by Sally Orr
“Yes, I will visit her as soon as I can. In my many years assisting my father, there is no place we have landed that has shown us such excellent hospitality under awkward circumstances.” She chuckled. “Many people on the ground chase aeronauts away with pitch forks, fearing they are monsters from the skies. Lord Boyce and I were fortunate, indeed, to land near such a hospitable household.”
Mr. Buxton stared lovingly at his wife. “I have learned from my mother that, during your visit, Lydia did everything within her means to make you comfortable and was an excellent hostess.”
Lydia beamed and squeezed his arm. “Oh, thank you. Your praise means the world to me.” She turned to Eve. “Such happy times. We all look forward to your return.”
When the couple finished with their felicitations and started for the door, more people stepped forward from the audience to offer their congratulations. Many of these stayed long enough to engage her in scientific discussion, even, to her amazement, members of the Royal Institute.
Her father joined her in some of these conversations, and he too spent the remainder of the afternoon in the pleasant exchange of scientific ideas with serious, knowledgeable gentlemen.
By the time they stepped outside onto Albemarle Street, all of her father’s previous misgivings about her presentation had flown. He had gained the promise of monetary support from a number of the institute’s subscribers. Moreover, several ladies and gentlemen had congratulated him as a progressive man for educating his daughter. As a result, a great number of the institute’s female patrons thanked him personally, and he may have earned even more promises of research funds from the ladies than the gentlemen. His earlier reasons for opposing her speech, and his harsh words, he now seemed to have forgotten entirely.
Up ahead, they spied the Buxtons waiting for their carriage to be brought around.
As they approached the couple, Eve’s father and Lydia exchanged pleasantries for the first time.
Mr. Buxton leaned toward Eve and spoke in a low voice, close to her ear. “Remember my offer in regard to the press. Any hint of trouble over your presentation must be nipped in the bud immediately. Otherwise, it could quickly become blown out of proportion and your name sullied. Please, do not hesitate to seek my assistance. Promise me?”
Twenty
Had Parker stepped aside because he believed she could give a better scientific speech? Had his courage failed him? Had he planned for her to speak before yesterday? The next morning, Eve lingered for hours and hours in the front parlor drinking strong black tea with a light odor of moorland grasses. Her thoughts seemed fixed on Parker’s selfless act. He stood before an audience, confident in his well-practiced abilities to impress them, his dream almost within reach, and eagerly anticipating the accolades. Then he sacrificed it all for her. The precise, logical reason for him stepping down escaped her, but he had appeared unconcerned and sincere when he had taken her hand. She had then presented her data.
Warm rays of sunlight dazzled in through the small window, while a chorus of songbirds serenaded her. She laughed and joined them. “Twiddle de dee, twiddle de do.” Whatever her future had in store, her victory yesterday would lighten her heart forever. In times of trouble or stress ahead, she had this one great moment to remember when her efforts mattered.
Regardless of her inability to comprehend Parker’s exact motive for stepping aside, she must find him today and fully express her gratitude. She planned to call at Sutcliffe house, seek a private word with his lordship, followed by the communication of her sincere thanks. All, of course, delivered without revealing any hints that would betray her unspoken love or her despair with the thought of their eventual estrangement. Her throat closed, so she sipped some more hot tea. Attempting to formulate a pleasant opening for their conversation, she thought about asking him to join her sometime for a future balloon flight, but she had no confidence he would agree.
Eager to be on her way, she asked her housekeeper to assume the role of chaperone. Her housekeeper grudgingly agreed. By the time they were ready to set off for Portland Place, Eve had thought of a serious variable. What if her presence at the Royal Institute that day had forced Parker to step forward with his offer to speak? His generous act of stepping aside merely that of a gentleman showing deference to a lady. He might, even now, harbor resentment or anger over her attendance that afternoon—maybe even blame her for not achieving his goal. Eve hooked her arm around her housekeeper’s for comfort. Surely Parker would not be angry with her?
Once the duo were admitted into the great library at Sutcliffe house, Eve and her housekeeper were announced to the marquess. They curtsied in unison.
Boyce’s father stepped from behind a massive mahogany desk and eagerly strode forward to greet them, his green eyes alight. “Please come in, my dear,” he said, turning to his butler. “See that Miss Mountfloy’s companion is given tea and perhaps Cook still has a few of Sutcliffe house’s famous apple cakes.”
Her housekeeper followed the butler out of the room.
The marquess held his arm out toward two gold jacquard sofas in front of massive, arched Palladian windows. The older man exhibited Boyce’s simple yet elegant style in dress. Clothed in dark blue superfine, his only hint of luxury beyond the common means was his cream silk waistcoat and a large intaglio ring of cut citrine surrounded by diamonds.
Eve’s stomach performed somersaults. Without knowing the marquess’s opinion about Boyce’s gesture at the Royal Institute, she didn’t know if he supported his son’s action in bringing her forward or if he vehemently opposed it. Best to get this interview over with. “I’ve come to see Lord Boyce. I’d like to thank him for his generosity yesterday.” She swallowed awkwardly. “Thank him for allowing me to present the parhelia data, I mean. Thank him for his kindness.”
