CHAPTER THREE #2
“You keep talking of my safety, but I cannot imagine why!
I am the least interesting person in England, I assure you.
No one could possibly want to harm me.”
That was not entirely true, I reflected.
The last paper I had written for
The British Journal of Lepidoptery had stirred quite a bit of controversy, but as I always published papers and conducted my butterfly sales under the anonymity of my first initial and surname alone, no ill will could be directed towards me personally.
As strongly as I pointed out that publishing in scientific journals was a scholarly accomplishment, the aunts had protested just as vehemently that filling orders for Aurelian collectors was too near to trade to be permissible for a lady.
They had compromised, albeit reluctantly, that I might continue my studies and work under the cognomen of V. Speedwell.
In the end, I had not minded, and it never failed to amuse me to receive letters that began with the salutation, “Dear Mr. Speedwell .
.
.”
True, I had nipped the odd specimen out from under the nose of less diligent hunters, for I was indefatigable in my pursuit, but the very notion of some sort of lepidopterist cabal after my head was enough to make me laugh.
A wraithlike smile touched the baron’s lips.
“I will pray to God that you are right and that I am merely borrowing troubles that will not come to pass.
In the meantime, until I am certain, you will be guided by me?”
I looked at him a long moment, holding his anxious gaze with mine.
Then I nodded.
“I will.”
“Your trust in me is unexpected but most gratifying,” he told me.
“I am a great believer in intuition, Baron.
And my intuition tells me that you are a man upon whom I may rely.”
I did not add that he was the sole clue I had ever had to my mother’s identity.
I had no intention of permitting him to escape me until I had learned everything I could about my antecedents.
“From your lips to the ears of God,” he said, and it struck me that when the baron mentioned God he did not do so flippantly.
Whatever matter touched me, it concerned the baron deeply.
I leaned forward then, determined to press my luck as far as I could.
“Will you answer one question for me?
I promise to ask no others until you deem it fit.”
“Very well.”
I stated the question boldly, as I hoped he would wish.
“Are you my father?”
His kindly face creased in sorrow, but he did not look away.
“No, child.
I wish I were, but I am not.”
A sharp and unexpected pang struck my heart.
I had thought myself indifferent to the answer, but I was wrong.
“Then we will merely be friends,” I said.
I put out my hand solemnly.
Other men might have laughed.
But the baron shook my hand, and having done so, he bowed over it and kissed it with courtly formality.
“We will be friends,” he agreed.
“And I will do everything in my power to make certain you learn what you wish to know.”
“Thank you, Baron.”
I nodded towards his brow.
“You are bleeding again.
It is not a very hopeful omen, is it?
A journey begun in bloodshed augurs ill, according to the ancients.”
I meant it as a jest, but the baron did not smile.
And after a moment, neither did I.
· · ·
The journey to London proved uneventful to the point of boredom, and I began to be a little sorry we had not taken the train.
The baron insisted upon the precaution of ducking down various country lanes to make quite certain we were eluding any possible pursuers, with the result that the drive took twice as long as it ought.
He also refused any suggestion of stopping for a meal, resorting instead to a selection of unappetizing sandwiches purchased at exorbitant cost from a roadside inn.
I nibbled at mine as the baron continued to formulate a plan.
He suggested and discarded a dozen options before throwing up his hands and applying himself to his own repast.
“We will think of something,” he assured me.
“But it is not good to deliberate upon such things when one is trying to eat.
It disturbs the digestion.
So we will talk of other matters.
Tell me, if you do not mean to be a governess or a companion, what sort of adventure do you wish to seek out?”
I wiped my mouth of crumbs and began to explain.
“I am a student of natural history, all branches.
I subscribe to all of the major journals on exploration and discovery.
As you might deduce from my butterfly net, lepidoptery is my particular specialty.
I hunt butterflies as a profession, filling orders for Aurelians who lack the means or the desire to hunt their own specimens,” I added.
But the baron was not listening.
An expression of wonder stole over his face, and he sat back, his mournful little sandwich untouched.
“Of course,” he murmured.
“Stoker.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He collected himself.
“A very old and very dear friend of mine—Stoker.
He is just the man to help us now.
He will keep you safe, child.”
My brow furrowed.
“Baron, I realize I have been somewhat reckless in accepting your offer of transportation to London, and I have been quite cavalier in thinking that I must do as you bid me.
But I do not believe I can countenance the notion of staying with this Mr. Stoker.
He is even more a stranger to me than yourself.
You must tell me something of him.”
“Stoker is a complex fellow, but I have never known a man more honorable.
He owes me a debt of gratitude, and his own conscience will not permit him to fail me if I call upon his aid.
I would trust Stoker with the thing I hold most dear in the whole of the world,” the baron said.
“You would trust him with your life?”
I challenged.
“No, child.
I would trust him with yours.”