“And we all thought her marriage prospects exhausted.” Felicity shook her head at the wonders of the universe.
“They are suited,” said their mother. “He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.”
“You know what the best of this situation is?” added Felicity, catty to the last. Her father's murmur of “All that money” going either unheard or unacknowledged, she answered her own question. “If they do marry, he will take her all the way back to the Colonies with him.”
“Yes, but we will have to put up with the fact that everyone important will know we have an American in the family,” pointed out Evylin, her eyes narrowing.
“Needs must, my darlings, needs must,” said their mother, ushering them back inside and closing the door firmly behind them. She wondered how little they could get away with spending on Alexia's future wedding and retreated to the study with her husband to consult on the matter.
Of course, Miss Tarabotti's relations were getting well ahead of themselves. Alexia's intentions toward Mr. MacDougall were of an entirely platonic nature. She simply wanted to get out of the house and talk with a person, any person, in possession of an actual working brain, for a change. Mr. MacDougall's intentions might have been less pure, but he was timid enough for Miss Tarabotti to easily ignore any verbal forays in the romantic direction. She did so initially by inquiring after his scientific pursuits.
“How did you get interested in soul measuring?” she asked pleasantly, delighted to be out of doors and disposed to be kind to the facilitator of her freedom.
It was an unexpectedly beautiful day, pleasantly warm with a light and friendly little breeze. Miss Tarabotti's parasol was actually being put to its intended use, for the top was down on Mr. MacDougall's buggy, and she certainly needed no more sun than was strictly necessary. The mere whiff of daylight and her tan deepened to mocha and her mama went into hysterics. With both hat and parasol firmly in place, her mama's nerves were assured complete safety—from that quarter at least.
Mr. MacDougall tsked to his horses, and they assumed a lazy walk. A vulpine-faced sandy-haired gentleman in a long trench coat left his station beneath the lamppost outside the Loontwills' front door and followed at a discreet distance.
Mr. MacDougall looked at his driving companion. She was not one to be considered fashionably pretty, but he liked the strong tilt to her jaw and determined glint in her dark eyes. He had a particular partiality for firm-willed ladies, especially when they came coupled with a jaw that was shapely, eyes that were large and dark, and a handsome figure to boot. He decided she seemed resilient enough for the real reason he wanted to measure souls, and it made for a nicely dramatic story anyway. “It's not bad to admit here, I suppose,” he said to start, “but you should understand, in my country I'd not speak of it.” Mr. MacDougall had a bit of flare for the dramatic well hidden behind the receding hairline and spectacles.
Miss Tarabotti placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “My dear sir, I did not intend to be nosy! You are of a mind to think of my question as officious?”
The gentleman blushed and pushed at his spectacles nervously. “Oh no, of course not! No such thing. It's just that my brother was turned. Vampire you see. My older brother.”
Alexia's response was characteristically British. “Felicitations on a successful metamorphosis. May he make his mark on history.”
The American shook his head sadly. “Here, as your comment implies, it is generally thought a good thing. In this country, I mean to say.”
“Immortality is immortality.” Alexia did not mean to be unsympathetic, but there it was.
“Not when it comes at the price of the soul.”
“Your family keeps the old faith?” Alexia was surprised. Mr. MacDougall, after all, was a scientist. Scientists were generally not given to overly religious backgrounds.
The scientist nodded. “Puritans to the very core. Not a progressive bone among them: so supernatural means 'undead' to them. John survived the bite, but they repudiated and disinherited him anyway. The family gave him three days' grace and then hunted him down like a rabid dog.”
Miss Tarabotti shook her head in sorrow. The narrow-mindedness of it all! She knew her history. The puritans left Queen Elizabeth's England for the New World because the queen sanctioned the supernatural presence in the British Isle. The Colonies had been entirely backward ever since: religious fingers in all their dealings with vampires, werewolves, and ghosts. It made America into a deeply superstitious place. Fates only knew what they'd think of someone like her!
Curious that any man from a conservative family might opt to try for metamorphosis, she asked, “Why on earth did your brother turn in the first place?”
“It was against his will. I think the hive queen did it to prove a point. We MacDougalls have always voted against change—antiprogressive to the last breath and influential in government where it counts most.”
Miss Tarabotti nodded. She had surmised his family's influence from the money he obviously possessed. She touched the fine leather of the buggy seat with one hand. Here was a scientist who needed no patronage. Strange place, that overseas land, where religion and wealth did the talking and history and age held so little sway.
Mr. MacDougall continued. “I think the hive thought that turning the eldest might make us MacDougalls all think differently.”
“Did it?”
“None except me. I loved my older brother, you see? I saw him once after he'd changed. He was still the same person: stronger, paler, night-born, yes, but essentially the same. He probably still would have voted conservative, if they'd let him vote.” He smiled slightly, and then his face fell back to round pudding blandness. “So I switched from banking to biology and have been studying the supernatural ever since.”
