She looked about the group, but no one said a word for a long while.
“So what do you propose, Mertensia?” Tiberius asked at length.
“Let it go,” she said simply. “Do not speak to the authorities on the mainland.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Do you think you can simply cover this up?”
“We have covered up worse on this island,” she retorted. “Romillys have smuggled and pirated in these waters for centuries and the mainlanders know nothing of it.”
Caspian came to his aunt’s side in support. “At least in this we are on the side of what is right, even you must admit that,” he challenged, lifting his chin as he regarded Tiberius.
“I must admit nothing,” he countered coldly. “You forget yourself, Caspian. And you forget the most important thing in this business. Rosamund. She was the beginning of it all, and she has no proper burial. I will report this to the authorities,” he promised.
Helen came forward, joining her son and her sister-in-law. “I understand that you have suffered,” she began gently. “But must we all go on suffering? Think of the scandal it will cause. For you as well as for us. There will be no escaping it.”
Tiberius drained off the last of his drink. “I will report Rosamund’s murder and I will insist on a search being made for her body. I will take this island apart, stone by stone, until she is found. And if there is nothing left of St. Maddern’s Isle or the Romillys or the Atlantic Ocean itself by the time I am finished, I don’t bloody well care.”
Caspian stepped forwards, standing toe-to-toe with Tiberius, sloshing a bit of brandy out of his glass as he gestured theatrically. “I will not let you harm my family,” he said, his voice cracking only a little.
Tiberius slanted him a thin smile. “My dear boy, you cannot possibly stop me.”
He set his glass down with great care and stood, shooting his cuffs as he surveyed the aghast faces. “I will be leaving on the morning tide,” he said. “Consider this my farewell to you all.”
He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Helen gave a low sound of protest while Mertensia uttered a swearword she might have learnt from Stoker, so eloquently profane was it. Caspian went to set his glass upon the mantel, but it slipped through his nerveless fingers, dripping amber liquid onto the hearthstones. Past caring, he threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“We are ruined,” he said.
“You tried,” his mother said by way of consolation. “And it was a valiant effort, poppet. I have never been prouder of you. You stood up to a peer of the realm!”
“What difference does it make?” he demanded, dropping his hands. “I say, we are ruined.”
I stared at the hearth, watching the brandy puddle on the dark stone, thinking of Mrs. Trengrouse. Stoker came to stand at my side.
“It seems such a short time ago that I stood with Mrs. Trengrouse, sipping brandy and talking about ghosts,” I mused.
“Fortune’s wheel turns on a—did you say sipping brandy with Mrs. Trengrouse? She was teetotal.”
“She liked a little stiffener,” I confided.
“But she avoided the island wine,” Stoker pointed out. “Even to test the quality of it before she added it to the barrel in the cellar.”
I stared at him. “Do not even suggest it,” I hissed.
He grabbed my hand, heedless of the stares of the others. I clasped his as we proceeded at a dead run through the kitchens and to the ironwork door giving onto the cellars. He stopped, cursing. “Locked and no doubt Mrs. Trengrouse still has the key.”
I fetched two hairpins out of my Psyche knot and handed them over. He fitted them to the lock and with a moment’s deft manipulation had the thing opened.
“You are going to teach me how to do that,” I warned. He opened the door and I hurtled through, leading the way down the stone stairs to the cellars, Stoker hard upon my heels. We stopped just short of the great barrel, staring at it in mute horror.
“I cannot bear to think of it,” I managed at last.
“It is the only place we have not looked,” he said simply. “And Mrs. Trengrouse was tasked with searching for Rosamund in all the nooks and crannies of the castle. Including the cellars.”
“She could have taken her body out to sea and dumped her,” I argued.
“It is too far. She might have been seen,” he countered.
I sighed and gestured towards the axe hanging on the wall. “You will need that.
“The notion of being seen did not seem to trouble her when she sent us to our doom,” I said as he retrieved the axe.
“It was dark and the mist was rising and it was the day after a heavy storm. There was little danger of her being seen,” he pointed out. “Rosamund vanished on a bright summer’s day.” He took a firm grip upon the axe and paused. “Veronica,” he said, and I turned, seeing the expression of anguished reluctance on his face.
“I know.” I stepped back and gestured towards the largest of the wine barrels. “Do it.”
He hefted the axe and swung it over his head. It took three blows before he shattered the side of the barrel. There was a pause, a breathless moment where nothing happened, and then the wine burst forth, rivers of it as darkly scarlet as old blood, pouring onto the floor. After that came the arm, a slender limb wrapped in bridal satin, stained the color of grapeskins. At the end of the arm was a graceful hand, and on the fourth finger of the hand, a ring—a slim band of gold—shining dully in the shadows.
“My God,” Stoker breathed. And I knew that for once it was not a curse. It was a prayer.
