Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore

Chapter 5

There seemed to be no suitable moment to speak to her friends after Harriet returned to Oxford on Sunday. On Monday, they all gathered in Lucie’s drawing room in Norham Gardens for the weekly Oxford suffrage chapter meeting. But Lucie greeted her at the door with her blond hair flying around her pointy face and sparks shooting from her eyes—apparently, the Manchester Guardian was in trouble for publishing their latest suffrage report. This had been expected, for few things were more outrageous than women loudly demanding to be treated as people before the law. Naturally, the entire meeting revolved around how the suffrage chapters across Britain should proceed amid the public outcry, and it seemed inappropriate to raise her hand and say: “I ran from my protection officer—again—and kissed Mr. Blackstone, and now he is coming to visit my parents’ house.”

She spent Tuesday in a panic over which painting to pick in place of Dull Persephone, because of course Mama had insisted she be present on Saturday since she had already told all her friends that Hattie would exhibit a piece. She finally settled on an old watercolor still life depicting fruit and vegetables in a wooden bowl, an exceedingly safe and boring choice.

On Wednesday, she had a headache and stayed in.

On Thursday, Lucie announced that Lord Ballentine had offered to take her to Italy because it would be more amusing to weather the storm raging around the suffrage report on a southerly beach, and quite unlike herself, Lucie had agreed. As Hattie counseled her on which hats and dresses to pack and where to best purchase fabrics in Naples, her confession kept surging up her throat like heartburn, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.

On Friday, she broke. She convinced Aunty to write a pretty invitation, then she went to the residential wing of St. John’s College to call on Catriona.

Her friend sat at her father’s desk, as usual wrapped in her battered Clan Campbell tartan shawl, her glossy black hair tied in a loose bun. She was studying an old tome through a magnifying glass.

The weight of a boulder rolled off Hattie’s chest. “Thank goodness you are home.”

Catriona turned to her and blinked, confused like an owl rudely woken from a snooze. “Hattie.” Her voice was scratchy, as though she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone today. “Apologies. I forgot you were coming to call.” She rose and put on her glasses. “Is your officer being attended to?”

“Your housekeeper took him to the kitchen, so I assume he is currently drinking tea. And you haven’t forgotten a thing—I’m calling unannounced.” She opened her reticule and fished for the small envelope as Catriona approached. “I’m delivering an invitation to a matinée tomorrow. In our residence in St. James’s. It’s a little short notice, but they are playing Chopin—you adore Chopin, don’t you?”

Catriona was still holding the magnifying glass, which she appeared to notice only now. She looked at it blankly for a moment, then she returned her attentions to the envelope Hattie was holding under her nose. “Thank you? But I’m afraid tomorrow—”

“And you must tell me all about your research on Tunis,” Hattie said. “I’m so intrigued.”

Catriona dipped her chin and stared at her over the metal frame of her glasses. “The research is on Tyrus. A city in the Levant.” Her Scottish lilt was a little stern.

“Even more intriguing,” Hattie said quickly.

The stare did not waver. “What is it, Hattie?”

Hattie made a pout. “Whyever would you sound so suspicious?”

Catriona’s eyes were a stunning cerulean blue, a formidable contrast to her straight black lashes. She usually hid their charm behind her spectacles or a faraway look that said she was sifting through an old parchment on Tunis or Tyrus rather than seeing the person in front of her. Now her gaze was alert with intimidatingly sharp intelligence. “You’re in trouble, and you think I can help,” she said. She nodded at the Chesterfield wing chairs to either side of the cold fireplace. “Have a seat. I shall fetch us some tea.”

She left for the kitchen rather than use the bell pull, and Hattie settled in the creaking leather chair and arranged her skirts. Her pulse gradually slowed to a normal pace for the first time in a week. The quiet in Professor Campbell’s study was absolute, not even disturbed by the tick of a clock, and the low ceiling and thick old walls shielded against all outside sound. Only the scent of inked paper and Catriona’s lavender soap permeated the air. The stained-glass windows faced a walled garden, and the sun streaming in painted red and blue vignettes onto worn floorboards. This was a room of timeless calm, promising that one could safely weather a storm here. It wasn’t an abode befitting a Scottish earl and his heiress, but it suited their scholarly minds: one could picture them in these armchairs when the fire crackled, immersed in their reading, occasionally adjusting their glasses or glancing up to say something clever. Catriona was to Professor Campbell what Flossie was to Julien Greenfield, Hattie supposed: an admirer of her father’s interests from the cradle. She would find Hattie’s current woes frivolous at best. By the time Catriona returned, carefully balancing a small tray, she had steeled herself.

