. Jean and Maggie smiled at me, their eyes bright with interest.

  "An excellent notion," Miss Bluestone uttered. "But send to York, my lord. Much closer."

  So we did.

  About the Author

  I was born in Montana and raised in eastern Oregon, graduated from the University of Washington, and have advanced degrees in English and history. I taught for many years at Clark College before retiring to write full-time. My nine published novels include four Regencies and five mysteries. I am collaborating with my friend Sarah Webb on a YA fantasy series set in Iron Age Ireland, but I've just sold a new mystery, Buffalo Bill's Defunct, to Perseverance Press, and might write another Regency if the spirit moved me. Uncial Press is reissuing my four Regencies. I've been married many years to a terrific man who is also a fine photographer and a computer genius. My son, whose company I enjoy, has a Rhodesian Ridgeback, Mugabe, who is the model for Towser in Buffalo Bill's Defunct. I like to read, cook, and travel. I've taught fiction writing, science fiction, and Irish history as well as more ordinary classes and miss teaching because I had great students. Growing up with four brothers and a sister has probably had more impact on my writing than any other life experience. I like their company, too.

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