CHAPTER SIX
I
launched into an explanation—although less charitable types might have been inclined to call it a lecture.
“The Royal Museum of Natural History is dependent upon explorers to collect its specimens, to chart new and undiscovered lands, and to bring back new species.
You are such a man, and yet they do not want you—doubtless because they are familiar with your uncertain temper and execrable personal habits.
Nevertheless, you are a scientist of considerable gifts.
One has only to give this place the most cursory glance to realize you have assembled a collection that is both thoughtful and instructive, no matter how wretched its condition.
There is real brilliance here, Mr. Stoker.
If you were to mount your own expedition, on your own terms, the museum would have no choice but to come to you, begging for the specimens you acquire.
You have simply put the cart before the horse,” I told him.
He shook his head as if to clear it.
“I smoked opium once.
It felt like listening to you, only rather more mundane.”
I tipped my head thoughtfully.
“I smoked it once as well.
I must say I did not much care for the aroma.
It smelled of flowers and gunpowder, which was not unpleasant, but there was something else, something more animalic.
Sweaty horse, I think.”
He drew me back to the subject at hand.
“How, I beg you, Miss Speedwell, is a man of no fortune and fewer prospects supposed to fund such an expedition?”
I puffed out my lips with impatience.
“Really, Mr. Stoker, your lack of imagination is sorely trying.
You might apply to subscribers.
Wealthy people are always looking to spend their money in ways they can boast of to their friends.
For that matter, your patrons need not be wealthy.
You could advertise and take very small subscriptions from prosperous merchants and other up-and-comers.
Promise them their name on plaques or to call a species after them.
People love to have things they don’t understand named for them.
And your expedition needn’t be costly.
Your skill at preparing and mounting your specimens is evident.
Can you hunt them as well?”
He nodded his head towards a particularly vicious-looking mount of a hyena.
“Through the heart at two hundred yards.”
“There you are, then!
You need only a few local guides to show you the way and some bearers to bring back your trophies and specimen cases.”
For the first time, he gave me a faint but very real smile.
“Miss Speedwell, expeditions are a bit more complex than that.”
I flapped a hand.
“They do not have to be.
Expeditions are enormously expensive because they have to cart around everyone’s self-importance.
Most of the leaders of these undertakings are dilettantes, gentlemen scientists who insist upon touring in luxury, packing so much silver and linen they might imagine themselves in a London hotel.
You are a resourceful man.
Are you not familiar with the intrepid lady travelers?
Women like Isabella Bird and Marianne North?
They managed to go right round the world with little more than what they could fit into a saddlebag.
I am persuaded you could travel quite easily with a single bag.
I mean to.”
I pointed to my carpetbag.
“Except for my net, everything I have need of in the world is contained in that bag—including a second hat and a rather sizable jar of cold cream of roses.
Do not tell me you couldn’t travel with as little.
I have faith that men can be as reasonable and logical as women if they but try.”
He shook his head.
“I cannot seem to formulate a clear thought in the face of such original thinking, Miss Speedwell.
You have a high opinion of your sex.”
I pursed my lips.
“Not all of it.
We are, as a gender, undereducated and infantilized to the point of idiocy.
But those of us who have been given the benefit of learning and useful occupation, well, we are proof that the traditional notions of feminine delicacy and helplessness are the purest poppycock.”
“You have large opinions for so small a person.”
“I daresay they would be large opinions even for someone your size,” I countered.
“And where did you form these opinions?
Either your school was inordinately progressive or your governess was a Radical.”
“I never went to school, nor did I have a governess.
Books were my tutors, Mr. Stoker.
Anything I wished to learn I taught myself.”
“There are limits to an autodidactic education,” he pointed out.
“Few that I have found.
I was spared the prejudices of formal educators.”
“And neither were you inspired by them.
A good teacher can change the course of a life,” he said thoughtfully.
“Perhaps.
But I had complete intellectual freedom.
I studied those subjects which interested me—to the point of obsession at times—and spent precious little time on things which did not.”
“Such as?”
“Music and needlework.
I am astonishingly lacking in traditional feminine accomplishments.”
He cocked his head.
“I am not entirely astonished.”
But his tone was mild, and I accepted the statement as nothing like an insult.
In fact, it felt akin to a compliment.
