“The ladies at the school sent me a note this morning. Dare thinks I need a carriage,” Azmin said in amusement, washing paper through egg white. “I wonder if it might be that chickens in India lay a different kind of egg?”
Keya chuckled and took the paper for drying. “I am not certain I follow carriages with eggs.”
“I’ve been spending too much time with the aunts.” Azmin dried her hands and picked up the photographic plate containing the tavern scene. “They rattle and hop from one subject to the other, and it’s like watching a tennis match.”
Lady Agatha and Gertrude were not her aunts, not any more than Dr. Dare was her cousin. It was just simpler to refer to them in family terms. Adding “in-law” and “great-great aunt” or “second-cousin to the third degree” only complicated life.
She took out one of the previously dried albumen sheets, set it against the glass plate, and fastened the frame around it. “If printing doesn’t bring out the weird shadows, we may have to send for Indian chickens. Or maybe use peafowl eggs.”
“Or it could be that you need to mix the solution and not me. If we are dealing in magic, then scientific experimentation does not apply.” Keya set the frame with others to open in sunlight.
“It’s not magic,” Azmin complained. “It’s some innate sense that some of the family possesses. I’ve never had it. My cousins teased me horrifically, trying to determine if my paintings revealed secrets or if I could read their auras or smell their characters or whatever. I was hopeless.”
“You are a most excellent artist and photographer. That should be enough,” Keya said loyally.
Azmin knew better than to hug her—years of abuse prevented her friend from enjoying easy familiarity. So she focused on what was important—helping others like Keya. There was no money in India to aid in the fight, so they must form the organization here, where great wealth and technology had led to even greater wealth.
“Being an artist is not enough if I can’t identify abused women. Once we launch the studio, we’ll at least bring in more income, as well as establishing connections with other women. And if I’m to use my time teaching Dare’s niece to sketch, he’ll pay dearly for it.” She wasn’t fond of budgeting, but Azmin sat down at her desk to calculate what a few hours a week would cost of studio time.
“I know your mother’s family disowned your mother and thus you, but your father’s allowance is generous,” Keya protested. “You need not be so tight with your purse.”
Azmin snorted at mention of her mother’s royal family. “My father is newly married and no doubt producing a son and heir as we speak. He will not be so generous once his new wife starts spending his wealth. I am being practical. He gifted me his house, since he will not be returning here. If I can save most of my allowance and subsist on my own income, I will have funds for my old age.”
“He will not forget you!” Keya protested.
“Your future as much as mine depends on him,” Azmin reminded her. “Do you want to take the risk of returning to India?”
Keya wrinkled her long nose and changed the subject. “Why would Dr. Dare wish to send a carriage for you?”
“Because he is a gentleman who doesn’t believe ladies should be wandering the streets alone. I told the ladies we don’t need his help. It’s good that you found Wilson and his hackney or we would have frozen this winter.” Azmin set her pen aside.
She hoped and prayed that Keya was safe here. Scotland was the other end of the world from India, and the only place Azmin knew to run. But it wouldn’t be difficult to find two brown-skinned women in mostly-white Edinburgh if Keya’s husband came searching. “Perhaps we should start using hired carriages more often. We are too visible.”
“We are wrapped in hoods and cloaks and scarves! Who would notice?” Keya scoffed.
“It’s almost spring. I am told Edinburgh’s weather is relatively mild, so I surmise that it does eventually become warmer and the need for cloaks, unlikely. How is the studio coming along?”
“I have ordered carpet for the reception. We should visit other studios to see how they decorate. I am quite certain the fashions of Calcutta are outdated.”
“Excellent thought.” Azmin contemplated her busy schedule and wrinkled her nose much as Keya had earlier. “If you dress in widow’s weeds, with a long black veil, you could probably visit on your own. Your English is nearly perfect.”
“You are only avoiding doing it yourself,” Keya accused.
Azmin grinned. “Indubitably. If you let me loose with wallpaper and carpet, I will choose the most expensive, and then be disappointed that they won’t fit our budget. If I don’t know what is out there, I’ll be quite satisfied with whatever you choose.”
“If you started your studio here, near the workshop, it would not require anything fancy. There are more offices available here.” Keya gestured at the simple room they worked in.
