by Julia Quinn
But Lord Frederick only shrugged. “If it’s special to you, that’s all that matters.”
“I’ve had it for years,” she said, wondering what it was about this man that led her to share her secrets. “We found it at school.”
“We?”
“My friends and I. There were four of us. Ellie, Anne, Cordelia, and me. We were inseparable.”
“Do you miss them?”
“Very much. We don’t have much opportunity to see each other now. They are all married. Quite grandly, too.” She caught him looking at her curiously, and she hastily added, “I never intended to marry, you see. I have the care of my aunts.”
“That is very commendable of you,” he murmured.
And all at once, Bea was sick of being commendable.
But she plowed on regardless. “They cared for me,” she said, almost defensively. “I must do the same.”
He nodded slowly.
“I was quite young when my parents died,” she said. “Barely eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
She accepted his condolences with a tiny smile. And then, for reasons she could not identify, she kept talking. “It was smallpox.”
He winced.
“Both of them,” she continued. “Half the village caught it. And half of those died. Likely the only reason I survived was that I’d just been sent to school.” She stared off in the distance, and as always, the irony of it all forced a hopeless smile onto her lips. “I cried so desperately when they forced me to go, and it probably saved my life.”
“It does make one consider the possibility of fate,” Lord Frederick said.
“I know,” she agreed. “I’ve never believed in such a thing, but—” She caught him giving her a dubious look, and she had to add, “I don’t really think the coin is lucky.”
“Of course not,” he said, clearly humoring her.
Bea pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “Anyway,” she said, “I was most fortunate. I mean, if it had to happen, that I went to my aunts.”
“The best case scenario in the worst possible situation.”
“Exactly.” She looked up at him, right into his perfect cloudy-sky eye, and there it was. A strange, unfamiliar sort of kinship, like she’d finally found the one person in the world who understood.
Which was madness. She had Cordelia and Ellie and Anne. They all knew her sad history, and they all had acknowledged something similar.
But it hadn’t felt the same.
Maybe it was because she was an adult now. Or maybe it was the sixpence burning a hole in her reticule. It made her fanciful.
And she wasn’t fanciful. She couldn’t afford that luxury.
She gave herself a mental shake. “Most of the time I was away at school. My aunts thought I should be with other children. But of course I had to leave when I was twenty.”
“Twenty?” He looked surprised.
“I taught for two years after I was done. I would have stayed longer, but the school was closed. The headmistress retired, and no one wanted to take over.”
“Did you enjoy teaching?”
“Very much. I was given great latitude. It was the first time the school offered the sciences. Not physics, I’m afraid.” She looked up with a lopsided smile. “I’m not qualified for that. But we studied the plants and the trees, and of course astronomy when the weather cooperated.”
“Then you are self-taught,” he observed.
She shrugged and looked down at her feet, embarrassed and proud at the same time.
“It is very impressive.”
She risked a glance at his face and felt a rush of delight at the sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you.”
He paused in his steps, tilting his head as he looked at her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s just that . . .” Then he blinked, and something seemed to clear in his face. His voice was much crisper when he said, “There is an excellent observatory at the university. Have you been there?”
Bea shook her head. “No. I’ve seen the exterior, of course, but I’ve never been inside.” One couldn’t just walk up and demand entrance.
“Would you like to go?”
Her entire body snapped to attention. He had not just offered to take her to the Radcliffe Observatory. He had not. “I beg your pardon?”
“I hope it’s not too forward—”
“It’s not too forward,” she interrupted, excitement fizzing through her like bubbles in a stream. “Well, it is too forward, but I don’t care.”
“I’m at liberty to use the facilities when I wish, and I’d be happy to take you.”
“That would be marvelous. Amazing. Thank you. Oh my goodness, thank you.” She couldn’t stop herself from rising to her tiptoes—not because she was trying to approach him in height, although that wouldn’t be such a bad thing—but rather she was so unbelievably, stupendously, incandescently happy. She had to put that energy somewhere.
