A Curious Beginning (14 page)

The lush red roses of my hat had been specially ordered and were lined with cork, the perfect repository for such specimens. Any truly rare finds could be swiftly dispatched with a careful pinch to the thorax and then pinned to the roses, out of the way and in no danger of damage from a jar or box. It was my own technique and one I had not seen duplicated anywhere except by a rather eccentric fellow from Belgium who appeared one day on a meadow path in the Rocky Mountains with a cloud of Hoary Commas—
Polygonia gracilis
with its splendid escalloped orange wings—quivering upon his sola topee. He looked like a madman, but I realized instantly that as a woman I could employ the habit to much better effect. My ensemble was completed with the addition of my compass, the one piece of equipment essential to any explorer. I made a note of the direction of north and picked up my net.

No sooner had I stepped from the caravan than I nearly collided with the attractive groom, Mornaday. He extended a hand full of fruit.

“Pear, missus?” he asked with a bob of the head. “I was collecting fruit for the horses. They do like a bit of a treat. The pears are only a little green. Will you have one?”

I thanked him and took it, more to be polite than out of any real desire to eat it. I bit into it and was surprised to find it ripe, the juices bursting forth from the snowy flesh and over my hands.

“Ah, you've a good one there!” he said with a chuckle. He brandished a striped handkerchief and I took it gratefully, laughing as the juice dripped from my chin. “That's better,” he said, glancing at my butterfly net. “I say, missus, if you're after butterflies, I saw a blue one, a Morpho, I think it's called. Just down this way. I can show you, if you like.”

Taking my arm, he guided me down the riverbank quite some distance, through a watery meadow and to a secluded little copse, singing all the while. He had a very pleasant tenor, and his rendition of “Early One Morning” would not have disgraced the public stage. When we at last reached the clearing, I turned to him with an air of expectation.

“How very kind of you to guide me. A Morpho, you say?”

He gave me a broad smile. “It were bright blue, with black teardrops at the bottom of its wings,” he said promptly.

“I am afraid that is no Morpho, Mornaday. You have just described
Papilio ulysses
, a Blue Swallowtail indigenous to Australasia. Hardly to be found in Devonshire. Which leads me to conclude you did not see a Blue Swallowtail in this copse.”

He opened his mouth and I held up a hand. “Nor did you see a Morpho, my dear fellow. The Morpho habitat is strictly limited to Central and South America.” While he continued to gape, I gave him an extended lecture upon the species differences between the two most common Morphos,
menelau
s and
peleides
, and the Blue Swallowtail,
Papilio ulysses
. For good measure I discoursed at length upon instars and imagos, enjoying every moment of his glassy-eyed incomprehension. After half an hour or so, I took pity upon him and concluded my remarks. “And that brings me to the obvious question, Mornaday. Why did you create a pretext to see me alone?”

He hesitated, then grinned, and when he spoke, his voice was somehow more cultured than it had been before. The accent was smoother, and his vocabulary was no longer quite so limited, and his air of diffidence melted away under a more authoritative mien.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stoker. I ought to have realized that such methods would not deceive an expert lepidopterist.”

“But how did you know I was an expert? I might be the most casual hobbyist.”

He nodded towards the net. “My father was a collector. I know an expensive ring net when I see one.”

“That still does not explain your purpose in bringing me here.”

He stepped closer and I saw that the brown eyes were flecked with gold and amber. “Does a fellow need a reason when the lady in question is so enchanting?”

He had pitched his voice low and husky, and he had to stand quite near to me in order to be audible, by design, I suspected. I shook my head. “No, Mornaday. It will not do. You have seen Mr. Stoker. He is a large fellow. He throws knives with astounding accuracy. You would not dare bring me here for mere flirtation.”

He hesitated, then reached forward suddenly to take my hand. “I brought you here because I was afraid for you.”

“Afraid for me? My dear fellow, whatever for?”

His expression was grave, the flirtatious note quite absent now from his delivery. He was as sincere and plainspoken as a parson. “As you say, Mr. Stoker is a large fellow and he throws knives. That quarrel sounded dangerous.”

“If you heard that, then you know I gave just as good as I got. Rest easy, my gallant. I can assure you I am utterly safe with him. He would sooner cut off his own arm than harm a hair of my head.”

