Chapter Eight
He told himself he wouldn’t go to the lecture. The morning Visser was speaking, Exmore instead headed out in the rain to a club that was in the opposite direction of the Royal Institution. Yet, when he saw Colonel Lewiston sitting by the window, Exmore kept on walking. At another club, the conversations of others rankled Exmore’s nerves, and he couldn’t keep Annalise out of his thoughts. He wanted to confront her and understand why she had cut him. He composed a mental peal he desired to ring over her, which contained the words gratitude andkindness, but not the phrase, Why did you hurt my feelings? Maybe he had to solve the mystery of her sudden coldness, or express how he felt, even if she didn’t care, or merely see her, but he was driven into the pounding rain to Visser’s lecture after all.
Exmore didn’t spy Annalise among the dusty men in ill-fitting clothes crowding about a man who Exmore assumed was Visser. The gentlemen appeared to know each other and were excitedly chatting about their own botanical studies. They didn’t notice Exmore slip into a chair at the back of the small room. The clock set on the mantel showed three minutes until eleven. What if she didn’t come? What if he had to suffer through a lecture by Visser, who clearly struggled with English, from the snatches of conversation Exmore had overheard. At five after the hour, Visser cleared his throat, and the other gentlemen took their seats. Exmore felt deflated, frustrated, and angry after all the mental drama that had driven him here. She wasn’t coming, despite having pleaded for the details of lecture, after she had said she could barely wait for days. His ire at her rose even higher for trapping him in a boring lecture.
But mostly he felt let down.
In his periphery, he saw a flutter of fabric beyond the threshold of the door and turned. She appeared, a lovely smile radiating from her face despite the wet curls plastered to her cheeks and the water that dripped from her hem. She held a leather portfolio under her arm. He couldn’t deny the lightning sensation in his chest at her sight.
“Mr. Visser.” She curtsied. “My father, Franz Van Der Keer, and I hold you in great esteem.” She spoke quickly, her voice breathy with excitement. “I read your book on your Australian journeys to him in the last weeks of his life. I cherish your work and the memories it has given me.”
“Franz Van Der Keer,” Visser said and then continued in slow, laboring English. “A very good friend. Pardon me. You speak very fast.”
Annalise switched to his native Dutch. Visser’s stiff expression relaxed. Whatever he said to her caused Annalise to clutch her hand to her heart, tears appearing in her eyes. Although Visser gestured to a vacant chair in the front row, she strolled back to Exmore and slipped into the seat next to him and smiled as if the night at the theater hadn’t happened.
“Sorry I’m rather late.” She set her portfolio on a neighboring chair. “I walked here. Although, I’m sure it appears as though I swam the entire distance.”
He tried to remain angry, but the emotion was cracking about the edges. He couldn’t help but quip, “Don’t worry, you look quite intelligent.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult of omission?” Her eyes sparkled. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you the other night at the theater. Wasn’t it a dreadful play? Phoebe thinks it’s akin to Shakespeare, no doubt due to the handsomeness of the leading man. You see, my uncle… to say that he violently disapproves of our friendship is too mild a description of his feelings. So please excuse my rudeness. I only thought of you and your well-being… and, well, my well-being, to be truthful.”
She smiled again and turned her attention to Visser, leaving Exmore to study her profile and to ponder how hours and hours of anguish evaporated in a matter of seconds.
The first ten minutes of the lecture were rather painful as Visser struggled with English, often looking to Annalise for help. After a point, and to the great pleasure of his audience, Visser switched to his native tongue and allowed Annalise to translate. Exmore turned his chair, putting his back to the wall beside the window, and watched Annalise’s animated face as she retold Visser’s stories of hacking through jungles or hiking across African plains searching for unknown species. He could contentedly have spent the entire lecture just listening to the sound of comforting rain and her gentle voice weaving through English, Dutch, and bits of Latin.
Visser spoke for little over an hour. Afterward, the other attendees clustered around his table, where various bones, furs, and dried plants were displayed. Exmore waited with Annalise outside the circle of men.
“What’s in the portfolio?” Exmore asked her.
“My father’s work. I wanted to show it to Mr. Visser.”
“May I see?”
She opened the portfolio on a table pushed against the wall. Exmore made approving noises as she explained each one to him, although he really didn’t know what he was looking at. He just enjoyed how her excitement transmuted into him and the tingle that rushed up his arm when she touched him. Soon, Visser joined them and began asking Annalise questions in Dutch as he flipped through her images.
“Ah,” he said, drawing one out.
She emitted a squeaking sound and tried to yank it from his hands. “Oh, no, that’s mine!”
