A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He smiled. “Are you familiar with Cornish folk, Miss Speedwell? We are a superstitious lot. We cannot see a simple geological formation without attaching a myth to it. But sometimes, just sometimes, there is more than myth at work. The story goes that when the castle was built, this isle was the only one, but that the owner of the castle had four beautiful daughters, so beautiful he was jealous of them, and guarded them so that they would never love anyone but him.”

  “He sounds a dreadful bore,” I remarked. “And possessive to boot.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “And no doubt his daughters agreed, for three of them built themselves a boat in secret, and one day, when he was not watching, they set out to sea in their little craft, determined to escape him once and for all.”

  “What happened to them?” I asked.

  “It is said that the father was so angry, he summoned up three rocks from the depths of the sea and the little boat was dashed upon them, killing his three eldest daughters.”

  “How could a mere man raise islands, no matter how powerful his rage?” I asked.

  “Ah, he was no ordinary man,” Malcolm Romilly told me. “Have you heard of pellar families?”

  “I have made the acquaintance of Mother Nance,” I replied.

  “Ah, then you have met our resident witch,” he said with some satisfaction. “It’s all nonsense, of course, but the legends draw sailors to our shores and coin to our businesses, so we must nurture them.”

  I cast my mind back to the stories of my childhood. I remembered clothbound books of faery stories and one, of drowned blue, that talked of mermaids and selkies and other magic of the seas. “Mother Nance told me that pellar families are given special powers, derived from consorting with mermaids, I believe.”

  “Indeed! A pellar family is a family not to be trifled with in these parts. In each case, an ancestor has rendered aid to or fallen in love with a mermaid. In return, they were given a precious gift. In some cases, it is the second sight or an ability to foretell doom. In others it is healing magic or a way with animals.”

  “And the Romillys are a pellar family?”

  He smiled ruefully, the expression warming his face to real handsomeness. “You mustn’t believe Mother Nance’s tall tales,” he teased. “The first Romilly to own the Isle came over with William the Conqueror and was given this island in return for his service. He married a Saxon maiden and built a proper castle here to maintain William’s defenses and then set about breeding a line of very dutiful descendants who have served their kings ever since. Dull and worthy people,” he finished, the smile deepening.

  I protested. “Mother Nance’s story is much more engaging.”

  “Ah, yes, the one where the first Romilly caught a mermaid in his net. There’s a third story, somewhere in between, that says my ancestor married the last of the pellar maidens, the youngest of the sisters who perished upon the rocks. She did not set sail with her sisters, so she alone survived, bringing pellar blood into the family.”

  “A much better story,” I told him. “But you must finish it. What happened to her father, the sad old man who cursed his daughters?”

  He shrugged. “The legends do not say. Perhaps he walked out into the sea and drowned himself. That has been a popular method of ending one’s misery here. Or perhaps he drank himself to death or was struck by lightning or died in his bed of comfortable old age.” He fell quiet a moment and I wondered if he were considering his missing bride and the dire fate she might have met. His eyes were shadowed, and I hastened to fill the silence.

  “Or perhaps his youngest daughter avenged her sisters and helped him along,” I suggested.

  He raised a brow. “My dear Miss Speedwell, what a ghoulish imagination you have!”

  “It seems like a rough sort of justice. One could hardly blame her,” I argued.

  His smile was sad. “No, one could hardly blame her. Well, that’s enough of me prattling on about family stories. I am quite certain I have bored you to sobs.” He hung the map back on the wall.

  “Perhaps you would care to walk out a little. The rain has stopped, I think.”

  He led the way out onto the terrace beyond his study, guiding me down a series of staircases until we came to a tiny stretch of beach on the western edge of the island, the same that had been marked upon the map. It was a mixture of rock and shingle and sand, liberally festooned with seaweed. Heavy drops of fog pearled our hair. “Here now, you can see the Sisters properly,” he told me, pointing in the distance. The shifting patches of mist obscured the islands on the horizon, but now and then a bit of wind would blow the edges of the cloud ragged and I could just make out the three shapes.

