“Your computer?” Stephen asked with studied nonchalance. This was what he’d hoped for, after all. “What’s that?”
“Precisely what it sounds like: a person who computes. Absolutely necessary for those of us engaged in any sort of dynamics. All those calculations come to a dreadful mess; if I had to do them all myself, I’d have no time to think of anything. And yes, my computer is a woman.” He cleared his throat. “A woman of African descent. Those of my colleagues who are prejudiced on that score only deprive themselves of Miss Sweetly’s assistance.”
“Surely you don’t think I would share their prejudices,” Stephen said. “Your wife has been making you read my work, yes?”
Barnstable’s smile became pained. “It isn’t that. Or it isn’t only that. You see, she’s a woman. And you…”
“Oh.” Stephen smiled. “That. I suppose I do have something of a reputation.”
It was hard-earned, that reputation. Occasionally inconvenient, but it was what it was.
“Yes,” Barnstable said apologetically. “That. And Miss Sweetly is, alas, a very young woman. She’s not quite of age yet. I’ve an arrangement with her father—my wife must be with her at all times in the building. He’d not like to see anything happen to her, and quite selfishly, I’d not like to lose her, either. She would be ideal if only she were a man. But…”
Stephen wouldn’t be here if she were a man. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d come.
“Maybe she could manage a lesson or three? Just something to get me started until your student returns. Your wife might stay in the room with us, of course, to avoid any impropriety.”
“I don’t know…” Dr. Barnstable rubbed at his beard.
“Ask her what she thinks,” Stephen suggested. “After all, ‘not quite of age’ for women often means we’d send younger men into battle. Or to the Bermudas to watch the transit of Venus.”
Barnstable nodded thoughtfully at that.
“And I do have a reputation. I won’t pretend I haven’t earned it. But I’ve never seduced an innocent before. In truth, I do more acquiescing than I do seducing. So unless you fear that your computer will seduce me…”
Barnstable snorted. “Well. I suppose a few hours with her, with my wife present, could not hurt. If she agrees, that is.”
The older man left, and Stephen paced to the window. From here, he could see bare tree branches and grass, once a brilliant green, now fading to a less vibrant color.
He really wasn’t sure what he was about. He wasn’t planning to seduce her, not really. It would be a terrible thing for a man like him to do to a woman in Miss Sweetly’s position, and he had a very firm rule that he did not do terrible things to people in general, and to women in particular. Liking a woman—even liking her very well—was more reason to adhere to the rule, not less.
As far as he could tell, he was just tormenting himself.
A noise sounded in the hall; he caught the low murmur of voices, and then the office door scraped open. Stephen turned from the window to face the newcomers.
Barnstable stood in the doorway. Behind him were two figures. The first was a heavy silhouette of an older woman with a substantial bustle; the second figure, far more familiar, hid herself behind the other woman’s bulk. She was scarcely visible in the dim hall light. Still, Stephen felt his pulse begin to accelerate.
He stood and addressed himself to the first woman. “You must be Mrs. Barnstable.”
“Mr. Shaughnessy, this is my wife, Mrs. Barnstable.” Dr. Barnstable stepped to one side.
The woman behind him moved into the room, all smiles. “Oh, Mr. Shaughnessy! It is such a pleasure to meet you. After all these years of reading your words! I adore—absolutely adore—everything that you write.”
“Of course you adore what I write,” he said. “You must be a woman of excellent taste. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“I shall have palpitations of the heart,” Mrs. Barnstable announced. “Listen to me, going on like a green girl. I sound like a chicken, squawking away. What must you think of me? I’m not silly. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve been reading your work for years now. Can you…” Her lashes fluttered down. “Can you do the Actual Man thing?”
It was how he ended all his columns. The advice column he wrote was entitled “Ask a Man”—and women wrote to him in droves to do just that. He signed every column almost precisely the same way.
“If you’d like.” Stephen looked into Mrs. Barnstable’s face.
The woman’s eyes grew wide; a hand drifted up to touch her throat as if to touch nonexistent pearls. He let his voice drop down a few notes and imbued his next words with all the wicked intent that he could muster.
“I’m Stephen Shaughnessy,” he said. “Actual Man.”
Mrs. Barnstable let out a wavering sigh. “Are you as wicked as the gossip papers say, young man?”