A School for Unusual Girls (24 page)

Her shoulders sagged and the candle guttered for a moment before she steadied it. “Not an easy resolution to keep.” She spoke as if from experience. I wondered if a similar resolution was the obstacle between her and Captain Grey. “It is understandable if you believe you need to remain unmarried so you can pursue a higher calling, but you are young yet. It would be best not to decide such a weighty matter at your age.”

“It isn't a higher calling. I'm simply facing facts. I'm practical, if nothing else. All things considered, given my peculiar interests, and…” I gave her a cavalier shrug, and tugged on one of my wild curls. It flashed like fire in the candlelight. “It is highly unlikely that anyone would ever fall in love with me.”

As we approached the dormitorium, I stopped, knowing that by this time the other girls would have slipped out of their beds and gone upstairs to the attic. I didn't want their secret discovered because of me. I lunged for the knob and wedged myself between her and the door. “I'll go in alone. I can see well enough in the dark. I wouldn't want the candle to awaken the others.”

Her lips pursed and one eyebrow tilted up. Fortunately, she stepped back. “As you wish. But you are mistaken.”

“Mistaken? How?” Did she know the girls weren't in their beds?

Wind howled through the landing window, and her candle flickered almost out. I only caught a glimpse of her worried expression. “You underestimate your appeal, Georgiana. It would be easy for someone to fall in love with you. Especially someone who uses his head for something other than holding up his hat. I ask only that you do your best to avoid engaging Lord Wyatt's affections.” She turned, as if that put an end to the matter.

“Wait. Why?”

She paused and bowed her head. Her back still toward me. “For both your sakes. His line of work is not conducive to relationships.” She glanced back at me, pain etched across her features. “He's a young man, Georgiana, far more likely to make dangerous mistakes if his heart is foolishly tangled up elsewhere.”

As she walked brusquely away, she said over her shoulder, “As it is, I'm afraid he's already halfway in love with you.”

I tightened my grip on the doorknob, and despite the cold draft, sweat made my palm stick against the brass.

Miss Stranje strode away, leaving me enveloped in darkness. Yet my thoughts blazed as bright as a stable fire, leaping wildly and licking at my consciousness with hot orange tongues. Was she right? Could it be true? A hundred counterarguments raged through my mind, and yet one question rose above them all, one outrageous demand that could not be silenced.

Only halfway?

 

Fifteen

KI
SS FARE
W
E
LL

“Only halfway.” I sighed into the darkness.

In answer, a deafening crack of thunder shook the walls of Stranje House. I dashed into the room and discovered I'd been mistaken about more than just Sebastian's feelings toward me. The girls were already in bed, asleep. As I undressed, I heard Sera breathing evenly. Despite the storm battering the windows, she didn't even stir. None of them did. Lightning shot blasts of white through slits in the curtains. One of the flashes illuminated Punch's albino fur as he cowered atop the blankets, next to Sera. When I pulled back the covers and slid into bed, he crept hesitantly up beside me. His silly whiskers tickled my shoulder as he risked coming closer.

“You're frightened, aren't you?” I whispered, feeling sorry for the poor quivering mite. I had no idea how Sera and the others could sleep through the storm rattling the whole house. He nosed up to my cheek and gave me a grateful lick. I tentatively petted the rat's back. It wasn't as unpleasant as I'd expected. His short hair and plump tummy reminded me of my father's foxhound puppies.

He stopped quaking and curled up on my chest, calming down as I stroked his back. “Miss Stranje says Sebastian is halfway in love with me,” I confided, and experienced a rush of jubilation, followed by stomach-grinding despair. I sighed. “How does one go from halfway to whole in only one day?”

Despite Miss Stranje's warning not to wound Sebastian, I was as much at risk of getting hurt as he was. More. And to what end? After tomorrow I would never see him again. Falling in love was pointless self-torture. “I refuse to waste another thought on him. Ever.”

Punch responded with a rat-size kiss on my chin. Probably the only kiss I would ever have. I closed my eyes and tried to blot out the image of Sebastian's dark hair, his cobalt-blue eyes, and the intriguing beard shadow on his jaw.

