Chapter Twelve
The lady ornithologist’s reputation is most exposed to danger when traveling alone; therefore, it behooves her to always carry a petite revolver, a personal supply of tea, and a false marriage license should the necessity for one arise.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
There followed what seemed so much like a dark moment of the soul that Beth did not even bring out her field guide to read on the train. Seated between a window and an elderly lady occupied with a crossword puzzle, she took only brief intermissions from brooding to use the bathroom and secure tea and sandwiches from the dining car. Her nerves performed a long, angsty monologue about the kiss on the platform, and startled every time someone walked down the carriage aisle, in case they proved to be Devon. She was at last driven to the extreme of removing her glove to chew upon her thumbnail, a misdemeanor that inspired grim looks and mutterings from the elderly lady.
“My apologies,” she said. “I’m a little frazzled, due to being in a competition.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “You’re not an orthinocist doing the Birder of the Year competition, are you? I read about it in the papers yesterday.”
Beth nodded hesitantly.
“Upon my word! How marvelous!” The crossword puzzle was flung aside and the woman grasped Beth’s arm in an act that ought to have been declared a felony. “It’s in Ipswich! The caladrius! My grandfather told me so last night!”
“Your grandfather?” Beth echoed.
“Yes, at our weekly séance. We get together for a nice chat through the heavenly veil. He said—” She paused to clear her throat, then intoned in a spectral voice: “?‘The caladrius bird will be in Ipswich, Gladys, and will cure your arthritis.’?”
“Uh, thank you,” Beth said, blinking rapidly to forestall a bemused frown. “I shall take that under advisement.” And with a polite smile, she turned toward the window and resumed her dark moment.
Of course, the caladrius might indeed be in Ipswich, for all she knew. She possessed no idea of where in Britain to begin searching. Sensibly, she ought to return home to Oxford. In the quiet, well-ordered environment of her boardinghouse room, she could regroup and make a plan for tracking down the bird. She could even visit one of her favorite places in the world, the Bodleian Library, to research it in more depth and perhaps come up with some clues as to where it might most likely nest in Britain.
But after the past two days’ adventures, the very thought of quiet and well-ordered sent a great rush of dreariness through her heart. Sitting alone in her small room…sitting alone in the library…she could not bear even the thought of it. Far better to make London her initial base. Even if she talked with no one, at least she would be surrounded by the city’s vivacious energy and noise.
Disembarking at Paddington Station, she stood on the platform for some time, not at all looking for Devon among the other passengers, simply trying to devise a route ahead. Besides, he never appeared. Perhaps he had gotten off the train before she did. Perhaps he’d decided to bypass London altogether. He might be anywhere—she might never see him again in all her life—she did not care.
“Are you quite well, dear?” a woman asked, pausing beside her. “You just gave the most dreadfully mournful sigh.”
Flushing, Beth smiled and apologized and hurried out of the station before her emotions could catch up with her again.
Her first call was to the bank, where she withdrew enough money from her savings to fund a substantial engagement in the competition, although it meant that any dream of traveling to New Zealand to study the giant carnivorous moa flew out the window. Then she spent the day traipsing around the city buying maps, nets, a cage that collapsed to fit in a suitcase, clothes, and a new straw boater. It was an endeavor more exhausting than chasing demon ducks along the shores of Greece, and within hours her feet had begun to ache, but she continued onward, as ruthless with herself as any ornithologist ought to be. And to her surprise, everywhere she went she heard people discussing the caladrius.
“My sister was eating chips on the beach in Brighton and the caladrius stole one from her,” claimed a woman in the department store where Beth purchased stockings.
“My husband says the bird can’t really cure illness, it’s just a story being used by the Tories to distract from their mismanagement of public health,” declared a woman in the boutique where Beth purchased gloves.
“IOS actually stands for the Invisible Order of Secrets,” said a man on the tram she caught across town. “They’re conspiring to take over the world using avian magic. Mark my words, before long we’ll all be flying in feathered machines instead of taking trams.”
Only her exceptional manners prevented Beth from laughing aloud at this. IOS undertaking a secret scheme? Nothing was more ridiculous! (Goodness, that gentleman at the back of the tram, facing away from her, looked like Mr. Cholmbaumgh. She must be tired indeed for her imagination to come up with such a fancy!)
Stopping for afternoon tea in a small café, she idly perused a newspaper that had been left on the table. As she turned to the second page, however, her mouthful of cucumber sandwich became in sudden, real danger of being ejected. For there, in several excited paragraphs, was a report of the lapwing’s capture in Paris. Beth was most surprised indeed to learn that Professor Devon Lockley had singlehandedly brought down the bird, thus saving two frail old grannies and a pretty young woman from certain doom.
