Chapter 14 #2
“I hope you do not mind the temperature,” the woman said as she led us into the conservatory.
We passed through a curtain of palm fronds and found a little clearing where a table and chairs of iron had been grouped.
A few scattered cushions of dark red silk softened the seats, and she waved us towards them.
“I am afraid his lordship is sensitive to the cold, and of course, it would not do my plants any good to be touched by frost.” She gestured towards the towering foliage that surrounded us, waves of greenery of every variety.
There were plants with broad fronds that dipped their lacy palmettes towards the ground and plants with luscious flowers bursting into bloom and lending spicy-sweet scent to the humid air.
There were trees lifting slender trunks towards the roof and shrubs which reached serpentine fingers to vine across the floor.
The effect was one of chaos and beauty in equal measure.
The woman seated herself on one of the iron chairs, arranging her skirts in a graceful pool of ebony at her feet.
On the table before her was a tea service with an elegant Chinese motif.
It was a play upon the willow pattern usually rendered in blue.
This was glazed in blood red and featured the image of an aristocrat, perhaps even an emperor, standing in a solitary pose on a bridge beneath the gracefully bent arms of a willow.
Below him, a female figure floated in the water.
The figure was too small to see whether she were alive or dead, but I fancied I knew the answer to that.
Above the gentleman and his lady flew a bird of prey, circling the scene, perhaps in anticipation of its next meal.
In the background, an elegant pagoda was in flames.
Every image was one of catastrophe or woe.
To the side of the tea table, a small paraffin stove held a steaming kettle of brightly polished copper, lending an air of refined domesticity to the scene.
Behind our hostess, an unusual plant rose towards the ceiling, its stems laden with creamy white bells as long as my hand, each petal gently pointed at the end.
It looked a rapacious thing, fairly throttling the lesser plants that had the misfortune to grow near it.
“I see you are admiring my devil’s trumpet,” she said, touching one fingernail to the petals.
“It is a handsome specimen,” I told her honestly. A flutter of something ghostly white in the shadows caught my attention then. It was a wing, almost as large as my hand. As it flapped past, I saw the distinctive markings of deep chocolate brown.
“Thysania agrippina!” I exclaimed. They were a rare sight in these islands, being native to the neotropics.
I had never seen one in person, but Lord Rosemorran had a first edition of Maria Sibylla Merian’s Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium from 1705 in which the moth was described for the first time in a scientific publication.
(It was an excellent book, although I far preferred her wonderfully titled The Caterpillars’ Marvelous Transformation and Strange Floral Food.)
“The white witch moth,” our hostess said, giving me a look of grudging admiration. “You know your moths, my dear. These are my particular delight. They emerge every evening about this time. That is why this is my favourite spot to take tea.”
She moved gracefully amongst the tea things, filling the curious pot with several spoonsful of tea leaves—a mixture of the expected Camellia sinensis as well as other less obvious things, dried bits of berry and leaf and even a twig or two.
Over this she poured the steaming water, gently swirling the teapot before setting it down to steep.
Only then did she look up, a tiny smile playing once more upon her lips. “I have been very rude, forgive me. Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, I have been asked by his lordship to make you welcome until he is available to receive you. I am Asphodel.”
I felt my brows rise towards my hairline. “Asphodel? Like the flower?”
She inclined her head, and I noted once more the theatricality of her gestures. “Precisely, Miss Speedwell. You are very well-read.”
I smiled modestly at the compliment. “The meadows of Asphodel are well-known to any student of the mythology of the Greeks. They comprise part of the dominion of Hades, Lord of the Underworld. I believe these meadows are where the ordinary folk dwell after death. Pity there are no heroes for you in that realm.”
Stoker must have sensed something of my instinctive antipathy for the woman, for he cleared his throat, drawing her attention to himself.
“This is a charming spot for tea. How clever of you to think of it.”
The smile deepened, and I no longer saw the resemblance to a cat.
She was more vulpine in appearance, I decided.
“I am never happier than when I am with my plants. I am a veritable daughter of Rappaccini,” she added with a sly look in my direction.
Perhaps she meant to test her conclusion that I was well-read, but I would give no quarter.
