Chapter 21
IN THE YEARS that Gabriel had been tracking down criminals, he’d witnessed every manner of behavior and tactics. But the handwritten notes—and the fact he’d found them in Gutt’s bedchamber—surprised him.
Bauer was the force behind this ruse, of that Gabriel was certain, but Gutt’s participation seemed a critical piece of the puzzle. He needed answers.
Gabriel returned to the great hall on the ground floor as the demonstration was ending. An air of animated excitement hovered over the guests as they milled about the space, but Gabriel knew what he needed to do: He needed to speak with Gutt.
Gabriel found Gutt talking with Bauer at the platform’s far end. Bauer’s gestures and expressions seemed sharp, as if he was irritated. Gutt’s face reddened and his jaw clenched.
They were arguing.
As nonchalantly as possible, Gabriel made his way around the great hall’s outer edge and the small clusters of noisy conversations to observe the interaction more closely.
Gutt—quiet and unassuming—was always present yet easily overlooked. He was a rather nondescript man with light hair, light eyes, and fair skin, and he blended into the background. He never engaged with the guests unless it was at dinner or in conjunction with Bauer.
The argument appeared to end, and Bauer motioned to the supplies they had used—the head model, measuring tools, and notebooks—as if ordering him to clear them away, and then he stomped off. Gabriel knew angry men were more likely to rant, and if Gutt was angry, he might let something slip.
He picked two glasses of wine from the footman and, once Bauer was out of sight, made his way toward Gutt.
“Name’s Rowe.” Gabriel extended the glass toward him as he approached.
Gutt looked up from the notebooks and items he was organizing and accepted the glass. “Thanks.”
“So the first demonstration is done,” exclaimed Gabriel. “Seems a tedious process.”
“Does it?” Gutt responded flatly after he took a drink.
Several moments passed before Gabriel spoke again. “How exactly does one become an assistant phrenologist?”
Gutt exhaled a noisy rush of air, and the muscle just above his cravat twitched. “Years ago I attended one of Bauer’s lectures. I then became a student. And now . . .”
Gabriel let the man’s words fade completely before speaking. “Surely after years you must be able to practice as a phrenologist yourself.”
He scoffed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
“Do you always agree with him? Bauer’s assessments?”
Irritation contorted the young man’s features, and perspiration dotted his brow. Whatever they had been discussing had quite an effect. “As with most behavioral theories, techniques can vary from assessor to assessor.”
Gabriel needed to tread lightly. Gutt seemed willing to talk, but Gabriel needed to establish some sort of relationship before he could expect Gutt to trust him with information. “Will you go on the hunt tomorrow?”
Gutt propped his hands akimbo and looked out at the other guests. “I’m no horseman. I’ll stay here.”
“You needn’t be a horseman; you just need to keep your seat.”
But the young man seemed in no humor.
Gabriel continued to chat with Gutt until the guests began to disperse. He was on the right track. He would simply need to be patient.
Ella clipped a spent bloom from the plant before her. Then another.
Night had fully fallen. Slivers of silver moonlight filtered through the glass panels in the ceiling and fell on the plants and trees growing within.
For the first time since she’d awoken that morning, the tension in her shoulders eased. Perhaps it was the conservatory’s solitude or the simple diversion of a task, but in here she could close her eyes and imagine the sun’s warmth on a peaceful afternoon and forget the worries plaguing her.
She lifted the potted milky-white gardenia from her worktable, moved it to where it belonged, and picked up another plant with fragrant purple flowers.
As she did, footsteps tapped against the plank floor of the parlor just outside the conservatory.
She glanced up to see Mr. Rowe standing in the doorway.
The candlelight caught his strong features as he entered, highlighting the straight bridge of his nose and the curve of his lips. “What’s that you’re working on?”
She wiped her hands on her apron and looked to the plant in question. “Pruning. I fear I’ve neglected some of them since the guests started arriving.”
He drew closer and nodded to the pot before her. “It’s a pretty flower. What is it? I don’t know if I’ve seen it before.”
“Matthiola longipetala,” she stated confidently. “Otherwise known as night-scented stock. It only blooms in the evening.”
He smoothed his fingertip over the delicate lilac-hued petals. “Beautiful.”
