Eros Element (4 page)

“And there was something else, but I suppose I should talk to you about it first since you have achieved your majority since I saw you last.”

“Oh?” Iris's heart gave a dull thump.
Oh, please let him not be thinking of marriage.

“Yes, I shall meet you inside. This isn't the proper place for such a discussion.” He gestured to the garden. “There's so much dirt.”

“Well, yes, it's a garden. And I'm in the middle of summer planting. Perhaps you could return another time?”

He ran his eyes over her attire, his gaze pausing at her dirty hands, and nodded. “If our discussion goes well, you shall not have to soil your hands like this again. Tomorrow for tea, then?”

“I'm afraid I don't know my schedule. Something has come up,” she said, thinking of the journey she was about to undertake.
Under false pretenses,
her conscience reminded her.

“Oh. Perhaps I should send word to your father via telegram? I can get my answer quickly and not inconvenience you.”

“Please don't disturb him. Tomorrow teatime should be fine,” Iris told him.
Telegrams! Confounded things.

“Until then.” He tipped his hat and walked off. Iris watched him go, a seed of anxiety sprouting into dread in her stomach.

I hope this isn't what I think it is.
She pictured Jeremy being the first in a long line of suitors. Whereas most young ladies her eminently marriageable age of eighteen would be looking forward to a season in London so they could catch a husband and settle down, she dreaded the idea. One of the few good things about being orphaned and without other relatives—no one would force her to put herself on display, or at least the self deemed most acceptable for the marriage market, which was not her true self.

Iris knelt and put the tomato plant in the hole she'd dug for it. She hoped the feel and damp, earthy smell of the soil plus the sharp odor of the tomato plant itself would keep her in the present. But her mind dragged her back to the past, when she'd discovered she had more in common with her father than their interest in ancient times and high dirt tolerance.

Chapter Five

Grange House, 15 April 1864

Iris listened for the combination of splashing sounds and sigh that told her Adelaide McTavish settled in the bath. She hid in the hallway, waited for Sophie to leave the lady's bedroom, and tiptoed in. Iris's mother hummed, and through the cracked door Iris saw Adelaide's head of dark hair above the lip of the tub. She stepped back to ensure she wouldn't be seen should her mother turn around, and the pain shooting through her abdomen made her suppress a gasp. It had been that way since last night, when her courses started for the first time. She made Sophie, two years older and much more versed in such things, promise not to tell Adelaide, who would want Iris to start doing things in a “womanly”—that is, stifled and not fun way. She wanted a few more weeks before she'd be stuck in long dresses and—worst of all—a corset. It was bad enough she had to walk around today with a tied-up bunch of rags pinned to her bloomers. She felt sure everyone must see her waddling and know her secret, but she was discovering theirs in unexpected and delightful ways, so perhaps it was fair.

From her childhood, her father had told Iris how objects all told stories, and the ancient ones had the best stories of all. She hadn't understood what he meant until she picked up her fork that morning and saw a flash of the kitchen maid's joy in the beautiful day and the prospect of her day off once the family was done with breakfast. Then she'd gone into her father's study and touched one of his pens, feeling pride in the student he'd written the recommendation letter for that morning. Hearing her mother humming in the parlor across from the study made Iris drop the pen and sneak back into the hallway.

Adelaide sometimes spared a smile for her only child, but Mrs. McTavish always had an air of loneliness about her, especially when Irvin was away on expeditions or spent long hours at the university. Of course she hadn't confided anything in Iris, but always having been a sensitive child, Iris knew her mother wasn't happy. She tried to be good, but she seemed unable to avoid getting in trouble, which usually meant getting dirty. So when Adelaide's mood lightened, Iris wanted to know why. Would she at the wise old age of twelve be a big sister? With babies being as messy as they were, she would have something to excel at, and maybe her mother would finally approve of her lack of squeamishness and ability to tolerate soiled things. So Iris had followed her mother around all day at a distance, watching for a chance to get in her bedroom without getting caught. She could have waited until the evening, when her parents would be at the opera, but she was curious
now
.

So once Adelaide was safely ensconced in her bath, where she would be for at least forty-five minutes, Iris tiptoed into the bedroom and headed for the dressing table, which should hold objects that her mother touched every day and would be exposed to bedroom thoughts. As luck would have it, Adelaide's wedding ring sat in the center between two tortoiseshell combs. Iris licked her lips, and a thrill of excitement edged the cramping pain from her consciousness. She held the ring between her forefingers and thumbs, a technique that seemed to give her the clearest pictures.