Both Visser and Exmore quickly reacted to keep her from hiding the illustration. Exmore held it up as Visser pointed to different aspects, speaking in admiring tones, as Annalise wildly—and beautifully—blushed.
Later, after they had helped Visser pack up his specimens, Annalise and Exmore stood in the paneled hall outside the lecture room. The rain was coming down hard, but inside the building, its sound was muffled to a lull.
“So, don’t keep it a secret. What did Mr. Visser say about your brilliant illustration?” Exmore asked.
She waved her hand, flustered. “It’s not brilliant.”
“Don’t disagree with me. I’m a marquess.”
“Oh, I forgot that I must always agree with a marquess.”
“It saved many a life in medieval times.”
She glanced comically heavenward. “Ah, the feudal days of yore. How I don’t miss them.”
“Come now, what did Mr. Visser say?” he insisted.
Her lovely blush returned. He adored how it spread across cheeks and onto her upturned nose. “He liked it. He truly admired it and asked that I send him more. Can you believe that? The renowned Mr. Christiaan Visser actually approves of my work!”
“Of course, I can. You are a naturalist like your father. Even though I have no idea what I’m talking about, I can tell that you are far more talented and knowledgeable than those other fusty gentlemen here today.”
She shook her head. “No, no, I’m a woman.”
“A woman and a brilliant naturalist.”
“Could you see me hacking through the jungles, escaping blood-thirsty tribes, fording rapids, and cresting summits in the quest for an exotic fern or such?” The dreamy quality of her gaze betrayed her incredulous tone.
“Absolutely. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of you. May I come along to the jungle? I’ll carry your supplies and do the hacking and fording.”
“How chivalrous of you. Yes, do come. Let’s run away.”
She was laughing, but he realized that he wouldn’t have said no if she were deadly serious. Yes. Run away from all of this.
“Aye, miss, there you are, miss.” A fortyish woman in a heavy wool coat and ruffled bonnet rounded the last set of stairs. “London was evil before, but in the rain, you would think it’s Satan’s own parlor. I wandered about for an hour before I found decent thread that wouldn’t break off the spool. How was the lecture?”
“Wonderful,” Annalise replied. “Heavenly. Mr. Visser knew Papa and truly enjoyed his work.”
“But he was especially impressed with Miss Van Der Keer’s illustration,” Exmore interjected before a proper introduction.
“Aye, she’s a special young lady who doesn’t belong among the sinners,” the woman said. “She needs to be back in the country with the flowers and green fields, not in this teeming rubbish heap.”
“Lord Exmore, may I present my faithful servant, Mrs. Edward Bailey. She accompanied me here. We sneaked away from my uncle’s house together.”
“Partners in crime.” He winked at Mrs. Bailey. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for taking such good care of Miss Van Der Keer.”
Mrs. Bailey made a click deep in her throat, clearly intimidated by Exmore’s title, and stepped away. He wished politeness didn’t demand introductions. He would have loved to continue speaking with the earthy, no-nonsense Mrs. Bailey.
“Did you really sneak away to attend?” he asked Annalise.
“Actually, I was fibbing. I simply said that I planned to attend a naturalist lecture and that Mrs. Bailey would attend me, and everyone scurried away like I had announced that I had contracted the plague.”
He chuckled.
She glanced at a window in an empty lecture room, and her brows furrowed. “Alas, I fear we must brave the rain again.”
“Must you?” he asked. “There is a warm tea shop tucked away around the corner, perfect for waiting out the deluge.”
She paused, considering, and then shook her head. “I shouldn’t…”
“I can’t let you go out in the wet and cold. You will most certainly catch the dreaded plague or, at the least, a deadly chill.”
“My goodness, you make hot tea sound like life or death.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
“But if my uncle finds out…”
“I’ll be surprised if we aren’t the only people there. And there’s a table practically hidden around a chimney. No one will see you. So, you have no good reason to decline and risk your life.” Exmore had spent several mornings at the tea shop, hiding and gulping down strong tea, trying to chase away all that had happened the previous night.
“But will there be good conversation?” Annalise asked.
“Only the best, of course.”
She glanced again at the pounding rain on the window and then at him. “Well, if we aren’t going adventuring in a jungle, we may as well have tea. Who cares what my vile uncle thinks? Let’s go.”
“There’s the old Miss Van Der Keer. I wondered where she had gone.”
“Oh, she comes out from time to time—as reckless and foolish as ever.”
* * *
Annalise knew she shouldn’t have followed him to the tea shop, but she positively dreaded returning to Wigmore Street. The day had been perfect, the best she had had in months, and she wasn’t ready for it to end. She wanted to hang on to its shine a little longer.
