Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 11

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 11
Time swept forward, and the event at the Natural History Museum drew swiftly near.
Inside the carriage bound for the museum, Countess Bennett’s sighs came one after another, each more plaintive than the last.
“Do you think Patrick will get along with the young ladies as we hope?”
“I’m not sure, my dear.”
The Count offered his wife a rueful smile in consolation.
“I think it’s best we don’t harbor grand expectations.”
“Oh, I don’t know what to do.”
The Countess clenched the fan in her hand as though she might crush it, then heaved another sigh so deep it seemed the carriage floor itself might give way.
The Count was troubled to see his wife so vexed, yet what could he do? He resolved to hold his tongue.
“You saw it yourself just now, didn’t you? Dressed immaculately, and yet he insists on carrying that briefcase.”
The more Countess Bennett dwelt on it, the more her indignation boiled over; she thumped her chest and huffed with exasperation.
“I should have thrown that wretched thing away long ago!”
“Let’s not dwell on it, my dear. Today is an important occasion, after all.”
Unable to bear his wife’s distress, the Count shifted slightly across the carriage seat to sit closer beside her.
“My dear.”
He gently took her hand and interlaced their fingers, then lowered his voice to speak softly.
“This is the first ball of the Social Season. Today, forget about our son—look at your husband instead. Yes?”
His wife had said she could never understand Patrick, who possessed every advantage one could wish for and yet drifted perpetually at the margins of society.
Why did the heir to the Bennett family conduct himself so strangely? Why did he refuse what was the natural, inevitable course of every man’s life?
“He’ll miss his moment, I’m telling you.”
The Countess murmured in a downcast voice.
“He acts so peculiar even now—what will happen when society dismisses him as a faded oddity, a curiosity to be mocked behind raised fans? Will he be happy then?”
The Count clamped his lips shut and parted the carriage curtain slightly to peer outside. Fortunately, they had nearly arrived at the museum.
“For now, let it go. It wounds me to see such a lovely face wear such sorrow. And you’ll get wrinkles, you know.”
“You’re incorrigible, you really are.”
“I hope you’ll find such foolishness endearing. Don’t you think?”
Having succeeded in lifting his wife’s spirits, the Count gave her a warm smile.
“Shall we go?”
Greeted with proper deference by the footman, the couple descended from the carriage arm in arm and entered the ballroom together. There, Patrick, who had arrived earlier, caught sight of his parents and came forward to meet them.
“Father, Mother!”
“You look splendid, my boy.”
The Count regarded his impeccably dressed son with a wry smile. The briefcase looked decidedly out of place with such refined attire.
“Patrick, I ask this of you. For your parents’ sake, make some effort today. When young ladies speak to you, do answer them graciously. Will you?”
“I shall do my best.”
Patrick replied readily and soon returned to his seat. At the nearby table, a man festooned with medals at his chest was regaling the gathered company with tales of crocodiles and elephants, enthusiastically spinning his yarn.
It seemed this was one of those tables made fashionable by the recent trend of entertaining “adventurers” who recounted their exploits in remote lands.
“A fine sight.”
“Fine? What’s fine about it?”
The Countess raised her fan and pointed it toward the table where Patrick sat. The assembled company consisted largely of weathered, middle-aged men.
“He shouldn’t be listening to such talk—he ought to be mingling with the unmarried young ladies!”
“Again, again.”
The Count wore a rueful smile and drew his wife’s arm closer.
* * *
At the same moment, another carriage rolled toward the museum.
A chill hung in the air inside the carriage bearing the Somerset coat of arms. Beatrice sat pressed against the window, and had not spoken a single word since their departure.
Since the conversation in her bedchamber the night before, mother and daughter had been locked in a cold silence for the better part of a day.
“My dear, you look particularly lovely today.”
The Marquess, unable to bear the tension any longer, awkwardly broke the silence; but there came no reply. The Marchioness kept her eyes squeezed shut even as she fanned the heat from her face, and Beatrice’s gaze remained fixed upon the world beyond the window.
“Do soften your expression. Your uncle will be so pleased to see you. Yes? It’s been quite some time.”
“I don’t wear this face for my uncle. I’m only coming to this ball because of him.”
At last came her reply, sharp as a blade.
“There’s no other reason. So whatever you and Mother are hoping for won’t happen tonight. I’ll simply sit alone, that’s all.”
Having spoken, Beatrice turned her face back toward the window with a petulant sulk. It was a declaration of war: do not speak to her of suitors.
“Very well, very well. You must do as you wish.”
The Marquess raised both hands in surrender.
Marriage or no marriage was not the pressing concern now. His precious daughter might flee the country entirely, and he had long since abandoned any thought of pushing a suitor upon her in such circumstances.
All he could do was press on with his tearful attempts to win back her affection, whatever form they took.
“Now, Beatrice. There is one thing I simply cannot fathom.”
The Marquess broached the subject carefully, watching his daughter’s reaction.
“Aren’t you disappointed? Edward has only just returned to Brionea, and if you rush off abroad, won’t your uncle feel terribly let down?”
“That’s—”
A brief silence fell. Then Beatrice answered with a cool edge to her voice.
“If my uncle truly cares for me, he won’t ask me to give up. Instead, he’ll support my dream. That’s what I believe.”
Wait.
It was then that the Marchioness, who had been listening quietly across from her,’s eyes widened. It was the subtlest of shifts—but in that brief instant, she’d caught the delay in her daughter’s response.
That stubborn, pigheaded girl had only one weakness. When it came to her beloved uncle, the one she relied on perhaps more than her own parents, she hesitated.
Unless it were Edward…
The Marchioness’s mind began to work in earnest. This child who refused to listen to her parents under any circumstance had one person whose words she would hear—Edward Rockwell. True, her eccentric uncle’s influence had certainly played no small part in this scheme to go to Brionea in the first place, but…
What if Edward could persuade Beatrice?
Her wayward brother was nearly in his middle forties and had circled the globe several times over. He understood better than anyone the countless perils a woman alone would face in a foreign land.
He would never permit his niece to be sent to Brionea unaccompanied. Of that, she was certain.
The Marchioness gathered her thoughts carefully. Once tonight’s reception ended, Edward would stay with the Marquess of Somerset for several days. Tomorrow morning, she could sit her brother down and explain the situation.
Yes—this could work!
“My dear, what are you thinking so intently about?”
The Marquess of Somerset inquired, studying his wife’s mood. The carriage was slowing at that very moment. Through the window, the museum gleamed brightly like a fortress, bathed in the glare of arc lamps.
Even Beatrice, who had been sullen all evening, seemed to have forgotten her vexation at the sight. The Marchioness gazed intently at her daughter’s face, then leaned close to her husband and whispered.
“I’ve just had a splendid idea, my dear.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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