Thunder blasted right above our roof and startled Punch. Sera moaned and tucked deeper into the covers. Between the bone-shaking noise of the storm, a rat quivering on my shoulder, and my own restless thoughts, sleep eluded me. I stubbornly forced myself to stop thinking about silly things, like the curve of a certain person's earlobes.

Instead, I concentrated on invisible ink, calculating ratios in my head and toying with other ways to achieve a clear iron salt base.

Three things happened at the exact same time:

The clock chimed three.

Lightning flashed outside our window.

Inspiration struck with as much force as the thunder that followed.

I scooted Punch into the hollow of Sera's back and whisked out of bed. I had to get back to my laboratory. I didn't worry about changing out of my nightgown. Sebastian would be long gone by now. I draped a shawl around my shoulders, put on my shoes, and tiptoed out of the room. A crash of thunder had me dashing down the hall. I whipped around the corner, nearly slid into that awful lion's head at the top of the railing, and scurried down the stairs. I didn't stop running until I entered the long dark hall. Bursts of lightning sent wafts of ghostly gray down the corridor, illuminating Miss Stranje's ancestors' faces. As I hurriedly walked past them, they all seemed to peer down at me with her same hawk-like intensity, frowning, questioning, evaluating. I wished they would all sit back in their frames and leave me alone. I could almost hear their feathery voices calling my name. “Georgiana.”

Something moved in the darkness.

I heard my name again, only louder this time. “Georgiana?” The ghostly voice came from the shadows in the hallway.

With all the grace of a startled rabbit, I squeaked and nearly jumped out of my skin. Before I knew it, he had hold of my shoulders. “Sebastian,” I said, sighing with relief and clapping a hand over my heart.

“Who did you think it was? And what in heaven's name are you doing up?”

“I couldn't sleep. An idea came to me.” Flustered, I rattled on like a crazy woman. “I thought for certain you'd be gone. Gone from the laboratory, I mean. I need to try one thing. I have a theory that might solve the problem.” I stopped for a breath. “The ammonium didn't work, did it?”

Lightning flashed, and I saw him staring at me as if I'd gone raving mad. “No.”

I pulled out of his grasp and opened the door to the stillroom. He followed me in. “Surely you don't intend to work at this hour?”

I nodded. “Yes. Just one quick test, to see if my new theory works. I won't be able to sleep unless I try it. One more experiment and then, I promise, I'll go back to bed.”

The windows allowed the glory of the storm to radiate into the room. More glorious than a fireworks display over the Thames. For just a second it captivated our attention.

He muttered, “I shouldn't allow this.”

“You don't have a choice. If you make me leave, I'll only pretend to go, wait until you've gone, and sneak back in.”

“Obstinate child.”

“I told you before, I'm not a child.” I struck a match and lit the candelabra.

“I can see that.” He tilted his head and peered at my nightgown as if he could see through it in the candlelight.

“Don't be ridiculous. I daresay this night rail covers far more of my person than any of those ball gowns you keep talking about.” Nevertheless, I pulled the shawl around me protectively.

He stopped openly studying me and sighed. “A pity. I suppose the memory of your lovely legs dangling from an oak branch will have to suffice.”

His words startled me.
Lovely?
Was I? The wicked curve of his lips made me feel unaccountably weak. I found it difficult to take a breath. That feeling returned, that unbearable yearning, and the fluttery sensation in my belly. I wanted him to kiss me more than I'd ever wanted anything.

Ever
.

So much so, the very idea seemed to make my lips swell for want of his.

“Georgie,” he warned, and backed away. “I'm not made of stone. This is a highly improper situation, and if you continue to look at me that way, I can't…” He shook his head slightly, and stood back as if I were a leper.

Heat rushed into my cheeks and shame blazed through me. I fumbled with the measuring spoons. “I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about.”

He folded his arms across his chest, stern as a Methodist preacher, and I was afraid he planned to deliver a sermon on my wanton behavior. Instead, he said, “Tell me about this idea of yours. How did you know the ammonium didn't work?”

I measured water into the mixing vessel. “It almost worked though, didn't it?”

