by Vered Ehsani
I stared at him, willing him to explain how that was possible when I’d seen my wolf energy leap at Gideon’s throat.
A large tear streaked down the professor’s hairy face. “You’ve carried the guilt all these years, for which I apologize, I sincerely do. But Gideon was already dead before your wolf attacked. He was a threat to our plans, a great threat indeed. I’d been ordered to slip something into his tea. It was merely a tidy coincidence that the poison took effect at the time of our altercation.”
“Tidy coincidence?” I said, my voice rising at the end to a wail. “You murdered my parents and my husband, kidnapped my brother and manipulated me, and you think of it as a tidy coincidence?”
Beside me, Gideon’s face was contorted by whatever emotions gripped him and rendered him unable to speak.
“Beatrice, my dear, I…” the professor said, starting to stand, his arms reaching out to me as if to hug me, as if I would allow that ever again.
“You should pay for all these crimes,” I hissed, “but there’s no punishment great enough to compensate me for what you’ve done.”
“I know,” he said, his eyes drooping.
I pushed the walking stick’s bronze fist against his chest. “I’d like you to leave,” I said, my voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. “And never, ever return here.”
“Because if you do,” Gideon pushed each word out, “I swear to you I’ll invade a certain automaton I know of, track you down and tear you to pieces.”
Prof. Runal ignored Gideon, mistakenly assuming the threat to be an empty one, and pleaded with me, “Beatrice, please forgive an old man. I know I have no right to ask this of you, and I will spend the rest of my days apologizing for the crimes of the past.” He inhaled deeply and rushed on. “I fear for you, so far away. Originally, I believed it the right decision, to have you located here, but now…”
“So Mr. Elkhart was correct,” I interrupted, thinking back to a conversation I’d had with the bat man in a cave some time ago. “You arranged for the Stewards to be sent here.”
Gideon scoffed at that. “That’s a bit farfetched, Bee. Isn’t it?”
But Prof. Runal didn’t laugh the idea away. “Well, it solved a few problems facing us at the time. But now, I’m not so sure, especially as the dwarf knows…”
“The dwarf,” I spat out, “is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve had to face. At least I know where I stand with him. He’s demented but he never lied to me. But you.” I scanned him up and down, my mouth twisted with the disgust I felt curdling in my stomach and the rage broiling through my veins. “Because of you, my entire life has been a series of falsehoods and tragedies.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. But there’s a bigger picture here, Beatrice,” Prof. Runal said, making me marvel at the delusion that gripped my former mentor.
“Bigger than my kidnapped and infected brother?” I asked. “Bigger than the murder of my parents and my husband?”
“Yes, even bigger than those, much bigger,” he said, so confident in his twisted vision of the world that he failed to see the furious light in my eyes. “The dwarf is only a symptom of a larger conflict. There’s more at stake than…”
“Get out,” I screamed, finally relenting to the torrent of emotion twisting within me. “Get. Out. Now!”
I tottered from the room, slamming the door behind me. I ignored the startled face of Mr. Steward as he peered out into the corridor to determine the reason for my distress. Something in my expression forbade him from asking.
Once inside my room, I locked the door, collapsed onto my bed and sobbed myself to sleep to the tune of Gideon’s sweet, sad singing.
In the morning, Prof. Runal was gone.
Chapter 32
Two weeks can pass with great rapidity when one is planning a wedding.
They can also drag by when one is wrestling with a newly acquired understanding of one’s history.
I spent the first few days following Prof. Runal’s departure moping about and seemingly preparing for a funeral rather than a wedding.
“When I was in your position, nothing could persuade me to present even the remotest of frowns to the world,” Mrs. Steward lectured me, bewildered by my miserable presentation. “You are making a match with an eligible…” She hesitated and finished with, “Man.”
That brought a slight smile to my lips, for Mrs. Steward didn’t consider Mr. Timmons a gentleman; his case only proved once again that wealth provides allowance for all sorts of inconsiderate and anti-social behavior.
“You should be fussing about your dress, the seating arrangement of your guests and other vital details,” my aunt continued, “not staring out a window all the day long.”
Having been fully apprised of my recent adventure as well as my altercation and severe dissociation with my former mentor, Cilla was far more compassionate but just as firm in her resolve to shake me out of my despondency.
“Bee, if a wedding can’t cheer you,” she said, her small cherub mouth pinched up with concern, “then what can?”
“Chocolate,” I unhesitatingly replied, for it was the only possible answer to such a question.
Shockingly, chocolate wasn’t considered a priority in the minds of those who procured supplies for the camp. The dearth of cocoa-based euphoria was due to the unfortunate fact that only men placed the orders. Thus this essential element in emotional wellbeing was not easily obtained.
Cilla remained stoically undeterred in the face of such discouraging facts.
“If I bring you some,” she bargained, “will you at last focus on the wedding and forget all about this dismal business?”
Such a pledge was difficult to make, for the ‘dismal business’ was nothing less than the tragic history of my family, and the involvement of a man I’d trusted and admired as a father. Nevertheless, I promised to try and Cilla returned later that day with a precious supply of felicity in the form of a small block of chocolate.
