CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A
fter his dramatic pronouncement, I was silent a moment, then shook my head.
“I do not believe it.
I should like to hear the truth.
From your own lips.”
He spoke slowly, as if chipping each word out of ice.
“The truth is a hard mirror, and I am in no mood to look upon my reflection.”
“I can well understand that, but you would do better to remember the story out of Plutarch about the Spartan boy and the fox.”
“The Spartan boy and the fox?”
“Yes, the lad stole a fox pup but the Spartans had very strict rules against thievery.
He hid the animal in his cloak, and rather than allow his misdeed to be found out, he let it gnaw out his vitals while he kept his silence.”
“And your point is?”
he asked acidly.
“Simply this: that truth is like that fox pup.
If you suffer its ill effects in silence, it can do irreparable harm.
Perhaps even kill you.”
He opened his mouth, and I waited for the blast of temper.
But it did not come.
Instead, he gave me a level, appraising look, and I thought of Keats’ description of Cortez staring at the Pacific “with eagle eyes.”
He had eagle eyes, sharp and perceptive.
“I know.
But not yet.
Just not yet.”
It was more than I had dared to hope for.
It was enough—for the present.
The thought of Keats sparked a memory and I smiled at him suddenly.
“What?”
he asked, his tone suspicious.
“I have just remembered that Keats was a medical student.
I am no longer surprised at your fondness for him.
You walk common ground, Stoker.”
For the first time, I dropped the honorific and addressed him familiarly.
It seemed we had come that far at least.
He gave me a tired smile.
“Common ground indeed, but with rather less consumption on my part,” he returned.
“Give it time.”
· · ·
The next few days were pleasant enough.
I went for walks, building my stamina, and Tilly had taken it upon herself to “feed me up.”
She was forever sending over pies and hams and other assorted treats, and by the third day, I was feeling very much my old self.
But the more I seemed to gain in health, the more bedeviled Stoker seemed.
I attempted more than once to shake the truth out of him, but he withdrew even further, until I was forced to go behind his back and sleuth out his troubles on my own.
The first clue came when we were sitting companionably in the caravan.
He was on the steps, smoking one of his wretched cigars, while Salome read aloud to me from the casebook of Arcadia Brown.
It was a sore trial to listen to her—she stumbled over every other word—but her sluggish pace made it easy for me to let my mind wander.
It was in the course of my mental perambulations that I noticed Leopold approach bearing a wooden box.
He paused at the steps to exchange brief words with Stoker.
I caught only snippets of their conversation, but it was clear to me that Leopold was troubled by his errand, an instinct confirmed by his repeated and fervent apologies.
He left the box with Stoker, hurrying away under Stoker’s baleful gaze.
I expected him to open it, but he did not.
After a long moment, he extinguished his cigar and rose, putting the box to the side.
He strode after Leopold, in the direction of the professor’s tent, his shoulders set, his hands working themselves into fists.
“Salome,” I interrupted.
“Please be so good as to bring me that box.”
She laid aside the book and did as I asked.
The box was polished wood, nearly two feet long.
I put a hand to the clasp, and Salome gave me a reproachful look.
“It is private.”
“It is not locked,” I pointed out.
“Furthermore, if he didn’t wish me to open it, he ought not to have left it lying around.”
She could make no argument to that, and since she was as curious as I, she said nothing further as I turned again to the clasp.
It gave way easily.
“How curious,” I said, reaching into the box.
I extracted an item the likes of which I had not seen since I had left South America.
Salome peered at it.
“It is a whip.”
“Specifically, it is a
rebenque,” I told her.
“Used by gauchos.
Cowboys,” I explained, seeing her look of perplexity.
“It is for the enthusiastic encouragement of livestock, usually cattle and horses.”
I ran my fingers over the
rebenque.
It was a rather fine specimen of its maker’s art.
Designed for discipline rather than damage, it was not as long or as vicious as a coachman’s whip.
But anyone who had seen one used on a man would know better than to discount its ability to deliver pain.
The handle of this one was perhaps a foot and a half long, covered in rawhide.
From it depended a single thong, also of rawhide, two inches in width and some eighteen inches long.
The end was not tapered, for it was not meant to draw blood but to deliver a stinging slap.
I gave it a single flick and it responded with a sharp crack.
“Stoker is no keeper of livestock,” Salome pointed out.
“What need does he have of this?”
