CHAPTER 11 #2
“That’s not entirely accurate,” drawled Peregrine. “But I understand what you mean.” A sigh. “I don’t remember much about my real father. Just fleeting moments.”
Looking thoughtful, he tilted his head to gaze out the darkened schoolroom window, where a sliver of star-dotted sky was just visible above the rooftop silhouettes.
“He had a wonderful laugh. It sort of wrapped around you like sun-warmed honey.” A smile. “And very broad shoulders. I felt as if I could have touched the sky as we walked with me perched on his shoulders, and he regaled me with stories of all the places in the world he had visited.”
Peregrine then lapsed into a meditative silence for several long moments. “But I guess what I remember best is that no matter what we were doing, he made me feel . . .” A watery sniff. “I suppose what fathers do is they make you feel very loved.”
Hawk looked at his brother and blinked. “That’s how Wrex makes me feel,” he said in a small voice. “I know we’re not related by blood, but it feels like he’s my real father in every way that matters.”
“Oiy,” agreed Raven. “M’lady is always saying that love is an even stronger bond than blood.” He grinned at Peregrine. “Which means we’re all family now.”
“Oiy,” echoed Peregrine with a solemn nod. “And we don’t need any fancy bits of paper to tell us that.”
“That goes for you, too, Harper,” added Raven.
The hound thumped his shaggy tail and gave a woof of approval.
“So if Wrex is feeling blue-deviled,” said Hawk once their giggles ceased. “What can we do to cheer him up and make sure he knows that he is loved?”
“As to that . . .” Raven thought for a moment. “I have an idea.”
* * *
“Do introduce me to your companion, my dear.”
Charlotte looked around at the earl’s approach. “With pleasure, Wrex. Mademoiselle Benoit, this is my husband, Lord Wrexford.”
“Mr. Brunel has been singing your praises, mademoiselle,” said the earl, “and he strikes me as a man who is not easily impressed.”
“Dear heaven, you now have me completely intimidated, milord,” murmured the Frenchwoman as Wrexford bowed over her hand.
Charlotte had a feeling that very little cowed Mademoiselle Benoit. But as she knew well from her own experience, it was often a useful ploy for a lady to pretend to be less intelligent that she really was while assessing an unexpected situation.
“I doubt that I shall be able to manage a coherent word, given your august reputation in the scientific world,” added the Frenchwoman with a tremulous quiver of her mouth that didn’t quite come across as sincere.
“Be assured that I don’t bite,” he murmured.
Not without cause, thought Charlotte.
The remark drew a genuine laugh. “In that case, I shall endeavor not to disgrace myself.”
“You need not worry, mademoiselle,” Charlotte quickly added. “Nothing pleases my husband more than conversing about scientific subjects with a fellow expert.”
“Even if that fellow is a woman?” challenged Mademoiselle Benoit.
“I’m considered highly eccentric by Polite Society for having unorthodox views on a great many subjects,” responded Wrexford. “One of which is that a lady’s intellect is inherently equal to that of a gentleman.”
“Eccentric, indeed,” said Mademoiselle Benoit. “In that, it seems we are kindred souls, sir.”
“I was just asking Mademoiselle Benoit about her particular field of interest—” began Charlotte.
“And I was boring your lovely wife about bridges.”
“On the contrary,” she protested. “I assure you that I found your explanations very interesting.”
Mademoiselle Benoit’s brows shot up, and then her surprise gave way to a knowing laugh. “Ah, you are just being polite. There is no need—I am used to being considered odd.”
Charlotte merely smiled. And I am used to the assumption that all aristocratic ladies are featherheads.
She and Wrexford had decided beforehand that she would ask deliberately shallow questions in hope of piquing the Frenchwoman into revealing more than she might wish about her work and her relationship to Milton.
“Mr. Brunel was just telling me about bridges,” said Wrexford, “and how the key challenge for engineers these days is figuring out how to build longer ones.”
