Chapter Five
Augusta sat at her desk, twirling her fountain pen in her hand and feeling terribly vexed.
She could not speak at the demonstration.
The Society of Women in Medicine was the kind of group made up of women who were, at their core, the angriest of creatures, and they wanted everyone to know it.
They screamed in public places and wrote horrid letters to Parliament filled with profanities.
It was not the behavior that Augusta believed would earn women the sympathy that they needed in order to progress.
To speak for them would be an endorsement. Such an endorsement would be dishonest at its core. Augusta did, indeed, want the law to change to allow women more chances to work in hospitals and asylums. Indeed, for women to work anywhere they pleased, titled or not, wealthy or not.
But she did not see the need to yell and break things for it, nor did she think that there was merit in bullying one’s way into being heard.
She could act as a lady to the fullest extent and allow others to see her worth within her work once the time came.
Such behavior was what had earned her a spot at Dr. Pinkton’s side as an alienist, albeit completely in the shadows.
Besides, had the Society’s meager changes to law ever amounted to anything?
For all the riots and rage, their efforts did not always translate to true, identifiable outcomes.
All of that public disgracing of their character, and for what?
Only a few bluestocking women in positions worthy of note.
Hardly the great stride forward that the Society so petitioned for.
Then again, she could not say that her own hands were clean of disgrace.
Augusta might not have shouted or burned buildings, but she’d done a great many other, more surreptitious activities.
From the moment she’d begun attending lectures and meeting with Dr. Pinkton in smoky cafes, she’d been acting in great deceit.
None had known of it but Ginny, who’d only given her greatest support.
When Augusta had earned the attention of other alienists, the silence she’d kept only grew in magnitude as she’d attended quiet functions outside society filled with conversation, all without alerting Reginald to her clandestine actions.
Soon enough, nearly all of Augusta’s life was kept in the silence of her mind. It was all she thought about, and yet none of it ever crossed her lips unless she was near Dr. Pinkton or Ginny.
Yes, it had been terribly sneaky and wrong.
But it had only felt sneaky and wrong for the first little while.
And besides, it had never harmed her obligations in society.
She had attended every ball at Reginald’s behest and hosted every houseguest with the utmost civility.
If her independent studies did not cause troubles for anyone, then it could not be so bad at all, she’d reasoned.
Well, if things did not change soon, then none of it mattered all that much in the end, anyways. Without her work with Dr. Pinkton, she had no idea what kind of hand she would have in the alienist community. Perhaps none.
Just thinking about it made Augusta tense and worried.
No, she could not do this speech. She could hardly guarantee her own future in psychotherapy; how could she ever try to presume the future of anyone else’s career?
To fight in a battle with so uncertain a victory?
She could be completely cut off and tossed aside, only for the law and the minds of everyone in London to remain steadfast in their obsolescence.
She was no warrior. Only an earl’s near-spinster sister.
A knock at her bedroom door surprised her to such a great extent that she jumped, nearly spilling her ink across her parchment.
“Oh, drat,” she muttered, settling the bottle to a safer place and stuffing her notes into the top drawer of her desk, as she had done only the other day.
“Come in,” she called, turning around in her chair to face her intruder.
Reginald stepped through. “You have a caller.”
Damned Pinkton. He hadn’t even written to warn her. What more could he want from her today? He’d already asked for the impossible.
“Tell him to wait,” she said sullenly. “I shall be finished soon enough.”
Reginald furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you curious as to the identity of the caller?”
“It is Dr. Pinkton, is it not?”
“No, actually, though if he has your attention so, I ought to demand an audience with him soon. Your caller now is Lord Brightwater.”
Augusta’s head snapped up. “Brightwater? What could he possibly want with me?”
“I assure you that I have already asked him the exact same question. He says that you two were unable to finish a conversation at the Wallingford ball last night. He intends to finish it now.”
Unable to finish, indeed. Lord Brightwater had been a veritable fountain of questions during their waltz the evening before.
She scoffed. “Don’t worry, I am sure this will be short. I am assuming you will be our chaperone?”
“If you’d rather, I could fetch a maid, but otherwise you are stuck with me, yes.”
She waved away his false modesty. “No, no, you would be better suited. Then the two of you can continue to socialize after I’ve made my exit.”
As she walked with Reginald toward the drawing room, she wiped the ink from her hands and composed herself into her most proper form - shoulders back, chin tucked slightly, hands firmly at her sides. By the time she stepped through the drawing room door, she was the picture of respectability.
Sebastian stood at the window when they entered, looking down at the street below. He turned upon hearing them, and gave Augusta a smile so radiant that she felt the sudden urge to turn around and run, for anything so bright was surely suspicious in nature.
“Miss Browning,” he said. “How are you this morning?”
“I am well, thank you.” She paused to await his response, before realizing that she had not asked after his own condition. “And you?”
“I am excellent, thank you.” His eyes flicked to Reginald, and he gave him a friendly nod. “Is it alright if I intrude upon your afternoon?”
“Of course,” Reginald said with only some reserve in his tone, for Augusta believed that he, too, was suspect of Sebastian’s intentions. The longer Augusta stood here, however, the more that the designs of this visit became clear to her.