“I beg your pardon!” she muttered indignantly, and was forced to drink an entire pot of tea before her nerves settled enough to relinquish the idea of writing a strident letter to the editor, and instead to continue on with her shopping.
Finally, come evening, and so thoroughly worn out she kept thinking she saw Cholmbaumgh skulking behind her, she retired to the Minervaeum Club, London’s premier private establishment for academics. The grand Georgian building on Cromwell Road in Kensington was owned by a mysterious figure rumored to be the scion of either a smuggler or a royal duke, but who clearly possessed a good heart despite this, for they set annual membership at a mere half sovereign to anyone with a doctorate and a tolerance for interesting conversation. Considering most scholars lived on the cusp of either wretched poverty or explosive fortune (literally explosive, in the case of chemists), this generosity was much appreciated and often reciprocated by grateful donors who wanted their peers to enjoy the same inspiration the club’s atmosphere, not to mention the club’s wine cellar, had given them.
Beth had always loved the place. The air smelled gently of old books, the beds were soft, and pacing the halls muttering theories to oneself was considered normal behavior. She hadn’t visited for some time, since Hippolyta was not a member, and walking into the warm dustiness of the lobby felt like a truer homecoming than returning to her Oxford boardinghouse ever did. Sounds of philosophical debate could be heard from the Platonic Drawing Room, interspersed now and again by the boom! of scientific debate from the Paracelsus Lounge. The floor beneath her trembled from someone making a forceful rejoinder about the benefits of nitroglycerin as she crossed to the check-in desk, dreaming of finally being able to eat quality fare, such as bangers and mash with spotted dick for pudding, after enduring French cuisine for far too long.
“Giggleswick,” said the gentlewoman clerk as she handed over a room key.
“Excuse me?” Beth asked vaguely, half-lost in visions of custard.
“That’s where I reckon you’ll find the caladrius,” the clerk elaborated. “Giggleswick in North Yorkshire. On account of the limestone. It’s got special healing properties, has limestone. The caladrius would be drawn to it.”
“I see,” Beth murmured. She couldn’t remember having mentioned her business but clearly must have. Picking up her suitcase, for she was in a hurry to settle in, then visit the dining room, she turned—
“I can’t believe I’m talking to such a famous orothologisist!” the clerk exclaimed.
Well, perhaps she could spare a minute or two. She turned back with a smile—
“I squealed out loud when I read about you kissing that other orothologisist on the train platform!”
Beth’s smile vanished, taking her good manners with it. “Excuse me, what?”
“And you look just like your picture!” As Beth watched openmouthed, the clerk rummaged behind the desk, producing a newspaper, which she proceeded to flap excitedly, almost smacking Beth in the face. “It’s today’s Evening Standard . Will you autograph it for me?”
“Picture? My picture is in the newspaper for kissing a man ?!” Beth went so white, there existed some danger of her being reported as a caladrius sighting. Accepting the paper from the clerk, she stared in horror at the headline on its front page.
ROMANCE TAKES FLIGHT IN BIRDER COMPETITION
There followed a sensational account of this morning’s frostbird capture and her kiss with Devon. They even reported her name, presumably supplied by one of the other birders present at the Canterbury station. The fact that it was misspelled as Peckerine offered some consolation…but the even more factual fact that all her colleagues would know it was her took that consolation and bashed it into a miserable, blithering heap of woe.
This was all the fault of that reprehensible, bird-thieving, manhandling villain, Devon Lockley! Granted, she had consented to their kiss, even knowing that a newspaper reporter stood right beside them, but that was beside the point! Indeed, the point was so far away it appeared as no more than a smudge in the distance, whereas her outrage loomed overwhelmingly large.
Requesting that dinner be sent to her room, she went upstairs with a speed inspired by (a) significant aggravation, (b) terror that someone she knew would see her and ask about the newspaper article, and (c) aaaaagghhhh . Coming to the Hypatia Bedroom, she locked its door behind her and leaned back against the paneled wood, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself by imagining a beautiful scene:
Winning Birder of the Year.
Wringing Devon Lockley’s neck.
—
Meanwhile, Devon was not giving Miss Beth Pickering the slightest thought. He did not ruminate on her soft blue eyes. He did not recollect her scintillating intelligence, which in turn did not spark any degree of warmth whatsoever in his nether region. Furthermore, there failed to be a single moment in which he yearned for their reunion so that he might take her in his arms and kiss her with such a blissful thoroughness she forgot he was a villain. Instead, he spent most of the day shopping for supplies necessary to help him track the Beth…er, the bird .