“Stolen from my uncle’s secret stash,” she confided in me with a giggle, her plump cheeks rosy and sweet. At that, the esteem I held for my future husband was further increased, for any man who maintained a supply of chocolate was worthy indeed.
Thus fortified, I shook off the somber mood. From that day forth, I focused my mind and energy on the wedding, much to Mrs. Steward’s relief and Mr. Steward’s discomfort, for of course a happy bride is an expensive one. The days began to slip by with greater ease.
A few days before the event, a flustered Mrs. Steward rushed to my room.
“Bee, dear, you have a gentleman caller,” she announced, her wobbly chin shaking with great vigor. She leaned in closer and whispered, “And it’s not Mr. Timmons but his brother, I believe. And a civil gentleman at that.”
As Mr. Timmons had never mentioned any relative to me, I was easily persuaded to investigate the matter.
On the veranda, a distinguished and finely dressed man leaned against the railing, gazing out at the distant view of the camp, the growing town and the savannah beyond. While not of the latest fashion, the clothes were neatly tailored to fit his form and impressive enough in this place. As I stepped outside, he half turned to face me, and for a moment, I couldn’t be sure who it was.
“Mr. Timmons?” I asked, peering at the well-groomed man before me.
He grinned. “Were you expecting another gentleman caller then?”
“None with that devilish glint,” I retorted. “Fashionable attire and a haircut suit you well.”
Mr. Timmons rubbed at his neatly trimmed sideburns. His wild hair was pulled back in a tidy ponytail.
Yes, quite well indeed, I thought.
He offered me his arm and we meandered out into the wild plot of land that we referred to as our garden, while staying within sight of Mrs. Steward who was all astonishment and had collapsed on a veranda chair. When we reached the shade of the jacaranda tree, he paused our stroll.
“So you’re satisfied with Cilla’s efforts?” he asked.
&n
bsp; “It’s her I should thank, is it?” I replied.
“I suppose,” he said.
“Mr. Timmons, are you all right?” I asked. “You seem a bit out of sorts.”
I lowered my voice, although there was nothing nearby apart from the noisy weaverbirds above us. Mrs. Steward was out of hearing range and besides was occupied with shouting at Jonas to fetch something or other. “It’s not too late if you’ve had second thoughts.”
I couldn’t resist a glance at my metal hand. If he declined to continue, I would manage well enough, but I had just started to accept that perhaps there would be a happy ending to my life after all.
Mr. Timmons tucked a finger under my chin and lifted it so I was forced to stare into his eyes; they shone with a gentle fierceness I was becoming perilously accustomed to.
“Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “Sometimes your imagination does carry on too much. Are you satisfied with me?”
It was such an odd question coming from a man who seemed to care little about the opinions of others that I stuttered, “Of course.”
“And my appearance,” he pressed on with a frown. “Is it agreeable?”
The conversation was stranger than the story about that Alice girl and the talking rabbit, but I refrained from admonishing him. Instead, I promptly said, “More than.”
“So you don’t prefer that I change something?” he asked, his eyes narrowing into grey shards of skepticism.
I pulled away from him, folded my arms over my chest and declared, “No, categorically no. What is all the fuss about?”
The tension left his face and he smiled. He was, I realized in bewilderment, relieved.
Based on some experience and much observation, I deduced that there was only one cause of such behavior in a man: love. I suspected that the motivation behind his questioning most certainly involved another woman, and presumably one for whom he had carried great affection at one time or other. I instantly loathed her, this woman from his past. Never mind that his previous love was no more; she had hurt him and that was enough to earn my ire.
I placed my right hand on his arm. “I’ll marry you just as you are, thank you very much, Mr. Timmons. Even if you prefer to wear your out-of-date clothes and sport untidy hair.”
“Untidy? Out of date?” he repeated, pretending an outrage he clearly didn’t feel.
“That’s correct,” I said. “Although since we’re on that topic, I much prefer your present attire.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Knight,” he said solemnly.
While I would’ve preferred nothing better than to stand under a tree with Mr. Timmons, duty called, or rather Mrs. Steward did, shouting my name so that the entire savannah could hear.
The only benefit of being under Mrs. Steward’s tutelage on the proper way to organize a wedding was that the remaining days passed with remarkable swiftness. By the morning of the wedding, the garden had been transformed into something approximating a suitable venue, with chairs procured from every possible source. The result was a hodgepodge of styles and eras which vexed Mrs. Steward to no end (“They don’t match, not even remotely!”) and I found endearing.
In the absence of a father, Mr. Steward offered to escort me down the aisle of chairs under a canopy of blue sky. The first person I noticed in the throng of seated guests was Cilla, because she was waving to me. Beside her sat Drew. He’d cleaned up almost as well as Mr. Timmons had, and I couldn’t help but note that the two were sitting very cozy together. Cilla blushed and I smiled at them. I then forgot all about the onlookers, for Mr. Timmons caught my eye next and held it for the remainder of the ceremony.
The long line of well-wishers afterward were a blur of faces, for only one face really mattered, one with unfashionable but neatly trimmed sideburns and grey eyes that seemed always to be fixed on me.
