CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
“Because my friend is at present not in London.”
I waited for him to continue, but he had resumed his shuttered expression.
“Then how will your friend receive the newspapers?”
“They will be forwarded from London, obviously.
In turn, they will be sent to me in care of the nearest post office with only a day’s delay.”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.
“Yes, I was cautious enough to direct that they be sent to me under an assumed name.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my encounter at Paddington Station with Mr. de Clare, but I did not.
He might have unbent enough to share a little information with me, and I took this as an excellent sign that we were making progress in this strange working partnership we had undertaken.
But I also knew that my snippet of information could prove either entirely worthless or enormously valuable—and I had no intention of tipping my hand until I knew the significance of the cards I held.
Turning back to the conversation at hand, I gave him a grudging nod.
“It seems you have thought of everything.
But you have forgotten the most important element of your plan—you have me for an ally,” I reminded him.
“And I vow I shall not leave your side until we discover the truth of what happened to the baron.”
He swore fluently then, cursing until the birds stopped singing.
I did not mind.
In fact, I had rather missed his irascibility, and I found myself smiling as we made our way down the country lane towards Butterleigh.
I knew we ought to be devising a strategy, deciding upon a course of action.
But fleeing London, while securing our safety, had also removed us from any meaningful involvement in the developments.
We were hampered by geography, and I decided in the inviting warmth of that late spring morning that this was not an entirely undesirable situation.
The tumultuous events of the past few days and the exotic atmosphere of the traveling show had conspired to create a curious effect upon me.
I felt entirely relaxed for the first time since I had arrived back in England to nurse Aunt Nell.
I had not realized what a toll those cold, dreary months had taken.
I was not meant for sickrooms and poultices; I was fashioned of the stern stuff of adventurers.
I had not the temperament for nurturing, and the tedium of Little Byfield had leached me of my natural vitality.
I felt in this new adventure I was rousing to life again.
I was a butterfly, newly emerged from the chrysalis, damp winged and trembling with expectation.
I had witnessed the process often enough on my hunts, and I made a point never to net such tender beauties.
I left them to stand upon a branch, opening their soft wings for the first time to the sun, letting its rays warm and revive them until they were strong enough to fly.
There would be time enough for my own flight, I decided.
For now I was content to sit upon my branch and restore myself.
Besides, I considered, for all we knew, the baron’s murderer had already been apprehended.
Even now he might be sitting in jail, awaiting justice.
And if that were the case, it would serve us nothing to form a plan.
No, far better to make our way quietly along with the traveling show for a few days while we let the police do their necessary work.
In a larger town, it would be a small matter to secure a newspaper and see what new developments had arisen.
If the miscreant had been taken, Mr. Stoker and I would have nothing further to fear, and we could return to London and thence go our separate ways.
Satisfied with my reflections, I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun.
If I had known it was to be my last truly peaceful moment for some time to come, I should have made a point of enjoying it more.
· · ·
The journey was a pleasant one, and by afternoon we were comfortably ensconced in a river meadow, the caravans and tents arranged much as they had been before.
A number of grooms I had not yet met busied themselves unhitching the horses and securing them in a makeshift paddock a little distance away.
Soon, cooking fires were kindled and chairs and tables appeared and the campsite took on its customary air of pleasant busyness.
In contrast to my excellent mood, Mr. Stoker had sunk into a gloom from which he seemed determined not to stir.
We quarreled loudly about leaving the windows of the caravan open, a fight that seemed far more about him taking advantage of the opportunity to shout than any real opinion on the state of the windows.
I shouted back because I enjoyed the exercise, and in the end I threw my flask of aguardiente at him and told him to marinate in the stuff if it would sweeten his temper.
I left him sulking in the caravan and took my net to pursue what winged prey I might find in the river meadow.
I seldom hunted properly in England as my clients all preferred more exotic species, but the chase kept my skills sharply honed, and I prepared for this expedition as carefully as for any other.
I fished out a selection of minuten—the tiny headless entomological pins used for display—and worked them into my cuffs.
It was a clever trick I had learned to keep them upon my person and save the trouble of carrying a box.
It also served to discourage unwanted suitors from attempting to hold my hand—a not uncommon occurrence upon my travels.
I slipped a small jar for common specimens into my pocket, but anything exotic demanded something more exacting.
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,
menelaus 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?”