Chapter Two
Winifred Belltree delicately lifted the corner of a yellowed page in the illuminated manuscript with two fingers and slid her thin, wooden page turner beneath. The hundred-year-old vellum crinkled and popped like her back after spending hours bent over a table in her family’s library.
She gently flattened a vibrant illustration of an erupting Mount Vesuvius.
It was no larger than her palm, but the detail was exquisite, from the thin lines of lava sliding down the mountain to the plumes of smoke rising into the sky.
Choppy waves lapped the shore as three tiny figures huddled together outside the ruins of the destroyed city.
She lifted the book toward her cousin and tilted it back and forth, making the gold leaf reflect the light of the sun shining through the window. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Beautiful,” Winifred’s cousin Felicity said.
Felicity Sorrow, a twenty-year-old London debutante eager to take a break from the marriage market there, lounged on a maroon velvet settee with a copy of The Night Side of Nature held close to her face.
Her lace gloves were tucked carelessly in her pocket, several black curls had escaped from her chignon, and one of her slippers was hanging from the toes of her right foot, ready to flop onto the thin carpet.
Winifred adjusted the spectacles perched on her nose and ignored the fact that her cousin hadn’t actually looked up before responding, especially because Felicity had gifted Winifred the rare volume that had become her latest obsession.
She still didn’t know how her cousin had saved up enough of her pin money, or how she’d escaped from under the watchful gaze of the insufferably proper aunt who had accompanied her across the ocean from London for long enough to purchase the book, but she wasn’t about to ask.
When one was fascinated by topics deemed inappropriate for ladies, one became adept at letting such mysteries go unsolved.
“Are you two almost done?” Felicity’s older brother, Vincent, asked as he sauntered out from the rows of shelves with his hands shoved in the pockets of his black trousers, which were at least an inch too short.
A casual observer might have mistaken him for Felicity’s twin because of their matching height and raven hair, but there was an intensity to Vincent’s brown eyes and a kind of repressed anger in his voice that made Winifred uneasy.
Or perhaps it was the ash falling from the end of the lit cheroot clenched between his teeth.
“Put that out,” she said sharply.
“Anything you wish, my dear,” Vincent said. He removed the abhorrent object from his lips and stabbed it into a half-empty glass of whiskey, then sprawled his lanky frame in the cushioned wicker chair next to hers.
Her arms erupted in gooseflesh, despite the red, wool shawl draped over her shoulders and the full-sleeved, printed pink cotton day dress beneath it.
She scooted away from him, then glared at Felicity, who was still engrossed in her reading.
Her cousin could have reprimanded her brother, but she refused to see anything but the best in him.
“I will never understand why you find those macabre tales so fascinating, Fel,” she said, referring to the book in her cousin’s hands. “The stories our parents told us were enough to give me nightmares.”
From the time they’d been old enough to toddle, both girls had been taught how their Sorrow ancestors through Felicity’s father and Winifred’s mother had hunted impossible creatures.
Felicity had embraced the learning, but Winifred refused to believe that there had ever been people who could transform into wolves or live forever by drinking the blood of innocents.
Her cousin flipped a page. “I could say the same for your obsession with natural disasters.”
Winifred huffed. The difference was, the past tragedies she studied were fixed in time.
Some interpretation was required, but disagreements could always be settled by returning to the original records.
In contrast, Felicity’s folk tales were fluid, evolving as each storyteller imparted their own biases to fit the narrative they wished to tell.
A legend told a hundred years ago would bear little resemblance to its modern counterpart.
Winifred’s stomach growled, reminding her it had been hours since breakfast. In fact, judging from the way the square of sunlight on the carpet had moved from one side of her desk to the other, it was nearly time for luncheon.
She would have preferred a servant bring the meal to them, but that was foolish, not only because her parents had already warned her they did not approve of her spending so much time with her nose tucked in ancient texts, but also because her books were so fragile that even a single accidental crumb dropped onto a page could cause significant damage.
She returned the illustrated manuscript to the box she’d prepared to protect it from dust and light, then flexed the muscles of her stiff shoulders. “Shall we retire to the dining room?”
“Yes we should,” Vincent said. “If we stay any longer, I’ll start growing roots.”
Felicity pressed her face into her book with a groan.
“I know,” Winifred said. “But if we don’t make occasional appearances, I fear my mother will tell Aunt Ethel to send you home early.”
The two weeks Felicity had spent in Toronto had buoyed Winifred’s spirits after her disastrous summer.
Winifred was, admittedly, a little old to be unmarried, at two-and-twenty, but that didn’t mean her parents needed to foist her upon every gentleman brave or foolish enough to approach them in public.
