by Olivia Waite
Lucy was not yet so far removed from her school days: her reply was swift. “He saw an apple fall to the earth.”
“And was he the first person to ever have seen this? Was he a discoverer of apples falling?”
Lucy let out a breathy laugh, mirth bubbling up in her. “Of course not.”
“Right, because that would be absurd. So Newton looked at a perfectly ordinary apple, doing something that apples do every autumn in every orchard in the world—and not only apples, but other fruits, too, every plum and peach and orange and mango—and he came up with one of the most brilliant discoveries about the physical world, something no other living being on earth had ever realized before.” Catherine folded her arms. “Now tell me that science doesn’t sometimes involve inspiration, as much as hard work and a search for truth.”
Lucy considered this, staring up again at the terrible evidence of her youthful feminine failures. “That’s all well and good for Mr. Newton, but all I have done so far is to bring other people’s thoughts into greater clarity—first with my father, and then with Oléron. I can claim no inspiration of my own.”
“None?” Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “What was it you said made you decide not to do a plain translation?”
Lucy sucked in a deep breath. “You,” she said, sitting up again.
She picked up the end of the blanket Catherine held, pulling on it. Catherine didn’t let go, but allowed herself to be pulled closer.
Lucy looked down into her lover’s flushing face. “I wanted to write something to convince you that you could pursue science, if you chose. I wanted to help set you free.”
Once, Catherine might have dropped her eyes, and trembled. Now she only dropped the blanket, baring her breasts and reaching out to pull Lucy into her arms.
It was Lucy who shook as the countess’s hands skated over the tenderest parts of her, warm against the cool air, flickering like candlelight over her skin. “I might have taken up science once, for you,” Catherine whispered. There was a sad shadow at the corner of her mouth that Lucy desperately wanted to kiss away. “But I know better now than to try and remake myself for someone else’s comfort. I’m not drawn to natural philosophy, not like you are, though it’s very much a part of my world. I’ve chosen a different path—parallel, perhaps, but not the same as yours. I want to try thinking of myself as an artist for a while, because I think it might suit me.” Her hands on Lucy’s shoulders clutched tighter. “But I never would have had the thought before I met you. So you see, you did set me free after all.”
“I’m glad,” Lucy whispered.
Chapter Twelve
All interludes must come to an end, however, and it was at last time to return to London. They stopped one night with Aunt Kelmarsh, whose garden was doing poorly in the wet, chilly summer but who still had plenty of poisonous blossoms to offer to avenge what Stephen had done.
“It doesn’t have to be fatal,” she explained to Catherine as Lucy went off in peals of laughter. “A single daffodil petal mixed into a salad won’t kill him, but it will make him at least as uncomfortable as he deserves.”
Catherine smiled and sipped her ale—summer for Aunt Kelmarsh wasn’t summer without a good broad English ale to hand, no matter what the weather—as the older woman listed a few other highly frightening ideas. Yes, she’d done well to imagine Aunt Kelmarsh in a witch’s gown. She might see about having one made up as a gift, in time for Christmas . . .
It was lucky Catherine was thinking about her art—she even stuttered over the words in the quiet of her own mind, though it was getting easier—because they returned to London to find Lucy’s new wardrobe was finished and needed only the last quick fittings to be properly tailored. Suddenly Lucy looked fashionable, not at all the young country lady who’d turned up on Catherine’s doorstep all those months ago.
Society began to take more notice.
Some of those noble scions who’d approved Lucy’s book had not minded to learn it was the work of a woman, and had issued invitations to tea or to certain interesting lectures around the city—so Lucy was growing a small social circle of her own in town, quite separate from the gentleman naturalists, eccentrics, and dilettantes who made up the bulk of the Society’s ranks.
Not that the academics were absent, of course—Mr. Edwards had come by for dinner several times with his novelist wife, and Mr. Frampton had written to ask if Lucy had sent her translation to Oléron yet. Lucy had demurred, less than eager to expose herself to more potential scorn from male bastions of astronomy.
