Betina Krahn (2 page)

“ ‘It was only after I saw Prospero courting a female of the group that arrived later, that I realized that the behavior he had shown toward me was essentially courtship behavior. He had approached me as if I were another dolphin. Perhaps that is why he and the others permitted me to move so freely among them. It is possible that they considered me an adopted dolphin.’” He raised his head. “Courted by a fish? The woman’s mad.”

“Strictly speaking, dolphins are not fish. They are mammals of the genus—”

“I
know
what they are, Sir Mercer,” he growled. “I also know that most of what is supposedly ‘known’ about the creatures is nothing short of mythology!” He glanced back at the open book and his eyes narrowed.

“Listen to this: ‘The females are usually coy at first, like haughty debutantes pretending not to notice the romantic attentions of their ardent suitors. The lovely Ariel, Prospero’s intended, was no exception.’” He looked up. “
‘Debutantes,’
for God’s sake. And ‘suitors.’ It’s anthropomorphism run amuck.” He might have laughed if it hadn’t been so alarming. By all accounts, the royal societies were swallowing this drivel and asking for more.

“ ‘After a while, Ariel allowed him to swim by her side, tickling and stroking her with his fins and poking her seductively—intimately—with his long nose.’ ” He gave a snort of disbelief. “‘They were consistently playful, even while engaged in overtly sexual behavior. Prospero repeatedly rolled Ariel onto her back beneath him and she escaped numerous times, seeming to want to romp and to draw him into her play, before the actual coupling occurred.

“ ‘I observed at least thirty-two separate incidents of actual mating, and in each, Prospero insisted on being directly above his lady during the process. Concerned that I might be
led astray by one dolphin’s amorous preference, I determined to observe other pairs during mating and discovered, to my gratification, that Prospero was no more or less inventive than the other males of his group. They universally attempted to roll the females beneath them, in a ‘belly-up’ position … which necessitates the females holding their breath for long periods. More than once, I observed an exasperated female breaking off in the middle of mating and wriggling away to the surface for air, leaving her clumsy swain to dive into the depths to hide his shame.’ ”

Titus glanced up with fire in his eyes.

“Randy dolphins … this absurd female plunging into the water to watch them mate—in the missionary position, no less … The woman’s either a colossal liar or seriously depraved!”

“No, no, truly—read on,” Sir Mercer demanded, waving his hand. “It gets even better.”

“Better?” Titus looked at the old fellow’s ruddy face and glowing eyes, shocked to find the aged don enthralled by that ridiculous prose. Then his gaze strayed to Sir Isaac’s reddened face … Sir Parthenay’s, Sir Mercer’s, and Sir Harold’s.

All around the table, eyes were glistening and aged cheeks were ruddy with unseemly heat. He glanced down at the well-used book in his hands, then up at their faces. It still took a moment for him to make sense of what he was seeing.

“You’ve read it, Witherspoon? Sir Parthenay? Sir Mercer? Sir Milton? Good Lord—
all of you?
”

After an uncomfortable silence, Sir Parthenay cleared his throat. “Purely in the interest of science, of course. We felt it best to … keep up on the latest developments.”

Titus stared at them, thinking that the time he had long dreaded had finally come. It was mass senility. The old boys’ garters were all snapping at once … even Sir Parthenay, who at sixty was several years younger than the rest of the Cardinal College faculty. Titus was the only don in the room who still had all his own teeth, didn’t have to pluck his
ears, and could still “take wine” in the traditional Oxford manner without suffering an attack of the gout.

The old boys had offered him the chair in ichthyological studies several years ago, when he was yet a fledgling scholar, They had taken him immediately into their midst and into their confidence; he was never treated as “junior,” as new faculty were in other colleges. They had given him the benefit of their experience, their time-ripened judgment, and the deep understanding they had accumulated over lifetimes. They were men of science and letters … renowned, even brilliant minds who had written many a theory and text. Now, to see them caught up with some absurd scientific boondoggle—mermaids and sex-mad dolphins, for God’s sake—was nothing short of painful to him.

He had to do something. For the sake of his beloved mentors, for the integrity of his college, and for the dignity of the royal societies, he had to confront this fishy tart and expose her sham of scholarship. He rose and gathered up the book and newspaper clippings, tucking them under the arm of his black robe.

