Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

A Sense of Sin (14 page)

BOOK: A Sense of Sin

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Before he could talk himself into reconsidering the idea, or abandoning it altogether, Del took himself off to Dartmouth and up the lane to the door of Fair Prospect.

The butler, a younger man than he was accustomed to seeing in so responsible a position, wasted no time in taking his card and showing him into Lord Thomas Burke’s estate room. “Viscount Darling, my lord,” the butler announced.

Lord Thomas Burke rose from behind his well-used desk, attired only in his shirtsleeves. “Thank you, Loring. Viscount Darling, forgive me for receiving you here so informally. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“Lord Thomas.” Del bowed. “It is good of you to see me.”

“A bit early to say that. It is, however, a surprise.” Lord Thomas sat back down behind his desk and gestured to a chair. “What may I do for you?”

There was nothing for it. But the knot Del had expected to form in his throat was curiously absent. “I was hoping, my lord, you would do me the very great honor of permitting me to call upon your daughter.”

“Call upon my daughter Celia?”

Del tried to keep a smile from curving his face. “Although Miss Julia is indeed a charming young lady, I believe Miss Burke is rather more appropriate for a man my age.”

“Appropriateness, Viscount Darling, depends entirely upon one’s point of view.” Lord Thomas got up and silently poured himself a drink, though it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. He drank a portion of it and sat back down, giving Del a long, thorough look. “Did my daughter know of your plans to visit me?”

“No, sir. I thought it more appropriate”—the damn word lodged in his throat—“to secure your permission before I spoke to Miss Burke.”

Lord Thomas kept his regard of Del steady while he took another meditative sip before he asked his next question. “Is my daughter aware of your regard, Viscount Darling?”

“I believe she is not unaware of it, sir.”

Lord Thomas let out an inelegant snort. “I hadn’t taken you for a politician. That was a very careful answer.”

Del was losing confidence with every narrow stare. “My apologies, sir. I’ve never called upon a young lady’s father before.”

“No? At your age? Well, you’re going on well enough. Care for a drink?” He gestured to the tray.

“I thank you, my lord, but no. I think it best to decline your offer.”

“Another careful answer. You keep up this reformation of yours and your father will want you to stand for Parliament.”

Del thought it best not to bring up his estrangement with his father, but Lord Thomas was proving himself to be as perceptive as his daughter. “That is a bit of a problem, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair and regarded Del chillingly from under his brows. “I take it you are unaware that Miss Burke and Lady Caroline are currently away from home.”

“I did not expect to be allowed the privilege of seeing Miss Burke solely on the strength of my request, my lord.”

“They have left for an extended stay in London.”

“London?” Del was flattened. She had gone to London? She, who had said she’d never been out of Dartmouth before. People would see her in London. Men—men he knew, men who had spent the past year carousing with him—would see her in London. His blood chilled another few degrees.

“Yes. Her mother, Lady Caroline, who can be counted an authority in these types of things, advised a removal to London. She detected in Celia the signs of a broken heart. Would you know anything about that, Viscount Darling?”

A pulse began to pound like a hammer along his temple. There was nothing prudent to say that would still be the truth. “Yes.”

“Ah.” Lord Thomas said nothing more, letting Del stew in the juices of his own conscience for a good long while.

“I apologize if I have indeed broken Miss Burke’s heart through a misunderstanding. That was not my intention.”

“Just what was your intention in coming to Dartmouth? I note you singled my daughter out rather quickly after your arrival.”

“My intention was to find the girl who had been my sister’s friend at school.” That much, at least, was the truth.

“I see. Celia was deeply affected by your sister’s death, Viscount Darling. Deeply grieved. Her letters home from school had been full of Lady Emily’s praise, and she was so upset afterwards we feared for her health. She brooded, kept to herself, and when she did speak, she kept insisting, ‘It makes no sense.’ ”

“I think we both found Emily’s death particularly hard to bear.”

