Impetuous

by Candace Camp

  “I’m glad you do.” He smiled, and her heart wobbled in her chest.

  “I noticed you were late.”

  “That’s an understatement.” His smile lingered. “I wasn’t able to leave work earlier. I’m sorry; I hope I didn’t disturb you.” He seemed more relaxed now and as uninterested in walking away as Thisbe, though around them the lecture hall was emptying out.

  “No. You didn’t disturb me at all.” That was a lie, of course, but the disturbance he had caused was of a far different nature than he meant. “I thought you might want to borrow the notes I made before you arrived.” She pulled her note pad from her reticule and offered it to him.

  “Are you sure?” He asked even as he reached for it. “Won’t you want them yourself?”

  She shrugged. “You can return it when you’re done. Do you plan to come to the next lecture?”

  “Yes,” he answered promptly, his hand closing around the narrow pad. This time, Thisbe was certain that his fingers brushing hers was not an accident.

  “I’m not sure what the topic is.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I mean, I’m sure whatever they have will be interesting.”

  “You can return the notes to me then.” A month seemed a very long time. She brightened as another thought struck her. “Or…do you plan to attend the Christmas lectures at the Royal Institute? I will be there, as well. Mr. Odling is speaking on the chemistry of carbon.”

  “Yes. It starts on Boxing Day, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I think there are several lectures.”

  “Excellent. Though one has to wonder how one can spend several days on the properties of carbon.”

  “Hah! I can see that chemistry is not your field.”

  “Not especially. I take it you are interested in chemistry.”

  “It’s my life’s work,” Thisbe said simply. “I’ve been studying it since I was seventeen—well, earlier than that, really, but at seventeen, I made it my focus.”

  “Really? Where have you—” He quickly covered the amazement in his voice. “I, mean, ah, you have been studying it?”

  Thisbe let out a little laugh. At least he had tried to cover up his astonishment. “My family is quite keen on education, you see, for all of us, the boys and the girls. I learned alongside my brothers. After that, I went to Bedford College. They didn’t allow women to read for examination at London University until this year, I’m afraid.”

  “The school for women. I see. How interesting.” He looked as if he meant it, which was not usually the case. “I always thought it seemed unfair that Oxford and Cambridge won’t admit women.” He made a wry face. “Not that they would have taken me, either. No menial laborers’ sons need apply.”

  Yes, it had been a good idea to conceal her connections to aristocracy. “They are rather hotbeds of snobbery.”

  “I attended London University. Well, for two years. There really are very few classes in scientific subjects.”

  “Exactly.” It was one of Thisbe’s greatest grievances against English education, right after its prejudice against women. “England lags far behind other countries in recognizing the importance of scientific research.”

  He nodded. “It’s still considered a gentleman’s hobby. There’s far too much emphasis on philosophy and dead languages.”

  “Yes.” She and her father had had a few heated discussions about that. “That’s why I went to Germany to study under Herr Erlenmeyer.”

  “Emil Erlenmeyer! Are you joking?”

  “No. You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course. His theory regarding naphthalene was brilliant!”

  They launched into an animated discussion of naphthalene, fused benzene rings, and experimentation that lasted several minutes. It wasn’t until Mr. Andrews appeared at the open doorway, giving a subtle clearing of his throat, that Thisbe realized that everyone else had left. There wasn’t even a noise from the outer lobby.

  “Oh. I believe Mr. Andrews would like to close the lecture hall.” Of course, Andrews would let them stay if she asked, but there was no reason to make the poor man stay here just on her whim.

  “Oh.” He glanced around. “I hadn’t realized…”

  “Neither had I.”

  They trailed over to the doorway. Andrews bowed, saying, “Good day, miss.”

  Thank goodness he hadn’t called her “my lady” as he had in the past. She had managed to break him of the habit, but every now and then he slipped. It was clearly painful for him. He could not bring himself to address her as “Miss Moreland” and he apparently was unable to call her mother anything but “Your Grace.”

  They lingered in the lobby. It would take Andrews a while to straighten up in the lecture hall, so they had a few more minutes. Wanting to keep the conversation going, she said, “I’m sorry, we have been talking about my interests all this time. I haven’t even asked what your field is.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked a trifle wary. “I have been working on a project with Professor Gordon.”

  “Archibald Gordon?” Thisbe stared. “The one who believes in ghosts?”

  He let out a sigh. “That is all anyone says about him. He’s a well-respected scientist.”

  “He was well respected until he started dabbling in frauds like spirit photography,” Thisbe shot back, then stopped, coloring. “I’m sorry; that was rude. Everyone says I am too blunt. I didn’t mean to…to disparage your beliefs. If you are a Spiritualist—“It would be beyond disappointing, but of course she couldn’t say that.