“You are right,” she said once her friend had poured the tea and taken a seat. “I’m in trouble, and I need your help. I need you to be at the matinée because Mr. Blackstone shall be there, and I cannot face him alone and Mother forbids me to be indisposed.”

“Blackstone?” Catriona lowered her cup again, intrigued. “The industrialist who loaned Lord Ballentine money for London Print?”

“The very same.”

“Why would you rather not face him alone?”

She stared at her tightly laced fingers in her lap. “We kissed,” she said. “Each other.”

A soft intake of breath came from the direction of the other armchair. “Perhaps,” Catriona then said, “you can explain.”

So she did. She explained about shaking off Mr. Graves, her hope to see the Ophelia, and the kiss. Then the shock of learning he was coming to the matinée.

Catriona was silent for a rather endless minute. “Och aye,” she finally said. “That is a situation.”

Luckily, Catriona had the rare habit of studying a situation, any situation, free from the distorting influence of sensibilities or judgment, quite as though she were looking at an archaeological artifact. Hattie should have spoken to her much sooner.

“Where was your aunt throughout this excursion?” Catriona asked.

Hmm. She glanced away. “I left her under the impression that I was painting in my studio with Mr. Graves manning the door so she could attend a tea-and-bridge session. She usually naps afterward. I had planned to return before long.”

Catriona’s expression was equal parts disapproval and disappointment. “You might get yourself into terrible trouble one day.”

“Yes—in fact, that day is tomorrow.” She unleashed her most pleading look. “Please say you shall come. I should feel less nervous with a dear friend by my side.”

“Mr. Blackstone will hardly try to ravish you in your parents’ drawing room,” Catriona said. “Especially since the first time appears to have been a misunderstanding.”

The thought of being ravished by Mr. Blackstone in any one location made heat rise to the surface of her skin. She was thinking about his kiss far too often as it was.

“I cannot rationally explain it,” she said. “I’m aware I’m being silly, but I feel my stomach flutter and my hands tremble when I think of seeing him again, and I know my nerves should be much calmer if you were there.”

Catriona gave her a long, unreadable look. “I suppose it would be better if one of us were there,” she finally said. “However, as I meant to explain earlier, I have an appointment at the Royal Society with my father tomorrow. Have you considered asking Annabelle?”

“She is preparing to leave for France for the summer. Besides, Mama would never allow me to invite a duchess to the event—it’s a luncheon, quite informal.”

“Hmm.” Catriona made to bite her thumbnail before sheepishly lowering her hand again. “Burlington House is perhaps half a mile from your parents’ residence—”

“It is,” Hattie said quickly.

“—so it should be possible for me to be there on time for my appointment if I left promptly after the concert.”

“Yes!”

“For the luncheon, I’m afraid you are on your own.”

He had not shown before or during the concert. She had sat tense and perspiring through forty dramatic minutes of Chopin and Brahms, and Mr. Blackstone was glaringly absent.

“I don’t understand,” she said to Catriona as they followed the throng of guests down the corridor toward the lunchroom. “Why would he snub my mother on the day of the event after first accepting the invitation?”

“Perhaps he has fallen ill,” Catriona murmured.

“He looked in perfectly robust health to me.”

“Why not ask your mother? She would know any excuse he gave.”

“And risk looking interested in the subject?”

She was certainly glad he hadn’t come. Her mother had selected the linden-green gown for her to wear, and while for once the color suited, the style was dreadful: the sleeves were too wide on top, the hem was heavy with not one but two rows of pleats, and there was a startling excess of lace foaming at the front of her bodice—each feature on its own, very well; their combination: an atrocity. And of course, it was too tight. Sometimes, she wondered whether her mother was simply oblivious or consciously intending for her to look like a frump. Even Catriona was more elegant in plain navy-blue velvet, and Catriona lacked all fashion sense.

