Page 122

“Did you stop working on locomotives when His Grace passed away?” Stella asked.

“Naturally,” the dowager said, slumping back into the corner. “He died suddenly. We were working on a regulator for the engine, just sketching it out, when he collapsed. He was gone by nightfall.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I missed him so much, and then by the time I woke out of my grief, the men who had been working with us had scattered to the winds.” She shrugged. “He and I together could do such things. But a woman, by herself? Never. Now I just create entertainments.”

From working on a steam engine to sewing duck’s hats? That was a downfall. Moreover, the dowager had clearly loved her husband passionately. No wonder she often had a desolate air.

“I don’t understand why you are unable to work on engine designs,” Stella said. “Who is stopping you?”

“The men won’t pay attention to me.”

“Then hire men who will. Or pay them enough that they can’t stop themselves from paying attention.”

The dowager snorted. “It would cost a fortune. You have no idea how condescending inventors can be. Quite a few of them still pretend that my husband designed that chimney, rather than I.”

“Then pay a fortune. Silvester has more money than he knows what to do with. A few weeks ago, he was talking about shoring up the Bank of England if they approach a breaking point.”

“I’m years behind.” But there was a trace of hope in the dowager’s voice.

“Travel about and learn what other inventors are doing,” Stella said briskly. “You don’t have small children to keep you at home. Afterward, you can design a new chimney, a better chimney.”

A flicker of shame crossed the dowager’s face. “We weren’t . . . we weren’t perfect parents. I couldn’t keep a nanny in the Grange, but I told myself that the children were fine.”

“They were fine,” Stella said. “Your children are grown, healthy people.”

“Silvester raised the girls,” the dowager said. “I suppose he raised himself as well. I turned around, and my son had turned into this . . . this perfect gentleman, polished from head to foot. Beloved by polite society.” She snorted. “His father never bothered to court the admiration of fools.”

Even his mother was not allowed to insult Silvester in Stella’s presence.

“Your son made up his mind as a child that he would be respected and admired for the man he is, not merely for the title he inherited. He also decided to build a fortune that could weather future generations of Huntington inventors. He has succeeded in every possible measure.”

The dowager narrowed her eyes, and Stella narrowed hers right back.

Her Grace burst out laughing. “I deserved that. I suppose we deserved that, my husband and I. Thank goodness Silvester didn’t marry that foolish twit he was in love with. Yasmin never would have dared to contradict me. She would have ruined him. Tasseled boots and brocades for the rest of his life, without a sensible thought between them.”

A searing pain went through Stella’s heart at the mention of Silvester’s love for Yasmin, but she didn’t allow her expression to change at all. “That’s not fair. Your son was courting Lady Yasmin at the same time he saved the English monetary system by moving it to the gold standard.”

“Oh that.” The dowager waved her hand. “Silvester can’t help liking numbers; he inherited it from both of us. But that golden-haired gal? She would have ruined him.”

“I like Lady Yasmin,” Stella said, though it made her feel ill to admit it. “She’s tremendously kind.”

“I’m not!” the dowager said, with another bark of laughter. Then she pointed at Stella. “Neither are you. Whether my son agreed with me or not, I knew you were the one for him. You’ll make him into a man, not a milliner.”

Stella cleared her throat.

“That boy never does a thing when I order him to do it,” his mother observed. “Don’t think he married to oblige me. I’ve seen him looking at you, like a beggar with a crust of bread. I had nothing to do with that.”

“How lucky,” Stella managed. She laced her hands in her lap and tried to arrange her features into a casual expression.

“Lust is lucky.” The dowager cocked her head. “When I married, my husband had a carriage draw up to the church. Then he sent it around London for a few hours. When I arrived at the breakfast, I wasn’t a virgin any longer.”

Stella smiled. “I trust it was a happy drive?”

“I hardly knew the man,” the dowager said, her eyes softening. “You didn’t, in those days. All I knew was that he had legs like gateposts and a fondness for mathematics. That wasn’t fashionable, you know. He was supposed to like hunting. Luckily for him, I like men with thick legs, and he liked my shape as well.”

She lapsed into silence for a moment and then roused. “He would have abhorred all that foolishness my son spouted, moaning that he wanted to be in love with his wife!”