The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics Read online

  “What would you have had me do?” Lucy asked. “She wasn’t going to stop until she had an answer. Pris is a downright barnacle when she’s fixed her mind on something.”

  “You might have written her a letter.”

  Lucy looked away, the burn of brandy and the bite of lemon making her throat ache. “You might have demanded to read anything I sent to her.”

  Catherine made a small noise in the back of her throat, looking stricken. “I am so sorry about that. It will never happen again,” she said calmly. Too calmly. As if she expected to be forgiven. “I was just trying to protect you.”

  Lucy was sick of apologies; this one stung her into movement. She flung the stellarium shawl aside and stalked the library, her angry steps taking her from the sofa to the fireplace, to the window, and back to complete the triangle. It gave some vent to her feelings, but not enough. “Pris always thought I was her satellite,” she said. “I could only ever orbit around her. She never believed I would choose a path for myself.”

  “Ah.” Catherine sighed, a long, low sound that tolled like a funeral bell. “You value your independence. It’s only natural.”

  “I value my choices,” Lucy countered. “And I value people who respect them. Stephen never did, Pris never did—nobody, really.” She stopped, and turned to face the countess. “Until you. You trusted me to find my own way, even if where I was going didn’t look likely or even possible to get to.” Something warm trickled in and washed away some of the hurt. “And now you’re forging a new path of your own. Different from mine.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Catherine countered. “We could arrange something . . . something permanent.”

  The word permanent crashed through Lucy like a rock through a window, leaving only a gaping, jagged-edged hole where there once had been rainbowed glass. “What?”

  “I’m not sure what to call it, but . . . The solicitors would know. We could—we could arrange for you to have an allowance, perhaps—or I could see if it was possible to make you the heir to the earldom—”

  “I don’t want to be beholden to you!”

  The shout rang off the bookshelves in George’s library.

  Catherine snapped her mouth shut, her face sickly pale.

  Lucy fought to regain her self-control. All she could do was hold her tongue, before she said something else she’d regret.

  Catherine looked so small suddenly: shoulders curled in, hands clenched tight, everything about her attempting to take up as little space as possible while ominous shadows gathered in the corners of the library. “I only wanted to take care of you. You had so little when you came to London,” the countess said. “It didn’t seem safe to send you back out into the city alone. That’s why I invited you to stay.”

  Shame was a black tide, rising up to lap at Lucy’s heart. “You kept me out of charity.”

  “You don’t need charity anymore.” Catherine’s gaze was down now, her fingers clasped so tight they threatened to crack like overstressed porcelain. She might have been the very picture of wifely propriety—just as cold and untouchable as Pris had accused her of being.

  Lucy felt her unspoken hopes wink out, one by one, like stars being covered by a cloud, as Catherine’s careful sentences went on and on. “You could easily find a home of your own. Somewhere closer to the College, perhaps—or even out in the country. Better for observations, after all.”

  “Catherine . . .”

  At the sound of her name, the countess’s eyes flicked up, just for a moment—but then she dropped her gaze again.

  Lucy felt as though she’d gone from noon to midnight in the space of a heartbeat. A dark chill passed over her. “Do you not see a future for us?” Lucy asked.

  Catherine’s shoulders rose and fell, the smallest shrug Lucy had ever seen. So slight a gesture to strike Lucy’s heart so heavily. Her expression was smooth, untroubled. Unmoved. “How can there be a future? We are on different paths—different orbits, you might say. Your star is science, and mine is—well, mine has yet to be named. Art, or something close to it. A different sort of labor entirely from yours.”

  “Don’t we both search for truth?” Lucy whispered.

  “Two different truths,” Catherine murmured in reply. “Two different lives. I would never dream of asking you to deviate from that course in even the smallest particular.”

  Lucy heard this, and knew Catherine meant well, but her fears translated it into other words from another time, another love: I can’t marry you. She’d felt hurt then, and abandoned. She felt all that pain again now. But worse—oh, how much worse—because she knew she lost something greater this time than she ever had before in her life.