“Yes. But as much as I may extend my sympathy for your loss, I cannot, and will not, countenance my daughter returning to the questionable health in which she came home from school a year and a half ago. Although Lady Caroline suspects only a lightly broken heart, I am of the opinion my Celia’s distress runs deeper than a mere romantic misunderstanding. She has been deeply unhappy of late, and deeply secretive, neither of which are normally part of her character. I can only put it down to your influence.”

“I see.”

“I certainly hope you do, Viscount Darling, but to be clear, you may
not
call upon my daughter. Loring will show you out. Good day.”

C
HAPTER
14

L
ondon was improving upon Celia. Or rather, her opinion of London was improving with each new experience and each new opportunity, thanks to her mama having adopted town hours. After only one week of nightly social events—in Lady Caroline’s opinion society was a bit thin at that time of year—her mother had taken to sleeping until at least noon.

That gave Celia more than enough time to explore all the places she chose, without her mother’s infernal interference. With Bains at her side and the Marquess of Widcombe’s town carriage at her disposal, every day brought a daring new adventure.

Celia hated the necessity of taking the emblazoned carriage, but she could hardly step out on Grosvenor Street and attempt to hire a hackney carriage without creating a scandal. But to make sure that no undue word got back to her mother about the rather scientific bent to her excursions, Celia felt obliged to engage in a little subterfuge. Bains—who was in high heaven riding through the streets of London in the elegant equipage with the tall glass windows, taking note of each and every fashionably dressed lady they passed—could be counted upon to suss out a shopping district or a warehouse, no matter where they went, and come home with a suitable purchase to thrill Lady Caroline.

Only the Royal Botanical Gardens, too far away at Kew, were beyond her reach. There was the collection of Sir Hans Sloane at Montague House, The Chelsea Physic Gardens and the Linnaean Society, but the best of all was the Royal Society, housed in Somerset House on the Strand.

At her first glimpse of the wide courtyard and imposing marble buildings of Somerset House, Celia nearly lost her courage to venture within such hallowed halls. The graveled courtyard, stretching towards the river, seemed enormous, the Society’s offices at least a mile away across the expanse. The thought settled her—it would be a while still before they were actually there—she did not yet have to talk or explain herself. Bit by bit, meandering across the courtyard with Bains on her arm, Celia made it through the doors and into another world.

There was, she was ecstatic to find, that very afternoon a presentation by the famed astronomer Miss Caroline Hershel—whose work she had read in her uncle’s copies of the
Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society
—on her discovery of a comet. Even though she had no particular interest in astronomy, Celia chanced her mama’s wrath and stayed, listening with rapt attention. However old and not handsome Miss Herschel might have been, she was greatly respected for the knowledge of her mind and the works she had authored. After listening to Miss Herschel’s precise, German-accented account of her own late-in-life education and study, Celia felt emboldened. It really was possible to dare to try to take her place amongst scientists.

She had to wait an entire week before the next lecture, a discussion on botany. And so, when Friday finally brought the lecture by the Abbé Correa de Serra, the famed Portuguese botanist, who was to speak on the Fructification of Submersed Algae, Celia was prepared to be daring, and sat at the front of the hall, with her carefully packed portfolio of botanical drawings at her side.

The Abbé de Serra spoke knowledgeably, and at the end of his talk, he was happy to answer her questions regarding his observations and was enthusiastic when she offered her own.

Celia swallowed her burgeoning fears. “I have some drawings here, sir, my drawings of algae from Devon. Only freshwater species, you understand, but I have reason to believe they are quite different from the species you spoke of.” Celia’s fingers shook as she lifted her leather satchel and tried to pull out the correct sheet.

“Oh, how marvelous. You have drawings of your observations? Good, good. Put them up on the table, child, so I may look at them.”

It was like a dream. Everything happened slowly like it was underwater and she was watching, except she was there, nearly jumping out of her skin with nervous excitement, feeling her clumsy, clammy fingers finally pull out the right sheet. “This is the drawing I thought you might want to see.”