I bared my teeth at her. “From the story by the American author Nathaniel Hawthorne,” I returned.
“About a woman who has been reared on her father’s most venomous plants and is therefore immune to their toxins.
But I seem to recall that even her breath was fatal to others.
Difficult to make friends in that case, I should think. ”
She leant nearer to Stoker. “You need have no fear on that score. Does my breath seem poisonous to you, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” She moved closer still, her décolletage spilling from her neckline as she parted pillowy lips to blow out a soft exhalation against his cheek.
I saw the curls at his ear ruffle gently, and he flushed.
“No, no—quite sweet,” he said, not meeting my gaze.
If Asphodel and I had been sparring, that would have been a palpable hit, I conceded. I decided to defer any sort of further engagement in hostilities and nodded towards the teapot. “I think it has steeped long enough.”
It was unconscionably rude of me to hurry her along, but I was in no mood for pleasantries over the tea table. I was too impatient to meet the man who had invited us here, and this enforced interaction with his—associate? guest? inamorata?—beginning to strain my nerves.
As if sensing my mood, she poured out the tea, handing me a cup that steamed fragrantly. I took an appreciative sniff, letting the perfumed warmth of it settle into my bones.
“That is the jasmine,” she said, watching me closely. “It is meant to calm the nerves.”
I sipped, and the heady floweriness of the aroma became the taste upon my tongue.
“There is black tea for hospitality and robustness of flavour. There are rose petals for calmness and green tea for serenity. And a few other things besides, but you cannot expect me to give up all my secrets,” she said, passing Stoker a cup of his own.
“Do you always blend your own teas?” Stoker asked politely.
“I make more than teas,” she assured him, and somehow it sounded faintly salacious when she said it.
She poured a final cup for herself, but I noticed there was no fourth.
“Lord Ruthven does not take tea,” she said, noticing the direction of my gaze.
“Does he prefer stronger libations?” I asked innocently.
“The strongest,” she said with a strange little laugh.
She turned to Stoker. “Tell me, Mr. Templeton-Vane, about your work.”
I was surprised at the directness of her request, but Stoker obliged her, describing his various commissions as a natural historian specialising in the restoration of mounted specimens.
“The taxidermic arts!” she exclaimed, eyes bright. “How fascinating. Have you been following the story of the walrus? Highly passionate discourse around such an exotic creature.”
She could not have introduced a more alluring subject to Stoker if she had tried.
“The fellows responsible for this particular disgrace ought to be horsewhipped,” Stoker said fervently.
“Imagine dealing such disrespect to an animal as majestic as Odobenus rosmarus. And do not get me started on the travesty they have made of his mystacial vibrissae.”
Asphodel seemed vaguely confused at this, and I decided to offer her at least a token bit of assistance.
“The whiskers,” I murmured.
“The whiskers,” Stoker affirmed. “In the case of the walrus, it is believed that, as with domesticated and wild cats, they can aid in helping the animal to orient itself, but it is entirely possible they serve another function—that of detecting the presence of food. The walrus, you see, is the only carnivorous—”
He might have gone on in this vein for some time.
(I have known Stoker to converse heatedly on the subject of capybaras for fully two hours, and he is much fonder of walruses than capybaras.) I would have let him hold forth on the grounds that it would serve our hostess right for playing up so shamelessly to him, but just as Stoker began to expand upon the subject of carnivorous pinnipeds, Asphodel looked up sharply, her expression instantly softening to one of devotion.
When she spoke, her voice rasped a little, as if her throat were choked with emotion.
“He is coming!” she said in a thrilled whisper.
And as she set her cup down, I noticed that her hand trembled.
I had heard nothing of his approach, and neither had Stoker, I thought, for he was mid-sip and forced to hastily set down his cup.
There was no footstep to be heard, no susurration of breath, no sound of human movement at all.
He was, one moment, not there, and then suddenly he was in evidence, sheltered by the tallest of the trees—a figure dressed entirely in black, a deeper darkness than the shadows in which he stood.
“Good evening,” he said, stepping forwards and into the low light. “I am Ruthven. Welcome to my home.”