Kathryn Caskie (18 page)

“Lovely. Thank you for warning me, Mrs. Penny.” Hannah exhaled a long breath, then sat down at her dressing table. “I shall greet him in a moment.”

Mrs. Penny nodded.

Hannah did not hear her leave, however. So, she looked into her table mirror, angling her gaze until she caught the reflection of Mrs. Penny lingering just inside the doorway. “Is there something else you wish to add?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t say nothing, but . . . well, Lestrange is not nearly as tall as an ordinary man—in truth, there is nothin’ ordinary about his appearance at all. I . . . I just thought I would tell you so you are not taken by surprise.”

Hannah turned around in her chair to ask what the housekeeper meant by that, but the doorway was empty now. Mrs. Penny had gone.

Letting out a sigh, Hannah turned to the mirror once more. Reaching into the little silver bowl on her table, she snatched up a couple of hairpins and fastened the wispy tendrils that had fallen about her face while she had worked on planning her matchmaking strategies for the coming week.

It seemed that a flock of starlings spiraled in her belly as all of the possibilities for Mr. Lestrange’s unexpected visit took their turns in her mind.

Her grip on the hairpin tightened. Bah, why was she allowing her nerves to overtake her senses this way?

After all, she was proud of the matchmaking service she provided.

There was no longer a connection between her and Mr. St. Albans.

In all honesty, she had nothing to hide from Mr. Hercule Lestrange. Nothing at all.

With that thought firmly affixed in her mind, Hannah stood and smoothed her sprigged muslin frock with the flat of her hand, took a deep breath into her lungs, and started for the stairs.

Hannah shifted uneasily in her chair, which for some reason as yet unknown to her had been situated in the center of the drawing room, somewhat separated from the center of conversation. The interview had begun gently enough, at least to her way of thinking, but now Mr. Lestrange’s questions were veering into the realm of the uncomfortable.

Still, she smiled at Mr. Hercule Lestrange and did her best to reply to his probes without divulging any personal information at all. This, however, was becoming increasingly more difficult as his gentle questions grew ever more pointed.

Miss Penny had been right to prepare her for the astonishing sight of Lestrange. Indeed, had she not, Hannah most certainly would have been startled by his visage.

He was a tiny man, nearly a half foot shorter than even the diminutive Miss Herschel. His head was oddly shaped, too, almost like a turnip tipped to its side, and he was dressed in mismatched tattered clothes.

And yet, there he sat in the grand drawing room of Number One Royal Crescent with the Featherton ladies, chatting about Society events as any well-educated and cultured gentleman might.

But it was his voice that most astounded her, for his was rich and deep, with an almost aristocratic tone. Not what she would have expected from such a small man.

“Your skill as a matchmaker is to be commended, Miss Chillton. I know of no one else, except perhaps the lovely Featherton sisters here”—he smiled in a charming manner, flattering the ladies—“who might have been able to accomplish the match of one so reserved as Miss Petula O’Mara with Mr. Whitworth.”

Hannah felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Lestrange continued.

“You must have learned your skill at someone’s knee.” He paused for a moment, and Hannah caught a gleam in his huge blue eyes. “Perhaps . . . your mother was also a matchmaker, informally of course.” The tip of his tongue flicked over his lower lip, moistening it, as he anticipated her reply.

“My mother?”
Every muscle in Hannah’s back stiffened suddenly. She didn’t care for this thread of questions one small bit. She had spent years avoiding speaking of her mother entirely, and she was not about to allow Mr. Lestrange to dredge up that painful topic now. “Certainly not.”

Clearly her reply was not sufficient enough for Mr. Lestrange, for he pressed harder. “Oh, surely, Miss Chillton, she must have dabbled, at the very least.”

The heat rising in Hannah’s cheeks eclipsed her blush as anger took over her countenance. She did not wish to discuss her mother. Why her woman had nothing to do with her current life, or choice of profession. Nothing at all! “No, sirrah.”

“Come now, didn’t she encourage your brother, Arthur, to marry the Feathertons’ grandniece, Miss Meredith?” His questions were coming hard and fast now.

“No . . . I mean
yes,
she encouraged him perhaps, but the match was already well on its way—”

“So, Miss Chillton, she did partake in matchmaking.”

