“They might have examined people whose proclivities were well known and collated the results.”
“Collated… What does that mean?” asked Beatrice.
“Put them side by side and compared them,” Randolph explained. A possibility occurred to him. “If you had detailed descriptions of a deceased person’s character—”
“You could measure their skulls and note the shapes,” said Miss Sinclair.
“Ugh,” said Hilda as Randolph nodded.
“A grim prospect,” said Miss Townsend.
Randolph could hear Robert guffawing at the notion that he was entertaining young ladies with talk of palpating corpses. Once again, he’d allowed his curiosity to meander too far. “The Greeks saw the brain as the major controlling center for the body,” he said, somewhat at random. “The Egyptians thought it was the heart.”
“That would seem to depend on what controls you’re thinking of,” said Miss Sinclair.
“A combination of the two is best,” Randolph replied. “Should that occur.”
“You think cooperation is unlikely?”
“I believe that agreement of mind and heart is rare.”
Verity Sinclair gazed at him. “A rather sad picture of life.”
The other ladies swiveled their heads back to him. They’d been shifting like observers at a tennis match. Randolph sincerely wished them gone. “Realistic, rather,” he said. “And often very useful.”
“How so?”
Lobbing ideas back and forth with her was exciting. Even more than debates with friends at university. Perhaps because none of them had been entrancing females whom he’d kissed, Randolph thought. “Much can be discovered, or revealed, through inner debate.”
Miss Sinclair frowned over this. He waited, fascinated to hear her opinion. “Working out what is truly important to the individual, you mean?”
“Precisely.” She looked interested. He found that curiously encouraging.
“Well, you’re too deep for me,” said Olivia Townsend. She pushed her empty ice cream dish away.
“And very tedious,” added her younger sister.
“Beatrice.” But Miss Townsend’s reprimand had no force behind it.
“Lord Randolph has a tendency to run on and on,” said Lady Hilda Stane.
“He must have a great bump for that somewhere on his head,” Beatrice said, giggling.
Randolph tried to shrug off the teasing. His brothers had said worse. Not in front of Miss Sinclair, however.
“Once, in Herefordshire, he talked for half an hour about some fusty poet. With quotations,” Hilda said.
“George Herbert,” murmured Randolph. Miss Sinclair looked surprised.
“He’s as bad as my father,” Hilda continued, pleased to have captured the group’s attention. “Papa once lectured me for hours on the differences between Celts and Picts.”
“Picks?” said Beatrice. “The tools miners use?”
Hilda shook her head and pronounced the word more clearly. “They’re ancient tribesmen. Painted themselves blue. Instead of clothes. They ran screaming into battle stark naked.”
There was an instant’s silence, as they all visualized this scene, Randolph imagined. Catching Hilda’s sly sidelong look, he pressed his lips together. Clearly, she had a trap laid for anyone unwise enough to correct her simplistic description. And she knew more about Picts than he did.
“But wouldn’t that be—” Miss Sinclair broke off.
“Remarkably distracting?” said Olivia Townsend.
“I suppose the other soldiers were familiar…” Miss Sinclair hesitated.
“With such equipment?”
“Olivia!”
“Well, they would be,” responded her friend with mock innocence.
This led all four ladies to look at Randolph and then quickly away. The situation was almost too absurd to be improper. But not quite. Although shielding the youthful ears of Lady Hilda Stane seemed like a lost cause, Randolph rose. “Perhaps we should be going?” he said.
Hilda looked thwarted. What had she expected him to do? Huff and puff like a parson in a farce? The ladies stood up and gathered their belongings.
“You’re fond of George Herbert’s poetry,” Miss Sinclair murmured as they strolled out of the park.
“Exceedingly.”
“I, too.”
“Really? What is your favorite?”
“Are you coming, Verity?” called Miss Townsend.
“Yes. Of course.”
She walked faster. Randolph could only follow.
Ten
“You do realize that this is a dreadfully unfashionable thing to do,” said Olivia.
“Why did you come with me?” Verity asked. She’d been wondering about this ever since Olivia declared her intention of tagging along. Her expedition didn’t seem Olivia’s sort of thing at all. On the other hand, Verity quite understood her mother’s absence. The place might have drawn Mama, but she’d trade almost any outing for a period of solitude. And in this case there’d been two letters from Papa.
“You can’t go haring around London alone,” Olivia replied.
Apparently her long-suffering footman escort didn’t count. “Suddenly you’re a stickler for the proprieties? Do you think the British Museum is swarming with importunate swains?” Verity smiled, rather proud of that last phrase.