It had become bad enough that she retreated to the library at any opportunity, even if it meant frequent criticisms from her mother about her bookish nature.
At least Felicity’s presence had granted Winifred a brief reprieve. Her parents were so intent on ensuring the young woman enjoyed her stay that they were not paying as much attention to Winifred.
Unfortunately, Felicity could not stay forever. Soon she would return to London, and then Winifred would have to make do with communicating with her cousin through writing.
“A few minutes more,” Felicity said. She put her book on top of a stack and returned to a normal sitting position.
“I’ve been a terrible guest, making free use of our family’s collection when I should have been helping.
” She put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
“Have you compiled a list of candidates?”
It was Winifred’s turn to groan. She’d come up with the idea of selecting a husband who would suit her needs that summer, after her mother had nearly blackmailed her into marrying a wealthy but foppish silk merchant.
Such a match would have delighted most ladies but could not have been worse for Winifred.
A young, ambitious husband would require his wife to join him at social events, entertain guests, and produce one or more heirs.
Unlike other women who would have been eager to form such a pairing, Winifred despised crowds, had no talent for embroidery or music, and was deeply uncomfortable around children.
Vincent scoffed. “You are wasting your time. The only person Winifred will be marrying is me.”
Felicity grinned. “What do you think, Winnie? We could be like sisters.”
Winifred shuddered. Before her family had moved to Toronto, Vincent’s infatuation had become so unbearable that she’d taken to keeping her father’s hunting dogs at her side when he’d visited.
For whatever reason, he despised the animals.
She wished her father hadn’t sold the hounds.
The next-best defense she’d come up with was outright ignoring Vincent.
She stepped over his legs and joined her cousin on the settee, which was far enough away that he might not hear if she whispered. “I’ve hardly had time to compile a list. You’ve seen my mother. She insists on trotting me out like a prize mare at every event.”
Felicity toyed with a loose thread in her gown. “At least you have parents. Uncle Ethan hardly knows I exist.”
Winifred winced. “I’m sorry. I should have spoken with more care.
” After Felicity’s parents died and Ethan Sorrow had become her guardian, she’d changed.
Winifred distinctly remembered wondering why her once-energetic friend had started refusing invitations and tensing every time a suitor approached her at a ball for a dance.
Felicity had denied anything was wrong, but the more Winifred had observed her cousin, the more she’d realized Felicity’s behavior wasn’t fear, but a kind of cautious anticipation.
Like a street cat pressing itself to the ground and holding perfectly still while a mouse slowly crawled out from a hiding place.
“I forgive you,” Felicity said. “Are there any other criteria you are considering?”
Winifred blew out a long breath. “I would like him to be kind. Intelligent. Most importantly, open-minded enough to allow his wife to pursue her own interests without being so poor that my parents would never approve.”
There was one other criterion, but she did not dare speak it aloud while Vincent might hear. She hoped to find a husband who would allow her to rescue Felicity from the clutches of their uncle by hiring her as a companion.
Thus far, she’d failed to locate anyone who would suit.
Possibly because she had restricted her search to other historians.
Any man wealthy or powerful enough to be acceptable to her mother was invariably preoccupied with the acquisition of more wealth or power.
If only she could meet someone who respected her love of research.
Except… she had. In a manner of speaking.
Several months ago, she had purchased the latest edition of a journal that had contained a well-written but inaccurate article regarding the Aleppo earthquake of 1138.
Incensed by such flagrant disregard for historical fact, she had penned a complaint to the editor of the journal, which had miraculously been routed to the owner of the publishing company.
His contrite response and follow-up retraction in the next issue had impressed her enough that she’d continued writing to him long after her grievance had been settled.
It was terribly scandalous, given the intimate nature of their letters, and would have shocked her mother into a faint.
From their correspondence, she judged he was well-read, empathetic, as devoted to the pursuit of knowledge as any proper scientist, and most importantly, unmarried.
She retrieved a letter from her pocket and flipped it around in her hands. “Well, there might be one man.”
July 4th, 1867
Dear Winifred,
I hope the season was as uneventful as you wished and that you enjoyed the time you had with your cousin to the fullest. I must express my tremendous gratitude regarding your suggestion to use centrifugal force in my experiments.
After some consideration, it occurred to me I could apply the same rotational force of a tornado through the construction of a machine.
After months of failure, I am hopeful this newest invention will allow me to create more effective concoctions to treat my cattle.
Regarding your latest subject of research, I have attached a list of books that might suit your interests. Please inform me if you have difficulty acquiring them and I can make inquiries on your behalf to my suppliers.
Yours,
Marcus