“I am sorry you have taken the trouble to journey all the way up here to Sutcliffe house. Lord Boyce is not residing here at the present. He packed his portmanteau and left home before I returned from the Royal Institute. I imagine he’s living with Mr. George Drexel, a close friend of his. Drexel’s home has provided many a temporary refuge for Boyce when his older brothers go on a binge of tease the youngest.” He grinned, but the effect was very unlike his son’s open, friendly expression.
“I am sorry to hear that his lordship is not at home, since you are right, we traveled far this afternoon.” Her anxieties lessened. She saw no evidence of the marquess’s disapproval of her, or his son’s, behavior at the Royal Institute. “Is Mr. Drexel’s house nearby? Perhaps I might get directions. I really must thank him for his generosity in allowing me to give the parhelia presentation.”
The marquess leaned forward. “Allow me to thank you, my dear. I believe your presence in the audience caused my son to step down and encourage you to give the speech. I cannot thank you enough for being there.”
“Pardon?” She did not fully understand him. Did the marquess believe Parker’s presentation would have failed and embarrassed the family once again?
“While I do not begrudge my son’s efforts to make a name for himself, I find his previous motivations similar to many of his other endeavors: bold-faced hunger for attention. In this case, by stepping aside and giving you the chance to benefit, he showed evidence of newfound maturity.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. His actions are not bold-faced. The word I’d use is…earnest. He only wants to regain your respect after the cut and…” She wrung her hands, unsure of how the marquess felt about his cut. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” The marquess sighed and gazed up at the ceiling, painted to resemble a blue sky with gilt cherubs peeking out from behind puffy clouds. “Funny, at the time, I never realized how seriously he took it. I was angry, of course, but that is no excuse.”
She smiled at him. “Since the cut, his only goal is to impress you. Everything he does is to achieve that. His misfortune is that with each of
his failures, his goal appears farther away.”
The marquess nodded in understanding. “You are wise beyond your years, my dear. In the last week or two, I have come to realize, I am the one who let him down. My actions, even if created in a moment of anger, were unforgivable. Do you have regrets in your young life? My advice is to avoid creating regrets by all possible means. They lead to behavior with irreversible consequences. In Boyce’s situation, his need for repeated approval and a life of less-than-humble character. In my case, not recognizing the damage from my cut and not immediately seeking forgiveness. I never fully understood this until his speech at the priory. Today, we are two stubborn men, each wanting the other to capitulate and apologize first. Men! Your scientific mind must have realized we are creatures consumed by masculine pride, indeed.”
Blushing, she kept her gaze on her yellow skirt and the green sash embroidered with blush-colored roses. She remembered her father’s pride in hiding his blindness from everyone, and Charles Henry’s pride in assuming they would fall in love upon the birth of their firstborn. “I don’t always understand gentlemen, I must admit.”
“Well, I would greatly appreciate if you would go and smooth the waters, urge him to return to his family. I fear my son is hurting, Miss Mountfloy, and I want him home. I need a chance to make amends.”
After promising to do what she could to bring about reconciliation between father and son, she said her farewells to the marquess. Eve and her housekeeper then walked at least a mile to the Drexel town house close to the river. The home’s owner, Michael Drexel, Esq., was one of England’s greatest engineers, so it wasn’t difficult to pick out Drexel’s home from amongst the row of identical town houses. The home in the center of the northern block had a baffling iron structure just under the first-floor window, likely an engineering project for the transfer of coal or some other commodity to the cellar.
The Drexel’s housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, greeted Eve and her chaperone. The two housekeepers quickly recognized each other as potential best friends, with similar stories to tell. So once Eve was announced to his lordship in the front parlor, the two women scurried downstairs for tea, both chatting away at the same time.
Eve examined the dark parlor and discovered a large room with only one window facing the street. The day was a gray one, and very little light penetrated into the back by the sofa and chairs. She stepped gingerly around numerous models of mechanical contraptions to reach a chair by the fire.
Parker lay on an upholstered straight-back sofa with toupie legs. Surrounding the sofa were two comfortable bergère tub chairs and several canterburies filled to the brim with papers. Another chair close to the fire had a built-in wooden desktop pivoted upward and out of the way.
During this time, Parker remained silent, reclining on the sofa, one leg draped over an arm.
Every item around her was so extraordinarily different from what she had ever seen before. Curiosity compelled her to spend several minutes examining the odd wooden models and strange bits of iron. Then she sat in one of the tub chairs. “Greetings.”
Without taking his eyes off the ceiling, he waved his arm and then dropped it to his side.
She waited, hoping he would begin the conversation first.
He remained silent. Some sense of decorum must have finally overwhelmed him, because he slowly sat straight and greeted her formally with a slight bow of his head. “Greetings to you too.”
With his words, she caught the scent of an unidentified alcohol beverage coming from his direction.
Wearing a hard countenance marked by a tense jaw and narrowed eyes, he turned to stare at the fire.
