Chapter 14
August 15th, 1881Barnard Castle
The midsummer heat swelled in the evening air as birds chirped along the riverbank. The river ran amber, the colour of smooth whisky, over a bed of flat stones. Their camp perched on the water’s edge in a patch of wildflowers with a view of the hills. There was the sound of trickling water and a crackling fire, and the scent of fish stew.
Around the campfire, the men exchanged stories of their youth as they ate. Their rambunctious voices echoed loudly across the field.
Eva sat alone upon a wooden stool at the entrance to her tent. She had just finished tidying her tent after a day of archiving moths. Granted, there was not much to arrange. Her few belongings rested upon a small wooden table next to her makeshift bed. There was Phoebe’s old hairbrush, blank papers, her flat cap, a bar of soap and a toothbrush. Apart from the boyish clothes on her back, the rest of her belongings were stored in a large leather satchel that she had bought on the second day of their journey. Tucked within it were her mended skirts, undergarments, Rosie the doll and her blue pearl earrings. She hoped they would come across another village soon. She wanted to buy better fitting pants and maybe a new skirt, something fresh and lively in green.
Eva looked at the sheet of paper upon the wheelwright’s book on her lap. Dear Randall Family. She wrote so many letters these days, the first joint on her middle finger was developing a large, calloused bump. She did not mind. Writing about her journey had been a surprisingly therapeutic experience. It put things into perspective and helped to solidify her decision to leave the Randall farm. She only hoped her words eased Phoebe’s worries.
There was a burst of laughter.
Eva swivelled her head to look at the men around the fire.
“Do ye remember that wee lad, what was his name? Allen? Or Alistair? The one with the four hairs on his chin, looking like a billy goat,” Duncan said.
“Aye, Alistair,” Elias said.
“Well, I heard he ruffled the skirts of Professor Miller’s wife.”
Arthur gasped. “I do not believe it.”
“At a fundraiser party for the study of paleontology a few months back,” Duncan said.
“Och, so the lad had his own fundraising party,” Elias muttered.
“Aye,” Duncan elbowed Elias in the arm. “Or maybe Mrs. Miller was on the hunt for her own bone, do ye ken?”
The men roared out in more laughter.
Eva stifled her laugh with a quick hand to her lips, and Elias glanced at her.
In the glimmer of the fire, his deep-set eyes sparkled, and the hard angles of his face were accentuated, bringing out the sharpness of his cheekbones. He had a few days’ growth of beard that marked his square jaw. His grin softened to a crooked smile and he gave her a curt nod.
She gave a tiny smile and nodded in return.
A few days back, Elias had come out of his tent freshly shaved, and Eva did a double take. He was unrecognizable. Despite her joke about his baby face, the lack of thick beard gave her the chance to see Elias in a new, vaguely handsome light. Okay, maybe very handsome. Elias was downright hot.
She sighed, looked at the paper on her lap and iron-gripped her pen.
Focus on the letter instead of ogling Elias.
She swiped a curl from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Her hair was beginning to grow wild in all directions. She desperately needed a haircut. Maybe she should cut her hair short, permanently adopt men’s clothing and fully commit to cross-dressing. A small part of her wanted to, but an even larger part would miss being somewhat feminine. As much as she hated to admit it, the idea of skirts, corsets and gentlemen had grown on her.
She flashed her eyes at Elias again.
He was bending from his seat to place his bowl on the ground. His bony knees protruded from his kilt. Her gaze swept toward the inviting darkness between his thighs…
A blur of tartan green flashed as Elias stood.
Her eyes shot to his face to find him looking at her with a bemused expression. Instantly, her cheeks grew hot. She averted her eyes back to her letter and wrote whatever words came to mind.
Oh my God.
She rushed out words with nervous blobs of black ink. Heart thumping against her ribs, she continued writing in a bid to look busy.
Having fun on the road.
They are super nice. Especially Elias. Elias and his kilt. Elias and his Scottish accent. Elias, Elias, Elias … stop writing “Elias”. What the hell is wrong with you?
Nothing she wrote made sense. This was supposed to be a letter to the Randall family, not some infatuated teenager’s diary. After a few seconds of chicken-scratching the paper with her pen, she decided her efforts were useless and stood. She went to the wooden crate and placed her pen and paper down. As she turned, she caught sight of Elias’s brawny figure at the entrance of her tent.
“Hello, lass,” Elias said.
She jumped and placed a hand across her hammering heart.
“Elias,” she exhaled. “You scared me.”