  Her father’s death was the only grief to equal it. Both he and Catherine had helped her find her vocation as an astronomer; how cruel of the world to take them both away. Lucy must have been greedy, because she wanted too much: she wanted science, of course—but she wanted Catherine, too, in all her beauty and her worry and her soft, stalwart steadiness.

  But Catherine didn’t want to be wanted like that. Lucy could see clearly now that she was pulling away, drawing into herself, hunkering down against the oncoming storm. She’d been doing it since Pris’s letter yesterday.

  All Lucy could do was give Catherine what she wanted. Anything else would be selfish. Lady Moth deserved to be put first, for once in her life. Even if it broke Lucy’s heart to do it.

  If Catherine wanted Lucy to leave, Lucy would yield.

  “I will ask Mr. Frampton if he knows of any suitable lodgings near his,” Lucy said. “He and I are planning to meet this evening for Mr. Edwards’s lecture.”

  Catherine rose. “I shall arrange for an early dinner, if you like.”

  Lucy shook her head. She doubted she could eat, with so much anguish churning about inside of her. “I’ll find something near the College.” She gathered up the stellarium shawl, folding it into a square. Neat, precise, mathematical. Tidy.

  Undemanding.

  Catherine still sat there, statue-stiff, as Lucy walked slowly toward her. She was selfish enough—weak enough—to want one final kiss before the end. “I may be out rather late, so I will say my good-night now.”

  She bent down but turned coward at the last minute. Instead of claiming the countess’s mouth, Lucy’s lips brushed lightly over Catherine’s cheek—a kiss like a moth, a nighttime creature, trembling and sad and not destined to live long.

  Catherine made no move to respond; not a sound emerged from those rosy lips pressed so tightly against one another.

  The last whole pane of Lucy’s heart cracked straight across as the library door clicked shut behind her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucy arrived at the College building shamefully early—the only benefit of skipping an unwanted dinner—and decided to stop by Mr. Edwards’s laboratory before the lecture began. It would be quieter place to wait than in the auditorium crowd, and there was a chance that Mrs. Edwards would be there, with her kind smile and sympathetic heart. Lucy felt in desperate need of someone to guide her through the fog until her own heart was once again up to the task.

  She would navigate by someone else’s star, until her own shone clear again.

  She’d been to the laboratory once before, with Catherine, for a private demonstration, and had no trouble finding it now. Students, scholars, and amateurs alike crowded the halls, talking ceaselessly with a roar like a dry ocean.

  It was only on the third or so turn down the corridors that Lucy began to realize something strange was happening. She caught odd sounds of snickering, and excited murmurs—but whenever she turned to look, the speakers averted their eyes and abruptly ceased talking until she’d passed.

  Surely her being here alone wasn’t so much of a scandal as that? She was relieved when she finally pushed open Mr. Edwards’s door, and could take refuge.

  The curtains on the tall windows were drawn back, and the wan autumn light flowed in and caught on the smooth curves of glasswa
re. Elements and metals and substances of all kinds and colors were arranged precisely on the shelves—some in liquid form, some stacked or wrapped in paper, some carefully corked to preserve visitors from deadly fumes. The ghosts of past experiments seemed to haunt the air: faint, tantalizing scents of metal and fire and sulfur. Mr. Edwards himself was standing bent over the large central desk, staring intently at the papers in his hands as though they held the key to the workings of the universe. Which perhaps they did.

  Lucy approached softly, hoping not to startle the other scientist out of his concentration. But when he looked up at her soft cough, his face went from intent and thoughtful to outright dismay.

  Dread rang alarms on Lucy’s every nerve.

  “Miss Muchelney,” he said. “I did not expect to see you this evening.”

  “I am meeting Mr. Frampton to hear your latest thoughts on electrochemistry,” she replied. “Has something happened?”

  His dismay grew, the pain in his dark eyes and mobile mouth abundantly plain. “Then you haven’t seen it?”

  Lucy shook her head, and without another moment’s delay he handed over what he’d been reading.

