“You oppose the miasmatic hypothesis of disease transfer?”
The scientist inclined his head, delighted to converse with a woman so well educated in modern medical theory.
Miss Tarabotti said, “Dr. Snow suggests cholera transmission occurred through the ingestion of contaminated water. How exactly would you suggest supernatural transmission occurs?”
“That remains a mystery. As does the reason why some respond positively and others do not.”
“A condition that we currently refer to as the presence or absence of excess soul?” suggested Alexia.
“Exactly.” The scientist's eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “Identifying a pathogen will only show us what occurs to drive metamorphosis. It will not tell us why or how. My research until now has focused on hematology, but I am beginning to think I have been pursuing the wrong hypothetical angle.”
“You need to deduce what is different between those who die and those who survive?” Alexia tapped the brass handle of her parasol with her fingertips.
“And what the survivor is like before and after metamorphosis.” Mr. MacDougall drew the horses up so he could turn fully to face Alexia, animated in his enthusiasm. “If the soul has substance, if it is an organ or part of an organ that some possess and others do not—the heart, perhaps, or the lungs—”
Miss Tarabotti was equally enthusiastic; she finished the hypothesis for him. “Then it should be quantifiable!” Her dark eyes sparkled with the very idea of such a thing. Brilliant in concept, but it would require much further study. She understood now why he had not thought his research appropriate dinner conversation the evening before. “You are undertaking a number of cadaverous dissections?” she asked.
Mr. MacDougall nodded, having forgotten her ladylike sensibilities in his excitement. “But I am finding it most difficult to acquire dead werewolves and vampires for comparison. Particularly in the United States.”
Miss Tarabotti shuddered. No need to ask why. Everyone knew the Americans burned to death any accused of being supernatural, leaving little behind for any scientist to study. “You think to procure specimens here and transport them back?”
The scientist nodded. “I hope that it will be considered in the best interest of science to pursue this kind of inquiry.”
“Well,” Alexia said, “your speech at Hypocras should pave the way if it at all approaches the conversation we are having. You have some of the newest and best ideas I have yet heard on the subject. You would have my vote of confidence, were I allowed to be a member of the club.”
The young man grinned at her praise and began to think ever more fondly of Miss Tarabotti, who possessed enough intelligence to not only follow his thoughts, but perceive their worth as well. He tsked his horses into motion once more, guiding them off to one side of the path. “Did I mention how lovely you are looking today, Miss Tarabotti?” He pulled the carriage to a full stop.
Of course. Alexia could hardly point out the many flaws in his theories after such a compliment. So instead she steered their conversation on to more general topics. Mr. MacDougall cranked up the mechanical water boiler and brewed a pot of tea. Alexia used the carriage's monocular distance viewing device while he did so. She tilted the lenses about, commenting on the pleasures of a sunny day and the statuesque grace of distant dirigibles floating above the park. She also trained them briefly on Professor Lyall, who was leaning in the shade of a tree a little way away, only to find he had donned his glassicals and was watching her through them. She hurriedly put the optical magnification device down and turned amiably back to her host and tea.
While she sipped cautiously at the tin mug, surprised to find the offering a delicious Assam, he lit up the small hydraulic engine she had noticed at the back of the carriage. With much creaking and groaning, a massive parasol pulled itself upright and then unfolded to shade the open carriage. Alexia snapped her own small parasol shut, glaring at it with an entirely unwarranted sense of inadequacy. It was a good little parasol and hardly deserving of such a jaundiced look.
They passed a distinctly pleasant additional hour in each other's company, sipping tea and nibbling a box of rosewater and lemon Turkish delight that Mr. MacDougall had invested in for this occasion especially. In no time, it seemed, Mr. MacDougall was lowering the gigantic parasol and driving Miss Tarabotti back home.
The young gentleman helped her down from his carriage at the Loontwills' front steps feeling justifiably pleased with the success of their outing, but Alexia forestalled him when he tried to see her all the way to the door.
“Please do not mistake my refusal for rudeness,” she explained delicately. “But you do not wish to encounter my relations just now. They are not up to your caliber of intellect, I am ashamed to say.” She suspected her mother and sisters were out shopping, but she needed some excuse. The way his eyes looked right now, he might make a declaration, and then where would she be?
The scientist nodded gravely. “I completely understand, my dear Miss Tarabotti. My own relatives are similarly afflicted. May I call again?”
Alexia did not smile. It would not do to be coy when she had no intention of returning his advances. “You may, but not tomorrow, Mr. MacDougall. You will be preparing for your speech.”
“The next day?” He was persistent. “That way I can tell you how the opening celebrations went.”
Very forward, American men. Alexia sighed inwardly but nodded her acquiescence.