“The flower closes during the day,” she explained. “Its fragrance is strongest in the evening to attract nocturnal insects.”
“And those big white flowers?” He pointed to an indoor arbor on the far wall. “Over there?”
She smiled, happy to talk about something other than phrenology—and happy to have someone to talk to about it. “That is Ipomoea alba. The moonflower. Isn’t it magnificent?”
“There are so many of them!” He propped his hands on his hips as he looked to the ceiling where the vines were wrapping around the support beams.
“Those only open at night and close during the day as well. If I’m not careful, this plant would readily engulf every inch of this conservatory.”
Ella would have been content to continue discussing the flowers, but Mr. Rowe’s expression sobered, and she prepared for a shift in the topic.
He cleared his throat. “I was trying to read your expression tonight at the reading.”
“And what did you think of my expression?”
“I can’t say you looked comfortable.”
“Was it that obvious?” she quipped, returning to her task of pruning to avoid eye contact. “I really did try to be objective.”
He rounded the table to stand at its edge. “Oh, objectivity. Isn’t it clear the entire purpose of the evening was mere entertainment? From where I sat everyone was happy. People heard what they wanted to hear, and Bauer played to the vanity of the masses.”
His bluntness was refreshing and gave new voice to her thoughts. “My goodness. How succinctly you read the situation.”
She clipped a bloom, and it fell to the stone floor. He bent to retrieve it and then handed it to her.
The simple action, and the nearness of his hand to her, distracted her.
Needing to refocus her thoughts, she set the bloom aside and returned to the conversation. “I couldn’t help but notice you were absent during some of the assessment.”
“A pity. But necessary.”
“Why?”
The boyish twinkle in his eye reappeared. “In the interest of sharing information, I must confess something.”
Why should her heart race at this moment? Was it knowing she was in his confidence? That he was about to share a secret that only the two of them knew?
“I told you why I’m here, and I’ve been very up front about my intentions.” He pulled a slip of paper from the welt pocket of his waistcoat. “I found this.”
She accepted it and read the information about Mr. Chelten. Confused at what she was reading, she tilted her head to the side. “What is this?”
“Do you recall how I told you that Mr. Gutt was buying information about the assembly room guests to aid Bauer’s assessments? During the demonstration upstairs I searched both Bauer’s and Gutt’s chambers. I found these in Gutt’s room.”
Confusion was quickly followed by shock. Had he really gone into their chambers, uninvited and without consent? “You did what?”
“I searched their chambers.”
The nonchalance with which he said the words stunned her. His actions were an invasion of privacy. As the hostess she was unsure how to react. “Why would you do that? We did not discuss it.”
He relaxed his stance and leaned against her worktable. “If we had discussed it beforehand, would you have permitted it?”
“No. Of course not. I—”
“It needed to be done.”
Did he approach everything with such assumed authority? She faltered for words as she organized her thoughts. “How did you even get in the chambers? Weren’t they locked?”
“Mr. Gutt’s was not, but—” He fished in his pocket and retrieved a pin and held it up.
“You picked a lock?” Ella wasn’t sure if she was impressed or appalled. “I suppose there’s a great deal about what you do that I don’t understand.”
“You’ll catch on,” he teased. “This was not the only slip of paper. There was information on almost everyone here. I’m not sure how this is all going to come together yet, but this evidence is damning.”
“So what now?”
“We watch. We listen. Bauer’s behavior should tell us what we need to know.”
We. The word—the sense of belonging and togetherness, and the idea of working together on something—warmed her. But she wasn’t sure she understood completely, so to mask her discomfort, she lifted the potted night-scented stock to return it to its usual spot.
“Allow me.” He reached to lift the pot from her hands. “Where shall I put it?”
She stepped aside to give him more room. “Here, I’ll show you.”
“May I ask you something?” he queried as he fell into step next to her.
“Of course.”
“When we’ve talked, you’ve seemed very concerned about what the members think about phrenology. Why?”
The question should be easy to answer. She’d answered it hundreds of times in her own head, but no one had ever asked her directly.
“You’ve read the pamphlet and know what is in it, Mr. Rowe.
When I was younger, all I wanted was to prove to everyone that the vile claims were false, but now that everyone is discussing the theory, I feel differently than I anticipated. ”
“How so?”