* * *
• • •
We did not tell Tiberius until we had removed her from the cask, laying her out and straightening her wedding gown as the last of the wine dripped from the barrel. I wiped her face and arms with a clean cloth dipped in vinegar and Stoker found a sheet to cover her to the neck. Her hair was sodden with wine and badly stained, but what was left of her expression was calm.
I do not like to think of the next hours. Tiberius was shattered by the sight of her. He retreated to his chamber without a word and it was left to Mertensia to make the necessary arrangements. It was midnight before Caspian and Stoker had finished the digging, but when all was prepared, Mertensia summoned us to the poison garden, giving each of us a taper as we gathered beneath the solemn watch of the figurehead.
“What is this?” Tiberius demanded.
Mertensia stepped forward. “You told Caspian you would not leave us in peace until and unless she was buried. That is what I mean to do.”
“Here?” Tiberius looked around. “This is not hallowed ground.”
“This is a garden,” she told him. “The first place of God’s own creation for mankind. It is as hallowed a place as anyone could wish. If you want hymns, we shall sing them. If you want prayers, we shall make them.”
Tiberius hesitated. “Malcolm ought to be here.”
“Malcolm is not well,” she said, new authority steadying her voice as she stood toe-to-toe with him. “I will explain everything when he is capable of comprehending it. For now, he will rest.”
Tiberius turned in a slow circle, taking it in. Just behind was the stone wall covered in lady of the night, the scent perfuming the night air. The serene face of the figurehead called Mercy watched over it all with opaque eyes.
“Very well,” he said hoarsely. “Do it.”
There had been no time for a coffin. Mertensia had unearthed draperies from the attics, heavy golden brocade, and Rosamund had been wrapped carefully in these. With infinite gentleness, Caspian and Stoker moved to place her in the grave. When she had been laid neatly, we each took up a handful of the piled earth and dropped it onto the shimmering cloth, offering a peaceful passing to the young woman who would rest forever in the garden at the edge of the sea.
Finally, it was Tiberius’ turn. We stepped backwards to give him a moment of privacy as he slipped to his knees at the edge of the grave. I heard his voice, a low murmur that went on for a long time as he spoke one last time to the love of his life. I heard, too, the dull noise when the soil in his hand dropped to the golden cloth. He rose and took the shovel from Caspian’s grasp. Together, he and Stoker finished the long, laborious task of filling in the grave. When they had finished, Stoker put a hand to his brother’s shoulder and Tiberius covered it with his own for a brief moment. Then he shrugged it away and went to the Cestrum, the lady of the night, cutting a long sprig of it to place upon the mound of earth. It was white and fragrant and looked very much like a bridal bouquet. We stood for a long time in that garden as the moon rose above us, shedding its pearly light, and over it all spread the scent of the starry jasmine blossoms blowing away and over the sea.
* * *
• • •
By the next morning, all was decided. When Malcolm had recovered himself enough to travel, Caspian and Helen were taking him on a long tour of Italy. A foreign country with no acquaintance to ask questions was just the thing. They expected to be gone at least a year while Malcolm made peace with all that had happened. In the meantime, Mertensia would act as master of St. Maddern’s Isle, and given the decisiveness and authority she had exhibited on that fateful night, I had little doubt the island would be in good hands.
The news of Mrs. Trengrouse’s passing was accepted with relief on all sides, although Tiberius looked as if he regretted the fact that her end had been a tranquil one. It took a little gentle debate before Mrs. Trengrouse’s fate was decided and, in the end, it was Stoker’s suggestion which prevailed. He had discovered in his conversations with the local fishermen that burials at sea were sometimes held surreptitiously for those who had died quietly at home and preferred the consolations of the deep to those of the churchyard. He explained that the current had shifted and that anything put on the outgoing tide would be carried away. And so her body was taken down to the shingle beach on the western edge of the isle. She was laid into a small boat and pushed out to sea as the tide turned, bearing her over the horizon.
“It is better than she deserves,” Tiberius said as we watched the tiny craft bob and toss on the waves.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But justice has been meted. And the dead can rest at last.”
* * *
• • •
We packed and prepared to leave the castle the following week. We had all been affected by the strange events, and Mertensia and Caspian, for once, had been grateful of company. I spent much time with Mertensia in the garden, preparing my beautiful glasswing specimens and learning their habits. Stoker and I still had not talked to one another again about the night on the First Sister, the night when so many things had been said that could not be unspoken. But the anticipation of what lay before us simmered within me, and more than once I caught his eyes upon me, warm with intention.
Our last afternoon, I had gone down to the village after luncheon to take my leave of Mother Nance, which entailed many tankards of cider and a few more cryptic remarks. “A long journey you’ll be taking,” she told me, winking, as she raised her tankard to mine. “Mark me well, m’dear.”
I made my way slowly up the path towards the top of St. Maddern’s, the last of the summer sunshine warm upon my back as I walked. I passed through the gate leading to the castle grounds just as Stoker appeared.
He stopped when he reached me, his eyes alight.