Since she couldn’t very well throw her arms around him and hug him.
Hug him?
What on earth?
She stumbled. She shouldn’t even be thinking about hugging him.
“Miss Heywood?”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. She needed to get ahold of herself. He was going to think her the veriest ninny, so unsophisticated that she fell over from excitement at the thought of visiting an observatory.
And that’s all it was. Excitement. This man was going to fulfill her lifelong dream—to view the stars with clarity.
To travel closer to the heavens.
If she’d had the urge to embrace him, surely that was all it was. Gratitude. Very well-deserved gratitude. Lord Frederick Two-Names could have no idea just how big a wish he was granting. He was a man, wealthy and titled. If he wanted to look through a telescope he could just walk right up and ask. It would never even occur to him that he might be refused.
But she . . . she had never thought . . . aside from the very basic handheld scope she’d borrowed once from a retired ship’s captain . . .
She sighed.
“You’re happy,” Lord Frederick said.
She looked over at him and beamed. “More than I could ever say.”
“I shall have to inquire as to the availability,” he warned as they resumed their journey to the bakery. “Generally, one must schedule one’s time.”
“Of course,” she said promptly.
“As soon as I know the possibilities—”
“I can go at any time. Any time at all.”
He nodded.
“I have nothing on my schedule. Well, nothing that cannot be changed.” She was going to the Radcliffe Observatory. She’d reschedule church if it came to that.
“Truly,” she said, as if she had not already made herself clear, “I shall make myself available at whatever time you deem convenient. I am the essence of flexibility.”
What she was was the essence of a blithering madwoman, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked like he understood.
Of course he understood. He was a scientist. Still, she smiled sheepishly and apologized for her excitement. “I’m sorry. I’m talking a mile a minute. I can’t help myself. It’s just, well . . . it’s a long-held dream of mine.”
“I think you will find it most interesting,” Lord Frederick said. “There are quite a few telescopes there.”
“Quite a few?” she echoed, barely able to believe he might catalogue one of the finest collections of astronomical instruments in the world as quite a few. “There is a transit telescope by John Bird!”
“Is he a particular favorite of yours?”
“Oh yes,” Bea answered, her excitement gushing through her voice. “He’s brilliant. I know that some people prefer Dollond, and of course Sir William Herschel is to be admired, but I have long felt that the quality of Bird’s instruments is beyond compare.”
He blinked a few times. “Then you’ve used them elsewhere.”
“No,” she admitted, feeling a light flush of embarrassment color her cheeks. “But I’ve read about them.” She swallowed. “You can infer a lot about the quality of astronomical instruments by reading about them.”
“Of course,” he said, and she wished she could tell if he meant it or if he was only being polite. “I’ve met Sir William,” he remarked. “Several times. And his sister. She’s his assistant, you know.”
Bea nodded. “It’s very enlightened of him.”
“I’m glad we are making these plans,” Lord Frederick said. “It is high time I went myself. I haven’t been since—” His voice hitched. It was barely noticeable, just enough to add an extra flash of silence before he said, “Since the accident.”
Bea’s lips parted, and she held her words for a moment before asking, “Will your injury make a difference? The telescope is a single-lens apparatus. One puts only one eye to the glass.”
“Indeed, but it was the other eye I preferred.”
“Oh.” Bea swallowed, hoping her expression conveyed her sympathy because she had a feeling he didn’t want any more words to that effect. Then her natural curiosity took over, and she found herself winking back and forth, left-right-left, puzzling over how the street scene in front of her seemed to move back and forth depending on which of her eyes was open. It was just a fraction of an inch, but it was noticeable.
“It has to do with which eye is stronger,” Lord Frederick said.
She stopped winking and looked over at him curiously. “Did you know all this before your injury?”
“I never had reason to be curious about it.”
She sucked on the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Do you wear the patch all the time?”