“Well done, Beatrice my dear, or should I say Mrs. Timmons?” Mrs. Steward said as the line ended and we walked to the buffet. She spoke with a profuse amount of sniffing while dabbing her lavender-scented handkerchief against her powdered cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day, but here we are and here you are, a properly married woman once again. Let us hope that this time…”
“That will be all, dear,” Mr. Steward said, interrupting her before she said something utterly inappropriate, and guided her away.
“I will miss her,” I mused.
“You can visit every day, if you wish,” Mr. Timmons suggested.
“No, that’s all right,” I said, eyeing the food. “Once a week should be sufficient.”
“Mrs. Beeton would approve,” he said with a chuckle.
We sat amongst our circle of the paranormally initiated, and over-indulged in food, drink and laughter. After much of that, Cilla and Drew excused themselves to enjoy a stroll amongst the guests.
“To let the meal settle,” Cilla explained.
Lilly laughed at the pretext, while Mr. Elkhart and Dr. Ribeiro ignored the situation altogether.
As more people wandered off, Dr. Ribeiro glanced about, then said in a low voice, “You are remembering, Miss Knight, when I was telling you about two most very odd patients?”
I wondered if I should correct him. Shouldn’t I be referred to as Mrs. Timmons now? Mr. Timmons didn’t seem fussed by what name people used, but it was something to consider. I decided to tackle that social conundrum on another occasion.
“When was that?” I asked.
“That time I was testing on your brother,” he said.
“What were you testing on him?” I asked.
“No, no,” he said with a head waggle. “I was merely testing his blood, Miss Knight. Do you remember? In the barn?”
I glanced over at Drew and Cilla, who had paused their stroll nearby. Drew seemed entirely absorbed by the color of Cilla’s eyes and wasn’t in the least concerned about what the doctor might have been testing.
“Yes, vaguely,” I said. “What of it?”
“Well, Miss Knight,” Dr. Ribeiro said as he leaned in closer. “I have found the very cause of that odd ailment of those two patients. But I am so worried of announcing it.”
“Oh?” Lilly said as she eyed one of the guests passing by. “I think she should be more worried about the color of that dress. It truly is ghastly.”
I shook my head; some of Lilly’s preoccupations hadn’t changed in the least and I was grateful for that. “What worries you, Dr. Ribeiro?”
“Well, miss, I am strongly believing it is a plague.” He sat back and waited for our reactions.
Mr. Timmons pressed his face into my hair and breathed in deeply.
“A plague, hm?” he murmured.
“Yes, Mr. Timmons, a plague,” Dr. Ribeiro said with a waggle of his head. “Most certainly it is.”
“I’m sure you can handle it,” I said in between giggles.
Dr. Ribeiro frowned, an unusual expression on his jolly face, and asked, “Did I remember to mention I’m suspecting it’s the bubonic plague?”
We all looked to him then. Mr. Elkhart raised his fine eyebrows and said, “I do believe you neglected that part.”
“Well, it is bubonic,” the doctor said with another head waggle.
“Oh good, another pending disaster,” Lilly muttered. “And it almost overshadows that dress.”
“It is being much more serious though,” Dr. Ribeiro insisted.
“So is that dress,” Lilly commented.
“Surely this can wait until tomorrow, doctor,” Mr. Elkhart said. “We are after all at a wedding.”
Dr. Ribeiro cocked his head to the side, pondered the options and nodded his head. “Yes, yes, I think the disaster can be waiting one more day, or maybe even two.”
“Marvelous,” Mr. Elkhart quipped.
I sighed contentedly and leaned against Mr. Timmons. “Yes, indeed it is.”
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Read on to find out what was fact and what was fiction.
Facts & Fiction
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What’s fact and what’s rubbish? Below are the facts and fictions as I understand them. And don’t forget to keep reading in order to receive your free book.
Fact: The Rational Dress Society did exist and focused on the health impacts of London fashion, which overly constricted women’s ability to breathe. They highly approved of the women’s cycling costume as a safer outfit to wear while on a bicycle.
Fact: The Zeppelin is named after the German Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin (surprise, surprise). The Count pioneered rigid airship development: he formulated his first ideas in 1874 and completed detailed designs by 1893. The first flight took place on 2 July 1900 over Lake Constance, Germany.
Fiction: Nameless couldn’t have had a Zeppelin to carry Mrs. Elkhart and Mrs. Knight away in early February 1900, as Count Zeppelin hadn’t built a prototype (secret or otherwise) by that time.
Fiction: Mrs. Knight can’t claim credit for her infamous quote about keeping one’s wits and borrowing money when a baby is born. That credit goes to Elinor Goulding Smith, who wrote: “It sometimes happens, even in the best of families, that a baby is born. This is not necessarily cause for alarm. The important thing is to keep your wits about you and borrow some money.”
Fact: The dwarf-like, diabolical creature that oozed out of the silver jar was a Biloko. The Biloko roam the unexplored regions of the rainforest in Central Africa. Restless ancestor spirits who still harbor resentment toward the living, they hide in hollow trees and zealously guard the forest and its living creatures. They bewitch and eat trespassers.