“Precisely, milord!” Her obvious passion for the subject softened the Frenchwoman’s prickly demeanor. “Few people understand the significance of that. It will effect fundamental changes in how people and goods are able to move from place to place.”
“That certainly sounds convenient,” observed Charlotte. “But how is that revolutionary?” She knew the answer, of course, but was interested in how the Frenchwoman would answer.
A flare of exasperation lit in Mademoiselle Benoit’s eyes.
“It is revolutionary because it will allow roads to be built in places that previously could not be reached, as well as shortening existing routes, making it easier—and cheaper—to travel.” She drew in a sharp breath.
“For the rich, cost is not an impediment. But for the working class, having no option to travel at a cost they can afford makes them virtual slaves to local employers.”
“You make a very compelling point,” said Wrexford. “I take it your scientific work is in making improvements in building materials—iron with a greater tensile strength, cements that are more impervious to weather.”
“That is the path that your leading British engineer Thomas Telford and his followers are taking,” came the reply.
“And you see a different way?” asked the earl.
“There are those of us who believe that mathematics, not simply new materials, is the key to providing answers for how to effect a more fundamental change in bridge building.”
“Mathematics?” Charlotte gave a dismissive laugh.
“Adding and subtracting may help keep one’s household’s finances from collapsing in a heap—though I must say, all those numbers make my head hurt.
” She flashed a smile. “But surely you are jesting about mathematics being able to build a new type of bridge.”
Mademoiselle Benoit speared her with a withering look but ignored the question as her gaze returned to the earl.
“One has only to look at the medieval Gothic cathedrals, and the grand curves and domes of Renaissance architects to see that mathematics can teach us lessons about dealing with the weight, strength, and stresses of large structures.”
“Interesting,” said Wrexford. “I have heard that Jasper Milton, one of Britain’s up-and-coming engineers, has been engaged in the same sort of thinking.”
The Frenchwoman’s expression turned wooden. “Has he?”
“But surely you are aware of that.” The earl paused. “Our friend Mrs. Sheffield, who grew up with Milton, recently mentioned that he and her cousin Oliver Carrick attended a symposium in Paris several months ago given by your scientific society.”
“Yes, yes,” chimed in Charlotte, following his lead.
Milton’s death was not yet public knowledge.
The earl planned to reveal the information when he felt it would rattle the Frenchwoman’s sangfroid.
“Why, come to think of it, Cordelia was under the impression that Milton and you had spent a goodly amount of time together.”
“She is mistaken, milady, “ replied the Frenchwoman. “I barely spoke with the man—and I am sure Monsieur Milton will confirm that when your friend next encounters him.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Wrexford. “Milton suffered a fatal accident during the recent storms up north.”
Mademoiselle Benoit turned pale as death. “Mon Dieu.”
“We are also a bit concerned about Oliver Carrick, as Mrs. Sheffield expected to see him at her wedding last week. Have you, perchance, any idea of his whereabouts?”
“Moi?” For an instant, the Frenchwoman looked about to swoon. However she steeled her spine and drew in a steadying breath. “Sacré bleu, je ne sais . . . zat is, je n’avais pas a clue!”
All of a sudden, Mademoiselle Benoit appeared to have lost her fluency in English.
Lowering her lashes, the Frenchwoman added, “W-Why would you ask me zat?”
“Because,” said Charlotte, “we were under the impression that Carrick had also formed a friendship with you during his sojourn to Paris.”
“Non, pas de tout!” A fierce shake of her head emphasized the denial. “I fear zat you have a very unreliable source of information.”
“A misunderstanding, no doubt,” said Wrexford politely.
“Oui! Now, if you will excuse me, I really must rejoin my colleagues.”
Charlotte watched the froth of skirts—the sea-green silk and ivory lace trim looked like storm-tossed waves—as Mademoiselle Benoit hurried away.
“What is your impression?” murmured the earl.
“I think,” she replied, “that the young lady is lying through her teeth.”