“Can you be certain of that? I understand you have known him only a short while. Such limited acquaintance can be deceiving.”

I sighed. “You are correct, of course. One may be entirely mistaken in one's assessment of a character if it is taken too quickly. But that goes for the ordinary person, Mornaday. And I am no ordinary person. I have traveled the world and made extensive acquaintance from the tip of South America to the Swiss Alps. I am thoroughly skilled at taking the measure of a man quickly. And I can tell you that I am content to remain in his care.”

The narrow gaze did not soften. “It is a strange life for a lady, this traveling show. Are you certain he does not coerce you to be here? You have chosen it of your own free will?”

“As much as anyone chooses anything,” I promised him.

“How long have you been acquainted?” he asked.

“Long enough,” I returned tartly. This was an interrogation, not a seduction, I reflected with no little irritation. I had no intention of succumbing to his blandishments, but it was a trifle insulting that he had not made a better job of offering any. “Your concern is very kind, but I think this discussion is at an end.”

He sketched a slight bow. “Forgive me if I have been indiscreet. But it is important that you know you may rely upon me should you ever have need of a friend. Remember that.”

I smiled. “Very kind indeed. Now if you will hand me that butterfly net, I mean to be off. I think I spy a
Lasiommata
lurking beyond that stream and I mean to have it.”

•   •   •

Fresh with purpose, I returned from an hour in the meadow with a pair of pretty captives in a jar. They were nothing special, and certainly not worth the trouble of killing, but appealing nonetheless. I carried them back only to admire them. I would set them free, entirely unharmed, after a few hours.

Mr. Stoker was pacing in front of the caravan when I arrived. “Aren't they lovely?” I asked, brandishing the jar. “I saw a lovely
Lasiommata
, but it eluded me, and I had to settle for these two as compensation. This is merely a common
Vanessa atalanta,
but I do think it charming. And here is
Gonepteryx rhamni
. I quite prefer the common name of Brimstone butterfly, don't you?”

“Where in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ have you been?” he demanded.

“In the meadow, as you can plainly see.”

He took me firmly by the elbow and thrust me up the stairs and into the caravan. There he pushed me into one of the armchairs and positioned himself directly in front of me.

“You are not to do that again,” he said severely. “I was half out of my mind. If you mean to go off, you must tell me.”

I considered this a moment, then shook my head. “I do not think so,” I said politely.

“What the bloody hell do you mean you don't think so? I just gave you an order.”

I smothered the urge to laugh. It would have been very rude, and I had little doubt it would have inflamed his temper even further. I adopted a deliberately soothing tone.

“I am sorry you were worried, Mr. Stoker, but I am quite capable of looking after myself in a meadow. I went hunting for butterflies. You do recall that I am a lepidopterist?”

“Yes,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “But you must not go haring off on your own. It is not safe.”

“How absurd you are! Not safe indeed. What could be safer than a meadow? Do you know what you will find in a meadow? Cows. There are cows in a meadow. Cows and wildflowers and butterflies.”

He dropped his head into his hands. “You are the most impossible woman I have ever known,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Am I? I cannot think why. I am entirely reasonable and thoroughly logical.”

“That is what makes you impossible.” He lifted his head. “Very well. I will appeal to your sense of logic. If I do not know you are gone and where you are bound, how will I know if you are in distress?”

“Should I be in distress? In a meadow? You mean if the cows organize some sort of attack? I have extensive experience with cows. They almost never do that.”

“Forget the bloody cows,” he said, clearly making an effort to hold on to his temper. “The baron was killed, murdered in cold blood, or have you forgot that?”

“Of course I haven't. But that has nothing to do with my going off on a butterfly hunt.”

“It has everything to do with it!” he roared back.

“Heavens, you're a stubborn man! No wonder no woman will live with you.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished them back. His gaze fell to the slender gold band upon my left hand and he rose without a word and left the caravan, slamming the door hard behind him.

I slid the ring from my finger and held it to the light. It had not been worn for long, I realized, for the gold was still bright and the edges unworn, although it had been badly damaged at one time. An inscription had been engraved inside, and I turned it to the light to read it.
For C.M. from R.T.-V. Sept. 1882.
I did not know the identity of C.M., but it required little imagination to determine that the tender bridegroom had been Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, and that in September of 1882 he had taken a wife. The question was, what had he done with her?