Instead of a fat, dimple-cheeked baby, Iris saw a handsome young man. Now an unfamiliar feeling between her legs, heat and pressure, made her cheeks go red simultaneously with the sensation the blood ran from her head. Then an image of her father and hatred and resentment and worst of all, the itchy, burning sensation of contempt like a poison oak rash in the middle of her chest. The last sounds she heard before she fainted were the clattering of the wedding ring on the floor and its rolling away guided by a groove in the wood.

She woke to smelling salts and the concerned faces of Sophie and Adelaide, to whom Iris had to confess about her courses starting. Her mother strapped her into a corset the following week, but Iris couldn't blame it for the stifling sensation she now had at the thought of her gift. Now the girl who played in the dirt became the one who wore gloves all the time, even when she ate. The only good thing to come out of it all was that Irvin allowed Iris to help him more at the office, where she got the faint sense of past stories from the objects he brought back from his digs.

As for Iris, she vowed never to marry because she couldn't bear the thought of touching her husband's things and finding out he loved another and pitied her or worse.

Grange House, 07 June 1870

Iris caressed the leaves of the tomato seedlings. Her heart hurt for her father. He had to have known of Adelaide's indiscretions, but he wept at her funeral two years before as a heartbroken husband should. Iris tried not to touch his things at the time because his emotions were too much to bear on top of her own conflicting ones—relief that Adelaide and Irvin would no longer suffer because of each other and sadness for herself because of the limitations her gender put on her, specifically the pressure she would be under to follow in her mother's unhappy path.

And now it begins…
For what else could Jeremy want to speak with her about? She wondered if he would find her so attractive if he knew how her mother's and then her father's medical care had drained the family's coffers. He came with family money, though, so it might not matter so much to him.

All the more reason to go on this expedition and achieve my own fortune.

Now if only she felt more confident she could pull it off. Sophie appeared with a folded piece of paper and said, “Tea is ready, Miss, if you would like to take it. Cook has made tarts.”

“I'll be there in a minute.” Iris took the note from Sophie and ignored the throb of disapproval emanating from her. Iris unfolded the slip of paper to find a message from Johann Bledsoe:
Edward Bailey will be packing tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. Suggest you help him.

Why would he want me to help him? I thought he wanted me to stay away from him.
A drop of sweat trickled down Iris's temple.
What sort of game is he playing?

Aetherics Department, Huntington University, 08 June 1870

When Edward arrived at his office, he found his old friends the water stains Hickory, Dickory and Dock had been painted over. The sun shone through the windows with obscene brightness, and he had to squint to make out the jumble his carefully organized books, journals and other things had become when the shelving had been moved away from the walls.

“Now I'll never be able to pack,” he lamented to anyone who might be in earshot. As it was summer and the department therefore quiet, his complaints met no ears but his own. Still, grumbling under his breath provided an outlet for the frustrating pressure that built from his middle. It was bad enough his biological schedule had been thrown off since Monday, when he'd had to take his morning tea twenty-one minutes early, and the cream puffs at his brother's house the day before had seduced him into a heavier teatime than usual, which meant he ate his dinner on a non-empty stomach, which led to indigestion all night. Now here he was, his stomach unsettled along with his brain, and he would have to organize and pack with his mental faculties at the lowest they'd been in years.

A knock on his door startled him, and he yelled, “Come in.”

The two women from the meeting on Monday opened the door.

“I can't help you right now,” Edward snapped.

The more petite of the two smiled with the same patient look in her eyes his mother had when he was demanding she do something he thought was reasonable but she didn't. “We're here to help you. Your friend Mister Bledsoe suggested it.”

“What, why?”

The woman, whom Edward recalled was named Miss McTavish, gestured to the mess. “He seemed to think you would require some assistance packing for our expedition, at least with regard to academic materials. I often helped my father pack for his trips, so I have some expertise in the matter.”

Edward looked around the office and closed his eyes against the chaos. “I cannot be bothered to determine what is important and what isn't, so I shall take everything.”

Miss McTavish's eyes widened, and he noticed their unusual dark bluish color, that of her namesake the iris. Fickle things, they bloomed for a short time in the late spring, and he supposed he couldn't count on her to be constant for much longer than that. With her striking eyes and light blond hair, she was the type Johann went for—the dramatic ones like actresses and singers—so it wasn't a surprise his friend had taken an interest in her. If Edward were to care about matters of the heart, he might allow himself to feel disappointed, but as it was, his friend was welcome to her and her meddling ways.