A light melody of string instruments filtered into the room from the side chamber, and the guests had formed groups and were selecting beverages from the trays carried by quietly circling waiters. Since the luncheon was informal, no escorts for the women were required. Her mother, flanked by Aunty, was making conversation with young Mrs. Astorp and Mrs. Hewitt-Cook, an American. Right next to the easel that hosted Hattie’s very large, very unimpressive still life of fruit and vegetables in a bowl.

She cringed and took Catriona’s hand. “Have you time for a refreshment? A glass of cider or champagne? And let’s look at the food.”

Catriona’s gaze went across the room to the pendulum clock between the sideboards that presently served as tables for the buffet. “One glass of cider,” she said.

Hattie’s cheeks slowly cooled as she sipped the cold, tart drink from the long-stemmed glass. The savory scent wafting from the nearest sideboard should have made her stomach growl, and the food did look tempting: the steaming silver tureens and plates with cold cuts of meat and golden-brown pies were set handsomely between hothouse flower arrangements. Mina must have had a hand in the décor. Even more intriguing were the tiered platters on the other table: filled with small pots containing boiled fruit, buttery pastries, and glazed chocolates …

She froze. A dark figure had entered her peripheral vision.

A thrill of panic ran down her back. It was him, standing in the wing doors. Her skin prickled from top to toe as his presence rippled like a disturbance through the ether.

“I think he’s here,” she whispered without moving her lips. “Do not look.”

Catriona’s gaze slid sideways as she raised her glass to feign a sip. “Oh my.”

They angled their backs to the main door as one and pretended to study the buffet.

Hattie wasn’t seeing a thing. “Do you see? Do you see why I first thought he was a pirate?”

“I don’t, to be truthful,” Catriona murmured after a small pause.

“You don’t?”

“He’s hardly a gibface, Hattie.”

“He isn’t,” she conceded. “But he is no gentleman.”

“You said he’s a Scotsman. Perhaps from the Highlands? He would look braw in a kilt.”

Hattie blinked. Would he? And why was Catriona picturing men in kilts?

“Why do you think he’s a Highlander?”

Catriona’s smile was a little crooked. “They have a certain look about them when they enter a room full of Englishmen. A sharp glance in their eyes, like a broadsword at the ready to be drawn—You beat us at Culloden, it says, but our spirit remains unbroken.”

Hattie’s mouth fell open. “Is that what you think when you enter a room full of Englishmen?”

“Oh, worry not,” Catriona said. “My mother was from Sussex. And I spent more time in Oxford than in Applecross.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “You can look now—he is engaged in conversation with your mother.”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “Oh golly.”

“It means nothing—he must address the hostess.”

She saw it, the furtive glance Catriona cast at the clock. “No—please stay.”

“I’m sorry,” Catriona said reluctantly. “I truly am, but I must be on my way.” She put her empty glass onto a tray floating past. “Could you not accompany me to the door, then go and hide in your room?”

“Yes,” Hattie murmured, feeling ill. “Excellent plan.”

She avoided looking at him while she approached. She avoided looking at him while Catriona said her good-byes to the hostess. Through her light-headed state, she still heard her mother instruct a footman to escort Catriona to the door. A last, helpless exchange of glances with her friend, and the inevitable was upon her.

“Harriet, I would like you to meet Mr. Blackstone,” her mother said. “Mr. Blackstone is a man of business here in London. Mr. Blackstone, allow me to present Miss Harriet Greenfield, our second-eldest daughter.”

His cool gray gaze locked with hers and her heart began to race. He was as striking as she remembered him: pale, dark brows, broad cheekbones. His lips were well drawn but not full. How had his mouth felt so soft? A mistake to even think of it. His eyes brightened knowingly, and the memory of their kiss flared between them like embers leaping back to life, the heat so palpable, everyone in the circle would have to feel the warmth, too.

She tilted her flaming face. “Sir.”