“I don’t think students can afford our fees. No, we need the wealthy ladies who collect cartes de visite and mourning photographs and the like.” Azmin began gathering up her supplies. “Although I must wonder if it requires the presence of both husband and wife for the oddity to show up.”
“If you are good enough, couples will come for family portraits. One step at a time,” Keya wisely advised.
“It is just such a slow process!” On that complaining note, Azmin set out for her day of teaching and classes. Her expensive cameras had to wait until she had a few hours to spare.
Although she supposed she could show a camera to her private student. She’d wait to see how much interference Dr. Dare would offer.
Irrationally, she was almost looking forward to any challenge he presented.
Xander—he read, his father preferring that diminutive of Alexander—I have heard ill news of the earl. Unless you are seeing a definitive breakthrough in your research, it is time, as my only heir, that you take up your responsibilities.
Zane wished to heave the missive onto his office fire, but Viscount Dare was not a demanding man. His father was simply stating facts. The Dare family was lamentably short on male heirs. His distant great-great-uncle, the earl, who had never been a part of their lives, had to be in his nineties now. He’d outlived two wives, various sons and grandsons, and all his brothers. Zane’s father had been the heir for decades. Everyone had always assumed the old man would remarry a third time and reproduce. He hadn’t.
As viscount and immediate heir, Zane’s father was the one responsible for the earl’s affairs these days. But he was currently in the Americas, and even when he was at home, he had half a dozen irons in the fire that kept him traveling.
Zane earned the majority of his income from his teaching position since research paid nothing. But he had a small trust fund, and the family assumed Zane’s dabbling in teaching and scientific research could be carried on anywhere, even in Norfolk. He shuddered at his one memory of sheep, pigs, and turnips. The estate was miles from anywhere, isolated as many of the grand homes in the area were. It would be a rural prison.
The only title he’d ever aspired to was doctor, and he’d attained that. He sat down and dashed off a note asking if he should hire a barrister to look into the entailment. Perhaps the land could be sold off.
The title, however, could not be so easily shirked and required a residence closer to London. He’d worry about that when he came to it. His father was healthy and likely to live forever.
Of course, if no one found a cure for Louisa. . .
That did not bear thinking and would in no way affect the burden of a title. On his way home, Zane posted the letter, knowing his father would not receive it for weeks, probably longer if he was on the move again.
As he walked up the gas-lit street toward his home, he saw no sign of any carriage. Miss Dougall had not accepted his offer of one. He simply had to assume the dratted female had her own conveyance and would not be foolish enough to be out after dark, which was when he normally returned home. He didn’t know why the woman was teaching—just to annoy him, quite probably. She used to wear enough gold jewelry to fund a hospital.
Fortunes changed, he knew. Perhaps he should make a few discreet inquiries. Her late husband may have gambled away her funds. . .
Except Louisa had referred to her as Miss Dougall. None of his concern. Letting himself into the house, he set his hat on the shelf in the closet under the stairs and followed the sound of voices. Other than the maid, Mary, Louisa had few people with whom she might talk since he’d booted the governess. He really was a derelict guardian.
The chatter grew louder as he approached the dining room. Peering in, he saw Mary cleaning up a dinner for more than one. His stomach grumbled. Coming home after dark meant he often missed meals. He should stop at a tavern instead of forcing Mary to prepare a late plate. Oddly, the table seemed to be missing most of its chairs.
Puzzled, he continued to the small drawing room at the back of the house. Louisa had called the room grim and refused to use it. He’d simply considered it one less space he had to heat. Every farthing he saved went to his research.
The small room wasn’t grim now. The overhead gaslights had been lit. A fire burned in the grate. Lamps had been set on all the tables. And a bevy of colorful skirts billowed over feminine boots standing on. . . chairs?
He tried not to gape as he sought Louisa, who was—thankfully—on the ground holding what appeared to be an assortment of paints and. . . Zane squinted—stencils?
“There you are,” Louisa cried, spying him as she turned to catch a protective cloth sliding from the furniture. “We are making your house beautiful!”