And then there arrived a letter from Stephen, asking if he could come to Lady Moth’s and apologize to Lucy in person.
Catherine thought Lucy ought to use the blue parlor, as the most formal and frigid room in the house, but Lucy chose instead to wait for her brother in the small back garden. He would be more at ease there, she was sure—and she could escape indoors if necessary and cut the interview short.
She paced for ten full minutes before a cough from behind her made her spin round.
Oh, it made her heart ache to see that even now, when he was calling at the home of a countess, he still had paint stains on his sleeve.
Before she could even speak he raised both his hands and said: “I have been a perfect ass, and if you want to ask your countess to order the footmen to beat me senseless I wouldn’t blame you a bit.”
Lucy laughed, and some of the awkwardness eased. They sat down beside one another on the bench beneath a cherry tree, its arms spread wide and decked with late summer’s greenery.
Stephen ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I had no idea what people would say about that painting. I’m so very sorry, Lucy.”
“Why did you paint it?” Lucy blurted out. She felt hot and cold together, simultaneously angry and longing to forgive him. It nettled her, not to feel one comprehensible way. “If it was on account of the money—”
“No,” he said. “Well, sort of.”
“When the book was published I sent—”
“I know you did,” he burst in, then ran both hands through his hair and sighed.
Lucy folded her arms and gritted her teeth.
“Father told me to take care of you,” he said. “So that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I cast countless lures out for portraits and commissions. I tried to paint what I thought would sell. I learned and studied and struggled and smiled at nearly everyone who I thought had a chance of offering me a post teaching their rambunctious brats how to draw slightly less poorly than before.”
He leaned his head up to the sky, eyes closed. Sunlight filtered through the tree branches and gilded the planes of his face.
There was more strain there than Lucy remembered.
She clenched her jaw harder against the sympathetic impulse. “I managed to do quite well on my own.”
The smile he turned on her was heartbreaking. “Yes. You did. You made yourself a grand success in less than a year, partly to spite me and prove me wrong—and then you sent me a large portion of the money you’d earned, with no sign that you were heading back home anytime soon. I know Lady Moth’s house must be more comfortable than what we’re used to in Lyme, but . . .” His hazel eyes rested on her, too observant. “Is Lady Moth a good patroness, or . . . ?”
Lucy’s throat went dry and her hands clutched tight around one another. “Lady Moth has been terribly kind. We are—friends.”
Stephen’s gaze didn’t waver. “Friends who live in her house. Eating her food. Surrounded by her servants, who are paid with her fortune.”
Lucy’s temper spiked at this. “If it hurts your pride to see me living here where I have friends than sending me off to solitude in Lyme—”
“My god, Lucy, if it’s London you want, we’ll find you a place in town. Today,” Stephen burst out. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. All your work was with Father, before he died—you’ve never had a patron before in your life. And it can be . . .”
He trailed off,
his face turning away beneath the wavering summer shadows.
Lucy took a deep breath. “It can be . . . ?”
“Hard.” His features were stone, his eyes fixed on some faraway point. “You think you’re paid for your work, for your ideas and inspiration. But sometimes you find you’ve been paid for your obedience, too. Not just in regard to the object you’re creating—obedience in everything. There are people who will pay you well, very well, so long as you have not a single thought or desire—or friend—outside the ones they desire you to have.”
“Lady Moth isn’t like that.” Lucy sucked in lungfuls of air, heady with grass and earth and the last of the summer roses. She ought to tell Stephen the truth—that she and Lady Moth were in love.
But was that better, or worse? Less simple, certainly. It wasn’t the money she would miss, if Catherine cut her off someday.
Her brother’s words burrowed into her ears, and wouldn’t leave her. She hated how easy it would be to believe him. “You’re wrong.”
