Her one comfort, upon hearing those words, was that nobody else in the room looked terribly impressed, either. One of the Goodemeade sisters made a faintly outraged noise at the word distorted; the other laid a quelling hand on her knee.
There was no one to quell Eliza. “What of people who have seen those black dogs?” she asked.
His mustaches did not hide his condescending smile. “What have they seen? Supernatural creatures? Or merely some neighbor’s black-furred mongrel, that startled them along a lonely road at night?”
“If I may,” Macgregor said. The habits of deference made Eliza hesitate, forgetting that she had a right to speak here, and by the time she found her tongue again, the Scotsman had already begun to air his own theory. “I agree that we must look to the past for explanations—but not to superstition. As an educated man, Mr. Graff, you must of course be familiar with Darwin’s theory of evolution…”
As he began outlining a place for fairies in that scheme, Eliza sank back in disgust. If these people believed in evolution, there was no point in wasting her time listening to them. No wonder that other woman took Miss Kittering aside. The young woman was observing all this with condescending amusement, while Mrs. Chase exchanged a look with the Goodemeade sisters, who shook their heads. Eliza wished she could leave the meeting, without drawing unwanted attention.
Mr. Myers finally broke in, interrupting the increasingly heated argument between Graff and Macgregor. “Gentlemen, you are debating theory, without evidence. Would it not be more productive to ask ourselves what proof we have of fairies?”
Graff’s exhalation of annoyance ruffled his mustaches. “What proof do you think exists?”
“People who have seen them,” Eliza said again. Then she hesitated. Now was the moment to tell her own story—
But what would it gain? Graff wouldn’t listen to her; she could tell that just by looking at him. Her suspicion was confirmed when Myers said, “Scholars of folklore have been collecting such stories for some time. Indeed, some claim to have seen fairies themselves, particularly in Ireland—”
“Ireland! Bah!” Graff dismissed that with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Superstitious peasants, the lot of them, and probably drunk to boot.”
Myers stiffened, giving him a very cold look. “As a scholar, sir, I should look first to the evidence they present, rather than the nationality of those who present it.”
He, at least, might listen if Eliza spoke. But it was clear from what Myers said, continuing his argument with Graff and Macgregor, that he had no personal experience of faeries himself. He could not help her. Glancing across to the silent Miss Kittering, Eliza saw her own frustration mirrored. Of course; she probably came here hoping to meet her friend. Now she’s gone and disobeyed her mother—and been caught out—and all she has to show for it is a stupid argument among men who love the sound of their own voices.
Mrs. Chase finally managed to calm them into something like a truce, once it became obvious that neither of the men was going to sway the others. Unfortunately, she then turned her attention to Eliza. “So, Miss Baker. We have already heard from Mr. Graff, who is the other newcomer among us, but you have been rather quiet. Tell us, what is your interest in fairies?”
I want to know how to catch one and wring his neck. Eliza pasted a vague smile onto her face, covering the anger beneath. “Oh,” she said, “I’ve always found the stories very interesting—the Irish ones particularly,” she added, as a jab at Graff. He snorted.
Mrs. Chase, however, brightened. “Indeed? Then surely you’ve read the works of Lady Wilde?” Eliza was forced to shake her head. “Oh, but you must—she’s quite a famous poet, really, under the name of ‘Speranza,’ and she has been publishing articles based on her late husband’s research. Here, I should have one on hand—”
One of the Goodemeade sisters rose on the old woman’s behalf and found it, and they passed the remainder of the time in listening to Mrs. Chase read. Only Mr. Myers seemed to pay much attention, though, and so the meeting straggled to an unhappy close.
Eliza rose promptly from her chair, intending to go straight over to Miss Kittering. She no longer cared whether anyone guessed they already knew each other. Before she could take a step, though, the Miss Goodemeades appeared in front of her. “We didn’t have a chance to welcome you properly before the meeting, but we wanted to say we’re very happy you came. Did you see the advertisement we placed in the newspaper? Or did a friend tell you about our society?”
“The newspaper,” Eliza said, distracted. Miss Kittering was speaking to Mr. Myers, but she couldn’t hear what the young woman was saying.
“You see?” Miss Goodemeade said to her sister. “I told you that would catch the right kind of eyes! Well, some of the right kind; I fear we’ve pulled in a few we might have done without.” This last was said in a lower tone, easily hidden under the argument Graff and Macgregor had resumed.
“But we’re very glad to have you,” the sister said. The two women were almost impossible to tell apart: both short, both honey haired and honey eyed, in dresses of brightly printed cotton. Only the roses on one and the daisies on the other kept them from being identical; unfortunately, Eliza had forgotten their given names. “In fact, we should like to invite you to join us at another meeting—more a private circle of friends, really, that—”
Eliza risked a glance over at Miss Kittering and Mr. Myers, only to find Mrs. Chase had taken the fellow aside into private conversation, and the drawing room door was swinging shut behind Miss Kittering.
Her heart leapt into her mouth. If she were to salvage anything from the wreck of this evening—and keep it from getting any worse—she could not let the young woman go off without her!
“I’m sorry,” she said, cutting Miss Goodemeade off. “I’m afraid I have to go.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” the daisy Goodemeade said, trying to catch her hand.
Eliza pulled away, making some half-coherent excuse, not caring anymore that she was catching people’s attention. “At least come back next month—” the rose Goodemeade said.
“Yes, certainly,” Eliza lied; anything to get away without being inexcusably rude. Why do I even care? I’ve no reason to see these people again. But she was reluctant to hurt the sisters’ feelings, when they obviously meant well. “I’m very sorry—I’ve stayed too long already—goodbye.” She flung herself out to the staircase.
Even with her haste, those words proved prophetic. When she got downstairs, Miss Kittering was gone, and the maid nowhere in sight. Eliza hurried out into the street, but it was no use; the gaslight showed her a variety of people and vehicles, but not her quarry. “Stupid girl,” Eliza muttered. “You should have tried to talk to me, bribe me to lie—” Instead, she’d run. To her home? If not there, then Eliza didn’t have the first guess where she’d gone; so Cromwell Road it was.
If she hurried, she might even be able to stop Miss Kittering from doing anything else stupid. The Angel Inn was just on the corner, a few doors down, with cabs standing outside. Cursing the expense, and the optimism that had made her waste money on an omnibus earlier, Eliza went to hire a driver, and try to race Miss Kittering home.