  To her great relief, he grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Nor am I a Spiritualist. I don’t believe in superstitions or legends. They are rife in Dorset, where I was raised, and my aunt used to spin me tales of ghosts and magic and such—a bullock’s heart pierced with thorns in the chimney to keep a witch from coming down it and that sort of thing. I knew they were nonsense. However, one cannot ignore that people have seen spectral images—and I don’t mean those claiming to witness Lady Howard in her ghost carriage riding across the moors. I’m talking about people who awakened to find a loved one standing beside their bed.”

  “Those are dreams. Everyone has peculiar dreams from time to time.”

  “But dismissing it offhand is ignoring evidence. Personally, I doubt that spirit photography actually captures the images of ghosts, but one has to consider the proof that’s offered. Mr. Gordon saw the pictures, saw them taken and could see no sign of chicanery, so he believes in it. You have to admit that no one has come up with an explanation for how spirit photographers get the ghostly image on the photographic plate.”

  “Perhaps not, but didn’t a woman in Boston say that the ghost in one of the photographs was actually a picture of her that she had had taken at that same studio? I would say that’s conclusive proof.”

  He nodded. “That is why I find it difficult to believe in it. But if we accept that woman’s words as proof, how can we then refuse to believe the people who have sworn that the images are of their loved ones? Surely a mother would recognize her own child.”

  “It is my opinion that grieving relatives want so much to believe it’s the person they’ve lost that they imagine the features are much more like their loved one than they really are. The images are pale and vague, are they not? One baby in christening gown and cap looks a good deal like any other, and if the face is a little blurry, it is easy to see what you long to see.”

  “What if you saw it? What if you had the evidence right in front of your face?”

  “I would still be skeptical.”

  He laughed. “I have no doubt of that.”

  “But,” she went on, “yes, if you could absolutely, incontrovertibly prove it, I would have to believe it.”

  “That is the very thing we are trying to do.” His face lit with enthusiasm. “We are experimenting. My goal is to prove or disprove the presence of a spirit that exists even after death. It doesn’t really matter to me which is correct. It’s the exploration that’s import
ant. There are so many things in this world that we don’t know, things we cannot see. Much we know now would have been deemed impossible fifty, even twenty, years ago. Telegraphy, for instance. Who would have thought one could send a message to someone miles and miles away in just moment? Or photography. Electricity. Those principles were always there; we just could not see them.”

  Thisbe thought investigating ghosts was scarcely science, but she warmed to the joy in his eyes, the passion for learning and exploration. It was what she had felt all her life, that eager thirst for knowledge, the excitement of discovery. She had liked this man the moment she saw him, but now, in this instant, she knew that he was important.

  “But how do you propose to prove the theory?” she asked.

  “We have to find the right tools. Think of all the stars we could not see until the telescope was invented. All the minute things that were invisible until we had microscopes. What if people’s spirits are right here with us all the time, and we just don’t have the capability to see them?”

  “You want to invent a tool with which we can see them?”

  “That’s my hope. Spirit photography was based on the idea that a camera might be able to catch what we couldn’t see, what was too fast or too faint. What I am working on are the properties of light. Light isn’t visible to our eyes as colors until one uses a prism. But William Herschel discovered that there was another kind of light, infra-red, which we cannot see even with a prism.”

  Thisbe nodded. “Yes, I’ve read about it. He used a prism to separate the colors, then put a thermometer under each color to see which heated faster. But he found that the thermometer outside the spectrum increased the most. So there had to be another part of the spectrum that exists but is invisible to us.”

  “Exactly. And then Ritter found another band on the blue end—ultraviolet.”

  “So you think a spirit is something that exists in another band of light?”

  “That can be seen in another band. Can we create an instrument that will allow us to see the invisible bands in the way that the prism allows us to see the separate colors?” He shrugged. “That’s one of the things we’re working on. There are others.”

  “We? You and Mr. Gordon?”

  “And a few other fellows. Professor Gordon has a patron who’s very interested in his research, so he is able to provide us with a laboratory and materials. It’s quite nice. Perhaps you could see it sometimes. I mean, well, if you have any interest, of course.”

  “That would be—“ She began just as Andrews reappeared, carrying her cloak.

  “I took the liberty of bringing you your wrap, La—Miss Moreland. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. Thank you.” There was nothing for it, then, but to leave. She spent some time tying her cloak and pulling on her gloves, but that could only last so long.

  “Well. Um.” She turned to her companion.

  “I suppose we should leave.” He shuffled his feet. “I, ah, it’s been terribly nice speaking with you. It was most generous of you to lend me your notes.” He patted his pocket, where he had stuck her small tablet. “I promise I’ll take good care of them and return them to you. At the Christmas lecture, perhaps?”