I looked at the inscription again. No poetry, then, I thought, and for some reason, I was surprised. A man who loved the Romantic poets ought to have fairly covered the thing in verse. But there were only the initials, inscribed coldly into the gold, and nothing more. I slipped the ring back onto my finger and took up my reading, applying myself once more to the adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, but my attention wandered. I had the beginning of a violent headache, and the vague feeling of a storm gathering. There were no clouds to be seen, and I was not often given to fancies, but I put a hand into my pocket and drew out my little velvet mouse and held him tightly in my palm as I waited for what was to come.

M
r. Stoker nursed his resentment for the better part of that day, for I did not see him again until it was time for us to perform. That is not to say that I did not hear him. Shortly before we were to begin the act, I made my way to the tent, slipping through the shadowy areas behind, where few of the paying customers ventured. One had to be quite careful here, as the ropes and tent pegs were difficult to see, so I was picking my way slowly when I heard my name in conversation. It was Salome speaking, and I soon realized to whom.

“Why did you marry Veronica? Is she with child?” The voice was teasing, and the reply was brutal and swift.

“God, no!” Too late, he must have remembered that we were supposed to be devotedly in love, for he hastened to repair the damage. “That is to say, it is far too soon for that sort of thing. I would like some time with my bride all to myself before I have to share her with a child.”

Salome laughed, a velvety, seductive sound, and I knew instinctively that she would be standing quite close to him in the darkness.

“Oh, Stoker, why do you think you can deceive me? After what we have been together? Tell me the truth now. Do you really prefer her to me?”

I heard the rustle of fabric and a decidedly masculine gasp. “That's really quite an inappropriate question under the circumstances, don't you think? You oughtn't—that is, I am a married man, Salome.”

“Are you? You don't seem married to me.” After this came more rustling and another groan.

“Leave me be, Salome. I am quite devoted to Veronica,” he said, his voice strangled.

“I don't believe that,” she murmured. “Tell me why you like her. Tell me why you married her.”

There was a moment of imperfect silence between them, for I heard still more rustling and then, quite abruptly, a ragged growl and another laugh from Salome, this one sharp and unpleasant.

“You think you can push me aside? You think you can forget me? For her?” Salome caught her breath suddenly. “Let go of my arm. You're hurting me.”

“And I will do a good deal more if you try any more of your sly tricks, either on me or on Veronica. You're not to go near her, do you understand me?”

“A little late for you to suddenly play the protective husband, don't you think? Why did you do it? Tell me why you married her.”

“I mean it, Salome, and if you think I don't, I beg you to give me the chance to prove it. Leave her be. And me as well.”

He must have stalked off then, for she cursed as she came around the corner. She brought herself up with an exaggerated start when she saw me.

“Oh, Veronica! I did not know you were there.”

“Really, somehow I think otherwise.”

She gave me an appraising look followed by a shrug. “I was the first woman to know him. You will understand why I am curious about you. We are very different.” She stepped nearer. “How did you meet him? What do you speak of together?”

I tipped my head. “Such interesting questions. But really, you ought to ask Stoker if you want them answered. Oh, but I am forgetting. You already did.”

With that she flicked her hair and walked away, swinging her hips as she moved. Out of the shadows I saw a figure sidle up to her, and I was interested to recognize the form of the flirtatious groom, Mornaday. Having halfheartedly tried his luck with me and found it wanting, he had no doubt decided to cast his line in likelier waters, I reflected. I wished him joy of her, but it did seem a trifle much that we should now share two men.

I proceeded on to the tent and found Mr. Stoker pacing by the back flap.

“Finally! Where in the name of hell have you been?”

“Eavesdropping,” I said with deliberate sweetness.

He stopped and stared at me. “What—”

I reached up and applied my handkerchief to his face, scrubbing vigorously. “You have lip rouge on your mouth.”

He had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, that was—”

“That was none of my business, but you look quite ludicrous.
Quite
ludicrous indeed. If you mean to exchange favors with Salome, I would only ask that you attempt a little discretion. We must give the appearance of content married life if the masquerade is to be credible, must we not?”