“I intend to look into the matter,” he said curtly. “I shall take the 3:03 to London tomorrow and attend this ‘mermaid’ fiasco on Friday. If you need me I shall be at the Bolton Arms in Knightsbridge.”

The old dons exchanged glances as they watched him exit. When the echoes of his footsteps faded in the hall, Sir Parthenay sighed and settled back into his chair. “He’s off and running again.”

“Feel a bit guilty, setting him on that ‘mermaid’ creature.” Sir Harold wagged his head. “The boy does tend to get a bit wrought up about these things.”

“Well, someone has to guard the gates.” Sir Parthenay rubbed his chin. “If only he would loosen up a bit … allow for the unexpected or unorthodox in the process of discovery … he would be a much better scientist himself.”

“And a better candidate for the Head, when you retire,”
Sir Harold mused, inhaling deeply from his nasal atomizer. “I fear for us all when he takes over.”

“It’s what comes of poring over fish guts for years on end,” Sir Mercer Gill announced with a frown. “I’ve tried and tried to get him to take out an expedition … do some study in the field while he’s still young enough.”

“Won’t have none of it,” old Sir Isaac said with an asthmatic wheeze. “Don’t need it, he says. Odd thing. Never seen a young man so rigid and hidebound.”

“Oh, I don’t know …” Sir Milton pulled out his leather tobacco pouch and began to tamp his trademark pungent blend into a meerschaum pipe. “The boy isn’t entirely hopeless.” When the others looked at him with puzzlement, he clamped the stem of his pipe in his teeth and grinned. “Somewhere along the way he’s picked up an understanding of what is meant by the term ‘missionary position.’ ”

“W
E SIMPLY CANNOT
have our Sacred Virgin gallivanting about all over the city without proper escort,” Lady Sophia Ashton declared.

“I am not your—” Celeste Ashton thought better of that particular objection to her grandmother’s declaration, realizing where words traded on that subject would inevitably lead. Here and now—standing in the doorway to her hotel suite, only minutes away from addressing a joint meeting of two of the most prestigious scientific organizations in Britain—she didn’t need a recitation of all the reasons she had been proclaimed “Most Revered and Sacred Virgin” of the Atlantean Society of Pevensey Bay.

Taking a quiet breath, she averted her gaze to keep it from settling too pointedly on the swaths of embroidered linen
that hung from great golden brooches on her grandmother’s shoulders, the gold circlet that wrapped around the old lady’s sensible bun, the ample brown leather handbag she clutched fiercely before her, or the embroidered pink kid gloves she wore … relics of a former life and a former fashion sense. She didn’t want to have to explain her grandmother’s eccentric dress to a score of Britain’s leading scientific minds, and she certainly didn’t want her grandmother explaining it. “
Of course this is just my everyday wear. You should see my ceremonial chiton and himation
…” and
“No high priestess worth her salt would he caught dead in the street without proper gloves, you know
…” Celeste could just imagine the looks on their faces.

There was only one way to ensure that such a thing didn’t happen.

“But I do have an escort, Nana.” Celeste smiled warmly at Brigadier Penworthy Smythe, who waited just outside the door of the suite, resplendent in his old regimental uniform. She was grateful that the old fellow had taken to heart her comment that he looked so dashing in his uniform, it was a pity he didn’t wear it any more. “I have the society’s sergeant at arms with me. The brigadier is more than equal to the task of escorting me in and out of carriages and making introductions. So you see, you really
don’t
have to go. I shall be perfectly fine.”

Lady Sophia took in the brigadier’s distinguished silver muttonchops and military bearing, and scowled … not yet willing to abandon what she saw as her grandmaternal duty.

“How can you possibly be fine? Look at you.” The old lady waved a hand at Celeste’s garments. “That stuffy wool skirt and jacket … starched pin-tucks and a Windsor tie … all cinched and boned and buttoned and hooked. Tsk. Near strangulation. You should appear in something free and flowing, something better befitting your exalted status as—”

“An author, a researcher, and an invited speaker,” Celeste
declared firmly. “This is precisely what they would expect a serious scientific thinker to wear.”