Hannah leaped to her feet. “No! My mother had no connections. Why do you think I am here, Mr. Lestrange?”

The small man’s eyes grew impossibly wide. “Why, indeed, Miss Chillton? Why don’t you tell me?”

Hannah’s entire body began to shake. This was what he was really after. He didn’t care about her own matchmaking successes at all. He wanted to know about her mother—about her condition. About the whispers that she had gone mad.

But she hadn’t lost her mind. She had simply become fearful after her husband died. Too frightened to leave the house for even a moment—without Arthur.

Hannah had been a young girl when her father succumbed to fever and died. Before that day, life had been bright for Hannah and her older brother, Arthur.

Her mother loved her then. She woke her in the mornings with a warm kiss to her round cheek. Hannah spent her day at her mother’s side as they made calls, planned the family’s meals, and called on the crofters who worked the lands bequeathed to their family upon the passing of Grandmother Weston.

Arthur, however, toiled alongside his father, learning the merchant trade. Somehow, even then, Hannah knew that her mother valued Arthur more than her. But still, she felt loved and was happy.

Until her father died. Beginning on that day, Hannah’s mother withdrew into herself. She no longer cuddled Hannah, no longer touched her, or even tolerated her presence at her hem. Soon, she no longer left the house, unless accompanied by Arthur when he came each month to visit her from London. She grew forgetful and began to doubt her every decision. Eventually, a woman from the village was engaged to feed her and see to her needs.

Hannah was sent to live with her rigid, frugal brother, Arthur, in London, who promptly sent her to Miss Belbury’s School, where she remained until her sixteenth year.

No one needed to know her sad story. No one needed to know about her mother—the woman who was once so vibrant and lovely . . . now confined to her bed, unable to remember her daughter, or even her beloved Arthur.

No one.

Hannah raised her chin. She had been wrong. She knew now that she
did
have something to hide from Lestrange. The truth about her mother.

“I am here, Mr. Lestrange, because . . . because . . .
my mother is dead
!”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Letitia’s eyes went wide at Hannah’s lie. She came to her feet. “Perhaps you ought to leave, Mr. Lestrange.” She crossed and pulled the bell cord, and, at once, Edgar appeared in the doorway.

Lady Viola, who now sat stiffly upon the settee, looked up at the butler with the relieved expression of a lady whose knight in shining armor has just arrived to rescue her. “Please, Edgar, do escort Mr. Lestrange to the door. Our dear Hannah is not feeling at all well.” She raised the back of her pale hand to her forehead. “And please, do ask Mrs. Penny to bring me a powder, will you? I have the most dreadful pain in my head just now.”

Mr. Lestrange slid to the edge of the chair, his legs dangling, until he leaped to the floor. “I beg your pardon, my ladies. I did not wish to cause distress. Do forgive me.” He tipped his turnip head then and, without another word, followed the tall, lean butler into the passage.

At the click of the front door closing, the two elderly Featherton sisters caned their way over to Hannah.

Lady Viola hugged her, the way Hannah’s mother had so long ago. “Dear, your mother is not dead.”

Tears welled in Hannah’s eyes but did not breach her lashes. She would not allow this talk of her mother to draw a single tear from her. She had shed enough over the years already.

Hannah pressed her index finger and thumb to the inside edges of her eyes and squeezed just long enough that the hot burning of coming droplets ceased. “The mother I remember is gone. She is ill and will never recover. It is a private sadness Arthur and I bear. Bath society need not know of it.”

Lady Letitia’s eyebrows cinched at the bridge of her nose, and the wrinkles, more often curved upward to accommodate her frequent smile, fell lax as a look of great concern draped her round face. “It was wrong of Mr. Lestrange to pry. But I fear that is his nature. The city is not so very large, and fresh Society gossip is rare. We should remain on our guard against Mr. Lestrange in the event he attempts to learn more about your family.

“I shall caution the servants—anyone who communicates with Mr. Lestrange in any way will be promptly sacked.”

Hannah straightened and walked slowly to the nearest window and gazed out at the sweep of stately homes that was Royal Crescent.

Fury steeled her resolve. She would not allow Mr. Lestrange to expose her mother’s frailty. No, she had to divert Lestrange from any possible investigation. Raising her fingers, she tapped out a piano scale upon her lips as she thought.