  It was the latest issue of Polite Philosophies, dated only two days before. The most significant letter in the President’s estimation always opened the issue, and this one was no different. The headline was bold and stark in large type at the top: On the Likelihood of Miss Muchelney’s Translation.

  And then in smaller letters: An enquiry into the possibility of an earlier draft of CELESTIAL MECHANICS by Albert Muchelney, FPSS.

  The author: Richard Wilby. With the same set of letters after his name: FPSS. Fellow of the Polite Science Society.

  Lucy looked up from the hideous page. “So they have officially voted him in.”

  Mr. Edwards nodded.

  Lucy’s hand shook, rattling the paper. She set it down hastily, appalled to be so transparent in her feelings. “And he is proclaiming me an imposter.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Edwards confirmed. “It’s not true, of course.” His tone brooked no doubt, but his eyes . . .

  Lucy almost cried out at the pity in those dark eyes. Mr. Edwards had been a Fellow long enough to know how poisonous a well-connected enemy could be. He knew just how this essay would blight Lucy’s future as a scholar. How the taint of suspicion would follow her through every theory and discovery and proof, for the rest of her life and even perhaps beyond. She wasn’t a Fellow, and had no official standing to counter the accusations leveled against her in the same forums where they’d been made. The theory was now a part of official Society record, and no counterargument would be enough to banish its effects. It would be like trying to empty a forest of snakes, one at a time: there would always be another one somewhere else, slithering silently through the underbrush—and the venom from the first would never be wholly expunged.

  It was the ruin of everything.

  Mr. Edwards said something else, but Lucy didn’t hear him. She took a step back, then another, then turned and flung open the door.

  The mix of horror and fiendish joy she saw in everyone’s faces didn’t puzzle her any longer: people always flocked to the shore when there was a shipwreck to watch.

  She ran around one corner—and the world kept spinning, her senses whirling and her head feeling like it was about to separate from her shoulders and float away high into the leaden sky . . .

  She paused and leaned against a wall, shutting her eyes until the dizziness passed. It had been a mistake to skip dinner—worse than she’d anticipated. Her stomach churned, her pulse hammered in her ears, and everywhere around her was the sound of mocking, hateful laughter . . .

  A hand on her elbow: a person, touching her gently. She cracked open her eyes to see Mr. Frampton there, his brow thunderous even as his mouth was pinched in sorrow. “Are you alright, Miss Muchelney?” he said softly. “Can you stand?”

  Lucy nodded, gulping the air and pressing one hand to her stomach until the world came into focus again. “Mr. Edwards showed me the letter.”

  She didn’t have to explain further; Mr. Frampton simply nodded and watched her closely, his eyes occasionally flicking to one side or another. With every person who passed, his face grew more and more steely. “There’s something else I have to tell you,” he said. “I spoke to Mr. Hawley yesterday.”

  “He won’t print a retraction,” Lucy warned. “I’ve wounded his pride too often.”

  “I wasn’t asking him for a retraction,” the mathematician replied. “I went to learn his answer about a request I made last week.”

  Lucy shook her head, too worn out for puzzles. “What was it?”

  “I asked him to invite Oléron to the Symposium.”

  “What?” Lucy’s involuntary outburst caused a momentary dip in the volume of chatter around her; she schooled her face and tried to mask her distress.

  Mr. Frampton kept his face equally stoic. “I suggested Mr. Hawley might want to put Oléron’s name forward as an official Foreign Member—and then invite Oléron to lecture at this year’s Symposium.”

  “But . . . how does this concern me?” The Symposium was the dinner held for Society Fellows every winter, just after Christmas. Often a particular topic was selected for lecture or discussion, but it usually just devolved into a passionate, overstuffed, and very wine-soaked argument. Lucy’s father’s health had prevented him from attending, and Lucy herself of course had never been invited.

  “You will surely receive an invitation,” Mr. Frampton clarified, “if Mr. Hawley thinks he can get Oléron to debate you on the finer points of celestial mathematics.”

  “To debate . . .” Lucy yanked away, her jaw gaping open with horror. “How could you, Mr. Frampton? That’s not a debate: it’s a trap.”