“No,” he confirmed. “Not when I’m alone.”
Bea wanted to ask if it was uncomfortable, or scratchy or hot, but that seemed the height of rudeness, and besides, they’d reached Mrs. Bradford’s Pies and Pastries (The Finest Scones South of Scotland). Lord Frederick tipped his head toward the door. “Your bread awaits,” he said.
“Did you want to come in?” Bea asked. It seemed rude just to leave him out there, holding her packages.
“I don’t know. Are they really the finest scones south of Scotland?”
“I cannot prove that they are not,” Bea replied, and with a jaunty grin, she walked inside.
Chapter 3
They walked in together, immediately enveloped by the cozy scent of warm bread. “Oh, there’s nothing like a bakery,” Bea said, taking a deep breath. She saw the owner bending over a shelf near the back, and called out, “Good morning, Mrs. Finchley!”
“Not Bradford?” Lord Frederick inquired.
Bea shrugged. “Not for a hundred years, or so I’m told.”
“Miss Heywood,” Mrs. Finchley said with a smile. “So nice to see you this morning.”
Bea looked over at Lord Frederick, but he’d turned away, distracted by the enormous gingerbread house on permanent display near the front window.
“Mrs. Finchley’s mother is from Heidelberg,” she murmured as he bent down to inspect the workmanship. She moved past him to the front counter, smiling to herself when she looked back and saw him giving the icing a surreptitious tap.
Probably assessing its tensile strength. She loved that he was checking that.
Mrs. Finchley was waiting, so Bea gave her her attention and said, “We’ll take our usual order, please, but with two extra scones.”
“Hungry, are you?” Mrs. Finchley said with a chuckle. She reached under the counter for a freshly baked loaf. “And how are your dear aunts? I haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“The same as ever. Aunt Hennie has taken it into her head to create a new sort of number puzzle.”
“She always did like her puzzles.”
“It does seem to be taking some practice,” Bea confirmed. “We’re going through paper at an alarming rate.”
“And Miss Calpurnia?”
“Still trying to domesticate the ducks. I shall have to hide your bread from her, or we’ll have no toast for breakfast.”
Mrs. Finchley laughed. “I have a two-day-old loaf that didn’t get bought yesterday. You can have it for the ducks in return for an egg if she ever succeeds.”
“I’m afraid it will be a very bad bargain for you,” Bea said. “Aunt Callie’s been bitten three times this week. Those ducks are vicious.”
From beside her, she heard Lord Frederick’s deep voice. “Can ducks bite?”
Bea startled. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“I don’t believe they have teeth,” he murmured.
“It feels like a bite,” Bea amended, having unfortunately experienced it herself. It probably had served her right for trying to help her aunt when she knew the cause was doomed.
She looked back over at Mrs. Finchley, who was watching her with patient expectation. Ah, right. Introductions. Always a sticky situation when one did not recall the full name of one’s companion.
“Lord Frederick,” Bea said, thankful that his title enabled her to introduce him in this manner, “may I present Mrs. Finchley? You have likely eaten her bread already now that you’ve, er . . .” She paused for a moment, blinking. “You do live near Wallingford, don’t you?”
“Two miles out,” he confirmed before turning to Mrs. Finchley and—thankfully—giving his full name. “Lord Frederick Grey-Osborne, ma’am.”
Mrs. Finchley’s eyes went very wide, then she bobbed a curtsy, mumbling, “My lord.”
“I have recently purchased Fairgrove,” he said, more to Bea than Mrs. Finchley.
“Oh yes, from Mr. Oldham,” Bea confirmed. She looked over at Mrs. Finchley. “He’s gone down to Brighton, has he not?”
But Mrs. Finchley had busied herself behind the counter and was now talking too loudly to herself about the hardened bread, and how it was perfect for ducks.
Bea looked over at Lord Frederick with a little shrug, but his expression had gone shuttered and cold. “I will await you outside,” he said, and with a little bow, he was gone.