  Malcolm gestured towards the small rowing boat beached at the water’s edge.

  “The storms will come and go for a few days more. It always happens at summer’s end on the Isle, but once they clear, one of us will be happy to row you to the First Sister, if you would like. The nearest one is little better than a rock, but the views are superb and the bird life is most interesting. It makes for quite a pleasant outing with a hamper from Mrs. Trengrouse,” he added.

  “I should like that,” I told him.

  “I must warn you against rowing yourself,” he advised, his expression suddenly anxious. “We leave the boat about, but we really oughtn’t. The passage between here and the First Sister is deceptively calm. The currents change often, and it takes a strong rower to navigate the challenges.”

  “I am a good rower, but I promise not to take a boat without permission.”

  He smiled and he looked boyish suddenly and winsome. “Good. If the sea is calm enough, you can take the oars for a bit. My father always insisted on every houseguest who wanted to take a boat being given a test—if you could not row right round the island, you were forbidden from so much as getting into a boat. I am not quite so draconian. But it is good to be cautious in these waters, and I would not have you miss one of our best beauties out there,” he added with a nod towards the Sisters.

  “It sounds quite tranquil.”

  “It is. One would think the Isle could provide such peace, but we are a bustling little place, what with a blacksmith and cider presses and quarries. On the Sisters, one has only the gulls for company, and the occasional seal.”

  “And perhaps a mermaid?”

  “Perhaps. Although they have been in short supply these past centuries.”

  He fell silent then and I thought of his lost bride and wondered about her fate. Had she met with mischance, falling to a murderer’s dastardly intentions? Or had she run away from a marriage she could not face? If she had left of her own accord, that raised the question of how she had made her escape. Did she take a boat, veil tossing in the wind? Had she rowed herself to one of the Sisters to meet someone? More to the point, what had driven her to abandon her bridegroom on their wedding day? It seemed impossible that this attractive man could have said or done anything to frighten or alarm her.

  And yet. Had I not just witnessed a fine display of temper directed at his nephew? For all his courtly ways, Malcolm Romilly had a way with rage. Had Rosamund ever borne the brunt of it? Had he frightened her somehow?

  They were questions I could not ask. I turned to Malcolm, who still stared at the Sisters. “I wonder . . .” he whispered.

  “Mr. Romilly?” I prompted.

  He shook himself. “Malcolm, please. I apologize for my inattention. Building castles in Spain, I’m afraid. A common failing of mine, as anyone will tell you. Now, I suspect you would like to know more about the glasswing butterflies,” he said, turning to guide me back up the staircases and into the library. He moved to the bookshelf behind his desk, running his hand down the rank of books before plunging in to retrieve a large volume bound in bottle-green kid. “Here we are. Butterflies of St. Maddern’s Isle by Euphrosyne Romilly. She was an ancestor of mine, one of the first aurelians,”
he told me.

  He handed it to me and I opened it to find pages of illustrations, each carefully tinted by hand. “These are originals!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes. Grandmama Euphrosyne had that book bound in order to keep her collection of illustrations in one place. Not only did she document every butterfly found upon the islands, she included sketches of their habitats and notes on their habits—eating, mating, duration of pupation, and other quite technical terms with which I am thoroughly unfamiliar. It is quite comprehensive.”

  “It is amazing,” I breathed, hardly daring to touch the book.

  “Take it with you,” he urged. “Study it at your leisure.”

  “Are you quite certain? It is almost impossibly valuable,” I warned him. “I realize it is important to your family collection, but within the history of English lepidoptery, this book is incalculably rare.”

  “I am entirely certain. There are notes of where to find the glasswings that might prove useful to you. Things haven’t changed all that much on the island in a century,” he told me.

  I thanked him profusely and clutched the book to my chest as I left him. I turned at the door to thank him again, but he was not looking at me. He had moved to the window and was staring out at the grey sea stretching to the horizon.

