She pressed her lips tight against the grief as she looked once more to that precious bag, now holding the entirety of her research. But she could not allow her compiled data and illustrations and the living creatures in her care to be destroyed. Not before she completed her paper and sent it off to the Royal Society.
For a moment the fire in her belly sputtered. She had tried time and again to build up the nerve to send the blasted thing off to that most notable journal, so she might finally be acknowledged for her contribution to the scientific world. Yet each time she thought her work might be ready, she lost her nerve entirely. All this time she had bolstered herself on the belief that if she could just get the blasted thing included in their periodical, her parents would finally be forced to acknowledge that she was worth more than who she could marry and how many children she could whelp. That her mind was much more important than her womb.
But all too soon the poisonous question whispered through her mind: What if she failed? What if they refused to print her piece, and her work was dismissed? Just as she had been dismissed all her life. It would be devastating, forcing her to concede that her parents had been right about her all along.
And so she had waited, and waited, thinking if she could just rewrite it one more time, do more thorough research, create more detailed illustrations, she was certain to succeed. But all the while she was left in a kind of limbo of uncertainty and self-loathing. And now, with most of her research destroyed and the recent and suffocating restrictions placed on her, it seemed she would never be able to break free of that horrible limbo, no matter how she might wish it otherwise.
But this was not the time for mulling over just how much worse her already limited independence had become. “Enough of this,” she said bracingly. “I have fought hard for this afternoon and would enjoy this time with you all.” With that she bit into the treat she still held. And promptly forgot everything else as the saltiness of the butter, alongside the sweet floral hints of lavender with just the faintest touch of citrus, hit her tongue. She closed her eyes in appreciation. “Adelaide,” she said with a sigh, “these are wonderful.”
Her friend smiled, dark eyes bright with pleasure. “Do you think so? It’s a new recipe, and I wasn’t certain I’d gotten the balance right.”
Honoria rolled her eyes heavenward, seeming to seek guidance from a higher source. “As if anything you bake isn’t deliciously decadent,” she scoffed in her blunt but affectionate way. “Which is why I’ve had to let my gowns out once already this year.” She laughed and then, her expression transforming in an instant, turned to Bronwyn with a stern glare. “But don’t think you’re getting out of talking about your parents’ latest atrocity. We cannot stand for this. It’s not your fault that the Duke of Carlisle didn’t make you an offer last year. The man fell in love with another!”
Bronwyn took a deep breath, her good mood vanishing; she should have guessed that Honoria, tenacious as a terrier, would not let it go. She sent Seraphina a beseeching glance. Blessedly, her fiery-haired friend was as quick as ever.
“There’s been talk coming through the Quayside of someone taking residence at Caulnedy Manor,” she said, giving Honoria a sly sideways look. As Honoria predictably perked up at that bit of gossip, her previous passionate subject forgotten for the moment, Seraphina turned to Adelaide, who watched the whole interaction with wide, bemused eyes. “Adelaide, I wouldn’t doubt if the same information has gone through the Beakhead; your tearoom is usually the epicenter of all the latest news on Synne, after all.”
Adelaide bit back a smile before, adopting a more serious mien, she nodded sagely. “Yes, you’re so very right. Ihaveheard news pertaining to a commotion going on at Caulnedy. I admit I’m shocked. Caulnedy has been empty for so long, I wasn’t certain it would ever see life again.”
“Oh! Yes, I had forgotten.” Bronwyn sat forward and adjusted her spectacles, vastly relieved at the change of subject. “I’ve met them.”
The news of someone taking up residence at Caulnedy would have been the perfect diversion even without Bronwyn adding to it: there was nothing Honoria liked more than a juicy bit of gossip, something her vicar father had been hard-pressed to cure her of. But Bronwyn’s addition, so unexpected because of her preference to abstain from most social interactions, was enough to stun them all into silence.
Finally, Honoria spoke. “And you’re just telling us now?” she demanded, hazel eyes wide with outrage and curiosity.
“Goodness, Bronwyn, who are they?” Katrina, ever energetic, fairly bounced in her seat. Mouse, seated on the floor at her feet, tilted his head backward to gaze at her, massive tongue lolling.
Unable to understand why such a thing might interest anyone, much less to this degree, Bronwyn was nevertheless clever enough to know that she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“They are two young girls,” she replied. “Perhaps ten and thirteen? Or something similar; I’m horrible at guessing ages.”
She smiled, thinking that would be the end of it. But no, they all continued staring, waiting. For what? She scoured her mind for what information they might want.
“Er, their names are Miss Eliza and Miss Nelly Hargrove.”
“And?” This from Seraphina, who, to Bronwyn’s surprise, was just as eager as the others to learn about the newcomers. Seraphina was, after all, the most levelheaded of their group, the one who loudly denounced society, who refused to look at the gossip rags, though she was forced to provide them for her patrons at the Quayside.
But Bronwyn, wholly unused to talking at length about anything other than her beloved insects, was at a loss. “And…they have brown hair?”
This time Adelaide was the one to roll her eyes, another unexpected occurrence, for she was the epitome of patience. “There must be something else you’ve learned about them. Where are they from?”
“Did you meet their parents?”
“How long will they stay?”
Unprepared for the volley of questions, Bronwyn lurched back against the settee. Phineas squawked with a “Noo jist haud on!” and flapped his wings at the sudden trespass into his space. The breeze created by his moment of pique set the loose curls at Bronwyn’s temple dancing about.
“I didn’t learn much,” she mumbled, face hot. “You know me; I’m no good at that sort of thing.”
Which they all did know, very well. Honoria, no doubt feeling she had been robbed of this particular bit of Synne news, grumbled and sat back in her chair. The rest were thankfully much kinder in their reactions.
“How did you meet them?” Adelaide asked, taking a sip of her tea, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“You recall the spot where I discovered that new species of beetle? The meadow below Caulnedy?” At their collective nods, Bronwyn continued. “Several days ago, when I was supposed to be visiting with the modiste, I managed to sneak out to visit the meadow for a bit. The Hargrove girls spotted me while they were out walking and asked what I was about. They were not at all squeamish,” she finished almost proudly. It was rare, after all, that she found anyone who had the same affinity as she for insects. Or, at least, anyone who did not turn and run the other way when she showed them a specimen. Which was why the live specimens she was currently in possession of were well on the other side of the room.
“Hargrove.” Seraphina took a bite of a small finger sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t recall hearing of any family by that name owning the property. But then, my sisters and I have not been here all that long.” A cloud passed over her face, as it did whenever her past was touched on. It was something she refused to discuss, even among the Oddments.
But she quickly rallied. Looking to Honoria, she tilted her head in curiosity. “When did your father arrive on Synne to take over the vicarage?”