CHAPTER THIRTEEN #3
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.