Miss Tarabotti shook her head unhappily. Such a sad beginning. She contemplated the sunny day: the lovely green of Hyde Park, the bright hats and dresses of ladies walking arm in arm across the grass, the two plump dirigibles gliding sedately overhead. “BUR would never allow such behavior from any vampire —to bite without permission! Let alone for a hive queen to bite the unwilling with the intent to metamorphose! Such shocking behavior.”
Mr. MacDougall sighed. “Yours is a very different world, my dear Miss Tarabotti. Very different. Mine is a land still at war with itself. The fact that the vampires sided with the Confederates still has not been forgiven.”
Alexia did not wish to insult her new friend, so she refrained from criticizing his government. But what did the Americans expect if they refused to integrate the supernatural set into their society in any way? When they forced vampires and werewolves to hide and skulk about in a shoddy imitation of the European Dark Ages?
“Have you rejected your family's puritanical tenets?” Miss Tarabotti looked inquiringly at her companion. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of tan trench coat. It must be tough on Professor Lyall to be outside in all this sun, especially when full moon was soon due. She felt a moment's pity but was pleased to know that it was he who had relieved the night watch guard. It meant Lord Maccon was still thinking of her. Of course, he was thinking of her as a problem... but that was better than not thinking of her at all, was it not? Alexia touched her lips softly with one hand and then forcibly stopped all ruminations on the mental state of the Earl of Woolsey.
Mr. MacDougall answered her question. “You mean, have I abandoned the belief that supernatural folk have sold their souls to Satan?”
Miss Tarabotti nodded.
“Yes. But not necessarily because of my brother's misfortune. The idea was never scientific enough for me. My parents knew not what they risked, sending me to Oxford. You know, I studied for some time in this country? Several of the dons are vampires. I have come 'round to the Royal Society's way of thinking, that the soul must formulate a quantifiable entity. Some individuals have less of this soul-matter, and some have more. And those who have more can be changed into immortals, and those who have less cannot. Thus it is not lack of soul but overabundance that the puritans feared. And that very concept is heresy in my family.”
Alexia agreed. She kept abreast of the Society's publications. They had yet to find out about preternaturals and the truly soulless. BUR was content to let daylight scientists blunder about without access to that particular knowledge. But Miss Tarabotti felt it was only a matter of time in this enlightened age before her kind were analyzed and dissected.
“You have been devising a way to measure the soul ever since?” She checked about casually for her supernatural shadow. Professor Lyall paced them several yards away, doffing his hat to ladies walking by: an everyday middle-class gentleman apparently unaware of their buggy nearby. But Alexia knew he was watching her the entire time. Professor Lyall knew his duty.
Mr. MacDougall nodded. “Wouldn't you like to know? Especially as a woman? I mean, ladies have a high risk of failing to survive metamorphosis.”
Miss Tarabotti smiled. “I know exactly how much soul I have, thank you, sir. I need no scientist to tell me that. “
Mr. MacDougall laughed, taking her confidence for jest.
A gaggle of dandified young men passed by. All were decked to the height of fashion: three-buttoned swallowtails instead of frock coats, knotted silk cravats, and high collars. Alexia was certain she knew several of them from somewhere, but she did not recognize them well enough to name. These tipped their hats to her. One tallish specimen in blueberry satin breeches slowed to look with inexplicable interest at Mr. MacDougall before being whisked onward by his cohorts. Off to one side, Professor Lyall took note of their antics with interest.
Alexia glanced at her companion. “If you are successful in the measuring of souls, Mr. MacDougall, shouldn't you be worried such knowledge might be misused?”
“By scientists?”
“By scientists, by hives, by packs, by governments. Right now, what keeps the power of the supernatural set in check is their small numbers. If they knew ahead of time who to recruit, they could turn more females and increase their population drastically, and the very fabric of our social world would be rearranged.”
“Yet the fact that they need us to procreate gives us normal folk some small advantage,” he demurred.
It occurred to Miss Tarabotti that hives and packs had probably been working to uncover a way to measure the human soul for hundreds of years. This young man stood little chance of success where generations of advanced supernatural researchers had failed. But she held her tongue. Who was she to destroy a man's dreams?
She pretended interest in a group of swans floating across a pond to one side of the track. In truth, it was Professor Lyall who had caught her attention. Had he stumbled? It looked as though he had, falling against another gentleman and causing that man to drop some sort of metal device.
“So what topic will you address at the Hypocras inauguration?” Miss Tarabotti asked.
Mr. MacDougall coughed. “Well”—he looked embarrassed—”primarily what I have found the soul not to be. My initial research would seem to indicate that it is not an aura of any kind nor a pigmentation of the skin. There are several working theories: some think it may reside in part of the brain; others believe it to be a fluid element in the eyes or perhaps electrical in nature.”