This was more than social. This was a pursuit.
For her, no less. It had occurred during two other seasons years ago, though neither had ended in marriage for a host of reasons.
To feel it happening again at so late an age was strange, but she promised herself that she would remain polite out of respect for the dignity of Reginald’s friend.
The trio took their seats around the coffee table.
Augusta poured tea for herself and the two men as they made banal conversation.
She knew that they had been good friends all their lives, connecting as altar boys, then classmates, then gentlemen in society.
Was it strange for him to see this odd charade playing out in front of him?
“And you, Miss Browning?”
She looked up at the sound of her name. Both her brother and Lord Brightwater stared at her in expectation of an answer to a question she had not heard.
“I apologize, I did not hear the lead-up to your question, Lord Brightwater.”
The man’s brow raised a bit, but he did not give away any indication of being terribly displeased with her.
“Auggie gets lost in thought when she’s bored,” Reginald said, though there was no censure in his voice. Only the affection of an older brother.
Augusta offered both of them a regretful half-smile. “I apologize. What did I miss?”
“Nothing but a bunch of ramblings between schoolmates, I assure you,” Lord Brightwater said, quashing Augusta’s offense easily. “I only asked if you’d be playing at the musicale tomorrow evening.”
“No, I’m afraid I have not played a pianoforte in many years. Music has never been my strength.”
“Oh? What is your strength, then?”
For a reason she could not quite understand, Augusta found her gaze flitting to Reginald, as if to say, ‘stop this, brother.’ Reginald only offered his own reserved glance between Lord Brightwater and his sister. He would not be her savior here, then.
“I don’t have a talent, I’m afraid,” she said. Even now, the lie did not feel quite correct as she said it.
“Don’t be modest,” Reginald said, and this time she did detect a slight chiding in his tone. When she looked over at him, his expression told her that he had made some decision in his mind in regards to Lord Brightwater and her. “Augusta is a very good listener.”
What in God’s name are you doing, Reginald?
“A…good listener?” she repeated, wondering if she had misheard him.
“Yes,” he said, insistent. “You can listen to anyone blather on about anything and find some commonality in it. It is a trait I rather admire in you.”
Augusta did not quite know what to make of such a fact. She understood what he had based his assessment upon, but found that she disliked it, anyhow. Was her greatest trait solely wrapped up in her ability to be silent? To let someone else do the talking?
Plastering on yet another polite smile, she turned back to Lord Brightwater.
“My brother thinks too highly of me. Surely he has had to listen to me blather on a time or two.”
“I’m sure you are everything he has said and more,” Lord Brightwater said. Congenial to a fault. “In my experience, exceptional listeners are also exceptional readers. Is that so with you?”
Augusta felt a protest die in her throat. She wanted to deny him his little win, but the truth was that he was spot-on in his guesswork.
“I do. And you - are you a great reader?”
“No, though I always tell myself I ought to be.” There again was that self-deprecating humor, the kind that made him so very likable.
“No one ought to unless they truly enjoy it. There are other worthwhile pursuits.”
“I’d say as much. What do you read?”
“Nothing much of interest.”
“I’m interested.” The statement was clear and pointed, with no room for dissent.
“I see. Well then, I enjoy romances. Tales of adventure and all that. Gothics, when I can find a good one.”
Her answer appeared to surprise Lord Brightwater. “Truly? I did not take you for the fanciful kind.”
Yes, that had been by design, for Augusta purposefully spoke little of her enjoyment of books. Most in the ton did not care for the habit in a woman at all, and others did not care for the content that she preferred. It had always been best to keep it between herself and Ginny.
“I always enjoyed a story that could take me somewhere new,” she said, figuring that now that her preferences were out in the open, she might as well be honest about them.
Maybe it would make Brightwater rethink whatever it was he was doing right now if he believed her to be flighty.
“There are a great many ordeals I enjoy reading about rather than experiencing.”
Lord Brightwater looked at her with a curious expression as she spoke. As though he was assessing her, and she was passing muster.
Damn.
“Well, perhaps one day I shall have to read one of your favored tales of adventure.”
The conversation, Augusta decided, required a shift.
“Will you be in attendance at the musicale?”
“Yes. If there is dancing, can I expect your hand for the waltz again?”
“Of course.” She did not bother to say that she would keep it open for him; they both knew that her dance card did not need aid in remaining open. “Whatever pleases you.”
“Excellent,” Reginald said. Augusta flinched slightly, as she had forgotten that he was in the room with them. “And the Haversham ball - I can presume you’ll be in attendance, Brightwater?”
“Of course. It will be a great way to finish out the season in good company.”
Ah, yes. In a fortnight the season would be over, and then the cycling social calendar would end, and they would enter the season of peace.
For all the discomfort that Lord Brightwater’s sudden attention had brought her, Augusta was relieved to remember that it would likely be short-lived.
Once the parties ended and access to her was less convenient, surely Brightwater would give up the chase.
“Well,” she conceded. “I suppose a calm evening is a fine end to an uneventful season.”
“Uneventful? I wouldn’t be so certain, Miss Browning. A fortnight is a very long time.”