Chapter 8 #2
I had just jotted this last bit of information when I realised it was time to feed my butterflies.
I tidied away my papers and hastened out to my vivarium, an elaborate, fairy-tale structure of scrolling ironwork and glass.
It had been designed by the same hand that had created the Crystal Palace and reflected the same grandeur and elegance.
It had fallen to disrepair by the time Stoker and I moved to Bishop’s Folly, but Stoker had persuaded Lord Rosemorran to restore it and fit it with steam heat to serve as a home for the colonies of butterflies I wished to rear.
My work had once entailed travelling the breadth of the world to secure the most exotic and elusive specimens both to study and to sell to avid collectors.
But I had never been fond of the killing jar, and by breeding my own specimens, I could harvest them once they had perished of natural causes—a much more civilised way to carry out my researches and provide trophies to collectors.
I arrived that afternoon to find the emerald swallowtails I had been so carefully nurturing were beginning to emerge from their chrysalides.
I sat quietly under the palmate leaf of a luscious frangipani to watch.
It is always a thing of miracles to see a butterfly emerge from its silk-spun home.
There is a stirring, a faintly disturbing pulsation of the walls of the chrysalis as the butterfly begins to challenge the parameters of its prison.
The weak spots will give way, and the husk breaks apart, leaving the imago hanging by its feet, its wings damp and useless.
This is when the creature is most vulnerable, for any opportunistic bird might snatch it away.
But there were no such threats in my vivarium.
Instead, the butterfly rested, gathering its strength until at last it felt ready to venture a stretch, unfurling first one wing, then the other.
The colours were invariably dulled and darkened by the dampness, but as the wings dried, the hues grew in vibrancy until the whole structure glowed like a lamplit jewel.
Once dry, the butterfly would give a little shiver of pleasure, at least I liked to think that was what they felt.
It would shudder and raise its wings, stepping daintily away from its perch to launch itself into the air for the first time.
This was always a heart-stopping interlude, the pure anxiousness of discovering whether this small, infinitely delicate creature would find its strength and bear its own weight upon those gossamer wings.
When it did, it was the most glorious phenomenon to witness.
I never tired of that moment when determination met ability and the butterfly was able to do the thing it could never have imagined as it crawled and crept, bound to the earth in its caterpillar form.
Gravity was no longer its mistress as it gently flapped its way from leaf to leaf, testing its limits and finding with each thrust of the wings that it could do still more, fly still further.
I watched for hours, enchanted, playing a small game with my butterflies.
I stood perfectly still, my arms upraised and a ripe little loquat on each finger and a few in my hair.
The butterflies circled my head, eventually landing to feed.
More joined them until at last the entire colony had settled on me, flapping in my hair, on my gown and fingertips.
Just then George appeared, leading a couple. “Begging your pardon, miss. But these people say they was invited.”
“Dash it!” I muttered. In the excitement of the afternoon, I had entirely forgot the appointed meeting. “George, go tell Cook we shall require tea in the Belvedere at once.”
“Yes, miss.” He darted off, giving the pair of guests a look of circumspection as he left.
George was nothing if not diligent in his scrutiny of strangers, although what he saw in this pair to kindle his wariness, I could not imagine.
They were dressed expensively, but with a quiet luxuriousness.
The lady’s mantle was trimmed in the finest astrakhan, and a clever little hat to match was perched atop her prettily dressed chestnut hair.
Her eyes were green and gleaming with interest, and her fair skin rosy from the cold.
Her companion was tall, with the sort of olive complexion that would tan handsomely if he were to go abroad in strong sunlight without a hat, I imagined.
A few fine silver threads wove through his black hair, but his jawline was as strongly etched as a man of twenty-five.
He was perhaps forty, his wife a decade younger, and they were an exceedingly striking couple.
The fact that she was the daughter of an earl had given me pause—aristocrats are some of my least favourite people—but her smile was genuine and her manner warmer than mere cordiality would dictate.
I did my best to provide them a better welcome than George had. I smiled broadly. “Good afternoon,” I called. “Pardon the confusion, only I’ve just had several Papilio palinurus emerge from their chrysalides, and it’s terribly exciting.”
“So it would seem,” the man said, a small smile playing about his mouth. His companion stepped forwards, holding up her hand. Instantly, one of the emerald swallowtails darted to her, landing on her outstretched finger.
“Oh!” She gave an exclamation of delight. “Its little feet feel like feathers.”
“Only mind you don’t touch the wings,” I warned. “Even a brush of your hand will cause the scales to fall from the wings and it will no longer be able to fly.”
“How fascinating,” she breathed. The butterfly, perhaps sensing the appreciativeness of its audience, flapped its wings slowly, permitting her a perfect view of its glorious colouration.
A few of its friends decided to inspect the gentleman, landing on his head, perhaps attracted by the scent of bergamot I had noticed emanating from his person.
No sooner had one taken up residence on his nose than the door to the vivarium opened again and Stoker appeared, shirt agape and heavily streaked with ink and a few other unspeakable substances.
His hair was more than usually unruly, and his sleeves were rolled past the elbow to reveal the heft of his forearms.
“Veronica, what in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ—” he began, but stopped as he caught sight of our visitors. The woman broke into a broad smile.
“Hello, Revelstoke.”
“Julia March,” Stoker said in a wary tone.
“Not anymore,” she said with a twinkle. “I should like to introduce you to my husband, Nicholas Brisbane. Brisbane, this is Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, but I have only just remembered he does prefer to be called Stoker.”
The menfolk exchanged greetings in the fashion of predatory cats, eyeing one another in a mood of cool assessment. Lady Julia turned to me. “You must be Miss Speedwell. I am Julia Brisbane. I understand you would like our help.”
“Indeed we would, Lady Julia.”
“Tiberius did not say what you required, but he did indicate it was a matter of some importance.”
“The greatest importance,” I assured her. “It is a matter of murder.”