He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, thinking how pleasant an airy toga would feel and couldn’t help his grin at the gasps of shock it would incite.
In spite of the discomfort of his cravat and wool coat, however, Ken was quite enjoying the ball. The setting was magnificent. Built in the style of an ancient Roman home, the villa showcased manicured gardens, tile mosaics, and an art collection that would make most museums envious.
He watched couples turning about on the dance floor, carefully avoiding a misstep into a pool, and his gaze moved to the entrance. He’d thought Miss Doyle and her young charges would have arrived by now. The fact that he stood in this spot with such a view gave him pause. Was he waiting for them? For her? The realization came as a surprise. But, his actions were justifiable, he told himself. Quite some time had passed since he’d associated with a woman of his own age, or close to it. He guessed Miss Doyle was perhaps five years his junior. And the fact of the matter was, he liked her. He’d enjoyed the day spent in her company.
Miss Doyle was clever and thoughtful as opposed to the silly young ladies she accompanied. She’d shown genuine interest in the church and even jotted down notes as he’d explained some of the building’s history. Her questions showed a real understanding and an insightfulness that was refreshing.
And she was quite pleasant to look at.
He glanced around. Though he knew no one could hear his thoughts, he’d been told his feelings were easily read on his face. And these feelings would be cause for particular embarrassment should they be revealed.
When he looked back toward the entrance, Miss Doyle and the Blakely sisters stepped into the ballroom as if his thoughts had conjured them.
Miss Doyle’s gown followed her figure tightly in the bodice, then spread into flounces or ruffles or one of those words men were not taught. There was lace and some pearl-colored buttons, and ribbons in her hair. Though he could not describe the details of her dress with any amount of accuracy, he could confirm that it was yellow. And she looked radiant.
Ken took a step back, not wanting to be seen staring. He continued slowly around the balcony, occasionally glancing down.
Harlan Reid, apparently in youth not having the same scruples as his teacher, walked directly to the ladies and, a moment later, escorted the younger Miss Blakely toward the dance floor before Ken had even reached the stairs.
The dark-haired sister pointed toward something on the far end of the room and excitedly turned pages in her sketchbook as she and Miss Doyle crossed the atrium. They moved beneath the balcony, and Ken lost sight of them.
He took his time walking along the railing, studying the sculptures and paintings on display as he made his way to the stairs. He wondered if Miss Doyle might be interested in the collection and then wondered how long he should wait before asking her.
Half an hour later, after straightening his cravat in the men’s washroom, Ken found the two women. Miss Blakely was situated on a bench, facing a potted fern of all things. Her face was tight in concentration as she glanced back and forth between the plant and her book.
Miss Doyle sat beside her but rose when Ken approached. She moved behind the bench to join him. A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes, calming Ken’s worries. He held a glass of punch toward her.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hardly audible so near to the orchestra.
Ken stepped closer, tipping his head toward her. “I’m glad to see you made it, Miss Doyle.”
She sipped the punch and turned to speak closer to his ear. “Isn’t the villa wonderful?”
“Extremely so.” He glanced at Miss Blakely’s drawing pad, then looked back again, squinting as he tried to make out what exactly he was seeing. The drawing was horrendous.
Miss Doyle leaned toward him. “Lillian loves to draw,” she said, a brow ticking upward and a nearly indiscernible smile pulling at her lips.
He leaned forward. “Lovely work, Miss Blakely.”
The young woman beamed up at him, then returned to her drawing.
“Miss Doyle, there is a gallery above the atrium.” He gestured upward with a lift of his chin. “If you’d care to accompany me. Lord and Lady Aberline have collected some of the most outstanding ancient pieces I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. Many are uncommonly well preserved.” He took her empty glass and offered his elbow.
She glanced back at the dancers. “I should keep watch over Rosalie,” she said.
“The balcony gives a fine view of the dance floor.” Was she searching for an excuse to turn him down?
She looked upward and then to the dance floor, considering. “I . . .” An immense relief filled him when she slid her hand into the bend of his elbow. “I should like that very much.”
They climbed the stairs and strolled slowly along the balcony, pausing to study each sculpture. No conversation was necessary as they admired the ancient carvings and occasionally bent down to read a discreetly hidden plaque with information about the piece.
They moved along in a comfortable silence until Miss Doyle stopped, drawing in a breath and letting it out in a sigh. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
Ken looked at the piece she was admiring. A smallish, not particularly impressive woman’s head and one shoulder were all that remained of the sculpture. It sat on a pedestal, the better to be viewed. He couldn’t understand why she was so taken with it. “What is it that you admire about this particular work?” he finally asked.
“Look at the detail, the lovely face.” She moved to the side to study the back of the stone woman’s head. “From the Augustan period, I believe.”
Ken leaned down and read the inscription, his eyes widening when he saw that she was correct. “How did you know?”
Miss Doyle continued to admire the carved fragment. “Her hairstyle, parted in the middle with a roll in the center . . .” She glanced up. “My father taught me.”
“I confess that I am not an expert of sculpture,” Ken said.