After his look of contempt, she no longer doubted his anger. Her courage failed her entirely and without knowing precisely how to deliver her thanks, she played it safe and started a neutral conversation. “What are you thinking about when you stare into the fire?”
* * *
Did he have to be polite to the female responsible for all of his troubles? Boyce kept his stare fixed on the glowing coals. Perhaps he should forcibly march her out of the room this second. “No, no, not thinking, thinking got me into trouble. Today, I’m only feeling underrated feelings. You should try them someday.” He felt marginally better. His insult directed toward the author of his downfall gave him a manly jolt of satisfaction. “Thinking is your job, and me? No doubt my future will be defined by today’s headlines about my failure to deliver a learned speech and your victorious rendition. I can hear the mockery at my club even now. I feel just like our butterfly—dead. So let the soft breeze take me…” He swallowed. “Let the soft breeze lift my corpse up to the inky vaults”—he shouted—“of heaven.”
She did not respond.
“Struck dumb, my dear aeronaut?”
Her mouth opened, but ready words failed to come.
He tore his gaze away from her stricken expression and those all-too-kissable lips. If she hadn’t been in that audience at the Royal Institute, his future would have been very different indeed. About now, he’d be the toast of London, invited to all of the best parties with the prettiest debutantes all paying attention to him. “You’re obviously…struck dumb. Me too. Best to speak your mind and be on your way. The pleasure of your company has grown thin.” He waved his arm toward the door, then scooted forward on the sofa in preparation to stand.
She blurted out, “I have come to thank you.”
He froze before falling back onto the sofa’s cushions. Damn the woman, not now. He didn’t want to be forced into being grateful or honorable in accepting her thanks. He wanted her gone, so he could spend his day wallowing in the luxury of self-pity.
“I came to thank you for your kindness yesterday afternoon, allowing me to stand before the Royal Institute and communicate our results.”
“Your results,” he snapped. He paused, then shook his head to clear it of the lingering brandy. “I was perfectly serious when I asked you to leave. I’m not fit to be entertaining ladies.” His rudeness left a sour, metallic taste in his mouth.
She gulped loudly. A single tear escaped her eye. She jumped up and fetched her pelisse. “Perhaps we can discuss this another time.”
“No, no, no other time. Stay away. I don’t need to be reminded of…failure.” He locked his gaze on the fire. “Farewell.” He then tried to convince himself never seeing her again would be the best for both of them.
She stumbled toward the door and then reached for the gleaming brass pull. The ornate lock fixed her attention. “A lock,” she said in a low voice and then remained unmoving for a minute or two. She finally slid the brass bar into position with a loud clunk, locking the door. Draping her pelisse on the back of a tub chair, she returned boldly to sit next to him on the sofa.
In his current mood, all he wanted was her absence. He caught her scent of some happy flower, and his heartbeat escalated. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I apologize, didn’t give you a chance to say your thanks. Well, you are very welcome.” He nodded. “Pleased to assist you and all that flummery. Now leave.” He offered his hand.
She straightened, watching him every second, but failed to take his offered hand.
“Miss Aeronaut, now that we have exchanged the appropriate thanks, our association is at an end. Please leave me in peace.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Please.”
Their glances held.
“Please,” he repeated in a softer tone, taking his seat again on the sofa. This was one of those days when acting like a proper gentleman proved to be a bear.
She bit her lower lip and her pupils remained black, unfathomable pools.
“Are you really going to wed the toadeating, namby-pamby fool?” He focused on the fire and shuddered. “Even though you are ignorant of men, I expected you to use your intelligence and have better taste. The thought of your upcoming married life disgusts me. How could you love…?” He shuddered again. “And why? Tell me
the reason you will put up with this. You sell yourself short, because I know you do not love him. Please, make me understand.”
“I lack information about the relations between men and women, I suppose.”
Silence.
His muddled mind struggled to understand her.
She gulped again. “I want to know,” she said, picking up his hand.
“Are you daft?” He snatched his hand away. “Get that slug Charles Henry to teach you.”
“You don’t understand. It has to be your touch.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know why? The reason seems obvious to me.”
“Then explain why my…touch exactly?” he repeated, his tone uncertain and mind whirling.
“You’re an aristocrat with extensive experience of females.” Her lighthearted smile was likely feigned. “All of the ladies desire you. Maybe it’s your title, money, possible marriage, and the promise of a good life? Your experiences have given you the ability to please many ladies without engaging your feelings or allowing them to reach your heart.”
He gave her a hard, fulminating stare. “I will ignore the insult, for your sake. My touch is just a part of some big experiment to you, is that it?”
She shook her head. “No experiments. No logic. No regrets.” She picked up his hand and kissed it.
He widened his eyes and stared at their hands.
She kissed each of his long fingers, the center of his strong palm, and the tender inside of his wrist.
He did not make a sound; his jaw tensed.
She moved closer to softly stroke his cheek. Running her fingers over his rough whiskers, she opened her palm to turn his head to face her.
He pushed her away, searching her eyes for a motive behind her advances.
Scooting close until their hips touched, she sat, unmoving, staring at his profile lit by the orange glow of the coals and the fading daylight.