“I wish there was something more we might do to soothe your mind, dove.” Hannah was so lost in thought that Lady Viola’s voice was naught but a faint buzzing inside her head.

“What was that?” Hannah turned to give the old woman something that could at least pass for full attention.

“Dear Hannah, I know Mr. Lestrange has upset your mind,” Lady Letitia said. “Why don’t you join sister and me this afternoon for Miss Herschel’s next oration at the Octagon. I vow, a diversion of any sort might help calm you.”

Hannah shook her head. “No, Lady Letitia, but I do appreciate your kindness for inviting me. However, I fear—” Outside, Cupid screeched in his aviary, reminding Hannah that he needed to stretch his wings. “I fear—,” she began again, but then stopped abruptly as a possible solution stuck her.

Yes.
Yes
. Her lips curved into a devious smile as her plan took shape.

Hannah’s spirits bloomed. “No, you are quite correct. A diversion is
exactly
what I require. I should be pleased to attend the oration with you.
Quite
pleased indeed, for there is no one I would rather see this day than Miss Herschel.”

As the clock sounded in the passage of the stately Brock Street town house that had become home to Miss Herschel during her Bath sojourn, the old woman looked up from her calculations and directly at Griffin.

“Time for tea, I should think. We’ve studied the charts long enough.” She pushed slowly up from her chair and started across the study for the bellpull.

Griffin came to his feet, strode quickly to the hearth, and grasped the pull before her outstretched fingers could touch it. “Allow me, Miss Herschel.”

The old woman chuckled. “You needn’t try so hard, Mr. St. Albans. I have already agreed to mentor you.” She slowly made her way back toward her chair, breaking into a hearty laugh when she looked up to find Griffin already holding it in place for her. “It was your enlightened calculations and your skill as an astronomer that persuaded me to accept you—not your eagerness to serve me.”

Griffin leaned to her side and smiled at her. “Dear Miss Herschel, you mistake my attentiveness for being eager to please, when in all actuality, ’tis merely the behavior of a gentleman in the presence of a lady.”

The old woman gave an ingenuous sigh. “Ah, and here I was convinced you were enamored with me. Such a disappointment. But if there is another woman, I suppose I could step aside.” She glanced up at him and bobbed her eyebrows good-humoredly.

Something seized in Griffin’s chest, and it took him a moment to reply. He circled around her chair and took his own place once more beside her at the table.

He needn’t answer, Griffin knew that. Her question was naught but playfulness. But something inside him made him want to admit his feelings for Hannah. “I . . . thought there was someone. I thought I was in love and that she was as well. I was sure of it, in fact, but”—he drew in a deep breath and exhaled forlornly—“but it seems I was incorrect on that point.”

“Now that
is
a pity. You are such a handsome thing, too.” Miss Herschel looked up as the parlor maid entered with a tray of tea and biscuits and laid the spread out on the table. “Still, there will be plenty of time for ladies when we go to London—after the Bath Comet has completed its orbit.”

Griffin’s attention snapped up from the wobbling cup of tea Miss Herschel was passing him. “I beg your pardon, miss?”

“Haven’t I mentioned this? Why, Mr. St. Albans, I’ve decided to take you to London with me, if you are willing. I want to introduce you to some of the members of the Royal Astronomical Society there.”

Griffin felt his heart leap. “I?”

“Yes, you, St. Albans. We shall present our findings on the comet
together.
”

“I-I do not know what to say—”

“You need not say anything. You only need to devote yourself completely to the study of the comet from this evening until it passes overhead. If your calculations are at the same superior level as the ones I’ve already reviewed, I can see no reason why I should not recommend you for a post within the Society.”

“S-surely, you jest, Miss Herschel.” But in his heart, Griffin hoped she was not. Still, what she was offering was beyond belief.

“I may enjoy a jest now and then, but I assure you, St. Albans, I am entirely serious with regard to your future in astronomy.”

“Good Lord!” Griffin shot to his feet. “Thank you, my dear lady. Thank you!”

Miss Herschel waved her pale, thin hand, gesturing for Griffin to be seated. “You need not thank me. You only need to work hard.”