Zane had a bad feeling about this. . . He gazed up from the skirts at eye height to the ladies wearing them, who were up near the ceiling. There were three of them wearing white smocks over their bodices—and a fourth wrapped in what appeared to be the remains of a white sari embroidered with rows of tiny stitching.
She didn’t even look down as she dabbed color into a stylized stenciled drawing of ribbons and flowers.
Grudgingly, he studied the completed work. It was quite brilliantly done, a classic trompe l’oeil, beautifully dimensioned, of sashes, flowers, and fortunately, no cherubs, in shades of ivory and gray.
“You did all this today?” he asked in disbelief.
“I told Miss Dougall that this room would make a lovely garden room if it were not so dismal, so she brought over some stencils and her students.” Louisa handed another pot of paint to a female holding out an empty one. “I said you would happily contribute to the school fund in exchange for the work. Do you not think it is brilliant?”
“I was not aware you wished a garden room,” Zane said warily. “What exactly is a garden room?”
“Behind those abominable draperies is a lovely bow window overlooking a walled garden. I should like to plant roses and lavender. If it only had French doors, it would be just like home.” Louisa sounded more cheerful than wistful.
He should have known she’d be homesick. “We only lease, not own,” he reminded her. “I cannot make structural changes.”
The female in the old sari turned and flicked paint at him. Zane scowled and wiped at it with his handkerchief. “What was that for?”
“For being an insufferable prig. We have brought beauty to your home, and all you can say is that you’re not allowed to make structural changes. My word, Zander Dare, what happened to the boy who would have been ripping off those velvet abominations the minute Louisa complained of them?” Miss Dougall had covered her sable hair in the old linen, and black lashes hid her light eyes, but she couldn’t conceal laughing ruby lips.
“Removing moldering draperies is likely to pull the screws straight out of the plaster,” he grumbled, shoving his handkerchief back into his pocket and fighting his usual reaction to the brat. He recalled now why he’d let her tease him back then—she fascinated him as much as she annoyed him. “If all of you would climb down from there without breaking your necks, I’ll have a look at the draperies.”
“We’re almost done, sir,” one of the students cried. “I’ve just this small corner to finish.”
“You cannot have done this in one day,” he grumbled. He knew he grumbled, and he almost hated himself for sounding like a dour old professor.
Dour old professors kept their positions and their laboratories. Professors without laboratories couldn’t fix Louisa and ended up on pig farms.
“Finish up your stencils, ladies, and let us remove ourselves from the good doctor’s presence. I can complete any small bits another day.” Miss Dougall climbed down from her chair to stand directly in front of Zane, no longer the shy child but a defiant grown female. “We apologize for being carried away and outstaying our welcome.”
“Oh, do not apologize when he is being grouchy,” Louisa advised. “He is actually very nice and understanding when we do not pop surprises on him. Uncle Zane, can you really take down the draperies?”
As the students scampered from their chairs, collecting brushes and paint pots, he studied the heavy maroon hangings. “Will you wish to replace them?”
Louisa turned to the teacher who was cleaning up and putting tools away. “What do you think?”
“You need draperies to keep out the cold in winter and as privacy at night,” she said. “You simply need to be able to move them to the side during the day.”
“Like the doors at home,” Louise cried. “Where do we find people who make them?”
Miss Dougall cast Zane a look from beneath her long lashes, then wrapped a brush one of the students handed her and dropped it into the bag. “I’m sure your uncle will know. If not, my assistant can help. She is researching the décor for my new studio.”
Damn the female, now he wanted to know more about her studio and her assistant, and he’d have to spend the next days researching draperies.
Zane tried not to look as Miss Dougall unwrapped the linen from her hair and shoulders, but the room was brilliantly lighted, and it was difficult not to notice the gold thread woven into the dull brown cloth she’d garbed herself in. Even in mourning, if mourning it was, she adorned herself in gold.
“I will call for my carriage to take you back to the school,” he suggested. “It’s quite dark at this hour.”
The young students cheerfully accepted his offer. Within the half hour, they’d bundled up and. . . left Miss Dougall blithely walking down the street on her own.
He should let her go. He was hungry and cold, and he needed to speak with Louisa. . .
Yanking his hat and coat back on again, Zane strode after her, convinced this was what a dour old professor should do.