CHAPTER TWO
A
s I walked down the path towards Wren Cottage, I found my step was very light indeed.
I owed the Clutterthorpes a debt of gratitude, I reflected.
I had been feeling a little dull after the long, gloomy months of Aunt Nell’s decline, but the visit at the vicarage had cheered me greatly.
I was always on my mettle when someone tried to thwart me—poor old Aunt Nell and Aunt Lucy had learned that through hard experience.
I had been an obstinate child and a willful one too, and it did not escape me that it had cost these two spinster ladies a great deal of adjustment to make a place for me in their lives.
It was for this reason, as I grew older, that I made every effort to curb my obstinacy and be cheerful and placid with them.
And it was for this reason that I eventually made my escape, fleeing England whenever possible for tropical climes where I could indulge my passion for lepidoptery.
It was not until my first butterflying expedition at the age of eighteen—a monthlong sojourn in Switzerland—that I discovered men could be just as interesting as moths.
It was perfectly reasonable that I should be curious about them.
After all, I had been reared in a household composed exclusively of women.
Friendships with the opposite sex were soundly discouraged, and the only men ever to darken our door were those who called in a professional capacity—doctors and vicars wearing rusty black coats and dour expressions.
Village boys and strapping blacksmiths were strictly off-limits, and when a splendid specimen presented itself for closer inspection, I behaved as any good student of science would.
My first kiss had been bestowed by a shepherd boy in the forest outside Geneva.
I had hired him to guide me to an alpine meadow where I could ply my butterfly net to best effect.
But while I pursued
Polyommatus damon, he pursued me, and it was not long before the diversions of kissing took the place of butterflies.
At least for the afternoon.
I enjoyed the experience immensely, but I was deeply aware of the troubles I might encounter if I were not very careful indeed.
Once back in England, I made a thorough study of my own biology, and—armed with the proper knowledge and precautions and a copy of Ovid’s highly instructive
The Art of Love—I enjoyed my second foray into formal lepidoptery and illicit pleasures even more.
Over time, I developed a set of rules from which I never deviated.
Although I permitted myself dalliances during my travels, I never engaged in flirtations in England—or with Englishmen.
I never permitted any liberties to gentlemen either married or betrothed, and I never corresponded with any of them once I returned home.
Foreign bachelors were my trophies, collected for their charm and good looks as well as attentive manners.
They were holiday romances, light and insubstantial as thistledown, but satisfying all the same.
I enjoyed them enormously whilst abroad, and when I returned from each trip, I was rested and satiated and in excellent spirits.
It was a program I would happily have recommended to any spinster of my acquaintance, but I knew too well the futility of it.
What was to me nothing more than a bit of healthful exercise and sweet flirtation was the rankest sin to ladies like Mrs. Clutterthorpe, and the world was full of Mrs. Clutterthorpes.
But I would soon be past it all, I thought as I stooped to snap off a small sprig of common broom.
Its petals glowed yellow, a cheerful reminder of the long, sunny summer to come—a summer I would not spend in England, I reflected with mingled emotions.
At the start of each new journey I felt a pang of homesickness, sharp as a thorn.
This trip would take me across the globe to the edge of the Pacific, no doubt for a very long time.
I had passed the long, chilly spring months at Aunt Nell’s bedside, spreading mustard plasters and reading aloud from improving novels while I dreamed of hot, steaming island jungles where butterflies as wide as my hand danced overhead.
My daydreams had been a welcome distraction from Aunt Nell’s querulous moods.
She had been by turns fretful and sullen, irritated that she was dying and disgusted that she was not quicker about it.
The doctor had dosed her heavily with morphia, and she was seldom truly lucid.
Many times I had caught her watching me, her lips parted as if to speak, but as soon as I lifted a brow in inquiry, she had snapped her mouth closed and waved me off.
It was not until the last fit had come upon her, suddenly and without warning, that she had tried to speak and found she could not.
Robbed of speech, she tried to write, but her hand was weak, stiff with the apoplexy that had stilled her tongue, and she died with something unsaid.
“No doubt it was a reminder to pay the milk,” I said, tucking the broom into my buttonhole.
But I had seen to the dairy bill as quickly and efficiently as I had done everything these past months.