  She could see it so clearly: the hall, the rowdy audience of doubting men, the laughing scorn, the smug look on Mr. Hawley’s face. She swayed, and yanked her arm away again as Mr. Frampton reached out to steady her.

  Fury was an anchor in the swirling storm: she turned it on him in spite of her better instincts. “I shouldn’t have to perform like a dancing bear. My work should be proof enough on its own.”

  “Your work,” he said, “is not entirely yours.”

  Lucy stopped short.

  Mr. Frampton continued, inexorable. “It would be one thing if you’d translated the Méchanique céleste for the benefit of your fellow scholars. The more we share, the faster we all advance. But it was a commercial success, far beyond any expectation.” His mouth was a flat line by now, his displeasure plain. “The more popular it got, the more uneasy I became with the notion that the original author had no idea your translation existed.”

  “So you sent it to him,” Lucy whispered.

  “I did.” His eyes gleamed, and he leaned in again.

  This time Lucy waited, though her brow furrowed in hurt.

  He spoke low so there was no chance he’d be overhead. “And M. Oléron wrote back. We’ve been corresponding for months, now—and on account of this, I know something Mr. Hawley does not. Something about M. Oléron.” Mr. Frampton tilted his head, considering his facts like any careful scientist. “Or more accurately, I have a hypothesis. But a dazzling one—and if I am right, it will make Mr. Hawley and Mr. Wilby look more foolish than either of us could ever have dreamed.”

  “And what about me?” Lucy all but whispered. “How foolish will I look?”

  “That depends.” Mr. Frampton raised an eyebrow. “How hard is it for you to admit when you’ve been wrong?”

  Lucy’s heart was treacherous, and supplied someone else’s words as an answer: “Astronomers spend most of their lives being wrong.” She bit her lip and took a breath. “You were right: I ought to have written to M. Oléron myself.”

  “Thank you. Though if you had, I would have missed out on a marvelous correspondence.” Mr. Frampton squeezed her hand one final time, and bowed. “Can I convince you to let me escort you back home, or at least to your coach? I can’t im
agine you feel up to electrochemistry after such a shock as this.”

  Lucy took another breath. “No. I don’t—thank you.” She took his arm, grateful for the way he never wavered, no matter how many sly and stormy looks were sent their way as they wound through the curious crowds of naturalists and amateurs.

  Every step, every glance seemed to add another worry to the heap.

  Lucy grimaced. “I should begin going over the rest of Oléron’s work—not to mention the rest of the literature. Three months is not a great deal of time in which to master a subject.”

  She nodded at one brave soul who’d gone out of his way to bow to her as she passed, even though his companions looked daggers at him for doing it.

  They turned another corner, and Lucy’s musings offered up a question. “What precisely did you mean when you say you have a theory about Oléron?”

  “It was something that came up in the third letter. I feel . . . reasonably confident my suspicions are correct.”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “But not quite confident enough to tell me what they are?”

  He sighed. “If I am right, it puts Oléron in a position that is at best awkward, at worst horribly vulnerable, with respect to the Society. They’ve already done most of the harm they can to you—I am trying to help correct that, without opening anyone else up to similar abuse. It is a very fine line to have to walk, I admit.”

  Lucy attempted to decode this, then gave up with a shrug and a sigh. “You are more cryptic in person than in any of your papers, Mr. Frampton. Unusual in a mathematician.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up, wry and acknowledging. “I do my best.”

  They reached the sidewalk outside, and Mr. Frampton helped Lucy up into the countess’s carriage. “Until next week, Miss Muchelney.”

  He bowed solemnly and stepped back as the horses leaped under the whip, dragging Lucy forward into the future.

  She sat back and let herself sway with the motion of the coach. Three months. That’s all the time she had—to read everything old, everything new, and everything she’d missed the first go around. The rest of Oléron’s volumes on gravitation, obviously. Astronomy, mathematics, physical science—plus chemistry and the other natural sciences, if she could manage it. There was no question now about finding new lodging: she would need every spare minute if she hoped to offer an adequate defense of her translation and expansion, against the author himself.