“Good afternoon,” I said formally. We had spent the last week in a froth of anticipation, hardly daring to be in the same room together, so violent were our longings. I had lain awake more than one night, torturing myself with frankly indecent thoughts, and I had noticed Stoker had taken to swimming in the cold Atlantic waters twice a day to dampen his ardor.
A slow smile spread over his face.
I looped my arms about his neck. “I am rather sorry to see the end of our time here,” I told him.
“I am not,” he said. “I have plans for you in London.”
“London,” I breathed, closing my eyes.
“London,” he repeated. “Where it will be just the two of us. No Tiberius, no Romillys. No murderers, no former wives, no moldering corpses. Just us.”
He bent his head to a fervent demonstration of his intentions. Just as he began to make significant progress, a little cough sounded behind us. Stoker’s teeth, strong and sharp, nipped once, hard, upon my lobe as he gave a little growl of frustration.
“What, Peter?” he demanded of the little boy who stood patiently grinning behind us, waving a piece of paper.
“Telegram for the lady,” he pronounced. Stoker fished in his pocket for a coin whilst I skimmed the lines.
“It is from Lady Wellie. The Whitechapel murderer has struck again,” I said. “She does not say what she wants with us, only that we must return immediately and that it is a matter of life and death.”
I half expected him to protest, but I should have known him better than that. Adventure roared in his blood as it did in mine, and once more we would embark together.
“So, another adventure,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his features, illuminating his face like a pagan god. “Shall we begin? Hand in hand?”
“And back to back,” I added with a grin. “The better to see our enemies.” Back to back was also how butterflies copulated, but I thought it best to save such an observation for a more intimate moment.
“Come on, then,” he directed.
I grabbed his hand and raced with him into the westering sun. “Excelsior!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Romilly Glasswing butterfly, Oleria romillia, is fictitious, invented for the purposes of this book but based upon a genus of clearwing butterflies first named in 1934. These brush-footed specimens are native to the Americas and, while smaller than the imaginary Romilly Glasswings, are every bit as beautiful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the warmest of welcomes and the utmost support, I owe much gratitude to everyone at Penguin/Berkley with special recognition of my superb and gifted editor, Danielle Perez, as well as Craig Burke, Loren Jaggers, Claire Zion, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Jessica Mangicaro, Jennifer Snyder, Christine Ball, and Ivan Held. Huge and heartfelt thanks to the art department for their inspired work and to the sales, marketing, editorial, and PR teams who give so much. I will forever be indebted to Ellen Edwards for seeing the potential in Veronica and bringing her home.
For an exquisite copyedit and coldread, my compliments and thanks to Eileen Chetti and Jeff Campbell.
For two decades of advice, friendship, and business expertise, I am immensely grateful to my agent, Pam Hopkins.
Gratitude and much love to the people who have given me so much support and given Veronica a splendid launch: Blake Leyers, Ali Trotta, Joshilyn Jackson, Ariel Lawhon, Delilah Dawson, Rhys Bowen, Alan Bradley, Susan Elia MacNeal, Robin Carr, and Lauren Willig. Many thanks to Benjamin Dreyer, Duchess Goldblatt, and the Blanket Fort for laughter and consolation.
I am so very grateful for the practical diligence of my assistant, Jomie Wilding, and the Writerspace team for all things digital.
A very special nod of thanks to Kim Wright for telling me a chilling story and ending with the words, “I hope you use this in a book someday.”
My love and gratitude, as ever, to the most supportive family imaginable.
For everything, for always, my husband.
Readers Guide for
A DANGEROUS COLLABORATION
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Tiberius brings Veronica to the island under false pretenses. Why does he hide the full truth? Do you think she would have come if he had been honest from the beginning?
St. Maddern’s Isle is a unique setting. How does Mertensia�
��s poison garden add to the atmosphere? How does it add to her role as a healer?
Malcolm seems unable to move forward with his life as long as Rosamund’s disappearance remains a mystery. How important is closure in moving on?
Rosamund chose practicality and security over a dangerous love that would have threatened her emotional independence. Was she right to do so? Would you?
Caspian and Mertensia are possible heirs to the island. Which of them would be more suitable to assume control of St. Maddern’s? Why?
Mertensia feels Rosamund usurped her role on the island. In what ways did she do so? What recourse would Mertensia have had if Rosamund had been mistress of St. Maddern’s?
Veronica and Helena have both been forced to earn a living but have chosen different paths. How do their choices reflect the limitations on Victorian women?
Stoker risks a tremendous sacrifice. Was it for Tiberius or Veronica? Or both? How would you characterize his relationship with them?
Was justice served in the end? Do all villains need to be brought before the law or is nature’s justice as valid?
How do you think Stoker and Veronica’s relationship will develop after their return to London?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deanna Raybourn is the author of the award-winning, New York Times bestselling Lady Julia Grey series, currently in development for television, as well as the Veronica Speedwell Mysteries and several standalone novels.
* A Treacherous Curse
A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Page 33