  “Yes. That sounds perfect.” Thisbe held her hand out to him. “Excuse me. I should have introduced myself. My name is Thisbe Moreland.”

  He clasped her hand. Thisbe wished she hadn’t already donned her gloves. “Miss Moreland. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Desmond Harrison.”

  “Mr. Harrison.” With a last smile, she turned toward the door, and Desmond leapt to open it for her.

  He followed her down the steps, saying, “Please, allow me to walk you home.”

  Thisbe cast a glance down the street where the Moreland town carriage sat waiting for her. John, the coachman, standing at the head of the horses, saw her and climbed into the carriage. But she turned her back to him. “That would be very nice of you, Mr. Harrison. Thank you.”

  She heard the carriage begin to rattle up the street toward them. She started off with Desmond in the opposite direction. Holding one hand behind her back, she waved the coachman away. John would understand…well, not understand, exactly, but the servants were long accustomed to the Moreland oddities.

  Apparently, John caught her meaning, for the clip-clop of the horses stopped for a moment, then continued at a much slower pace. Hopefully Desmond would not glance back and see the carriage creeping along after them.

  She glanced over at Desmond, strolling along beside her, hands in pockets. “Mr. Harrison! Where is your coat? And gloves. And hat.” She started to turn back. “Did you leave them at the Institute?”

  “No. I fear I forgot them,” he told her sheepishly. “I was late, and I ran out without my coat and cap. I lost the gloves last week.” He looked faintly puzzled. “Somewhere.”

  “You sound like Theo. He can never hold onto a pair of gloves.”

  “Theo?” He looked at her sharply.

  “Yes, my brother. My twin, actually.”

  “Ah.” His face relaxed. “You have a twin. Twins are fascinating—though it’s better if they’re identical, of course.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry—naturally I didn’t mean better; it’s just, well, in terms of studying—that is to say…” He trailed off, his face reddening again.

  Thisbe began to laugh. “It’s all right. I know what you mean. I have two younger brothers who are identical twins; one can hardly tell one from the other. They are certainly…interesting.”

  “You must have several siblings.” His voice sounded faintly wistful.

  “I have four brothers and two sisters. Do you have siblings?” She wondered about the odd tone in his voice.

  He shook his head. “I had a sister. Veronica. She died several years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. She was older than I by several years, but I was close to her. She helped my aunt raise me. Mother died, you see, right after I was born.”

  “How awful.” Thisbe laid her hand on his arm. “I am so sorry. Is your father—“

  He hesitated, then said, “No, he is gone as well.”

  “What about Christmas? Do you have other family here? You could come to our house.” She’d have to reveal her family situation, of course, which wasn’t ideal, but it pierced her heart to think of him alone on the holiday.

  He smiled at her. “You’re very kind, but you needn’t worry about it. I spend Christmas with Mr. Gordon.”

  “I’m glad.” Thisbe realized that she still had her hand on his arm and reluctantly pulled it back. “You’re shivering. You must be freezing. There’s really no need for you to walk me home. I’ve done it many times alone, and it’s perfectly safe.”

  “I’m fine. I frequently lose track of my coat or cap or, well, any number of things.” He gave her a rueful smile. “So I often find myself in such a situation.”

  She couldn’t let him walk her home. Eventually, of course, she would have to let him know about her family, but not just yet. One look at Broughton House would be enough to frighten anyone away.

  “It’s a long way,” she began. Ahead of her, she saw the answer to her dilemma. “I have to take the omnibus, you see.” She pointed to a cluster of people waiting for the public vehicle. “If you walk me to the stop, I’ll be fine from there.”

  He agreed to that, though he insisted on lingering until the vehicle actually arrived and she had boarded before he left. Thisbe watched him through the window of the omnibus as he jogged out of sight. Unfortunately, she was trapped for however long it took to reach the next stop. She had no idea where she was headed. She would have to get off at the first opportunity and walk back to her coach, which, she saw, was trundling along after them. She began to chuckle. No doubt this would make another excellent story about the Moreland madness for the driver to regale the other servants with at their meal tonight.

  She didn’t care. This evening had been worth far more than an embarrassing stor
y about her making the rounds of the servants. She felt something tonight that she had never known before. For the first time, she met a man who could make her forget all about science.

  Copyright © 2020 by Candace Camp.

  Need to know what happens next? Order your copy of Her Scandalous Pursuit wherever you buy your books!

  ISBN-13: 9781488075933

  Impetuous

  First published in 1998. This edition published in 2020.

  Copyright © 1998 by Candace Camp.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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