“Miss Greenfield.” His voice was deeper than she recalled. She cast him a nervous glance from beneath her lashes. He was properly attired today in a navy jacket, oxblood cravat, gray waistcoat, and fawn-colored trousers, and he had rigorously slicked back his hair. He still could not suggest good breeding. He had an untamable quality to him that radiated from his very core, and clothing would not conceal it. Catriona was right; a kilt and a broadsword would suit him better, enhancing rather than poorly disguising him ….

“Miss Greenfield,” Mrs. Astorp said, making her snap to attention. “Mrs. Greenfield mentioned you are still up at Oxford?” Genuine curiosity shone in Mrs. Astorp’s hazel eyes. The young woman had been married to an industrialist twice her age for a few years now, though she was scarcely older than Hattie. Acquiring a university degree had to strike her as an alien form of life.

“I am,” Hattie said. “I’m at Lady Margaret Hall. Trinity term finished last week.”

“How neat,” said Mrs. Hewitt-Cook, the American. “How many female students are enrolled at present?” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook was a handsome brunette and older, closer to Hattie’s mother’s age. Her burgundy ensemble was very fashionable, and if it was a little tight, it was probably a deliberate choice. Hattie fixed her gaze on the oval brooch at the woman’s throat to avoid Mr. Blackstone. “There are five-and-twenty women enrolled between Somerville Hall and Lady Margaret Hall,” she said.

“What a jolly bunch,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said brightly. “You must have a famously good time, being a new woman—tell us, what is it like?”

Too many answers at once rushed at her, none of them appropriate. The pet rat she had contemplated keeping in order to appear sufficiently eccentric in her new student role came to mind, and how just before the term began, she had learned that another female student already kept a rat, a white one that sat on her shoulder …. She felt the weight of Mr. Blackstone’s gaze on her profile. Her reply came out in a mumble: “It’s very diverting,” she said, and touched her hair. “Being a new woman, it’s diverting.”

“I imagine,” said Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. “Such terribly colorful characters among the bluestockings, surely.”

Hattie saw her mother’s back stiffen at the veiled barb. “Perhaps one or two,” she said. “Most of us, however, are still perfectly monochrome.”

Mrs. Hewitt-Cook laughed softly. “Why, she’s charming, Mrs. Greenfield.”

“A lot of excitement surrounds the matter of women in higher education,” Adele said with a cool undertone. “The truth is the young women are more rigorously supervised at university than they would be in any other place. Harriet, for example, is never without Mrs. Greenfield-Carruther”—and here she nodded at Aunty—“and of course she is always under the watchful eye of her protection officer.”

At this, Mr. Blackstone’s left brow rose very slightly. Help.

“It’s lovely to see female talent fostered,” young Mrs. Astorp said. “We were admiring your painting earlier, you see.”

Worse and worse. Everyone turned to look at the practice piece she had so haphazardly chosen during her crisis over Persephone. There was the bowl, the wood-grain texture of it poorly done. Therein followed the uninspiring assortment of fruit and some vegetables.

Mr. Blackstone looked her in the eye. “You painted this?”

She thought of how his reception room alone was overflowing with artistic masterpieces.

“I did, yes.” And I can do so much better.

“Remarkable,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said politely.

It wasn’t remarkable and she was well aware of the fact, but of course she must not say so, and so she smiled and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“What is the symbolism behind it?” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook asked. “I was wondering about it.”

She gave the woman a baffled glance. “I had no particular symbolism in mind.”

“But the gourd.” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook was pointing at it with a thin finger. “It doesn’t share the season with any of the other vegetables, nor the fruit. Why did you include it?”

Now they were all studying the gourd, which looked more obscenely bulbous and flesh-colored by the moment.

“I suppose it provided the best complementary shape for the composition?” Hattie’s voice was a little shrill.

“Ah,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said. “Such a creative solution.”

“Our Harriet is very talented,” Aunty said loudly. “I tell Mr. Greenfield that not everyone is required to excel at mastering figures and investments—I know I had no talents lying that way, either, when I was Harriet’s age, and yet I thrived. Some of us are meant to beautify the world with a brush or needle, not make it more profitable by way of a rational brain.”

She stood in silence, feeling her head glow a beaming red. Her mother was speechless, too. Mrs. Hewitt-Cook appeared to take pity. “Mr. Blackstone,” she said, turning to the man. “I understand you do have a head for profitable investments.”