Bea watched him in openmouthed incomprehension, murmuring, “Whatever could be the matter?” as she pivoted back to Mrs. Finchley.
Who had popped back up like a jack-o’-lantern.
“Oh, that poor man,” she said. “Oh, that poor, poor man.”
Bea looked helplessly at the door, now firmly shut, then back at Mrs. Finchley. “What are you talking about?”
“His eye. It’s so tragic. That poor, poor man.”
Bea wondered if she’d be going on so if she’d seen Lord Frederick dispatch her sixpence thief earlier. The man had either a future or a past in boxing. “He seems perfectly capable to me,” she said.
“A shadow of his former self,” Mrs. Finchley said with a slow shake of her head.
“You knew him, then?”
“Of course not. But I heard all about the accident. We all did.”
“We did?” Bea echoed. Because she was fairly certain she had not.
Mrs. Finchley shrugged, and Bea felt vaguely scolded by the gesture, as if she had neglected her civic duty by being unaware of such critical gossip. “Perhaps I was visiting friends,” she murmured. There had been an awful lot of weddings lately, all of which had required her extended presence away from home.
“His father is the Marquess of Pendlethorpe, you know.”
Bea’s eyes widened, and once again, she caught herself glancing toward the door, not that she could see Lord Frederick through the warped and wrinkled glass. Everyone knew of the Marquess of Pendlethorpe. His grand country estate was nearly twenty miles away, but he was still the highest-ranking nobleman in the area.
As his fortunes went, so did the village’s.
“It was a terrible, terrible thing,” Mrs. Finchley went on. “Oh, that poor man. It breaks my heart, it does. He was so very handsome.”
“He still is,” Bea retorted.
Mrs. Finchley looked at her with a kindly expression. Kindly and
perhaps a little bit pitying. Bea felt her teeth clench.
“They thought he would die,” Mrs. Finchley said. “The coachman did, although not right away.”
Bea gasped, her hand going to her mouth. What a terrible thing to endure. To live when another did not . . . She could not imagine how a person could survive such a thing and not feel crushing guilt for it.
“There was someone else in the carriage as well,” Mrs. Finchley said. “A friend, I think. I don’t remember the name. But his injuries weren’t severe. Certainly nothing to compare to an eye. He will be able to go on with his life.”
“He?” Bea echoed.
“The friend,” Mrs. Finchley clarified. “But poor Lord Frederick . . . No one will ever look at him the same. You can pretend you don’t notice it, but I think that’s almost worse.”
“If I lost an eye,” Bea said tartly, “I should think I would be more concerned about loss of sight than my appearance.”
Mrs. Finchley handed over two loaves of bread, one still warm and smelling of yeast, the other hard as a rock and ready for ducks. “Perhaps,” she said, her little shrug making it clear she was only being polite. She filled a bag with scones and held that forth as well. “Half a dozen, as always. Oh, but you wanted two more.” She quickly piled those in. “Is the extra for His Lordship? I shan’t charge you for it. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you,” Bea said, glancing worriedly toward the door. Lord Frederick had said he’d wait for her outside, but she did not want to make him wait too long, not after Mrs. Finchley had been so rude . . .
Or had she? Bea frowned. Had Mrs. Finchley been rude? In all honesty, Bea wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute Lord Frederick had been friendly and smiling, and the next he was out the door. Mrs. Finchley hadn’t said anything impolite, but then again, the way she’d been going on and on about that poor, poor man . . . If her pity had shown in her face, it was no wonder Lord Frederick had felt he must leave.
Bea tried to imagine what it would be like to wear one’s injury so prominently. She’d meant it when she said that she’d be more concerned with the loss of her sight than her appearance, but perhaps she had been naïve in her thinking. Single-eye blindness was at least a private thing. A patch . . . a scar . . . Those sat on one’s face forever, for all to see. Bea had never liked being the center of wide attention, and when she thought about how others would stare . . .