  CHAPTER

  7

  I hastened to my room with my trophy and read through teatime. I missed the bell entirely, so engrossed was I, and Mrs. Trengrouse appeared a little while after with Daisy bearing a tray. “A little morsel, miss,” the housekeeper explained, shooing the maid from the room as soon as the girl had placed her burden upon the narrow writing desk. “Tea is served downstairs, but I thought you might like something special,” she told me, and I realized this was a sort of reward for my discretion with respect to Helen Romilly’s inebriation. Mrs. Trengrouse went on. “There is a plate of wine biscuits and a glass of our own red wine if you want a bit of proper refreshment. The grapes are grown here on the island on the vineyard head.”

  I looked up from my book, blinking hard. “Vineyard head?”

  “The spit of land to the southwest. The soil and winds make it suitable for the growing of grapes. ’Tis not a fine vintage, mind you, but quite nice enough for the luncheon wines,” she assured me.

  “I am certain it will be delicious,” I told her.

  She paused and looked at the enormous book in my lap and the notebook tucked under my chin. “If you would like to work comfortably, I can have one of the lads bring up a proper table. The writing desk is fine for a lady’s letters, but that book is far too cumbersome. You would want to spread your things out a little, I should think.”

  I thought of the narrow stairs approaching my room. “That sounds like a great deal of trouble.”

  “Not in the slightest,” she told me. She left, and I returned to my book, nibbling absently at the wine biscuits and tasting the wine. It was light and flinty with a hint of something unusual, a mineral quality that I attributed to the rocky soil of the island. I preferred the heavier vintages I had sampled in Madeira and put it aside, devoting my attention to the biscuits instead. Richly spiced and tasting strongly of pepper, they were delectable and I was just finishing the last crumb when a knock sounded at the door. A burly lad entered when I bade, carrying a plain table in one hand.

  “Where shall I put this then, miss?” he asked in the soft Cornish accent of the local folk.

  “Under the window, thank you,” I instructed. He set it neatly into place and then returned in a moment with a chair, upright but comfortable and well padded. “On Mrs. Trengrouse’s instructions,” he told me, touching his brow. I smiled to myself. I had certainly worked my way into the housekeeper’s good graces, it seemed.

  A moment later, Daisy reappeared, box in hand. “Extra pens and ink, paper for writing and blotting, and a penknife in case you forgot your own. Pencils too,” she said.

  “Let me guess, Mrs. Trengrouse’s instructions,” I hazarded.

  She grinned. “Right you are, miss. I hear you went down the village way today. Did you meet anyone of interest?” She had turned away from me, using the corner of her apron to wipe nonexistent dust from the corner of the desk. I could see only her profile, but something about the curve of her lips seemed sly.

  “I did. I met Mother Nance from the inn, the one who claims to be a pellar witch.”

  “Oh, and did she tell your fortune, miss?” Her manner was a shade too eager for casual curiosity.

  “Not in so many words,” I told her in a cool tone.

  She rubbed harder at the sleek wood. “You ought to ask her, miss. She knows everything, does our Mother Nance. She can tell things that haven’t yet come to pass.”

  I smiled thinly. “I prefer a bit of mystery in my life.” I gestured towards the tray of refreshments. “Thank you for your efforts, Daisy. You may take that away.”

  She did as she was told, reluctantly it seemed, bobbing a swift curtsy as she took up the tray and vanished.

  I passed another hour in happy contemplation of the butterflies of Euphrosyne Romilly until the words swam together on the page and my posture had grown stiff, then prepared myself for the evening meal. Dinner was a strained affair. Helen was pale and quiet after her afternoon’s imbibing, content to sip at a glass of sparkling water and feed titbits under the table to her cat. Caspian was clearly in a sulk following his quarrel with his uncle, while Malcolm ignored him entirely. Mertensia talked animatedly with Stoker about various plants and the pests who fed upon them while Tiberius was content to apply his attention to the excellent food and the even better wine.