Finally, late afternoon, he met with his cousin, Professor Gabriel Tarrant, at a geography conference in Kensington. Gabriel was listening attentively to an ancient lecturer drone on about some limestone block in some village somewhere and showed no pleasure in Devon’s sudden appearance. Certainly he refused to leave with him. An appeal to familial loyalty failed; a charming smile failed. Eventually Devon resorted to threats of telling Granny that Gabriel was being rude to him—upon which, his cousin grudgingly relented, accompanying him down the street to the Minervaeum Club. In its warm, book-lined, tobacco-scented Shakespeare Lounge, the two men sat in leather armchairs older than themselves, surrounded by a selection of England’s greatest minds (and the people in whom those minds were located), and Devon began a new round of appeals.
“I need your help with this Birder of the Year competition.”
“No,” Gabriel said.
“If—”
“No.”
Devon bit back a decidedly familial word. He and his cousin might have served as a mirror to each other were not Gabriel objectively more handsome, more orderly—and probably more intelligent, although no one could understand his explanations of thaumaturgic geography well enough to determine the matter. But their characters might have been two roads in a yellow wood: they could not have diverged more.
Behind his inscrutable facade, deep inside his almost midnight-colored eyes, Gabriel might have hidden a sense of whimsy; if so, however, he never revealed it. Once, when he was a child, a classmate called him Gabe. He’d responded with nothing more than a silent, unblinking look, whereupon the classmate immediately transferred to another school, and no one had risked being chummy with him again. Except Devon, that is. But then, Devon approached risks the way other people approached a warm, cozy bed at night.
Within their family, Gabriel, who was the elder by a year, got constantly held up as an example of what Devon himself could become (although whether this was meant as encouragement or a warning depended on who said it). But the fact that he was currently and fastidiously using a napkin to wipe the rim of his wineglass, whereas Devon had already finished half his own drink, demonstrated the unlikelihood of that.
“I’d ask someone else to help me,” Devon lied, “but you’re the only thaumaturgic geographer I know.” The fact that Gabriel had also been his best friend until they were separated by Devon’s being sent to America did not require stating. Both men knew it, and both men would have been horribly uncomfortable acknowledging it aloud, even between themselves. In that, at least, they were the same. Matters of the heart stayed in the heart, behind several locked doors and barricades.
“I need a list of sites in Britain where magic is especially concentrated,” he explained. “Thaumaturgic birds are often attracted to places like that, and the caladrius, being very powerful, is hopefully no exception. It’s reported to be a freshwater bird, so I’m particularly interested in lakes and rivers with strong thaumaturgic energy.”
“That’s confidential information,” Gabriel replied sternly.
“Which is why I’m asking confidentially.”
Gabriel gave him an all-too-familiar look of mingled confusion and aggravation. “That’s not how it works, Devon.”
“I know,” he answered easily. “And I’m prepared to continue twisting words and their meanings for as long as necessary until I get what I want, so you might as well save us both time and just say yes. For one thing, there are simply too many ways I can blackmail you into agreement. For example, when you broke Aunt Mary’s favorite—”
“I recall.” Gabriel frowned into his wineglass, where floated what was either a bubble or a speck of dust. Wrinkling his nose, he set the glass aside. “Fine. Yes.”
Devon grinned. “Cheers, coz. You’re the best. Are you staying here at the club while you attend your conference?”
“Mm.”
“Perfect. You get started writing down place-names, and I’ll buy you dinner. I haven’t seen you for months. We’ll have a proper chat.”
“Chat,” Gabriel echoed dourly. “First you want me to illegally share information; now you want to chat . I’m going to need more wine.”
—
It took Beth three drinks before she finally soothed her aggravation about the newspaper article. By the time she poured a fourth, thus emptying the teapot, her mind was ready once more to focus on the competition—mainly because her body was tired of traipsing down to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, thanks to all the tea. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she consulted her map of Britain, along with several newly purchased field guides, and took copious notes as she brainstormed theories about where the caladrius might be found. It seemed an impossible task, but she wasn’t England’s youngest professor for nothing.
“I shall be unrelenting until I win!” she declared, brandishing her pen like a sword. “Unrelenting and utterly ruthless!”
But you’re an angel , Devon whispered in her mind.
Crack!