“Nor am I.” She smiled, and for the first time, he saw shyness in her expression. “But I do know a bit.”
He lifted a hand toward the sculpture, indicating that she should continue. “Please, I’d love to hear what you have to say.”
Miss Doyle hesitated, but only for a moment. “Father said Greek statues were created as a tribute to the idealized human form, but the Romans were more interested in documentation, preserving a person’s true appearance without any exaggeration.”
He nodded, and so she continued, pointing toward the sculpture. “Hair styles and clothing fashions changed over time, helping researchers date when a sculpture was made, as well as identify the subject’s age, marital status, and position in society.” She moved toward another statue, holding out her hand toward the head. “For example, this woman here might be assumed to be a Vestal Virgin by her seni crines hairstyle, but the flowers in her hair identify her as a bride. On her wedding day, her hair would have been parted by a ceremonial spear—” She stopped speaking. “I am talking too much. I apologize.”
“If you think identifying ancient sculptures to be a topic I find tiresome, you obviously have not met many professors of ancient history, Miss Doyle.”
She smiled. “I knew one very well. My father.”
Ken felt a shock. How had he not seen it? “James Doyle, Professor of Ancient Languages and Antiquities at The University of London.”
She nodded, her eyes lighting up. “Yes. You knew him.”
“I should have realized.” Now that he looked closer, he could see the similarity—slight though it was. Miss Doyle hardly resembled a plump, middle-aged man with thinning hair, but her eyes held the same depth, the same thirst for knowledge. Professor Doyle had been brilliant. All these years later, Ken still remembered insights the man had shared, his meticulous research methods, and above all, the way he genuinely cared for his students’ welfare. Professor Doyle was larger than life—more of a symbol of the kind of teacher Ken wanted to become than an
actual memory. Perhaps that was why he didn’t recognize the man’s daughter sooner.
“He was an exceptional man and gifted scholar,” Ken said. “One of the finest instructors I ever had.” He took her hand, tucking it beneath his arm and leading her around the balcony. “I attended his funeral. What was it, fifteen years ago?”
“Fourteen.”
Ken remembered Professor Doyle’s young daughter sitting in the church pew. A shy-looking child twisting a handkerchief in her lap. His heart had ached for her then, and now . . . here she was, a confident intelligent woman.
Miss Doyle remained quiet as she contemplated another sculpture.
“He would have been proud of you, Miss Doyle. The way you’ve followed in his footsteps.”
A small smile flickered over her lips.
“You said you’re taking a position as a research assistant,” he said, thinking he should change the topic, but not wishing to stray too far. “Is that why you’ve come to Italy?”
“Partly.” She darted her eyes at him, then moved closer to the railing, her gaze moving around the open area beneath until it lighted upon Rosalie Blakely at the far side of the room, conversing with Harlan and Caleb. Miss Doyle turned, craning her neck to see Lillian sitting beneath the other balcony, still working on her drawing. Mr. Curtis sat beside her, looking as if he was trying to start a conversation, but Lillian was engrossed in her drawing.
“The Blakelys are on the board of the new Royal Holloway College, an affiliate of the University of London,” she said. “They submitted my name and qualifications, and of course the two of them have quite a bit of influence with the school.”
Ken raised his brows. “Impressive. I’d not heard of the University of London hiring female instructors.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Well, of course I wouldn’t be an instructor. Only a research assistant. And officially, my name would be ‘E. Doyle.’ Without my father’s reputation and the Blakely’s recommendation, per my success in shepherding their daughters through Europe, this appointment wouldn’t even be considered.” She glanced up at him. “As a woman, my options are rather limited.”
Her admission bothered him. If she was indeed qualified to instruct, it was a pity that her gender should hold her back. But of course, a woman would not have been permitted to attend university in the first place, so qualification as an instructor wasn’t actually possible. He didn’t know whether the idea of her being granted a position based on her father’s merit bothered him more, or the fact that a clever person such as herself was denied higher education.
“A university instructor is your choice of occupation, then?” he asked, curious about her aspirations. “If you were allowed any vocation, with no restrictions based on funding or gender, this is what you would select?”
“If I could choose any career, it would be archaeology,” she said without hesitation. “Reading about discoveries or studying artifacts in a museum isn’t the same as seeing firsthand where they come from. I’d like to understand the lives of the people who lived long ago, instead of looking at their former possessions in a museum or book.”
Her answer surprised him. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he didn’t think one woman in a thousand would have chosen archaeologist as their ideal vocation.
“And what of yourself?” she asked. “What would you aspire to if no limitations existed on your dreams?”
“Truthfully, I would choose archaeology as well. But as you know, it’s a rich man’s hobby.” He shrugged, wishing he didn’t feel the familiar heaviness when he thought of it. If he could get funding . . . His research was sound, but still not original enough to persuade the university. If he was lucky, however, this trip would change things.
