Talk Sweetly to Me (8 page)

S
HE WAS A FOOL,
Rose told herself for the twentieth time in as many hours. She’d been arguing with herself ever since Mr. Shaughnessy had issued his invitation.

She’d argued with herself silently as she told her sister she’d be home the next day no later than four-thirty because she was observing an astronomical event. She had argued with herself all through her computations the next morning. She argued with herself now, at half past one, heading to the address on the card he had given her.

She knew what Mr. Shaughnessy was about; she knew better than to accept an invitation to any event with him, no matter how intellectually engaging it was. She really ought to have insisted on bringing a companion—why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?

Oh. Because she was a fool.

But every time she told herself she was a fool, she also remembered what he’d said.
You do not dream timid dreams.

The address he had given her was not so far from the Royal Observatory; it stood on that same high ground. She wondered, idly, if one of Dr. Barnstable’s acquaintances would be present at this viewing party.

He’d promised people wouldn’t talk, but how could he know? How could he stop them?

There was a part of her, scarcely buried, that dreamed that he was in love with her. Who thought that no matter how different they might seem in comparison with each other, they would get on well together. She could see them fitting into each other’s lives so comfortably. He lived near the Royal Observatory; she could continue going in the mornings. In the afternoons, they might walk together, and he could tell her about his work for a change. And at nights…

That was where it all broke down. She could imagine their nights alone all too well. But whenever she tried to make herself imagine going out in company with him, she remembered who she was and how she’d be received.

You do not dream timid dreams
.

She didn’t
want
to dream timid dreams. She just knew the truth: She didn’t belong in his sphere, and women like her were not invited to join men like him in matrimony. The only way she would have a man like him was if he did seduce her. They could deal with each other very well alone. It was only when she imagined…oh, anyone else at all around them that it all fell to pieces.

The address he had given her was situated on Crooms Hill. When she was almost there, she realized that he was not directing her to a rooftop viewing at a stately, private home; there was only one place high enough for viewing the transit of Venus.

That place was a church. Not just any church, but a Roman Catholic church—a place she had often passed but never entered. If he’d been invited to view the transit of Venus there, he must attend regularly—regularly enough that they’d know him.

Somehow, that thought seemed entirely incompatible with the Mr. Shaughnessy that she knew. The Mr. Shaughnessy she knew was outrageous. He took part in all sorts of immoral acts. He wrote columns that hinted at things that Patricia had refused to explain, and that she’d had to figure out as best as she could on her own. And that was nothing to the gossip that linked him to woman after woman.

It was impossible to think of him as a regular churchgoer.

And yet he’d invited her here. She came up to the graceful building roofed in slate and dressed in Caen stone. A tall spire wound its way up to the heavens, terminating in a cross.

Even Mr. Shaughnessy would not seduce her in a church.

Would he?

She was staring at the church in something like dismay when he came out the front doors and strode to her side. “There you are,” he said.

“Here I am,” she heard herself repeating. “You
did
promise not to importune me, didn’t you?”

“Ah, but I’m sure you’ve already determined the loophole in that.” He winked at her. “I never said anything about what you could do to me. Come along.”

He did not take her into the chancel. She caught a glimpse of a marble statue of a lady, a gold-plated ship beside her, before he conducted her into a back way.

“Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said, balking a little. “Where are we going?”

“Up the turret, of course,” he said. “We’re ascending the spire.”

He stopped in front of a wooden door and took out a key ring.

“Where did you get that?”

The door swung open onto a dark, stone staircase.

“Father Wineheart,” he said. “He likes me.”

She had nothing to say to that. There was something odd about this, something dreadfully strange about that darkened staircase…

“Mr. Shaughnessy,” she said, “do you mean to tell me that there is nobody else watching the transit of Venus with us? Nobody at all?”

He stopped, raising an eyebrow at her. “I did tell you it was very exclusive, and that nobody would talk.”

She had thought he meant that the party was discreet. Maybe she hadn’t let herself dwell on it over much. Maybe that had been purposeful. She
was
a fool. If she had thought more clearly, she would have known. And if she had known—even as foolish as she was being now—she wouldn’t have come.

“Mr. Shaughnessy.” She put her hands on her hips. “I had assumed there would be mixed company, that I wasn’t going to be alone with you as the sun set. It would be horribly improper for me to follow you into…this.”

He paused and looked at her. For a moment, his nose wrinkled. She wished she knew what he was thinking. She almost wanted him to charm her into compliance, to convince her to go up with him. She could imagine the whole thing unfolding. How
did
rakes make women lose their minds? Champagne? Madeira?

He’d offer her a glass. She would…

Drat it all. She would say no. But if she let this happen now—if she let him take her alone into a dark spire—she’d let it happen a second time, and then a third. Maybe the fourth time, she’d say yes to the Madeira. By the fifth time, it would be more. She knew how rakes seduced women, and she knew she was more than halfway there. She’d promised herself that she’d only go this far and no further…and if she didn’t keep that promise now, she might as well give up and give in.

She swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. But I can’t go alone with you into a deserted turret.”

“Aw, Rose.”

No. He couldn’t plead with her. He’d break her down.

“Not even for the transit of Venus,” she said. Her voice broke.

But when she looked over at him, he wasn’t looking at her beseechingly. He was looking at her with another expression on his face—one she couldn’t understand.

She didn’t want to let herself understand. “I’d better go.” She turned to do just that.

“Wait. Rose.”