He snatched the handkerchief out of my hand. “Give me that! You've rubbed my skin raw.”

I gave him a look of mock contrition. “Oh, I do apologize. It is such a garish shade, it is quite difficult to remove.”

He scrubbed at his own face. “Better?”

“Yes, although there is some on your collar. And you might want to attend to the top button on your trousers.”

He muttered a curse, but I gave him a brilliant smile. “It sounds like a very full house tonight.”

“Veronica, about Salome—”

I placed a hand on his sleeve. “Really, Mr. Stoker, you needn't bother. I assure you she does not trouble me in the least. If you decide to pay a call upon her, I shan't wait up. I will just leave the bolt on the caravan door undone. You can let yourself in—only do be quiet getting into bed, won't you? I am quite tired this evening and would so hate to be awakened.”

He stared at me openmouthed, then snapped his jaw shut and took me hard by the wrist, half dragging me to the flap.

I smiled to myself that I had provoked him to such a fine display of temper, but I was by no means finished. I had not even begun.

We stood outside the tent, listening to the incoming crowd, a thin layer of canvas providing us with a modest bit of privacy. “They sound keen,” I remarked. “Almost as keen as you in the arms of the delicious Salome.”

He whirled on me. “That is enough,” he growled. “I swear to the devil, Veronica, if you vex me further, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Stoker. You will have to do better than that if you mean to make me afraid of you. I have been menaced more effectively by poodles.”

“God, you have a vicious tongue,” he retorted. “But I am no more afraid of you than you are of me. I have little doubt your bark is worse than your bite.”

“How do you know, Mr. Stoker? I haven't bitten you yet.”

I leaned close and snapped my teeth, a whisper away from his nose. He bent to me and my lips parted of their own volition. My fingers crept to his shirtfront and I could feel the pounding of his heart under my palms. His hands were curled into fists, and he held them at his sides, as if fighting the urge to touch me with every particle of his being. His mouth was a breath away from mine, and yet he did not move closer. He did not
finish
it. He simply stood, as perfectly still as one of the mounts in his own workshop, captured in a moment that stretched tautly into an eternity.

I was conscious of a curious buzzing in my ears and realized it was my own excitement fizzing in my blood. I understood then what a significant miscalculation I had made. I had thought to toy with him and instead had managed to rouse myself to a fever pitch. Whatever pleasant dalliances I had enjoyed in the past, those interludes would be drops in the ocean compared to the tidal wave of this man. And the knowledge of that shook my composure to the core—a composure I would not,
could not
, afford to lose. Worse still, I had used my trick of prodding his temper to provoke something entirely different, and it felt suddenly shabby and mean to have done so.

I stepped sharply backward, letting my hands fall, empty, to my sides.

“How uncivil of me,” I told him, forcing my tone to lightness. “I do apologize.”

He ignored the apology. “We are on,” he told me, turning to enter the tent. He did not look back to see if I would follow.

For the whole of the act, something was off about Mr. Stoker. His patter was forced, his conjuring sloppy, and the crowd was restless. Without the dulling effects of the aguardiente, I noticed the pungent smell of the tent, the mingled aromas of sweat and sawdust, and the sharp odor of excitement. I noticed the faces with their avid eyes and ruddy cheeks, countryfolk bent on a little harmless entertainment. I heard their murmurs and whispers, the titters of anticipation as he moved to the knives. He buckled the restraints, his hands tight upon my limbs, his movements ungentle. He was clearly still disturbed by the scenes behind the tents, and I could not imagine why. I had given him carte blanche to visit Salome and he had responded with irritation and a fine display of temper. I should never understand men, I reflected, even if I devoted myself to the study of them as I had lepidoptery. To begin with, I should need a considerably larger net, I decided with a private smile.

But if he was not himself, I must in fairness own that neither was I. I had been aware of a dullness settling upon me, an ache in the bones that usually presaged fever. I shook it off, forcing myself to smile at the crowd and play the devoted assistant, all the while longing for my bed and the sweet release of sleep.

He finished his work at the restraints and invited a local fellow, this time the dispensing chemist, to test them. He did so, and Mr. Stoker took up the first blade. He held it a bit longer than was his custom, and when it flew through the air, I felt it divide the hair at the top of my head. The crowd gasped. Mr. Stoker went rather pale, but the second blade was true, striking precisely where it ought. I gave him a brief nod of encouragement, and with the slight movement, pain shot through my head like a bolt of lightning.