“And I must confess that between Jane Austen and Fordyce’s
Sermons, I have developed a general antipathy for clergymen.
And their wives,” I added, thinking of Mrs. Clutterthorpe.
“Well, in that we may be agreed.
Tell me, do you find many people to share your views?”
“Shockingly few,” I admitted.
“I presented my interpretations to a vicar in Hampshire once and he was fairly apoplectic upon the subject.
I lost my position on the flower-arranging committee.”
“A tragedy indeed,” he said with his now familiar mockery.
“You’ve no idea.
In a country village, one’s standing is determined by committee appointments and good works.
I was relegated to a convalescent hospital, and I must say, I was glad of the change.
The men there were not half so tiresome as the ladies who arrange the flowers, I can assure you.
I was quite disappointed to lose my position there within a month.”
His lips twitched.
“For what reason?”
I shifted a little.
“Because I amputated a toe without permission.”
“You are joking.”
“I never joke about gangrene, Mr. Stoker.
I was reading to one of the patients when he complained of a certain discomfort in the appendage in question.
I examined him, and it was painfully obvious that the poor fellow was suffering from a gangrenous toe.
It had to come off, and immediately, or septicemia would set in and the fellow would die.”
“I don’t suppose the convalescent hospital had someone more suited to the job of amputation—say, an actual physician?”
“Of course,” I explained patiently, “but he was at luncheon.”
“And you could not wait an hour for the fellow to come back?”
“One cannot play games with septicemia, Mr. Stoker.
It was common knowledge that the doctor’s Sunday luncheons were taken with a great deal of good Irish whiskey.
He would not have been in a fit state to take off so much as a hangnail if I had waited for him.
So I asked Archie if he would like for me to take matters into my own hands, as it were, and he said he would just as soon have me as the doctor, and between us we managed quite well.”
“How is it that you were not brought up on charges?”
he demanded.
“Practicing medicine without the proper license is thoroughly illegal.”
I pulled a face.
“Really, Mr. Stoker, I should have thought that you would understand the notion of an action taken in extremis.
And the doctor himself admitted it was very neatly done.
Besides, if there had been any sort of inquiry, he would have been brought up on disciplinary actions for being an inebriate.
I agreed to go quietly, and he agreed to forget the whole thing—quite sensible of us both, under the circumstances.”
I smoothed my skirts.
“We seem to have digressed.
You have not answered my point that one may travel with all the necessities of a comfortable life quite handily.”
His gaze narrowed in suspicion.
“Yes, well, if this is your way of angling for an invitation, you needn’t think I will bring you along if I plan an expedition.
I have no need of amateur lepidopterists.”
“I am not an amateur,” I replied tartly.
“I have supplied specimens to some of the foremost collectors in this country and abroad.”
“Indeed.
And what are your rates?
Asking as one professional to another,” he said rudely.
“Three pounds for the average specimen.
Naturally, I charge more for special orders.”
“Three pounds!
Do you dip the bloody things in gold first?
That is highway robbery.”
“It is the standard rate for quality specimens, and mine are the best,” I retorted.
“And fear not, Mr. Stoker.
If I were to travel with a formal expedition, I should want a leader with a good deal more nerve and initiative than you seem to enjoy.
Besides, I am well aware of the narrow-mindedness and lack of original thought demonstrated by most gentlemen explorers, and I could never bring myself to work under their direction.
I am much better suited to my own devices.
My own travels have always been undertaken at my own initiative.
I go where I choose.”
To my surprise, he did not take offense at my riposte.
“And where do you mean to go now, Miss Speedwell?”
I tipped my head, considering.
“I had in mind the Malay Archipelago.
I should like to try for a
Hypolimnas, I think.
The
bolina in particular is quite striking, and I am certain I could find a buyer without difficulty.
In fact, I should probably have to beat them off with a parasol if I am successful.”
The efforts of the previous night and past day seemed to have caught him up at last, for he yawned broadly.
“You ought to rest,” I told him, half wondering if he would refuse out of sheer mulishness.
“I know you have been working almost continually upon the elephant, and a rest would enable you to return fresh to the fray.
I would be very happy to pass the time in reading, if you would not mind the loan of your library,” I added, nodding towards the shelves bowed by the weight of the ponderous volumes.