“You mean to take…everything?” Miss McTavish asked.

The other young woman, Miss Smythe, coughed. “I believe he does, Miss McTavish.”

“Well, of course,” Edward said. “While the rest of you are off traipsing about large cities that harbor who knows what diseases, I shall continue my work as best as I am able.”

“So you mean to bring equipment as well,” Miss McTavish said. “I assume you have a separate lab.”

“Of course. Some of my devices are too delicate to trust to the crudeness of our transportation systems, but I shall take what I can.” He thought through his laboratory and what could be transported. “It should only require five or six crates. Let's say six to be safe.”

“You haven't traveled much, have you?” Miss McTavish asked him.

“I've journeyed enough. My brother has an estate in the countryside. It's a good ten miles outside of town. It can take an hour by steamcoach if the weather makes the roads muddy.”

She tugged on the edges of her wrist-length gloves and flexed her fingers. “Let's think this through, Professor Bailey. If you look at the itinerary, you'll see we leave the continent of Europe at some point, and with it access to wheeled conveyances. Thus, you have to think about packing in terms of what you can fit on a horse or camel.”

“A horse? You mean we may have to ride?” Edward spent as little time as possible around those smelly, biting brutes, and he pushed away the mocking voice from his memory.
“What, are you scared of them? Is poor little Eddie afraid of the big bad horsie?”

“I'm afraid so. This isn't a pleasure trip.”

“No, that is apparent.” He took a deep breath and tried to blow out his frustration, but it didn't help. If anything, it contributed to his anxiety about the whole thing being too big for his insides. No wonder he had an almost constant state of indigestion. Speaking of which… “Excuse me,” he told the two ladies and bolted from the office.

“Big hairy ox's bollocks.” Iris allowed herself to swear after the professor left the room.

“Miss!” Sophie looked at her with a shocked expression.

“I don't know who to be angrier at, the ridiculous Professor Bailey or his friend who has gotten me into this situation.”

“Why are we here, Miss?” Sophie had been so busy packing their things for the journey that Iris hadn't been able to fill her in on Bledsoe's stealing the telegram.

But if I tell her he has it and we are revealed, she may refuse to come with me for fear of exposure, and where would I be? I would have to excuse myself from the trip because I couldn't go unchaperoned. And we'll all be poor and ruined.

“Because Professor Bailey needs our help packing for the sake of the entire party's sanity,” Iris said. “As you can tell, he's somewhat quirky.”

Sophie shot her an
I don't believe you
glance but didn't say anything. “It seems we should let him bring some sort of equipment to keep himself occupied on the trains and boats we'll be on. And a book or two to keep him quiet.”

“Yes, that sounds wise.”
It's like packing for a child.

The child himself returned with a worried expression and picked up a pen to toy with. Iris thought he would be much handsomer if he would relax, then wondered where that notion had popped up from.

I have no desire to ponder whether Professor Bailey is good-looking or not.

“Oh, you're still here,” he said, his tone indicating he did not find their continued presence to be pleasant.

“Yes,” Iris replied with a brightness she would use with a capricious toddler. “Perhaps you could aid us with your prodigious intelligence and let us know what would be most important for this particular journey. You can't bring everything, I'm afraid,” she added before he responded that all of it was necessary.

The professor closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked around the office, anywhere but at her. “Well,” he said with the deliberate air of a man who picked his words from the torrent flowing through his brain, “we're going in search of something that will help harness the energy of aether into power. It is difficult to determine since we don't know whether we're looking for a formula or an actual substance.”

“Is there something you could convert?” asked Iris.

Bailey shot her a withering glare. “My equipment is so specialized and aether so unstable it is difficult to
convert
or adjust anything.”

Iris stifled a sigh.
This is going to be a long morning.
“What about reference materials? Pick out your two or three most important.” She slipped one of her gloves off and grabbed the pen he'd placed back on the desk. It primarily gave her a sense of anxiety over the uncertainty of the whole adventure. Then there was sadness at having to leave his work and the sense of abandoning his responsibilities to his experiments, his life, and, with much lower priority, his students. She placed the pen back on the desk where she'd found it and hoped to appeal to his innate enthusiasm for his subject and desire to share the knowledge. Or show it off—she sensed pride in his work. Either would do. “Or how about this? Will you do a simple demonstration for me to show me
why
you want to bring everything?”