“I thought ye could use a drink,” he said, holding a bottle of whisky.
“Oh … oh, a drink, right. Well, I was about to retire for the night,” she said, gesturing to her bed with a thumb.
“It’ll help ye relax.”
“Do I seem tense?”
“Yer like a wee jumpin’ bug.”
She eyed the brown bottle in his hand. It was true her emotions were all over the place and alcohol would technically help her relax. But to drink with Elias in her tent? Surely that was inappropriate.
She snorted. What are you? A nineteenth-century prude?
He raised a questioning brow.
“Hell,” she said. “Give the bottle here, and make yourself comfortable.”
They plopped onto the edge of her bed. He uncorked the bottle and passed it to her. She did not hesitate to take a hearty gulp of bitter whisky.
“I haven’t drunk this much since my university days,” she muttered, swiping a dribble of whisky from her chin with the back of her hand. “You’re a bad influence.”
“I did say ye’d regret threatening me with a good time.”
“I’m not regretting it.”
“No?”
She quirked her lips as she passed the bottle to him. “Not at all,” she mused. “In fact, I’m having the time of my life.”
“Oh, aye?” He took hold of the bottle and brought it to his lips.
Tell me more were the unspoken words between them. He may dare to say them, but Elias had become more reserved since their days at Asheford Hall after he had proposed to her on a whim. Despite his risk-taking personality, she sensed he was holding a lot back.
“What did ye study in university? I bet it was wheelwright craftsmanship,” he said.
She chuckled. “What I know about fixing wheels came from a boring old book. I studied computer programming.”
He passed her the bottle. “Ah, yes, that.”
“Are you familiar with it?”
“Aye.”
“By all means, Mr. McKenzie, enlighten me.”
“It involves writing God knows what.”
Her brows shot up. Not that far from the truth.
He smiled. “Judging by yer expression, I must have got some of that right?”
“Are you sure you’re not a time traveller?” she said, bringing her voice to a low whisper. “But yes, you’re right, it does involve writing God knows what.”
“Do ye miss it?”
Her smile fell. The whisky in her belly burned. “I … um…” She moved her gaze to the ground. “It’s been a long while since I thought of home. I do miss it, but I’ve also made peace with the fact I may never see it again. I guess the trick is not to think too much about it.”
“If ye ever feel the need to speak upon it, I am willin’ to listen.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Which reminds me, I’m not sure I ever thanked you properly for inviting me on this journey. So, thank you. You were right; I needed a good time.”
“That pleases me to hear. And yer managin’ well, despite yer…”
His eyes flicked to her ankles.
Her throat tightened, and she meekly nodded. They had not spoken of her injuries or how she came to get them, and she was happy he had not forced the subject again.
“Yes, I’m managing well,” she said.
“Good.”
Their eyes caught.
Her cheeks flushed. She hoped it was from the whisky and not from the realization that Elias had come to check on her well-being. She had been wondering whether to finally tell him the truth about her kidnapping ordeal. As Phoebe had said, talking about things helped. But she knew in her heart she was not yet ready to reveal those secrets. Besides, it was a long while since she had felt any semblance of happiness, and she was determined to keep that feeling for a little longer.
She handed him back the bottle. “Thanks for the sleep tonic.”
“Any time,” he said.
He looked up from the bottle, his eyes lingering on her face for a few seconds too long.
She swallowed. This was her cue to tell him goodnight, but he was bewitching her with the dark look in his eye. Not to mention the curve of his mouth that sent her nerves into overdrive.
“Goodnight, lass,” he said quietly.
Stay with me.
The thought hit like a slap. That would be inappropriate. It would be too soon, wouldn’t it? Her heart thudded, threatening to burst from her ribs. He needed to leave her tent before she did something regrettable.
Flustered, she promptly stood. “Exactly my thoughts. Time for bed. Goodnight, Elias.”
Her awkwardness seemed to amuse him. He flashed her one last crooked grin before leaving the small space of her tent.
She went to the entrance and drew the curtains closed.
Elias’s scent wafted in her face – one big puff of alluring musk.
Oh my God.
She wandered back to her bed. Was she developing a crush on him? It certainly felt that way. She was scribbling his name in black ink and smiling like an idiot. If that was the case, she had to take it slowly. It was a bad idea to fall for someone when her last relationship was still unresolved.
It wasn’t the time for love.
Cursing, she buried herself in bed. She was determined to sleep well, without nightmares involving Henry or sexual fantasies involving Elias. She just wanted to be.
