Page 1 of Inventing Vivian

Prologue

April 19, 1873

Vivian Kirby could feel thediscomfort in the stiffness of Lord Hastings’s arm as she allowed herself to be led from the dance floor. When they reached the edge of the ballroom, she turned toward him and curtsied.

The man’s gaze did not meet hers. He gave a curt bow, muttered a pleasantry, and made a hasty retreat.

Vivian watched him go. She had assumed the chemical compositions of the various colors of the glass would prove interesting to Lord Hastings. In retrospect, she decided she should have restricted her conversation to topics of a more ballroom-appropriate—and therefore dull—nature.

Vivian sighed. She had attended the Marchioness of Molyneaux’s ball every year since her coming-out seven years earlier. It was the first major event of the Season and the one every member of High Society hoped to attend.

Apparently an invitation to this year’s ball was even more coveted, as Aunt Winifred had told Vivian on the carriage ride. The marquess was to announce the engagement of his son, Lord Ruben. Vivian did not understand why the revelation was so anticipated. Any person who had so much as glanced at a broadsheet in passing had seen endless images of Lord Ruben and Miss Dahlia Lancaster. The two were the most famous couple in the country, more talked about than Prince Albert and the daughter of the Tsar.

Vivian let her gaze travel around the grand room. Jewels sparkled, fans fluttered, and feathered headpieces bobbed among colorful gowns and black coats as thehaute tondisplayed their finery. The room practically vibrated with excitement as guests flirted, friends were reacquainted, and gossip was shared.

But Vivian was much more interested in the room itself. She looked upward. The stained-glass panels in the ceiling glowed in the light of the moon, and she considered the chemical compositions used to create the different shades of glass: cadmium, silver chloride, iron, and even arsenic. Between the panels of colored windows hung enormous globe chandeliers, the glare of their bright flames diffused behind frosted gas shields. She wondered if the marquess had plans to convert to hydrogen gas. Thaddeus S. C. Lowe’s new process of creating a more efficient fuel with superheated coal had made for fascinating reading in theLondon Journal of Natural Science. She muttered an oxidation-reduction reaction formula to herself.

“What was that, dear?” Aunt Winifred’s voice was so near it gave Vivian a start. She hadn’t seen her aunt approach.

The older woman stepped closer. “What is it? What do you see up there?” Aunt Winifred squinted, tipping her head back to look up at the ceiling, and her diminished size thrust her hair arrangement of peacock plumes directly into Vivian’s face.

Her father’s half sister was a petite woman, nearly a foot shorter than Vivian’s five feet ten inches, and at twenty-eight, she was only a few years older than Vivian herself. More like an older sister than an aunt.

“I was just admiring the gasoliers,” Vivian said, taking a step back and rubbing her nose against the tickle from the feathers.

“Splendid, aren’t they?” Aunt Winifred said. “Rococo design, I believe. Very fashionable. And I do appreciate a well-contained flame.” She turned away from her admiration of the marquess’s lighting arrangements and looked toward the dancers in the center of the room. “I see your waltzing skills are not lacking,” she said in a voice meant to sound offhand.

Vivian smiled at her aunt’s attempt to casually bring up the topic of Lord Hastings.

“Shall we expect another dance from His Lordship this evening?” Aunt Winifred continued. “Or perhaps a visit tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so,” Vivian said, blowing out a puff of air.

Her aunt winced. “You did it again?”

Vivian gave a nod, feeling a sliver of guilt at the disappointment in her aunt’s voice.

“What was it this time?” Aunt Winifred asked, looking tired as the corners of her mouth pulled down. “Steam engines? Chemistry? Evolution?”

“Urine.” She probably should not have mentioned that the dye formula for the scroll designs on the famous stained-glass windows in the Marquess of Molyneaux’s ballroom consisted of powdered copper oxide and the artist’s own urine, but the silence as they’d danced had stretched so long that she’d simply had to fill it somehow.

“Oh, Vivian.” Aunt Winifred shook her head. She took Vivian’s arm, and the pair strolled through the crowd and toward the ballroom doors.

A glance at the grand clock showed the hour was past midnight. How much longer did the marquess intend to keep his guests in suspense?

The two stepped out into the entrance hall, and Vivian was glad for the fresh air that came from the high windows. Ballrooms were notoriously stuffy. And loud.

They strolled, admiring the hothouse flowers and statuary that decorated the space. Vivian noted the calla lilies in one arrangement.Zantedeschia aethiopica, she thought. Containing an inordinate amount of calcium oxalate, a main ingredient in kidney stones, and—if consumed in sufficient quantities—among the more harmful poisons.

“Vivian, you must stop doing this,” Aunt Winifred said now that they were away from the crowd. Her voice was not angry, just frustrated. “Lord Hastings was a fine match for you in all aspects. And with every year, it is becoming more and more difficult to find suitable—”

“Suitors,” Vivian finished for her. “It sounds like the title of a whimsical penny-dreadful novel.Suitable Suitors,” she said in a singsong voice.

Aunt Winifred didn’t laugh at the attempted joke. “You mustn’t scare every gentleman away with your—”

“My fascinating conversation?” Vivian interrupted the woman a second time.

“With conversation that is not interesting to both parties, dear.” Aunt Winifred gave a kind smile to diminish the effect of her reprimand. “I know you enjoy discussing scientific discoveries and chemical compositions, but perhaps those topics are best enjoyed alone.”

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