But there was a bit too much force in the way she smoothed the peplum of her blue tailored jacket and a tremor in her fingers as they flitted over her pristine starched collar and striped silk tie. In truth, she had no idea what the august gentlemen of science she would soon face might expect of her. To her knowledge, the Royal Oceanographic and Zoological societies had never before invited a woman to present a paper. The thought was more than a little intimidating.

It was also thrilling. This was the chance she had dreamed of for as long as she could remember: the opportunity to follow in her beloved grandfather’s footsteps, the chance to be recognized and accepted as a person of letters, a scholarly mind, a researcher of merit. How could she have guessed when she bundled up her journals and sent them off to a London publisher—hoping for a bit of money to keep the household afloat—that they would be published straightaway and have the good fortune to attract the attention of renowned scientists?

“I still cannot see what’s so important about looking scientific and having those old fogies knight your work,” her grandmother continued stubbornly. “Your grandfather didn’t give a fig what they said about
his
work.”

“He did in the early days,” Celeste reminded her. “While he was at Cambridge he presented frequently at the Archaeological Society. It was how Grandfather made his reputation. You know as well as I do, Nana, that ‘presenting’ is how one makes a reputation in—” She halted, noticing the smudges of fatigue visible under her grandmother’s lively gray eyes.

With coaching delays, baggage mix-ups, and the confusion of arriving in London a day late, in the dead of night, and on a noisy train filled with Portsmouth sailors fresh from long months at sea, the trip from their home on the south shore had been nothing short of a disaster. Clearly, now was
not the time to resume their ongoing debate over whether her future lay in scholarly pursuits or in more mystical ones.

“You look tired, Nana.” She reached out to stroke her grandmother’s velvety cheek. After a moment, Lady Sophia’s determined posture softened.

“I suppose I am wearing a bit thin.”

“That settles it.” Celeste slipped an arm around her grandmother and turned her toward the bedroom and the comfortable four-poster waiting inside. “You’ll have a lie-down. I’ll deliver my talk. And we’ll be back from the hall in time for tea in the hotel dining room. Mr. Cherrybottom says their tea cakes and sandwiches are the best in London.” She smiled at the light that appeared in the old lady’s eyes. Her grandmother had a weakness for cucumber sandwiches. “Then we’ll have a lovely dinner this evening. I’ve promised Mr. Cherrybottom that you will tell him all about the society and your work.”

Moments later, Celeste and the brigadier descended the sweeping marble stairs into the palatial lobby of the hotel, and paused near the bottom to scan the forest of palms and hanging ferns for a glimpse of her publisher. She finally spotted Edgar Cherrybottom through the bustle of elegantly clad patrons and of uniformed porters trundling baggage to and fro. He looked up, as if in response to her gaze, and a second later was hurtling across the lobby.

In the few hours since she had met him on the platform at Paddington Station, Celeste had formed the impression that Edgar Cherrybottom proceeded through all of life at a gallop. His movements were bold, his speech fast and bombastic, and his smile faintly cherubic. He was a good-natured typhoon that caught you up, spun you about, then set you down again in what seemed new territory.

“There you are!” he called out as he approached, beckoning them down the last few steps. “Thunderation, don’t you look splendid, Miss Ashton!” A grin spread across his broad face as he took her extended hand. “If you’ll excuse my saying so, the gentlemen of the royal societies are in for a
double delight this afternoon: a tantalizing tickle to the intellect and a veritable feast for the eyes.”

Before she could think how to respond to such bold flattery, he had placed her hand in the crook of his arm and was drawing her toward an out-of-the-way corner of the lobby. “My carriage is just outside, but first …” When they parted the small crowd of hotel guests that had collected, Celeste was surprised to see a photographer and a whole complement of photographic equipment arrayed before an ornately carved chair set on a draped platform. Her eyes widened.

“Didn’t think you would mind … we’ve had so many requests for your likeness … newspapers, journals, popular sketch artists, and the like,” Cherrybottom barreled on. “Great interest in you and your work, you know. Capital opportunity. So I said to myself: ‘Edgar … why not just arrange for a few photographs on the way out the door?’ Only a minute or two, and we’ll be on our way.” He flashed a contagious smile. “Wouldn’t do to have you late for so momentous an occasion.”