Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 20

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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 20
The woman seemed to have more to say, her lips working silently for some time as she appeared to search for words, swallow them, then search again. Finally, she blurted out a question.
“So then… didn’t you dance with Lady Somerset earlier? I heard she’s the niece of Edward Rockwell, the director. Was that how you two met?”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t like that…”
“They say the Marquis’s daughter attends the Royal Art School. Detailed Painting or something—I heard she studies art so diligently. And she came from some boarding school, didn’t she? Had to take a break at some point because she was ill. Like you.”
Before Patrick could respond, Beatrice Somerset’s entire biography came spilling out.
“What troubles me is that the Marquise supports the Suffrage Movement for women. Well, even if they are a rather free-spirited, modern sort of family, they’re such a distinguished house, you see…”
“Mother, please. Compose yourself.”
Patrick gently calmed his mother’s agitation.
“Today I merely made a connection with Edward Rockwell through Lady Somerset’s kindness. And Lady Somerset appeared to have no intention of marrying whatsoever. Rather like myself.”
“Well, yes. If she has no such intention, there’s nothing to be done about it. Besides, you said she’s a rather free-spirited young lady whom you wouldn’t particularly care for.”
“That may be true, but still…”
“In any case, did you and Countess Hoffmann have a pleasant conversation?”
The Marquis, having succeeded in desperately redirecting his wife’s attention, subtly raised an eyebrow and sent his son a silent signal.
Of course, Patrick understood the meaning perfectly.
Is there truly no hope in that direction?
Would you consider meeting her once?
Patrick answered with a glance.
No hope, sir.
The father and son’s silent exchange ended there, yet the Marquis still harbored a glimmer of hope in his heart.
Whether his son wished to marry mattered less than this: there existed in society a young lady with whom Patrick could actually communicate. She’d even opened doors for him at the Museum. Yet she, too, had no intention of marrying…
Extreme though it might be, if two people could understand and empathize with each other’s hearts in such a way, perhaps there was hope after all. What if their shared aversion to marriage became the very catalyst that led them one day to care for each other?
The Marquis gazed at his son seated across from him. Patrick’s gaze was fixed on the window of their rattling carriage, and his cheeks, whether by fancy or not, seemed flushed more than usual.
* * *
Because the Ball had not ended until dawn broke, the entire day at Somerset Manor had been set back. The curtains were not drawn until late morning, and servants moved through the corridors with careful, measured steps.
Edward Rockwell, who had slept in a guest room, only managed to rise from his bed at an hour too late to properly be called morning.
Throughout the night, he had been detained in turn by board members, patrons, and society matrons hungry for the company of a celebrated gentleman. He remained in the ballroom long after his sister’s family had departed, not reaching his sister’s house until nearly sunrise.
Yet even after arriving at Somerset Manor, he had been unable to sleep at once. It was because of a single thesis that he had received from that audacious young man the night before.
The eldest son of the Marquis Bennett, was it? What was his name again? Patrick. Yes, Patrick Bennett.
He had only meant to finish reading the portions he’d left incomplete at the Ball. But as Edward examined that research proposal, he found himself utterly captivated by its insight and originality.
In the end, he had read and reread Patrick Bennett’s thesis with bleary eyes, unable to sleep until nearly noon.
Just as Edward Rockwell had once grown weary of the tedious life of the nobility and thrown himself into biology, there were eccentrics everywhere who pursued more than society permitted.
Yet interest does not always breed competence. Most never surpassed the level of obsessive collectors. Patrick Bennett was different.
So this headache was half that young man’s fault. Edward, rubbing his stiff neck, had just stepped into the breakfast room when he froze in the doorway.
“Edward! Did you sleep well?”
“Brother-in-law! Come, come!”
His sister and her husband grabbed him eagerly, their eyes bright with anticipation. Never mind his brother-in-law, but his sister was so affectionately brushing his back that Edward Rockwell felt goosebumps rise across his skin.
“Your throat must be parched? Here, drink this first.”
His sister’s strange behavior continued. She sweetened it with honey herself and offered him a cup of hot tea steeped strong. What is this? Edward accepted the cup but instinctively took a step back, putting some distance between himself and his sister.
This is odd. This isn’t like my sister at all.
Not a single scolding for a brother who’d slept the day away until past noon.
“…Why are you not scolding me?”
He glanced sideways at his brother-in-law, but that was no help. His brother-in-law’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.
“…But where is Beatrice?”
Edward asked, deliberately ignoring those expectations.
“We hardly see that child even though we live under the same roof. She’s set up an atelier in the east wing and paints all day long.”
“I should go see her face before breakfast—wait!”
The moment he turned, the Marquis and Marquise both reached out from either side and grabbed Edward. Then, dragging him toward the dining room, they lowered their voices.
“That girl—once she gets absorbed in painting, she loses all sense of time. You know that, don’t you?”
The Marquise spoke gently, but with unmistakable firmness.
“Don’t disturb her. Let’s simply have a meal together.”
‘Meal’ they called it, but in fact the two had only set out teacups and seated themselves across from Edward. They’d finished eating long ago, which meant they had something serious to discuss.
A belated breakfast was soon laid before Edward. Deeply uncomfortable under his sister’s attention, he found himself reluctantly ladling soup.
After the spoon had made perhaps three passes, Edward finally set it down.
“…Look, if you have something to say, just say it. What on earth is going on?”
“Eddie.”
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the dining room, glinting off the pristine tablecloth and silver cutlery.
The Marquise pushed her teacup aside and leaned forward across the table, her expression troubled.
“Beatrice is trying to run away from us.”
“…What? Why would she run away?”
Running away, out of the blue? He’d been perfectly fine just yesterday. Edward set down the spoon he’d been holding.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. Perhaps you could explain, step by step?”
Edward glanced toward his brother-in-law and started. Tears were brimming in the Marquis Somerset’s eyes—the gentle, good-natured Marquis Somerset’s eyes.
“What on earth has happened?”
The Marquise Somerset seized the opening and launched into an explanation. In short: several evenings ago at the dinner table, Beatrice had dropped a bombshell. Unwed as she was, she intended to cross the sea to Berkion on her own and study painting there.
“⋯I see such a thing has occurred.”
“So I need you to step in. You must keep that girl here in Brionia, whatever it takes.”
…Me?
Edward could not hide his reluctance.
His niece’s face rose before him—the girl whose eyes had shone like stars whenever painting was mentioned. He knew better than anyone in the world how terrifying the world of corsets and balls and marriage arrangements must seem to a child so full of dreams.
Edward did not answer at once. Instead, he set down his teacup slowly and fell into thought.

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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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