Lord Randolph had brought a carriage. It had the Langford crest on the doors, and the grandness of it improved Beatrice’s temper. Or perhaps it was just getting her way, Verity thought as they piled in. Acting the perfect gentleman, Lord Randolph took a rear-facing seat. Olivia hesitated as if to let Verity join him. She declined by plopping down beside Hilda and Beatrice opposite. With raised brows, Olivia sat.
The younger girls chattered during the drive to Herr Grossmann’s address, with occasional contributions from Olivia. This allowed Verity to seethe in satisfying silence. She looked out the window at the passing scene, eliminating any chance of meeting Lord Randolph’s riveting blue eyes.
They arrived, were admitted by a housemaid, and ushered upstairs to a sparely decorated reception room. Herr Grossmann bustled in a few minutes later, then stopped short, looking puzzled. “Mrs. Beatrice Townsend?” he asked in his accented English.
“Mrs.?” exclaimed Olivia.
Taking this as a reply, the German addressed her. “I’m pleased you have brought your husband.”
Hilda dissolved in a fit of giggles.
Their host gave her a sidelong look as he continued. “I prefer that ladies be escorted. It is more proper.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” said Olivia. “My sister made the appointment with you.” She indicated Beatrice. “Miss Beatrice Townsend. No husband as yet. The male sex has been spared that horror so far.”
Beatrice made a face at her.
“Oh. Ah. Quite a…young lady.” Herr Grossmann looked at Lord Randolph as if he was in charge. Men always made that irritating assumption, Verity thought.
“She has her mother’s permission,” Lord Randolph said.
“Yes? Well, I—”
“We will remain with her, of course.”
He looked eager. It occurred to Verity that he cared less about the proprieties than having an opportunity to observe Herr Grossmann at work.
“Of course.” The German seemed to make up his mind. “If you will all come with me?”
They processed into a room across the landing. It was empty except for a large wooden chair on a dais, two small gilt chairs below it, and a large version of the phrenology chart hanging on the wall. There was no carpet. Light streamed in through two uncurtained windows. Herr Grossmann went to pull a bell rope.
The summons was promptly answered by a lad of perhaps sixteen. Tall and gangly, with black hair and pale skin, he was not dressed as a footman. Beatrice and Hilda eyed him with interest.
“This is Michael, my assistant,” said Grossmann. “Fetch more chairs, Michael.”
“Yessir, right away,” the young man answered. His accent was not German. More London tinged with Irish, Verity thought.
He returned with two more gilt chairs and set them out. Olivia, Verity, Hilda, and Lord Randolph sat in an interested row. Michael went to stand at the side of the dais. He took a notepad and pencil from his pocket.
For the first time, Beatrice looked uncertain. “The evaluation requires that you remove your bonnet,” Herr Grossmann said. Beatrice hesitated. Verity wondered if she was regretting her arrangement.
“I’ll hold it for you,” said Olivia with sly humor. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
Beatrice set her chin, untied the ribbons, and removed her hat. Her dark-brown hair was loose beneath it. She tossed her bonnet into Olivia’s lap and marched over to sit in the large chair.
“Michael is observing in order to learn,” the German added.
“In training, are you?” asked Lord Randolph.
“Yessir.” Michael held the pencil poised over the pad.
“Now, if you are ready, miss, I will place my fingertips on your head.”
“I’m ready,” Beatrice said rather loudly.
Delicately, Herr Grossmann touched her forehead. “Yes, I thought so,” he said. “A strong area of eventuality, the desire to know and be informed.” His tone was clinical, not the least intrusive. Beatrice blinked as Michael wrote busily.
“That would be nosiness?” said Olivia. “You’re certainly right there.”
“I wish you would go away,” replied Beatrice. “I never wanted you to come.”
“My papa says it’s our duty to be well informed,” said Hilda in defense of her friend.
“I expect Herr Grossmann concentrates better in silence,” put in Lord Randolph.
“Indeed, sir, that is true,” the other man replied.
Gentlemen united to keep the ladies quiet, Verity thought. Although in this case, it was probably better if Olivia didn’t taunt her sister.
“A bent toward firmness,” the phrenologist continued. “And hope. A marked tendency to imitation.”
“Like an actress?” Beatrice asked, brightening. “A stage role is a kind of imitation, isn’t it?”
“The term refers to ‘copying the manners, gestures, and actions of others, and appearances in nature generally,’” said Michael, as if he’d memorized the phrases.