Jacob laughed. ‘I’m sure you put him right.’ He took her hand and swung it between them. ‘I apologise. Arthur can be a terrible bore.’
‘I’m the last person to blame you for your relatives.’ She’d pick a concerned pompous Arthur over her disappointment of a father any day. ‘But he is correct in some respects, isn’t he? We are thumbing our nose at society by trying something that’s not been seen before: a partnership of equals when all the world considers me your inferior.’
‘If they only knew how wrong they were. You are my superior in every way that counts.’
‘Flatterer.’
‘I’m being sincere.’
She smiled at him. ‘I suppose a lady does want her lover to consider her with rosy optimism about her qualities.’
‘I see you very clearly, Dora Fitz-Pennington. There is only one thing I’d change about you.’
‘Oh? And what’s that?’
‘Your name.’
She had walked into that one, but it was dangerous ground. Imagine the opposition they would meet if they took that path! She wasn’t yet sure it would be good for their relationship. Was what they felt enough to brave it out when everything and everyone was set against them? It had only been a few months, testing ones to be sure, but not enough yet for her to stake her future on the outcome. She wasn’t sure what sign she was waiting for, but it hadn’t yet arrived. ‘Be honest, Jacob: wouldn’t you rather take the easier path of an acceptable wife and a career that opens doors for you into all the right households?’
His expression was sympathetic, little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled at her, understanding her qualms all too well. ‘The person I’m considering is acceptable to me– and she opens all the right doors because in my profession we have to go both high and low in our investigations.’
‘Oh, you’re hopeless,’ she sighed, dropping the subject as they approached the village.
‘No, I’m hopeful– that’s why I’m not giving up on us.’
* * *
Langhorne lodged in a lane winding down from Ambleside to Waterhead. He was at the top of the house which gave his narrow window a view to Windermere. He looked across, in fact, to Barton’s cottage, a rather unsettling coincidence. At night he would have been able to see the lights of the house and know whether his friend was in.
Their host was rattling around in his sideboard attempting to find something to offer his visitors.
‘Sherry? I think I might have some biscuits, though they’ll be hard tack by now. I’m not used to guests.’
Dora surveyed the room. It was a very modest bed-sitting room, his bed hidden by a curtain. The best place was the desk by the window on which he’d stacked his favourite books and had a pile of notepaper. He’d suggested Dora take his chair, which had left Jacob to perch on a stool by the hearth. If Langhorne was going to sit, it would have to be the bed.
Langhorne returned triumphant with a bottle that still had an inch of liquor. He served it with a flicker of his old rakish smile, but it was no longer the assured act of the gallant at the fishing party. The basics of hospitality completed, he sat down on the floor, back against his bed, and sighed.
‘What a mess. I hate not knowing. Should I be mourning Barton or railing at him for running off like that? Does he mean to scare us?’
‘Do you think that likely?’ she asked. ‘Is he known to run away from his problems?’
‘Problems?’ he scoffed. ‘Barton has never had a problem in his entire life!’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jacob.
‘Erasmus Barton is the son of Elijah Barton, the cotton manufacturer. He’s got mills in Manchester, run by these newfangled steam engines– and there’s money in steam.’
‘You’re implying that he’s from an affluent family?’
‘Rich as the proverbial Croesus. Funny thing is Barton’s father was a mechanic once upon a time as humble as they come. He still speaks like a commoner, not like his son, who talks like a lord after having his accent beaten out of him at school.’
‘Beaten?’ asked Dora.
‘I won’t darken your day telling you what goes on in boys’ schools, Miss Fitz-Pennington. If Barton was ever bitter about anything, it was the cruelty he met with at Westminster.’
‘How did Barton senior make his money?’ asked Jacob.
‘From his brains. He dreamed up a design for some cog or piston in the steam process, don’t ask me how it works as I wouldn’t understand it. He patented it and has been raking in the guineas ever since. It’s a new world, Dr Sandys, and the manufacturers are our new nobility. You’d better warn that brother of yours.’ Langhorne revolved the thin-stemmed sherry glass between finger and thumb and glanced over at Dora. ‘You’re not here on a compassionate call on a grieving friend, are you?’