  As the meal wore on, a curious mood seemed to steal over the group, a tension whose source I could not entirely place. It was not until we finished our sweet course that Malcolm made an announcement.

  The conversation had just wound down to a natural silence when Malcolm put down his cutlery and patted his mouth. Then he took a long moment, surveying each of us as his gaze traveled around the table. “I feel the time has come to take you all into my confidence. I did not invite you here simply for the pleasure of your company.”

  He paused, seeming to steel himself. “I invited you here for a specific purpose, and I can only plead necessity as my defense. I hope that each of you will hear me out and decide to offer your help, for God knows, I have need of you all.”

  He drew in a deep breath as we exchanged glances, our faces betraying varying degrees of bewilderment. Only Tiberius did not seem surprised, and it was to him that our host turned first. “With the exceptions of yourself, Tiberius, and your brother and Miss Speedwell, everyone here was present when Rosamund disappeared. It was the darkest hour of my life. Things have not improved materially since then,” he added with a bitter twist of his lips. “Mertensia and I have withdrawn from society. We see no one. How can we? We tried to pick up the threads of our lives. We attempted normality. But every time we encountered friends, there were the awkward silences. The pauses in conversation that went on just a little too long. The subjects upon which no one would ever speak—Rosamund, weddings, drownings. And each time I felt myself withdraw further from people. It felt somehow safer. I believe Mertensia’s emotions were much the same.”

  He paused and his sister gave a grave nod. She had not eaten, I noticed, but merely tore a bread roll to bits in her fingers.

  Malcolm went on. “In the end, it became too much even to see family. And that is why Helen and Caspian have not been here.”

  “We would have come—” Helen Romilly began.

  Malcolm held up a hand. “I know. But it all just seemed so much simpler to close the doors and pull up the drawbridge, so to speak. And as time wore on, it became even easier to keep to ourselves. But now I believe it is necessary for us to discover what became of Rosamund once and for all. Only by writing a final chapter to this story can Mertensia and I move on to another. If we do not do t
his now, we will be immured here, and I think that way madness lies.”

  He paused again, letting his words settle like stones falling to the bottom of a pond.

  “Put simply, I have invited you all here because I need your help.” He looked slowly around the table. “Each of you possesses some skill that I think would be useful under the circumstances.” His gaze was apologetic as it fell upon Stoker and upon me. “As for Mr. Templeton-Vane and Miss Speedwell, you came here expecting a peaceful holiday, and I do not intend that you should disrupt your plans on my behalf. But perhaps the fresh and observant gaze of scientists would not go amiss in this undertaking.”

  “What undertaking?” Helen Romilly demanded.

  “He has some bee in his bonnet,” Mertensia pronounced. “We had a great-granny who went entirely off her head, poor lamb. I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t done the same.”

  “Mertensia,” her sister-in-law said in frigid tones, “I hardly think it is appropriate to speak of your brother in such terms.”

  Mertensia Romilly gave her a scathing look. “I forgot how tiresome you could be, Helen. Thank you for reminding me.”

  Before they could continue their spat, Malcolm intervened. “It has been three years since that dreadful day, but to me, it is as if it were yesterday. I think of her constantly. And always there remains the question, ‘What became of her?’ Did she wander off and lose her way? Did she fall into the sea? Did she run away?”

  Helen’s expression was patient, as if she were speaking with a backwards child. “I thought it was quite agreed that she left the island of her own accord. It is not pleasant to think that she might have changed her mind about the marriage, but it is the only reasonable explanation.”

  “That is what I believed,” Malcolm replied. “And it is that belief that has tortured me for three years. Why did she leave me? It was the most logical if painful explanation. I endeavored to accept it. I tried to reconcile myself to the fact that she would rather flee with no money, no prospects, than remain here and be my wife. It is a bitter thing for a man to believe,” he added with a thinning of the lips. “I knew that is what the gossips believed. It is certainly what the scandal sheets printed often enough. And these last years that has been my torment. Until now.”