“What need indeed?”
I echoed grimly.
I put the whip back into its box and sent Salome away.
I blew out the lamp before Stoker returned, and when he did, I turned my face to the wall and pretended to sleep.
For a long while Stoker lay wakeful in the dark, and at length I could bear it no longer.
“That is a rather fine
rebenque,” I began.
He made a noise that was a cross between a growl and a sigh of exasperation.
“Leave it, Veronica.”
“I shan’t ask you to explain.
I already know,” I said.
“The devil you do,” he said sleepily.
“You think I am bluffing merely to draw you out?”
“That is precisely what I think.
Now, go to sleep.”
“Very well.
I will not explain that I am familiar with the
rebenque because of my own travels in South America.
There is also no point in my sharing with you that I am well aware the professor will not let us remain here if you cannot earn our keep.
With no target for the knife-throwing act, you would be forced to acquiesce to whatever scheme he devises—even something as torturous as a public fight for pay with a
rebenque.”
It was a long moment before he spoke.
“Well, I am glad you did not explain all of that.
It would have been boring in the extreme.”
“Would it also bore you to know that I have deduced he means you to fight Colosso?”
He remained silent and I went on.
“You, I have little doubt, are skilled with the whip, but Colosso is a full head taller than you and outweighs you by an hundredweight.
The
rebenque is the only way to create a semblance of a fair fight.
Have I got it right?”
“Yes,” he sighed.
“When is it to be?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Good.
I should hate to miss it.”
And to his credit, Stoker laughed.
· · ·
In the interest of further restoring my strength with fresh air and a little fortifying exercise—as well as providing a distraction for Stoker—I insisted upon walking out the next afternoon, thrusting a hamper of sandwiches at Stoker as I took up my net.
We passed through the village so he might call in at the post office to see if his friend in Cornwall had sent along the latest London newspaper.
He emerged a moment later, his hands empty, but his air was one of deep satisfaction, and I noted the edge of a thin parcel peeping from the top of his pocket.
“Come along,” he said, taking my elbow.
“I know just the spot where we shan’t be overheard.”
We walked some distance out of the village, passing a few prosperous farms and an aggressively ugly Norman church before crossing the churchyard and into the copse beyond.
I stopped short as he closed the gate behind us.
“A bluebell wood!”
I exclaimed.
“How lucky we are to find them in bloom so late.
Is there anything so lovely?”
A river of bluebells flowed through the trees, carpeting the ground and filling the air with sweet, subtle perfume.
I spread a rug in a patch of gilded sunlight and stretched out, watching a pretty little
Hipparchia janira—a common Meadow Brown butterfly—flap slowly amid the milkwort and oxeye daisies.
Stoker took out his knife and applied himself to a pair of apples, removing the peel from each in a single long russet curl.
“That must serve you well as a taxidermist,” I noted, taking a healthy bite of the apple.
“It takes real skill to have the skin off in one unbroken strip.”
“A thoroughly unladylike observation,” he returned.
“Yes, well, being a lady is a crashing bore, or hadn’t you noticed?”
He shrugged.
“You seem to enjoy it.”
“As you pointed out, I am not exactly a lady.”
“You are when it suits you.
You are fortunate that in our world those ladylike trappings provide you with a bit of protective coloration to hide what you really are.”
I tipped my head thoughtfully.
“And what am I really?”
“Damn me if I know,” he replied.
“I have been attempting to discover that since the moment you dropped into my lap, but you are as elusive as those wretched butterflies you hunt.”
“I am an open book,” I assured him.
He gave a snort of derision and rummaged for the parcel he had retrieved from the post office.
He extracted a newspaper and a letter—a note from his friend, no doubt.
As he read, I reclined against a tree, twisting a curl of apple peel around my fingers.
The air in that perfumed field was intoxicating, and it roused instincts within me that I seldom permitted myself to let slip the lead—at least not in England.
I had no intention of acting upon them; that was strictly forbidden under the rules I had set and of which I reminded myself sternly and often.
But it was pleasant to ponder the possibilities.
“That groom, Mornaday, is rather handsome, wouldn’t you say?”
I said, thinking aloud.
He peered at me over the newspaper.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Veronica, I realize you are accustomed to exercising your affections with a certain degree of freedom, but you cannot go about the countryside seducing assorted strangers.
We are attempting to preserve the fiction of a happily married couple.”
“Piffle.