“I thought I’d be spending the entire symposium searching for opportunities to prove Mr. Bauer wrong, but like you said, I’m not sure others are interested in the truth.
They are here to be amused. If they’re not here for truth, then why bother?
Now I’m focused on my family and what comes next for us.
This school is so dependent upon the Society, and if Mr. Bauer makes the Society look foolish, then it reflects poorly on the school.
It’s a vicious dilemma, and I’m not sure how to navigate it. ”
Mr. Rowe lowered the pot to where she indicated and brushed his palms together.
“I don’t have a legacy to protect like Keatley Hall, but I understand having something to prove.
I won’t say I know how you feel, but I do know what it’s like to endure a scandal.
You can’t change opinions, but you also can’t permit them to hold you captive. ”
“You speak of scandal,” she began, emboldened by the sense of connection that surged through her. “Last night you said you were in law because of your sister. And I know it is not my business, but the ladies in the parlor were speaking about your family.”
He exhaled heavily and raked his fingers through his hair.
Had she upset him? “If you’d rather not discuss it, then I—”
“No, no. I’m actually surprised you aren’t already aware of it.
It’s a sad tale, really. My father arranged a marriage for my sister, Mary, to a much older man.
He was wealthy and influential, but the situation was horrible.
She often told my mother of his cruelty, but what could be done? They were man and wife.
“After a few years of marriage, they were traveling, and her husband, while heavily intoxicated, became angry with an innkeeper in Scotland, and in a fit of rage he shot him. To clear his own name, he claimed Mary shot the man in a fit of delirium. He paid the witnesses to back up his story, and my sister was institutionalized.”
“That’s terrible! I had no idea.”
“Even worse, our own father sided with her husband. I was infuriated. This happened when I was at university, so I began to go daily to the professors to learn what could be done. Initially they ignored me, of course, so I started to gather information. I visited the place where it occurred and spoke with the supposed witnesses, and after a period my professor, either through interest or annoyance, began to pay me heed. Eventually we located a witness who was willing to speak the truth and ultimately changed the course of justice. Mary was released, and her husband—because of his power and influence—managed to avoid the noose. He was sent to Australia and will never return.”
“He’s still alive?” Ella’s mouth fell agape.
“Yes, he’s alive. Mary resides with me now. She’s my daily inspiration to help those who have no one else to fight for them or protect them.”
“And how is your sister now?”
“She’s as well as can be expected, I think, but there are aspects of it that she’ll never fully overcome.”
Remembering her mother’s journals, Ella turned to a small table behind her and retrieved another one. “This is for you if you are still interested. This one has to do with my mother’s first interactions with phrenology and meeting some of the others interested in it as well.”
He reached to accept it, and then sounds of movement reached her ear. She turned just as a shadow fell across the door.
Abraham Abernathy.
Never had she seen his long face so severe, his eyes so narrowed. A frown tugged downward on his thin lips, emphasizing the hard lines etched in his face. His chin tilted upward in presumed authority. “Miss Wilde. Mr. Rowe.”
Her stomach dropped. How would she explain this?
Mr. Rowe’s response was calm. “Mr. Abernathy.”
Mr. Abernathy ignored Mr. Rowe and fixed his eyes on her. “Your father was looking for you. I thought I might find you here, but I can see I’m interrupting.”
“You’re not interrupting anything,” she said lightly. “Mr. Rowe asked to read some of my mother’s journals.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Abernathy responded flatly and looked toward the other man. “I had no idea your interest in phrenology extended so far, Mr. Rowe.”
If Mr. Rowe was the least bit uncomfortable, his manner gave no indication of it. He tapped the journal against his hand and smiled broadly.
“It’s an intriguing study, isn’t it?” Ella asked.
Mr. Rowe’s ability to stay cool and unreadable under any situation was uncanny—and a bit unnerving. “It is. Thank you. I’ll return this when I’m done.”
She nodded and turned back toward Mr. Abernathy. “And where is my father?”
“In the great hall. I’ll escort you if you like.”
Embarrassment flared. She had no choice but to accept. She bid farewell to Mr. Rowe, but even as she did, Mrs. Chatterly’s words about forging her own path echoed. At some point Ella would need to start taking the first steps. She might as well start those steps now.