“Ahhh.” The Abbé pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and squinted at her drawings, then pulled out his own notes to compare with them. Several other gentlemen at the table were looking as well, and one in particular picked up her drawings.

“Your pardon, sir.” Celia didn’t quite know what to do, but she didn’t think she ought to snatch the drawings out of his hand.

“Oh, may I introduce you?” The Abbé waved his hand between them. “Senhora . . . ?”

“Oh, thank you, yes. Miss Celia Burke, of Dartmouth, Devon.”

“I am the Abbé Correa de Serra, but you know that, and these gentlemen are Sir James Edward Smith—”

“Oh!” Celia dipped a rapid curtsy. “I have your
English Botany
, Sir James. And of course Mr. William Hudson’s
Flora Anglica
.”

“Charmed, Miss Burke.” He turned back to her drawings. “Interesting work.”

“They are intended to be a survey of the freshwater plants of Devon, but I have only been collecting specimens for about one year, so far.”

“A very good start, very good. Do you have accompanying text?”

“No, sir. My talent lies only in the drawings.”

“And in the observing, I should think. Still, it is a good collection and a very valuable contribution. You have some algae here I think the Abbé will want a look at. Well drawn. Am I to understand this”—he pointed to one of the drawings—“is a drawing of the plant under microscopic inspection?”

“Yes, sir. The scale is just there.”

“Have you shown these to a printer or a publisher?”

“No, Sir James. I-I hadn’t any idea if they were any good. Or good enough to publish.”

Sir James chuckled. “And now you know, Miss Burke. You might consider my publisher, Faulder on New Bond Street. He does a very credible job with good-colored plates like these. And knows just how to sell them to aristocratic libraries to pay for the expense of the printing.”

Celia smiled but she could not make light of such libraries. Yes, they were often maintained and stocked for vanity’s sake and the books never read, but where would she have been in her own education if not for the exceptionally well-stocked libraries of her father and uncles?

It was all so remarkable. She had spent years patiently and painstakingly preparing for this very moment. Now that it had arrived, she felt as if she would burst apart into a thousand shining pieces from the happiness welling within her.

Sir James was still looking through her work. “Yes, I would advise you go see Faulder. I would be happy to send a letter of introduction with you by way of recommendation. But you must come to dine and meet some of the Fellows, if you are serious about your study.”

“I thank you for the honor of the invitation, and I will see . . . That is, my father is not presently in London to accompany me, so I will need to defer to his . . .” She sounded like a child, not like the scientist she wanted to be. “I should very much like to meet more of the Fellows of the Society. I had the pleasure of hearing Sir Joseph Banks speak at the Linnaean Society meeting, on Tuesday last.”

“Were you introduced to him?”

“No, Sir James.”

“We must see to it.”

“Sir James,” the Abbé spoke up, “do look at this
Utricularia
. What do you call it?”

“Bladderwort, sir,” Celia supplied.

“Yes, worts.” He tried out the pronunciation. “A grouping of medicinal plants, yes? Just what I was saying about this mis-classification, Sir James. Miss Burke, if I may be so bold, I should like to ask you to join me for a colloquium we shall be having soon on the relative merit of a strictly Linnaean system of classification. Are you familiar with the writing of Monsieur Jussieu . . .”

And thus, in the course of one afternoon, Celia was pleased to find herself, at last, a scientist.

Celia accompanied her mother to a musical evening at the home of Lady Edith Bancroft in such a good mood, nothing could possibly mar it. If mama noticed Celia’s high spirits, and improved confidence, as certainly she must have, she made no remark and only congratulated herself on the success of her plan to bring Celia to London.

No sooner had they arrived than Celia saw a familiar figure. Melissa Wainwright was present, already talking animatedly to a group of young people, clad in another lovely gown of rose silk similar to one of Celia’s but in smaller proportions, and trimmed with lovely ivory ribbon and lace. It looked exceptionally like the one Bains had made in the chemise dress style out of stiff silk, with black trim.