Accounts with the doctor, butcher, and baker had all been settled.
The rent on the cottage was paid through the end of the quarter on Midsummer Day.
Most of the furnishings had been carted away and sold, leaving the few pieces that had come with the cottage—a couple of chairs, a kitchen table, a grievously worn rug, and a poorly executed still life that looked as if it had been painted by someone with a grudge against fruit.
All of the Harbottle personal effects and the last of my carefully mounted butterflies had been sold to fund my next expedition.
All that remained to be done was to take up my small carpetbag and leave the key under the mat, provided I could find the key, of course.
Folk in the village were remarkably relaxed about things like keys—and waiting for invitations, I realized as I reached the doorstep.
For the cottage door stood ajar, and I had little doubt one of the village matrons had availed herself of my absence to call with a cake or perhaps a meat pie for my supper.
Aunt Nell had not been popular enough to warrant attendance at her funeral by the inhabitants of Little Byfield, but an eligible spinster would bring them all out en masse, bearing sponge cakes and consolation—or worse, unattached sons for my perusal.
A daughter-in-law with competent nursing skills was a tremendous coup for an elderly widow, I reflected with a shudder.
I pushed open the door, prepared to do my duty and offer tea, but the greeting died upon my lips.
The front room of the cottage was a ruin, the carpet littered with broken bits from the wreckage of a cane chair.
The only painting—the indifferent still life—had been slashed, its frame reduced to splinters, and the cushions of the window seat had been torn open, goose down still floating lazily upon the air.
My gaze fixed upon the drifting feathers and I realized that whoever had done this thing must have done so within the last few minutes.
Just then, a slight scraping noise came from the kitchen.
I was not alone.
Thoughts winged through my mind almost too quickly to grasp.
The open door stood behind me.
I had made no noise.
Escape would be a simple matter of turning on my heel and slipping silently out the way I had come.
Instead, my hand reached out of its own accord to the umbrella stand and took up the sword stick I had purchased in Italy.
My heart surged in anticipation.
The sword stick was a sturdy piece, made of good, stout hardwood.
I pressed the button, releasing the sheath, and the blade came free with a silky murmur of protest.
The edge of the blade was dull, for it had been some years since it had been sharpened or oiled, but I was pleased to see the end was still alarmingly pointed.
I must thrust rather than slash,
I reminded myself as I crept towards the kitchen.
A flurry of other noises told me that the intruder had not yet fled and, furthermore, had no notion of my presence.
I had the element of surprise, and armed with that and my sword, I flung open the door, giving a very good impression of what I imagined a Maori battle scream might sound like.
Instantly, I realized my mistake.
The fellow was enormous, and it occurred to me then that I had overlooked the essential precaution of taking the measure of one’s opponent
before launching an attack.
He was well over six feet in height, and the breadth of his shoulders would have challenged the frame of any door.
He wore a tweed cap pulled low over his features, but I discerned a gingery beard and an expression of displeasure at the interruption.
To my surprise, he did not use his size to his advantage to overpower me.
Instead he turned to flee, upending the long deal table to throw a barrier between us.
The most cautious course of action would of course have been to let him go, but caution held little charm for me.
My rage was roused at the sight of the ruined cottage, and without any conscious decision on my part, I gave chase, vaulting over the table and following him down the garden path.
His was the advantage of size, but mine was the advantage of terrain; I knew it and he did not.
He followed the stone path to the bottom of the garden where the road passed by.
I turned hard to the left and made straight for the hedge, plunging into a gap and emerging, breathless and beleafed, just as he passed by.
I reached a hand and grasped him by the sleeve, yanking hard.
He whirled, his eyes wide with surprise—and panic.
For a heartbeat he hesitated, and I lifted the sword stick.
“What is your business at Wren Cottage?”
I demanded.
He darted a glance to the end of the road, where a carriage stood waiting.
That glance at the conveyance seemed to decide him.
I brandished the sword stick again, but he simply reached out, batting the blade aside with one thick hand while he grabbed my wrist with the other.
He gave a sharp twist and I cried out, dropping the stick.
He began to drag me towards the carriage.
I dug in my heels, but to no avail.