“I hope I am.” He grasped her hand, and Lucy almost sobbed at the amount of love and fear mingled in his expression. “The worst patrons—they prey on desperation,” her brother said. “Your safety lies in being able to walk away.”
Lucy swallowed hard.
Her brother’s hands were warm on hers, the feel of them familiar. They were like her father’s hands, she noticed suddenly—the same long, artistic fingers, the dusting of light brown hair. He gripped tighter. “You know I only want the best for you. We’re all the family we have. Well,” his lips quirked, “except for Aunt Annabelle.”
Lucy twisted her lips and hoped it passed for a smile.
Stephen hugged her and took his leave. Lucy sat for a while beneath the protective shade of the cherry tree. A movement in the corner of her eye had her gaze flickering upward—to the curtains in Catherine’s private sitting room, which were just slowing down to stillness again. As if a hand had twitched them briefly aside, then let them fall.
A week passed. Lucy had been unusually quiet, and Catherine had been more and more anxious about it. Old memories of George’s long silent spells haunted her like vengeful ghosts. Lucy had invited her along to a poetry reading with Mrs. Edwards, but Catherine had chosen to remain at home and work on the gown she was still embroidering for Lucy—the rings-of-Saturn design demanded a great deal of careful stitching, and the afternoon light was the kindest on her eyes.
Brinkworth brought in the post just as satin stitch was making her feel overly stabby, so Catherine decided to give her fingers a rest (if not her sight) and weed the more hateful missives from Lucy’s mail. They had slowed to a mere trickle now, but until they stopped entirely, Catherine was determined to position herself as a bulwark against the tide.
She didn’t register the name Mrs. Winlock until she unfolded the letter and saw the signature at the bottom: “Ever yours, Pris.”
Her heart stuttered to a stop in her chest.
She shouldn’t read it. She already knew it would be painful, and she had no right. It was one thing to protect Lucy from the insults of sneering strangers; it was quite another to open her more private correspondence.
But then again: the letter was already opened.
Catherine had to know.
Hesitantly, as if the words had been written in gunpowder and gall, she went over them, line by line.
Dearest Lucy,
It was so good to see you in Lyme. So much has happened since we parted! This letter, I hope, finds you well. I write to tell you that I am in the city for a few days, and to ask if you would like to meet for tea tomorrow or the next day. Lyme in winter is decidedly dull and quiet, and I would like one last outing before settling in for the cold. Last Thursday’s conversation was very interesting. Let’s not let another six months pass before we see one another! Or else my winter months will be even duller and more dismal again by half. Very soon my husband and I travel north to visit my family, so I beg you to hurry and accept my offer.
Ever yours,
Pris
Catherine couldn’t return to her embroidery after reading such a note—her hands trembled too violently. She set the note on her desk and wondered what on earth she was going to say to Lucy.
Every phrase that sprang to her chilled lips—Don’t meet her, What did you talk about, Was it me?—seemed both inadequate and too revealing, too much and too little at once. There was nothing wrong in the note itself, nothing anyone in the polite world could possibly object to. Who would be hurt if one old friend wanted to take tea with another? Hadn’t they all had a cordial time at dinner? If Harry Winlock didn’t object, with all a husband’s right of suspicion and priority, then what claim could Catherine make in answer to this?
The serpent’s fangs bit deep, and Catherine could feel her heart’s blood running out and leaving her body hollow and cold, chiming beneath the little blows like a church bell in a hailstorm.
Lucy arrived home and came straight to the parlor. “Mr. Frampton said to tell you—” she began, but stopped at the look on Catherine’s face. She hurried over, sinking onto the sofa beside Catherine. “What is wrong?”
The words that hadn’t come before seemed to all rush upon her now, each one sharp and stinging. “A letter came for you,” were the first ones out. “I wouldn’t have opened it if I’d realized.” She handed over the paper, and watched Lucy turn pale as she saw who it was from.
Gray eyes pierced Catherine where she sat. “You wouldn’t have opened it, but since it was opened already—you did read it?”
