A cold gust greeted them. Helena pulled her cloak tighter, looking at once relieved and suspicious. “I’m sure I have enough material.”
“Then I will write those letters as soon as we’ve had our tea. To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling a little restless myself. Now that you are finished with your work, we can take the opportunity to do some sightseeing.”
“In this weather?” Helena said incredulously.
Spring in New England was gray and harsh. The wind blew like needles against Venetia’s cheeks. The redbrick buildings all about them looked as dour and severe as the university’s Puritan founders. “Surely you are not going to let a little chill dissuade you. We won’t be coming back to America anytime soon. We should see as much of the continent as we can before we leave.”
“But my firm—I can’t keep neglecting it.”
“You are not. You’ve kept fully abreast of all the developments.” Venetia had seen how many letters Helena received from her publishing firm. “In any case, we are not keeping you away indefinitely. You know we must return you to London for the Season.”
A huge blast of cold air almost made away with her hat. A man putting up handbills on the sidewalk had trouble holding on to his stack. One escaped his grasp and flew toward Venetia. She barely caught it before it pasted onto her face.
“But—” Helena began again.
“Oh come, Helena,” said Venetia, her tone firm. “Are we to think you do not enjoy our company?”
Helena hesitated. Nothing had been said in the open, and perhaps nothing ever would be, but she had to suspect the reason for their precipitous departure from England. And she had to feel at least a little guilty for roundly abusing the trust her family had accorded her.
“Oh all right,” she grumbled.
Millie, on Venetia’s other side, mouthed, Well done. “And what does the handbill say?”
Venetia had entirely forgotten the piece of paper she’d caught. She tried to open it to its full dimensions but the wind kept flapping it back and forth—then ripped it from her hand altogether, leaving only a corner that said American Society of Nat.
“Is this the same one?” Millie pointed at a lamppost they’d just passed.
The handbill, glued to the lamppost, read,
American Society of Naturalists and Boston Society of Natural History
jointly present
Lamarck and Darwin: Who was right?
His Grace the Duke of Lexington
Thursday, March 26, 3 pm
Sanders Theatre, Harvard University
Open to the Public
“My goodness, it’s Lexington.” Venetia gripped Millie’s arm. “He’s going to speak here next Thursday.”
English peerage had suffered from a collective decline in prosperity, brought on by plunging agricultural income. Everywhere one turned, another lordship was brought to his knees by leaking roofs and blocked flues. Venetia’s brother Fitz, for instance, had had to marry for money at nineteen when he had unexpectedly inherited a crumbling earldom.
The Duke of Lexington, however, had no such troubles. He benefitted handsomely from owning nearly half of the best tracts in London, given to the family by the crown when much of the land had been mere grazing grounds.
He was rarely seen in Society—the joke often went that if a young lady wanted a chance at his hand, she had to have a map in one hand and a shovel in the other. He could afford to be elusive: He had no need to jostle before the heiresses du jour, hoping his lordliness would harpoon him a whale of a fortune. Instead, he traveled to remote places, excavated fossil sites, and published articles in scientific journals.
Which was too bad. In fact, when Venetia and Millie commiserated between themselves over yet another failed Season for Helena, they invariably dragged Lexington into the conversation.
She said Belfort wasn’t serious enough.
I’ll bet Lexington is made of solemnity and high-mindedness.
She thought Linwood smirked too much.
A quid says Lexington never experienced a lecherous thought in his life.
Widmore is too much of a fuddy-duddy. Helena is convinced he’d complain about her endeavors.
Lexington is modern and eccentric—a man who digs fossils wouldn’t object to a woman who publishes books.
They were not quite serious. Lexington in reality was probably arrogant and awkward, as reclusive eccentrics often were. But as long as he remained beyond introduction, they could look to him as a faint beam of hope in their increasingly demoralized endeavor.
That it had been so difficult to find Helena a husband mystified everyone. Helena was lovely, intelligent, and personable. She’d never struck Venetia as unreasonable or particularly hard to please. And yet since her first Season, she’d dismissed perfectly likable, eligible gentlemen out of hand as if they were a passel of murdering outlaws who also defecated on the lawn.
“You’ve always wanted to meet Lexington, haven’t you, Venetia?” asked Millie.