Mr. Blackstone countered Mrs. Hewitt-Cook’s inviting smile with a bland expression. “Often enough, yes.”

“Then you must share some of your insights,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said. “I should like nothing more than to surprise Mr. Hewitt-Cook with an accurate market prediction.”

His lip curled with faint derision. “I don’t want to bore you with business talk, ma’am.”

“How about an invention or two that shall unleash the next industrial revolution?” With true American tenacity, Mrs. Hewitt-Cook refused to be deterred by his rudeness. “At least give us hapless females some clues about exciting new technologies—wouldn’t that be amusing?” She cast a glance around the small group that demanded approval.

“Very amusing,” Mrs. Astorp murmured.

“Hear, hear,” Adele said with faint reluctance.

Mr. Blackstone’s expression softened only when Hattie gave a tiny nod.

“Electricity,” he said.

A pause ensued while all eyes were on him. Mr. Blackstone’s gaze furtively flickered across the room, perhaps in search of staff bearing stiff drinks, perhaps attempting to locate the quickest exit route.

“Electricity,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said, and waved at a waiter to pick up a glass with pink champagne. “We should invest in electric lightbulb stock is what you say?”

Mr. Blackstone chose a tumbler with an amber liquid from the tray. In profile, one could see his brushed-back hair curl at his nape, winning the rebellion against the pomade.

“Invest in stock,” he said. “Also, invest in a company that has patented the process for the serial production of high-temperature-enduring boiler feed pumps.”

Mrs. Astorp blinked. Hattie wagered her own face looked just as perplexed.

“Boiler feed pumps,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook enunciated. “I’m so intrigued because I don’t understand a word.”

Any normal man would have smiled and retorted a few bons mots, but Mr. Blackstone was unable or unwilling to follow procedure. “Boiler feed pumps are an essential part of electric generators,” he said, “necessary for converting steam into electricity. In ten years’ time, we’ll have hundreds of power plants working across Britain and the continent—the moment we can safely use electricity to light a home, it will be used for other things, too,” and, noting Mrs. Hewitt-Cook’s eager expression, he added, “A byproduct of electricity is heat, so electricity should replace current ways of heating household devices—stoves and the like.”

His aloofness was rare in a man of business—Hattie knew many, and they inevitably used the topic at hand to relate messages about their own cleverness rather than the subject matter, and they more or less subtly imparted the expectation that their female audience nod along with large, impressed eyes. Mr. Blackstone, however, appeared wholly self-contained and kept his gravelly voice low; he wasn’t desiring their admiration in the slightest. Alarming. A man immune to female charm was a dangerous creature when charm was one’s chief line of defense. It certainly intrigued Mrs. Hewitt-Cook; she was observing Mr. Blackstone as though he were some exotic specimen requiring urgent classification. “Riveting,” she murmured. “The feed pumps have been noted. But I’m afraid my appetite’s been whetted—tell us more?”

Again, Hattie had the unnerving feeling that Mr. Blackstone was waiting for her acquiescence. When she nodded, he emptied his drink and said, “Two-way mirrors.”

“What’s that?” Aunty demanded. “Two-ways?”

“It’s a mirror you can see through as though it were a window.”

“What good is a mirror one sees straight through?”

“Because one can see through it, but only from one side, and in bright light,” Mr. Blackstone said. “The other side shows a reflection.”

Mrs. Hewitt-Cook gasped. “Ingenious—where can I find such a thing?”

“Difficult. The developments are in the early stages.”

“But what on earth is it good for?” Aunty wondered.

Mr. Blackstone leaned slightly toward her. “I’m expecting them to be used in police offices and department stores for surveillance purposes, ma’am.”

“Department stores,” her mother said sharply. “You mean it will be employed to spy on innocent women customers?”

“They’d call it studying their customers,” Mr. Blackstone said. “Department stores are becoming a rather competitive industry, and studying customers’ natural shopping habits when they feel unobserved will help a store optimize sales potential.”

Mrs. Hewitt-Cook shook her head. “How clever,” she murmured. “How does one come by such clever ways of thinking?”