Beth blinked in startlement as the pen hit the far wall. She hadn’t even been aware of throwing it. Rushing to check there was no damage to the wall, she picked up the pen, then turned again toward her work…
And stopped. Heart twisting oddly, she stared at the spacious room with its elegant furnishings and its bed that was large enough for her to sleep in even with all her papers strewn across the counterpane. Altogether it represented a remarkable improvement upon her situation last night, at the Chaucer Inn, in the tiny, bed-filled room with Devon. No uncomfortable borrowed nightshirt. No sleeping on the floor.
No one to talk to about birds, or dance with, or kiss in the swaying firelight.
Sorrow came upon her with all the suddenness of an owl upon a mouse. The familiar dull ache of being essentially alone, something she’d felt even before her parents died of cholera—something not even Hippolyta’s bombastic company had assuaged—now sharpened into a hot, raw pain.
I miss him , she realized. It’s only been a few hours, but I miss him so much. He’s a villain; he pulled me out of my perfectly calm waters and disturbed me right through my very being…and I miss all of it: the hijinks and hassles and chaotic fun…
I miss the me I was with him.
Sinking to the floor, she leaned back against the wall and stared wearily at her work set out on the bed. It was just a few steps away and yet she felt drained by the thought of returning to it, as if she’d need to traverse an abyss instead of a rather shabby rug. But return she must. It was all she had: her career, and skies filled with birds.
For the first time in her life, that seemed inadequate.
Then she heard a tiny noise. Another followed, and another, as the occupant of the neighboring room moved around, seemingly right next to where she sat, on the other side of the wall. Closing her eyes, she listened, taking comfort from someone else’s presence. And finally, she grew settled again.
The fact was, Devon had behaved in a reprehensibly ungentlemanlike manner, with his constant banter and all his towing of her. She was fortunate to be rid of him! So very, very lonely fortunate.
Sighing, she tipped her forehead against her knees. But the universe did not take this cue to send Professor Lockley bursting in with flowers and chocolates, so she hauled herself up and got on with work.
—
Devon sat on the floor of the Margaret Lucas Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle-upon-Tyne Bedroom, leaning back against the wall, listening to tiny sounds from the room behind him as if they were ghosts of the breath he kept losing whenever he thought about Beth Pickering. But he did not think about her! Absolutely not! He was too busy working on how to win Birder of the Year.
He read through Gabriel’s notes over and over again. He drew circles on maps and wrote down every theory that occurred to him. Crawling onto the bed to fall asleep sometime around midnight, he dreamed of Beth (which, please note, does not count as thinking about her) and woke in such a state of mental exhaustion, the world seemed no more than a blank darkness. Then he realized his notebook was lying open across his face.
Lifting it, he peered sleepily at the place-names Gabriel had listed for him. Nine sites, scattered widely across the island, equal in their potential lure for a magical bird. It would take months to explore them all. And even then, he might be on entirely the wrong path. The caladrius could be anywhere.
Except…
He sat up, brushing the hair away from his eyes. The bird wasn’t anywhere, of course. It was somewhere , or else there would be no competition. Realizing that, his perception shifted radically, and he understood at once where he needed to go next.
As for where he longed to be—well, he wasn’t thinking about that, was he?
—
In her own bedroom, Beth woke face down on the map of England. As her vision slowly came into focus, she saw the circle she’d drawn and the words scrawled next to it:
Ornithologists are ruthless!
She ran a finger sleepily across the sentence. Among all the thoughts she’d corralled in the night, that one alone offered her certainty. In fact, she suspected it was the key to everything.
Climbing off the bed, she washed, then hastily donned a dress she’d bought yesterday (soft white, printed with lilacs and trimmed with lace, about as appropriate for a serious-minded scholar as a gossip magazine would have been, but perfect for if she met Devon again traveling in the heat). As she bound up her hair and set a straw boater upon it, she gazed out the window at the brightening sky. Sparrows flecked rooftops, pigeons squatted upon chimneys…and somewhere out there in the long expanse of Britain, a caladrius perched.
In a cage, waiting to be won.
Nothing else made sense. A group of leading ornithologists in all their professional ruthlessness would never organize a competition for Birder of the Year based on mere hope, a rumor, a white-winged dream. Once she’d taken that into account, Beth had become convinced that they held the bird in their possession and presumably had contrived some plan for arranging its “capture” by their chosen winner. A plan she intended to overturn, outscheming them to win Birder of the Year for herself!
Granted, she didn’t understand people, let alone their motivations, which would make outscheming them rather tricky. But she was always open to learning a new subject. And certainly this would be easier than traipsing randomly around the kingdom with binoculars and a big net. She didn’t have to find the caladrius; she only had to find someone who would reveal its location.
And she knew exactly where to start.
It was time to go home to Oxford.