“Not now,” I muttered through gritted teeth. But the body is a treacherous thing, and I felt the swoon coming upon me as a creeping blackness advancing from the edges of my vision. My knees gave way and my body sagged against the leather restraints just as the knife left his hand. I opened my mouth to cry a warning, but of course it was too late. Instead of the dull thud of the knife hitting the wood, there was the soft whisper of blade on flesh, and the horrified gasp of the crowd was the last thing I heard as I slipped into unconsciousness.

•   •   •

The swoon lasted only a few seconds. I revived swiftly enough to find that I was still confined by the restraints and that the edge of the blade was still resting solidly in my arm.

Mr. Stoker was at my side, staring at me in nearly incoherent horror. “For Christ's sake, Veronica, I wish you'd stayed unconscious. You will not enjoy this.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose within me. “Neither will you,” I observed.

He wrenched off his neckcloth and tied it on my arm, knotting it firmly above the quivering blade. It was agony, and I gave a little groan, causing his hand to tremble for a moment.

He gathered hold of his nerves then, and when he spoke it was with calm authority. “I have to remove the blade now. When I do, it will bleed. Quite a lot. Try not to move. And do not hold your breath. It will only make the pain worse.”

I obeyed him and nodded, never taking my eyes from his pale face. He did not hesitate. He reached for the blade and pulled it free in a slow, steady motion. The blood flowed freely then, a scarlet ribbon spilling over the spangled blue taffeta of my costume. I heard a woman scream, but I stood, immobile as stone. The crowd pressed around us, gasping. They made no move to leave but edged closer still, and he cursed them.

“God damn you, get back! She needs air. Move back, I said, or I'll gut the lot of you!” He wrenched me free of the restraints and caught me before I slid to the ground.

I motioned to the makeshift tourniquet he had fashioned. “Too tight,” I murmured. “It hurts.”

“Better that than losing the blood,” he snapped. He gathered me into his arms, as gently as one might take up a babe, and stood. He kicked and cursed his way out of the tent and carried me straight back to the caravan. He tore the place apart as he looked for needle and thread and the other assorted oddments he would require.

“You needn't be so untidy,” I said drowsily. “I will only have to clean up after you.”

“Shut up,” he growled. “I can't find the needles. Why in the name of hell can't I find the needles?”

“You are holding them,” I pointed out helpfully.

Just then there came a jangling of the bells at the door and Leopold put his head inside. “I have come to help. Salome is bringing hot water and Tilly is brewing up tea for after. I told her to make it very sweet and add a full measure of brandy. What can I do?”

Mr. Stoker threaded the needle, and I noticed his jaw was set tightly.

“Perhaps you ought to do the sewing,” I said helpfully to Leopold. “Mr. Stoker seems a trifle upset.”

“I will stitch it myself,” Mr. Stoker contradicted. “Now, be quiet.”

I faded away again, slipping into unconsciousness, but it was the pain that brought me back again. I opened my eyes to see him with a needle in his hand, and when I tried to protest, he ordered Leopold to hold me fast as he worked. By then I had grown delirious and only ever remembered pieces of that night—the awful pain in my head, the fever that rose, higher and hotter, as Mr. Stoker worked over me, forcing open my mouth and pouring in a foul and familiar remedy.

There were pleasanter things too, a cold compress upon my brow and a murmur of reassurance when I fretted and tossed. I thought at one point that I was on board a ship—a ship that sailed on endlessly with no shore in sight, tossed upon a black, raging sea of pain that would not let me go. I wanted to drown in it, to slip overboard and let the deep carry me down, but every time I stepped towards the beckoning waves, something called me back, some sense of business left undone. At length I slept and the sea was quiet at last.

When I woke, my head still hurt but the pain was milder now, a dull discomfort instead of a hot knife into my temples. I moved a little, surprised at the stiffness and ache in my arm until I saw the bandage, white and neat as a nun's habit, and the memory of it all washed over me like a crashing wave. The caravan was dim and I sighed in relief. It had been a short bout, then.