Mr. Blackstone gave her a thin smile. “It’s simple. Just assume people are chiefly motivated by convenience, vanity, or greed. Any product serving those will be a commercial success.”

An uncomfortable pause ensued.

“I daresay that is a rather godless view of the world,” Adele said, her eyes cold.

Mr. Blackstone gave a nod. “They do say capitalism worships only itself.”

Aunty cackled. “Mr. Blackstone should meet our Florence,” she said to Adele. “They would have much to discuss.”

“First I should like to introduce Mr. Blackstone to Mr. Greenfield,” Adele said tersely, her gaze moving toward the door to the side chamber, where her husband had made an entrance. “Do excuse us.”

Hattie’s anxiety buzzed like startled bees as Mr. Blackstone approached her father.

Mrs. Hewitt-Cook snapped her ivory-plated fan open with a snick. “Good grief but he is beastly,” she murmured as she peered at Mr. Blackstone’s broad back. “Every inch as bad as they say he is.” The predatory delight in her voice grated on Hattie’s tightly wound nerves.

“Poor Lord and Lady Rutland,” Mrs. Astorp said. “I doubt they have a moment of peace.”

Rutland. The man’s face appeared before Hattie’s mind’s eye, vaguely, as seen once at a ball: the regular, impassive, long face of an older English aristocrat with cold eyes and iron-gray hair. “What is he doing to Rutland?” she asked.

“Killing him slowly,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said, her gaze still glued to the introduction scene across the room. “Rutland is in a pecuniary pickle. Rumor has it that over the years, Mr. Blackstone here has bought up most of his debts, and Rutland currently has no solid financial leg to stand on. Mr. Blackstone is holding his debts like the sword of Damocles over his head.”

Mrs. Altorp shuddered. “Ghastly. I understand Lady Rutland is not in good health.”

Hattie wished she hadn’t asked. Such villainy on Mr. Blackstone’s part made her question her father’s ethics; worse, it felt surprisingly disappointing, quite as though she had harbored personal hopes for Mr. Blackstone’s moral character.

“Men can be so bloodthirsty,” purred Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. “Now, what is your opinion on his nose—how do you think he broke it?” At their startled silence, she raised her fan higher as if to share its protection. “Mrs. Altorp—I’m sure you have thoughts.”

A nervous giggle burst from Mrs. Altorp. “Very well.” She leaned in. “He broke his nose when … when he was brawling over a lady.”

“Hmm, intriguing. No doubt he won and vigorously claimed his spoils. Personally, I like to imagine it happened during a boxing match, in Elephant and Castle or some such place … but, Miss Greenfield, are we shocking you?” Her gaze slid over Hattie with faux concern.

Some married women had a habit of reminding the unmarried ones of their undesirable status by pretending consideration for their innocent sensibilities. It drew a line in the sand, separating the knowing from the ignorant, a subtle demonstration of power that always puzzled Hattie, for she thought of herself as perfectly unthreatening. But looking into Mrs. Hewitt-Cook’s amused face, she was for a moment tempted to say that she knew things about Mr. Blackstone. She knew his clean scent and the taste of his lips. She knew his kiss was commanding and that his chest felt solid as a wall against her breasts. A sordid corner of her mind was aglow with triumph to know these things, knowledge that lay beyond the men who wanted his money, beyond even the worldly Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. Of course, it meant Mr. Blackstone knew all these things about her, too. Color rose all the way to her hairline. Mrs. Hewitt-Cook would undoubtedly, happily, attribute this to maidenly discomfiture.

“No,” she said lamely. “I have no idea how he broke his nose.”

Mrs. Astorp gave her a kind smile. “Mr. Astorp is more interested in how he acquired his money in any case—now, that would be interesting to know.”

“Money, how dull,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook mocked. “But I reckon by some criminal activity. Smuggling, perhaps? There is something decidedly piratical about him …”

Hattie decided she would rather endure her mother’s irate lecture than this. Yes, she would take a glass of pink champagne, sneak to the dessert table to scoop up some of the chocolates, and then take to her room. She would not steal another glance at Mr. Blackstone, not at how the fabric of his jacket pulled just a little across his back whenever he took a sip from his glass, nor at the way his hair curled at his nape.