Against her own better judgment, she stopped. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew he’d make her laugh, that he’d put her at ease. He scarcely had to convince her at all; she wanted to be convinced so desperately.

He took a step toward her, and then another, standing so close that he might have set his fingers on her chin. She could feel herself opening to him, her eyes shining up at him. He could kiss her right here, in view of the chancel, and she might let him.

But he didn’t. Instead, he pitched his voice low. “Do you think I would do that to you?”

“I don’t think you’d have to try too hard.” Already she was trying to persuade herself without any effort on his part at all. She had only to keep quiet, to keep her distance. She might watch the transit; then she’d go down the stairs, and nobody would ever be the wiser. If she never did it again…

No. That sort of thinking was precisely how girls like her ended up ruined.

His gaze slipped to her lips. “That isn’t what I meant.” He inhaled sharply, and then held out the key ring. “Right, then. The door to the spire is opened by this little key here, the copper one.”

She blinked at him in confusion.

“You’ve got twelve minutes until the transit starts. There’s a great many stairs, but if you hurry, they shouldn’t prove to be much problem. There’s an excellent view of the river once you get to the turret.”

She shook her head. “What are you saying?”

“This is a rare astronomical event,” he told her. “It won’t happen again until the year 2004. Do you really think I would let you miss it? If you can’t go with me, go by yourself.” He leaned against the wall. “I’ll wait here. I need to get the keys back to Father Wineheart when you’re finished.”

“You’re really not going to come?”

“Did I not just say that? Go. Hurry. You don’t want to miss it.”

He gave her a wave of his hands, urging her through the door onto the dark staircase. She started up. The stair was cold and just a little musty, but she couldn’t think of that.

She had come, expecting him to wear down her every defense—and hoping, almost, that he might succeed.

And…he hadn’t even tried. No jokes. He’d taken no little jabs at her when she’d balked. He’d just handed her the keys and told her to go. He hadn’t tried to wheedle or charm her, and if he’d made even the slightest effort, he could have brought her around. She knew it all too well. And Mr. Shaughnessy, Actual Man, expert that he was with the human female, must have known it, too.

It was almost as if he cared what she wanted. She came to the topmost landing on the stair turret. Her calves were already a little warm from the exertion; the air around her had become colder. She could see out the little rectangular window, down onto the river, over to a sun dipping lazily in the sky. Clouds far away over London threatened, but they’d not be here in time to block her view. She took the key ring out, found the copper key, and put it reluctantly in the door that led to the spire.

Eight minutes until the transit started. Eight minutes until she stood, watching it alone, with her heart still back down the stone stairs.

Rose inhaled. And then—stupidly—she started back down the stairs, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, until her shoes pattered heavily against the stairs, taking them two and then three at a time. When she reached the final landing, she was going so fast that her feet skittered against the smooth stone. She held up her hands to stop from slamming into a wall, and then she pushed off once again.

She went out the little wooden door. He was sitting on a bench nearby. He had a little book out and he was reading.

“Stephen.” She’d never called him by his Christian name before, and hadn’t intended to do so now. It had simply slipped out.

He looked up. She hadn’t understood herself why she’d come back. Not until she saw his face. He caught sight of her. His eyes widened and he burst into a smile, a lovely, brilliant smile that seemed to cast light throughout the darkening corridor. She felt an answering smile spread shyly across her face.

“Rose,” he said. “What are you still doing here? There’s a transit about to start.”

“I can’t watch it without you,” she said. “I won’t enjoy it.”

He looked at her.

“Come now,” she said. “Hurry. If I miss this because of you…”

He stood. And then, very slowly, with a broadening smile, he came toward her.

Chapter Five

R
OSE WAS SWIFT.
She had a head start on Stephen, darting up the stairs. By the time he’d entered the stair turret, he saw only a swirl of pink skirts as she turned, already on the landing ahead of him. He followed after, his mind a maelstrom of confusion.

She stopped halfway up the next short flight of stairs and turned to him. Her eyes were shining from the exercise—and then she reached back to him, holding out her hand.

“Well?” she said. “Come along.”

He stopped dead. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what she intended. Slowly, he climbed the steps that separated them until he stood just below her. That brought him on eye-level with her.

He held out his hand, palm up.

She took it, folding it in her own. “Hurry up,” she said.

Then she took off again. He was jogging up the stairs beside her, hand in hand. She had a smile on her face. Her fingers squeezed his, and he squeezed them back.

They came to the top of the turret. She fumbled the keys out, unlocking the final door. There were no easy stairs up the spire. Instead, a wooden ladder sat at the base, climbing to a final platform.

“Climb quickly,” she told him.

He did. He could feel her on the ladder behind him even though he couldn’t see her—feel her in the vibration of the ladder, sense her in his tingling nerves.

He came to the top, pulled himself onto the platform, and crouched down and held out his hand. She took it, and he helped her up.

There were two windows in the spire. One faced northeast; the other—the one he’d spent all morning setting the apparatus up in—faced south and west. She dropped his hand, inhaling, going to that one.

“Mr. Shaughnessy.” Her voice shook. “Did you do this?”

He’d had to talk with Barnstable about how to manage it.

“Well. Yes. I did.”

One couldn’t look at the sun directly, not without risking damage to the eyes. But with the proper telescope lens, it was no difficulty at all.

“You’ve mounted an entire theodolite telescope in the window. How did you get…” She shook her head in wonder. “No, never mind that. I can tell how. No one who owned a theodolite telescope would willingly loan it to you, not with the transit today. Never say you bought it just for this.”