***
Dusk had barely dragged itself over the horizon the following evening, the soft breeze a tender reminder of the passing summer, when Eva stood next to Arthur and Duncan with their bug-catching equipment in hand.
“I ken the men are aware of how we do things, but for the sake of the lady, here goes.” Elias winked at Eva. “There are two ways to catch the elusive peppered moth. The first is during the day, when the wee beastie may be sheltering on the bark of trees. The second is during the night when they can be lured out with the glimmer of light—”
“Like a gypsy,” Duncan said.
Eva tilted her head to look at Duncan. “I’m sorry, like what?”
He repeated the statement.
“As long as you and I travel together, we shall have none of that discrimination,” she said.
“Ah, lass, I only meant the beasties are attracted to what glimmers like a gypsy is to coins, gold and jewels,” Duncan muttered.
“And you’re attracted to big-boobed Swedish women, but you don’t hear me cracking jokes at your expense,” she shot back.
Duncan’s head fell back in roars of laughter.
“Will you both hush down? You will scare off the moths before we even begin,” Arthur said.
“Gypsies and well-endowed Swedish women aside, let us break off into three teams,” Elias said. “Duncan and Arthur as ye are both veterans in the game, ye can go off on your own. Eva, you stay with me.”
“But I’m the better teacher,” Duncan said.
“And I’m the better hunter,” Elias argued. “Besides, Arthur is right, the two of ye would scare off half the population of moths before we catch sight o’ one.”
“What happens when we find a moth? What do I trap it with?” Eva said.
“You carefully cup it with a glass jar, slide on the lid and return it to the camp. I shall spend the rest of the evening documenting our findings,” Arthur said.
“Sounds easy enough,” Eva said.
“Any more questions, ye can ask Professor McKenzie,” Duncan muttered.
“Hey, Duncan, want to have a competition?” Eva said.
Duncan’s thick brows rose in surprise. “A competition? Ye have yet to catch a moth, and yer already boastin’ about.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’m a natural.”
“Yer a woman,” Duncan scoffed.
“Excuse me?” Eva said.
With a chortle, Duncan elbowed Arthur’s side as if to say Watch her overreaction. Tough luck for him, she knew this boyish teasing game well enough to not let his comment get to her.
“Arthur, I think Duncan feels threatened by a woman. Would you agree?” Eva said.
“That is plausible,” Arthur said.
“I think it is very probable,” Elias agreed, stepping next to Eva. “In fact, I’d go as far as saying that Duncan hesitates to accept the challenge because he knows he will lose.”
“That isn’t true!” Duncan exclaimed.
Eva elbowed Elias’s side. “Look at his hysterical overreaction. Why, it’s almost … womanly.”
Duncan rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m not threatened by a woman.”
“Then prove it by bringing your A game,” Eva said.
“Lass, I dinnae understand half the things ye say, but I accept your challenge. I will win this wee competition, and ye will owe me a pint.”
She held out her hand. “And if I win, you’ll serve me pints all night wearing a crown of flowers.”
“Flowers? In my hair?”
“I’ve become quite skilled at crafting floral crowns fit for pretty little princesses.”
He spat in his hand and brought it to hers. Their palms met with a gooey squelch.
Eva’s lips twisted. “Did you have to spit?”
Duncan grinned. “Does it make ye squeamish?”
“All right, all right,” Elias said. “Enough mucking about. Let’s begin the hunt.”
As Arthur and Duncan stalked off alone, Eva followed Elias into the woodland to the west of their camp. The forest was quiet, save for the hoot of an owl, the gentle cracking of twigs beneath their feet and a passing breeze rustling the leaves.
Elias brought the gas lamp to a large oak, looking focused and observant. She noted the subtle frown on his lips, the curl of his hair falling off his shirt collar and the ripple of muscle in his forearm as he moved the lamp around the bark.
Instinct told her to avert her eyes. But she couldn’t. Could she really blame herself for watching? He had the unrestricted determination of a man hell-bent on achieving his ambition. It was captivating.
“Come here,” he said.
She approached.
He pointed to a beetle wedged between two pieces of bark. It seemed to be feeding on a line of runny sap.
“A violet ground beetle,” he said, his voice as soft as the rustle of leaves above. “Do ye see the metallic-purple sheen when I move the light?”
With the motion of the flickering flame, a deep royal-purple colour appeared around the insect’s carapace.
“I do,” she said.
“This was a favourite of Lottie’s.”
She stilled. Hearing Henry’s sister’s name was unexpected, and she didn’t know what to say in return.