“I did,” Catherine confessed softly. The pain of admission was perversely welcome—it was better than numbness and nothingness. If she hurt, she was still here, still in touch with the world.
Lucy nodded once, a sharp jerk of her head.
“It was a perfectly ordinary note,” Catherine said. “That’s no justification, though. I’m sorry.”
Lucy was still frozen, and Catherine’s panic redoubled—she could understand pain, or anger, or recriminations, but this long, chilly quiet made her nearly go out of her skin with dread.
Finally, Lucy turned her eyes toward the letter.
Catherine waited, still marshaling and dismissing arguments for any and all eventualities.
She was prepared for some reaction on Lucy’s part—but she was not prepared for the sudden burst of violence when Lucy cried out, crumpled the letter into a ball, and hurled it across the room toward the fireplace. It missed; Lucy leaped up from the sofa and began pacing the room, cursing in a low, furious tone.
“How dare she?” were the first words Catherine was able to decipher. “How dare she, damn her!”
It was a response entirely out of proportion to the cause. Catherine froze as realization hit her: this was not the reaction of a heart fully healed from love’s wound. If Lucy was this enflamed by such a tepid letter, there was still fuel to burn.
So much for fossils. Something here still lived.
Catherine’s chest creaked like a glacier under strain, her tongue stiff as an icicle behind the wall of her clenched teeth. She managed only a blunt reply: “I could not see where she erred.”
She could feel it, though, plunged like a poisoned arrow into her breast. Every instinct told her that Priscilla Winlock meant no good by this.
“Oh, she’s too careful for that.” Lucy whirled round, unearthly fast. Catherine could almost see the sparks flying off her—or maybe that was simply the gown, which had a border of small comets Madame Tabot had patterned off the stellarium shawl. They spun and circled at her ankles as she strode back across the room. “You were meant to be fooled. Pris’s parents always read her correspondence, you see—they were strict that way. She knew anything she wrote would have to pass beneath unfriendly eyes. So she wrote in code.” She uncrumpled the letter halfway and flung it down onto the sofa beside Catherine. “Her real message is there, in the first letters of every sentence.”
Catherine picked up the much-abused paper as Lucy resum
ed pacing, stopping every now and again to stomp with extra force on some thicker part of the carpet. The answer to the riddle was there in plain sight after all: I STILL LOVE.
So. Not so polite as Catherine had thought. Mrs. Winlock was making her intentions rather plain, in fact.
“What will you do?” the countess asked, setting the letter back down. She was tempted to toss it in the fireplace, where incendiaries belonged—but it was not addressed to her, after all. She had no right.
Lucy turned again, gray eyes flashing like Athena in a rage. She stared at Catherine, who said nothing, only twisted her hands together and waited in agony for a reply.
Time stretched.
At length, Lucy spoke. “I suppose I should see her,” she said. “She’s come all this way. But these riddles are too childish. There is no need for them anymore.”
“I don’t want her in my house,” Catherine said.
Lucy’s head whipped up, her gaze rapier-sharp.
Catherine flinched beneath that steel.
“The kind of conversation I intend to have with Pris is best conducted in private,” Lucy said coolly.
Of course she was right. Of course there would be nothing straightforward they could say unless they were somewhere safe. Catherine nodded, trying to keep from her face the feeling of a thousand needles pricking her heart.
She shouldn’t have expected otherwise, really. Priscilla would make her case in person, all winning entreaty and teary eyes. They’d been together five years; Lucy and Catherine had only had a scant few months. The conclusion was inevitable.
“Of course,” Catherine replied. They should have been easy syllables, mostly made of air, but they flayed her tongue like knives. She kept talking regardless. “I have a few patterns drafted to show to Mrs. Griffin—I could take them in person, and give you two the privacy you require.”
Lucy’s mouth was flat, and she nodded. “Perhaps that is best.” A note of real relief sounded in her voice.