“Yes.” He exhaled gloomily. “It changed to a pale yellow. But no amount of ammonium would make it clear. I tried twice more.” He handed me the packet of iron salts.

Eager to share my new idea with him I burst out, “Alum.”

“Alum?” he repeated, giving the idea to germinate. “Used in tanning, isn't it?”

“Precisely. Dyers mix it with iron salts to mordant wool before adding the color.”

“Oh, I see.” He nodded. “Because it renders iron salts colorless in preparation for dyeing.”

I nodded.

A slow smile spread across his face. We grinned at each other like two children on Christmas morning. He struck the flint to light the burner.

A half hour later, as I stirred the liquid over low heat, crystals formed and drifted to the bottom of the pan. He stood next to me leaning over the pot. “It's working.”

“I think so, I can't tell in this light.” I took it off the heat and placed it under the candelabra. We stared at it. “It's clear.” I whispered, worried it would suddenly turn dark.

We watched scarcely breathing.

“It worked,” he murmured, and then practically shouted, “It worked! You're brilliant.”

“Yes, I know.”

He laughed.

So did I. Unaccustomed to frivolity, I moved on to issuing orders. Exhaustion rendered me incapable of restraining my bossy nature. “Write out three or four test messages while I mix up the gall emulsion.” I pointed at my ink pot. “Then write over the invisible message with India ink so we can see what the gall emulsion does to standard ink. You'll find clean sheets of foolscap in my folio.”

Apart from a salute, he went straight to work with no further mockery. I smiled to myself. The excitement of our success had caused him to forget about sending me off to bed—a lucky turn of events, because I'd never be able to sleep now. He tore sheets of stationery in half while I dissolved the gall in water.

As he scrawled a test message on one of the papers, glancing sideways at me while writing. His furtive expression made me suspicious of what he might be saying, but he quickly moderated his features and stacked the messages.

“No, no,” I ordered. “Spread them out. They need to dry thoroughly for the test to be accurate.”

“Tsk, tsk, you must address me properly, as my lord, remember?” He mimicked Miss Stranje's scolding voice as he spread out the papers. “Thus you would say,
my lord, would you please be so good, and kind, and tolerant, and forbearing, as to spread out the test papers so that they might dry thoroughly?
At this point, if you were a well-schooled young lady, you would flutter your long lashes and demurely add,
if you will do me this one kindness, my lord, I will be forever in your debt
.”

My mouth opened in search of an appropriate response, but nothing came. So I closed it and did something I never do. I giggled. I blame it on the lateness of the hour. Exhausted, elated, whatever the cause, I succumbed to giddiness. In fact, I shook so hard with nearly soundless laughter that I sloshed a bit of gall solution over the edge of the pan.

“
Oh, no, Miss Fitzwilliam. This is not a proper response at all. You shall have to do better.”
He aped Miss Stranje's mannerisms perfectly.
“Else how shall we punish you for this effrontery to womankind?
”

“A turn on the rack?” I suggested. “Horsewhipping?”

The mirth on Sebastian's face changed to stone.

I didn't understand what I'd said to offend him. “She has one, you know,” I said defensively. “A rack, I mean. And a horsewhip.”

“Torture is not a jesting matter.”

Yet it had felt good to speak of the torture chamber concealed in the underbelly of Stranje House, to mock the evil it represented. Then I remembered the horrors he must have seen as a child. What other grisly sights had he witnessed even more recently? My cheeks burned as they did so often around him.

“I'm sorry.”

He nodded, still withdrawn and stone-faced.

Was his hardened countenance because he'd been tortured? “Have you ever…”

A grimace of pain crumpled his features, silencing me. I dared not ask. Some secrets are too dark to share.

We worked under a woolen blanket of awkwardness, until he held one of the sheets of paper over a candle flame, and said, “I'm checking to see if heat makes the message appear.”

I stopped work and came close to watch. Wind rattled the windows. The candle guttered and flickered noisily. We stared at the seemingly blank paper. Waiting. Hoping. At last, he nodded with satisfaction and held it up to the light for me to see. The invisible writing was so faint that, with diversionary writing laid atop it, no one would ever be able to see it.