Exmore was correct. The tea shop was quite cozy, and he led her to a table that indeed was almost hidden behind the chimney and tucked in the corner, where the light was dim. The candle burning on the table gave the impression that it was nighttime.
Mrs. Bailey learned that the shop owner had been born in her home village, and the two fell into a conversation about whom they knew and whom they were related to. The rain thundered on the roof and windows, and steam rose from Exmore’s tea, curling about his mesmerizing eyes and gentle smile. Annalise felt her muscles relax as a deep contentment settled over her.
Exmore poured a few drops of cream in his black tea and swirled it with a spoon. “I have to admit that I was rather upset at you before the lecture.”
“Me? What am I guilty of? Do make it interesting. Larceny of crown jewels, disorderly conduct at Almack’s.”
“No, no, because you ignored me at the theater. But then you prettily apologized, and my grudge disappeared as if I hadn’t been nursing it for days.”
How odd that he should be angry at her for not speaking with him. She hadn’t thought she would be significant in his vast, colorful universe. “I’m sorry. I wanted to speak to you about the fascinating article you sent me. I’ve been thinking about it for days. Alas, my uncle read your letter when it arrived, and well, Mount Vesuvius erupts more peacefully. Might I suggest not sending letters to me, or if you do, don’t write, ‘Looking forward to our grand secret.’”
“Dear Lord, I’m dreadfully sorry.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “It’s ridiculous. My uncle has lascivious suspicions. He thinks that you couldn’t possibly be friends with me. Only nefarious things can exist between you and a lady such as myself.”
“Such as yourself? What’s wrong with you?”
She studied him. He was a handsome man, but not as handsome as Patrick. Or perhaps he was a different sort of handsome. He was a little more hard-featured and intense than her former suitor. He was dark to Patrick’s gingery, golden looks. In any case, it didn’t seem right that he should be here, talking to her, when he could bask in the adoration of the ton. “You’re a shining English god, living high on Mount Mayfair, and I’m a lowly, untouchable, mortal woman, baked in common mud and loitering about the edges of society.”
“Do you think that? That we can’t truly be friends?”
She glanced at the liquid in her cup. “I really want to be friends,” she whispered. “You are the most interesting person I know, well, now that my father is dead.” She lifted her cup to take a sip, but then put it back down before it reached her lips. “I know I need to marry. I know it’s how I’m supposed to spend my waking hours in London, thinking about what I should wear, where I should be seen, all in the hopes of securing a husband. But…” She gazed at Exmore. “I’m tired. I’m so tired. Do you understand?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Very much.”
“I’ve spent all my time worrying about my parents and taking care of them and my home, and I’m not ready to be thrown into marriage just yet. I want space to breathe. I feel like I’ve lost myself, and I’m trying to find her. And I never really forgot…” She trailed off, too ashamed to talk about Patrick. She changed the subject. “I can’t imagine that you could possibly love someone after your wife’s passing. To me, you will always be married to her. I remember how much you admitted you loved her that night… well, the night of my infamous midnight visit. Her loss must be devastating.”
He shifted in his chair and glanced toward the counter. “Yes,” he said quietly. He ran his thumb down his cup. “The night of your so-called infamous midnight visit, you swore that you would always love Patrick. And as you look at me now, I believe you still do.”
What to say? It seemed foolish to admit to all the hours she had thought about him, the stacks of letters that she had never sent. Now it was her turn to look away. “I do.” She shook her head. “I know he doesn’t love me. You don’t have to tell me that. He never wrote to me. My love is all my own.”
Exmore said nothing, but when she ventured a glance at him, she saw pity in his eyes.
“Do you ever hear from him?” She blurted the question that had been in her mind since the night they had danced together. “No.” She raised her palm, catching herself. “Don’t answer that.” Yet, she paused, waiting for an answer. What was she doing? She already knew the answer. Hearing it wouldn’t soothe her hurt but make it worse. Yet, she had to hear him say it.
“Yes,” he said slowly, drawing out the one syllable. “I do.”
She had gone too far already, so she kept going down this painful course. “Does he ever mention me?”
“No, he doesn’t.” He was holding something back. It lurked behind his words.
“I fear you are not telling the truth.”
He paused for a moment. She could tell he was choosing his words to tell her gently. At last, he said in careful tones, “Your assessment that he doesn’t love you is correct. Please don’t ask me for more.”
The rain picked up. A gust of wind splattered it on the windows. “He probably thanked you for your counsel in the matter.”