He was watching her with a careful glint in his eyes.
“Oh,” she managed.
He smiled sadly. “When she was eleven, she demanded that I bring her a violet beetle on every visit. In those days, I often visited, so she quickly amassed a collection. She called them her princess jewels.”
She shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”
He took his time contemplating her question before dropping the lamp to his side. “Because yer mention of princess crowns reminded me of her, and I ken ye two lasses were close.”
“We were,” she muttered and stepped past him. “So, are we looking for black moths or peppered moths?”
“They are of the same species, only different variants due to natural selection. I reckon the ones we’ll find in these woods will be peppered.”
“Why?”
“Because out here, they don’t need to hide.”
She stopped in her tracks. That felt like a jab against her. Ignoring the rising paranoia, she busied herself searching a tree with her own light.
“There’s still time to visit Lottie before she heads back to France if ye feel the need,” he said.
“No,” she said quickly.
“It may help ye with closure—”
“Elias, please, I don’t want to speak about this,” she said.
She realized she hadn’t given much thought to Lottie. Her plan to push away all hurtful memories included shutting out the girl from her mind. It wasn’t like Lottie had done anything wrong. But she was an Asheford. And, worst of all, she was Henry’s beloved sister. If she tried to run back to Lottie, God knew what that would lead to. In the end, it was easier to forget everything, including the good memories and the people who shaped them.
Eva raised her lamp to another tree.
In a deep crevice, a magnificent speckled-winged moth sat on a bed of lichen. Its wings spanned about an inch in diameter. They did not flutter, nor even move.
“Elias,” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
“I think I found a peppered moth.”
The branches crackled as Elias came near. He brought his face close to inspect the insect.
“Aye, ye did, lass,” he said.
“What do I do?”
He handed her a jar from his bag. “Take this and cup the moth slowly.”
The jar was cold in her hand. Tilting her head, she observed the peppered pattern on the moth’s light-coloured wings. Elias had said this variant struggled in the wild because they would get hunted by the birds, unlike the dark-coloured variant that had evolved to be camouflaged on the sooty trees and buildings surrounding the cities.
Apprehension shot through her. Who was she to trap such a disadvantaged creature? She was sure the moth had friends, a family, maybe even little moth babies … it had a life. It sounded stupid because it was only a moth, and insects didn’t have family. Or maybe they did? Who was she to judge? The universe worked in mysterious ways. She only had to look at herself in the nineteenth century as a testament to that. Still, she felt a deep sadness at capturing a free soul.
“It’ll fly off if ye dinnae catch it,” Elias said.
Startled out of her thoughts, she looked at the small jar in her hand. She couldn’t do it.
“Ye have reservations?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe … okay, yes. Maybe I do.”
“Because ye would trap a critter?”
“It’s stupid, but I don’t think I want that responsibility.”
Elias smiled sadly. “I understand ye. Shall we leave this one be?”
She looked at the moth. Let it be. Like she wanted for her own life.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“All right, but ye’ll owe Duncan a beer.”
“That’ll make his night,” she said.
Elias looked down at her with a reassuring smile.
Feeling ashamed, she could barely manage to hold his gaze. Sadness pulled her down. She didn’t want to continue hunting moths. She didn’t think she could handle seeing them in jars with their wings pounding against the glass while their spirits dwindled away. A life of entrapment was a horrible one. It brought on a tangle of emotion: anger at the injustice, sadness from the hopelessness, and a violent desperation to do anything within your capability to break free. It made her think of her months stuck as a cripple at the Randall farm, of Phoebe as a slave, and Henry permanently indebted to his father by threats…
Her heart halted.
“Actually, do you mind if I retire for the night?” she said.
His brow rose. “Are ye all right?”
“I’m fine, just tired. Good luck on the hunt,” she said, turning away. “I’ll see you for breakfast.”
She wasn’t tired. She was struck by a sickening feeling brought on by the acknowledgement of Henry’s situation. Since her kidnapping, she hadn’t allowed herself to think back on what was factually true – that Henry was at the mercy of Edwin Asheford. Lottie had even alluded to the fact that Henry followed his father’s demands because of threats against her. Had his marriage been another command? If it had been, why did Henry not tell her? Why would he have her deliberately kidnapped and left for dead?
He did tell you to leave. That he would surrender you to his father. Is that not proof enough of his betrayal?
Head whirling, she tried to forget these complicated questions. One vision unwillingly burned in her mind. It was that of a moth, its wings broken from pounding them against the jar that entrapped it.