He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the railing, watching but not truly seeing the dancers below. “Two years ago, I spent some time studying beneath Professor Giuseppe Fiorelli at the University of Naples. He’s since been appointed head of the excavation of two ancient cities near Mt. Vesuvius. The cities were buried when the volcano erupted in AD 79.” He glanced at her. “Of course, you’ve probably heard of them.”
“Pompeii and Herculaneum. It is so fascinating,” Miss Doyle said. “Think of all there is to discover beneath the ashes.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. The hand on his arm was clenched. Ken grinned. The prim school mistress was quite a different person when she spoke of unearthing devastated civilizations. And he knew exactly how she felt. To be a part of something of this magnitude . . . He couldn’t imagine wanting anything more.
He bumped his arm into her shoulder, then shrugged. “Perhaps one day a common man can make a career out of archaeology, and if that is possible, why not a woman too?” He grinned and winked. “Maybe we shall be partners, Miss Doyle, wearing work boots and bucket hats, unearthing an Egyptian mummy.”
She laughed and opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted.
“Professor Kendrick. Thought I saw you from down below.”
They turned together as a portly man with a monocle hanging from his waistcoat approached.
“Mr. Bodkin.” Ken smiled, inclining his head in a bow. “Miss Doyle, if I might make an introduction.”
She nodded.
“This is Mr. Alastair Bodkin, patron of the English Historical Society and my dear friend.” He clapped a hand on Bodkin’s shoulder. “And Alastair, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Miss Eleanor Doyle. Perhaps you remember her father—”
“James Doyle. Of course I remember him. Brilliant man. Fine speaker. Went to listen to him on many occasions. Professor Doyle had a way of holding an entire auditorium captive with his stories.”
“That he did,” Ken agreed.
“And it is my great honor to meet his lovely daughter.” Bodkin bowed as deeply as his rotund belly would allow.
“A pleasure, sir.”
Bodkin straightened and took a handkerchief from his pocket to dab his forehead. His face was redder than usual, Ken noted. The heat wasn’t agreeing with him. Or perhaps it was the climb up the stairs. He motioned to a servant to bring his friend a drink.
“Now tell me, Miss Doyle. What brings you to Rome?” Bodkin asked, taking the drink with a nod of thanks.
“I’m chaperoning some young ladies on their grand tour.”
“Excellent. Glad to hear it.”
The three talked as they strolled around the balcony, commenting on the heat wave and the various art pieces, and Bodkin told Miss Doyle where to find the very best sorbet in the city. At Bodkin’s inquiry, she told him about the young ladies and their tour up to this point, as well as their plans to stay in Rome at least another few months. They stopped at their original location near the top of the stairs.
Miss Doyle looked over the balcony, her gaze moving between her two charges.
Bodkin took a drink. “Ken and I had discussed a trip to the Colosseum and Forum excavation site with his young gentlemen. I hope Friday is agreeable? I hired a local guide to show us around.”
“Friday will be perfect,” Ken said.
“Excellent.” Bodkin turned back to Miss Doyle, leaning in as if confiding a secret. “Heaven knows I’ve no idea what all the piles of broken rocks mean—Ken’s the expert. ” He dabbed his forehead again. “If you’re interested, you and your young ladies are welcome to accompany us.”
Miss Doyle smiled. “Mr. Bodkin, what a thoughtful invitation. I know I speak for the others when I say we’d be thrilled to join you.”
“Capital.” Bodkin grinned and shook Ken’s hand. “Then it’s settled. Friday morning at the Colosseum, nine o’clock sharp.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Ken said.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off in search of another cold drink and a cool breeze,” Bodkin said and descended the stairs.
“What a pleasant man,” Miss Doyle said.
“Very amiable,” Ken agreed, leaning back against the railing. “I thought you’d like him.”
“I think it would be impossible not to.” Her smile turned into a grin. “His good cheer is contagious.”
“That it is.”
“And to meet two people who knew my father in one day . . .” She smiled wistfully. “This evening has been quite a pleasure.”
She moved to join him at the rail, watching the guests mingle below. “Did he say you’re an expert on the Colosseum?”
“Not exactly. He was referring to—”
Miss Doyle grabbed his arm. “Professor, where are they?”
Ken stared at her. “They?”
“I can’t see them anywhere.” Her brows pinched together. “Where are Rosalie and Harlan Reid?
Eleanor rushed down the staircase, cursing the yards of ruffles she had to lift out of her way to do so. She scanned the faces in the crowded room as she passed, but didn’t see Rosalie or Harlan Reid among them. Panic tingled her fingers as she hurried past the fountains and refreshment table to where Lillian sat on the same bench, still intent on her drawing. Behind, she could hear Professor Kendrick’s footsteps.
Near the orchestra, Eleanor slowed. She must find out if Lillian had seen her sister without letting on that Rosalie was missing. Lillian had no patience for her sister’s lack of common sense, especially since the resulting shame would impact her own reputation, as had the scandal that had sent both of them away from London. She would be quick to write to her parents, and their tour would end, along with the promise of Eleanor’s new position.
Eleanor glanced over the dancers one more time, then sat down beside the young artist. “How do you like the ball, Lillian?”
A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Page 8
