Page 55 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“Is it?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She smiled, and they spoke of his castle for a bit longer, which led them into a discussion about the great old houses of England.
“I think the finest house in England must be Leeds Castle,” she said.
“Hanford Castle might be smaller than Leeds Castle,” Matthew said. “But it is wound up in just as much history. Inside, you can take the exact steps of a half dozen kings. Sleep in the same beds they slept in, eat at the same table, stand in a courtyard that held tournaments where knights jousted for their ladies, and where minstrels sang into the night.”
Jo sighed dreamily. “I should very much like to see it the next time I’m in Nottinghamshire.”
“If it’s not open for visitors,” he said, “I’ll have it opened just for you.”
Not that she’d ever have the funds, or the time, to visit Nottinghamshire. As the house where she had spent her childhood had been given to the new rector when her father had died, there was nothing left for Jo and Mama in Nottinghamshire. Only a few of her distant cousins remained in the area, but they had offered succinct condolences when Papa had died, then turned their backs on their two near-penniless female relatives.
In any case, the duke’s sentiment was kind. Maybe someday shewouldhave the opportunity to tour Hanford Castle. A girl could dream.
She felt a brush of warmth and looked down. Their hands were both flat on the bench seat, Matthew’s little finger touching hers in the barest of caresses.
The heat rushed through her until she felt the flush blooming in her core. Gritting her teeth, she pulled away and clasped her hands together tightly in her lap.
Sometime later, they arrived in Tottenham Green just as it began to rain. “Excellent!” Matthew exclaimed, looking up to the sky as he knocked on the door of an unimposing green-painted house.
A plainly dressed older couple opened the door, and the pair and Matthew greeted each other warmly. Matthew turned to Jo. “Miss Porter, may I present my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Howard. Mr. Howard is a highly respected chemist and meteorologist.”
“I am a chemist by trade,” Mr. Howard clarified, “but my passion is meteorology, though I still consider myself an amateur on the topic.” Stepping back, he gestured them inside his home. “I hear that thou art a budding meteorologist, Miss Porter.”
These people were Quakers, Jo realized. She hadn’t met many Quakers in her life, and though the church had named them as dissenters, Jo had always admired their philosophies. They put into practice what other religions preached.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a meteorologist,” Jo said, “but I do have—shall we call it—a fondness for the weather and its patterns.”
He laughed cheerfully. “Well, I daresay thou hast just defined a budding meteorologist most accurately. Go on, go on. I hear you haven’t much time.”
He gestured up a flight of stairs, and Matthew took her hand and tugged her up alongside him. “I cannot wait to show you Mr. Howard’s treasures.”
They walked up two flights of stairs, eventually leading to a single large room on the top floor of the house. Matthew opened the door and gestured her inside with a flourish.
“Oh my,” Jo breathed.
It was a meteorologist’s heaven, from the charts on the walls, to the bookshelves filled with scientific tomes, to the four tables in the center of the room that boasted various instruments. Gripping her hand, Matthew led her over to them, pointing each one out and explaining how it worked: several thermometers, hygrometers, barometers, various insulated rods that measured electricity in the atmosphere, and a cyanometer, which Matthew explained measured the blueness of the sky.
She ran her finger reverently over the deepening shades of blue on the circular device. “How beautiful.”
Matthew grinned. “It is, isn’t it?”
He took her to the wall opposite, where several drawings of different kinds of clouds were arranged in rows. “Mr. Howard has studied and classified the different kinds of clouds,” he told her. “I use his work extensively in my own weather predictions.”
She looked at the odd labels under the pictures. They were words she’d never seen before:cirrus, nimbus, stratus, cumulus.
Beside the clouds were rows of charts, including dates, temperatures, barometer and hygrometer readings, and visual observations. After she and Matthew spent several minutes studying the charts, he gestured at the adjacent rolltop desk. The top was open, and several neat stacks of paper lay upon it.
“He is working on a book detailing the climate of London—an ambitious project, but one that he is most qualified to write about given the amount of data he has acquired over the years.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Jo said, hardly able to imagine how Mr. Howard could possibly clarify the tangle of contradictions that was London weather.
He squeezed her hand. “I shall send you a copy of it as soon as it is published.”
They returned downstairs, where Matthew led her through a back door. They paused under a small awning to gaze out into the downpour. Matthew handed her an umbrella. “As I said—absolutely ideal.”