Lady Caroline noticed too. “You must tell Bains of the compliment to her, with other young ladies copying your style of dress. She must have seen you in that gown in Dartmouth.”

The more Celia looked, the more convinced she was that the dress, even trimmed in different colors, was not a copy. There was Bains’ embroidery on the hem, her stock-in-trade, her calling card, cleverly disguised by the addition of bobbin lace.

Oh good Lord, had Melissa bought her cast-off dresses from the rag trader in Plymouth? Had Bains’ sister even taken them that far? Was Melissa in such difficulty she was buying cast-off clothing? But what of her independence? What of her great show of having money that she could easily loan to Celia?

Celia pushed away the unpleasant thoughts. They felt too much like prying. Perhaps it was just a simple economy that Celia had never had the need, nor the wit, to utilize. But why did the sight of Melissa Wainwright wearing her cast-off clothing give her such a feeling of unease. She had gooseflesh up and down her arms, as if someone had walked over her grave.

Celia turned away from her mother to move into another room, away from Melissa when she caught sight of the familiar, stern face of Commander McAlden, splendidly handsome in his dress uniform of blue and gold braid. Celia realized he must be in London in some official capacity.

He came as soon as he saw them move beyond the reception line. Celia had an anxious flutter, wondering if her mother was going to snub the Commander, but after Lady Caroline shot a speaking glance at Celia, she gave him a curtsy.

Her mama needn’t have worried. Celia was not altogether sure if Commander McAlden did not still scare her, despite the service he had performed for her. He was always so grim and determined looking, as if wherever he happened to be, was the last place he wanted to be, though she imagined he would look just as stern and ruthless on the deck of his ship.

“Commander McAlden,” Lady Caroline said with one of her regal inclinations of her head.

“Lady Caroline. Miss Burke.” He bowed to each one in turn. “I give you good evening.”

“Good evening, Commander. What a pleasant surprise,” Celia said.

“You honor me. I had not thought you in London.”

“We arrived within the fortnight. I don’t wonder why I should see you here tonight at a concert evening, where there will be no dancing.”

“Is it so out of my nature to want to dance with a pretty girl?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Entirely out of your nature, I fear, but I do not say so to tax you with it.”

“I thank you for not castigating me for it. Shall we sit?”

“Please.” Celia took his arm as he led her into the next room, where the chairs were already set up for the concert. She was disappointed to find there was neither a thrill of anticipation nor the prickling awareness of him as a man. He might as well have been her father escorting her to her chair, for all the attraction she felt to him.

The truth was, she had never felt any attraction to Commander McAlden. Oh, he was handsome, in his tall, intimidating way. But she did not come alive when he was near—in fact until a few weeks ago, she had been hard-pressed to have more than a few words to say to him. She had rarely felt comfortable in his hard, unyielding presence. She felt wary of him. He always appeared judgmental to her—always weighing out people’s actions. Even though she had benefited from his judgment of his friend, Celia felt it would be a fearsome thing to disappoint Commander McAlden, and she did not want to be the woman who did.

The concert room was empty, with the exception of the musicians taking their places and warming up their instruments. She and the Commander sat—he one chair removed—in vacant chairs lined up along the wall.

“I feel it has been an age since I last saw you in Dartmouth, Commander. How long have you been in town?”

“Just over a fortnight. I was summoned from Dartmouth by the Admiralty on Navy business the evening of our picnic. What brings you here?”

“My mother brings me here, as indeed she brings me everywhere! A change of scenery and company, although I must say I much prefer the company of old friends.” She smiled at him.

“Are we still old friends, Miss Burke? I feared our last conversation was uncomfortable for us both. Indeed, I feared the loss of two friends as a result.”

“It may have been uncomfortable, but it was entirely necessary. And proved you a very good friend indeed.”

“As Delacorte, that is Viscount Darling, has left the country as well, I see my fears were all for naught.”

BOOK: A Sense of Sin

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