Exmore remained quiet. She could see the back of his jaw work.
“You once said that one day I would love more wisely, but clearly I haven’t,” she quipped.
He reached across the table, touching her arm. “Please ignore what I said that night. All of it.”
Her eyes burned with the beginnings of tears. “I thought of him every day. I spoke to him as if he were there. I just needed... I needed someone to talk to. I couldn’t share my worries with my mother or father. They had to contend with dying. I felt…” She stopped, not wanting to admit how alone and scared she had been. “I guess that’s why I came back to London. I was chasing memories of a better time.”
“And now you are leaving.”
She smiled. “I didn’t find what I was looking for. It’s gone forever.” She turned, self-conscious, having admitted too many honest, vulnerable feelings. She no longer wanted to talk about herself. “Did you have someone to talk to after your wife’s death?”
He thrummed the table with his thumb. She noticed his lashes. They were thick and curled, the kind women coveted. They softened his otherwise hard features.
“My wife’s pregnancy was difficult.” His voice was hollow. “She couldn’t keep down any drink or food. Then she contracted a chill, and her body… she hadn’t the strength.”
Annalise took his hand that rested on the small table beside hers. “I’m sorry.”
“But the answer to your question is no, I had no one with whom to confide my feelings.” There was an odd quality to his voice, something she couldn’t articulate. But he slid his fingers between her gloved ones and gave them a small squeeze. She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“I was alone because, well, I was truly alone in the country, unless you count the sheep, but they aren’t very commiserating,” she noted. “I’ve spoken to enough to say that the species, as a whole, is not a sympathetic one. Yet, you had people buzzing all about you, and you still felt alone. Feeling alone is so personal.”
He tilted his head, his eyes burrowing into hers. “Do you feel alone now?”
She shook her head. “Not today. Despite the rain, today is lovely, for I have excellent company and tea. There is little else to want.”
“I concur, my friend.”
“Friend,” she echoed. The word, the pressure of his hand on hers, and the kindness in his expression sent the smile that warmed her lips to her heart. Several seconds passed in silence. It wasn’t an awkward, dangling pause of not knowing what to say, but a full and content silence. Her father’s kind of soothing quiet. This silence said, I’m here. You aren’t alone. We’ve found each other. We are true friends.
Moments later, they spoke again. Not returning to the subject of pain and loss but ranging across topics. He listened to her, leaning back in his chair, shaking his foot where he had braced it casually over his knee. When he spoke, he leaned forward with a smile twisting the side of his mouth, often playing devil’s advocate. He declared outrageous things that he seriously couldn’t believe and made her laugh. Cup after cup of tea was poured and biscuits were consumed, until Mrs. Bailey edged over, breaking into the invisible circle that seemed to have formed around Annalise and Exmore.
“Miss, I don’t mean to interrupt, but it’s almost three, and the rain has stopped.”
“Oh heavens, I’ve lost all knowledge of time. I must go. My uncle!” Annalise gathered her things. “But think of the pleasure he will have in berating me.”
She affected her uncle’s tone as Mrs. Bailey helped her slip on her coat. “Annalise, you are late because you attended a lecture. See what happens when you attempt to think?”
Exmore seized her naked wrist. Somewhere in the conversation, she had unconsciously drawn off her gloves. A jolt of strange electricity ran over her skin. “There’s a chemistry lecture next week,” he said. “Please attend. You can ignore me all week, pretend I’m a homely insect that you should smash under your foot, anything to appease your vile uncle, but… but come to the chemistry lecture.”
“I don’t know. What if people—”
“It promises many colorful explosions.”
She chuckled. “Oh, things being blown up is so very tempting. But—”
“You can sit on one side of the room and I on the other. When you see me, feign outrage and loudly announce that you would have never attended had you known I would be present. Once our fierce animosity is established, we can slip away afterwards and hide in our favorite tea shop.”
She tried to object, but his imploring eyes melted her words away. “Very well. But promise to be as fascinating as you’ve been today.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing your expectations of me.”
She laughed as she picked up her portfolio and headed for the door. There, she stopped, turned, and walked back to him
A smile dawned on his face that caused her heart to rise.
“Did you forget something?” he asked.
She carefully cracked the portfolio and drew out her illustration. “Yes, I forgot to give you this.” She set it on the table and hurried away, pretending not to hear his objections.
She met Mrs. Bailey outside the door of the tea shop.
“I don’t care what your uncle and them at his home say,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I know people. I can peer into their hearts. And this talk of the marquess being a cruel rake is pure rubbish. He is a good man. Good like my departed Edward, please his loving soul.”