• • •
Stoker and I spoke little upon our journey back to Bishop’s Folly, and when we reached the estate, a heaviness had settled upon us both. I felt tired down to my marrow, a weariness so deep the sleep of a hundred years seemed inadequate to remedy it. I was aware with creeping horror that the lowness I felt was not simply because our adventure was at an end, but because so much was left imperfectly finished. There would be no justice for the baron’s murderer, at least not at the present. Whatever my father’s presence in my life had been hitherto, it was now clear that his interest in me would never extend to a meeting. I realized then that he was the person to whom Max had referred when he said the secrets were not his to tell. He intended to consult someone, and who besides the prince himself would command Max’s discretion and loyalty? Perhaps the baron had even planned to arrange a meeting between us. I could imagine him accomplishing this rapprochement. If anyone could have persuaded the prince to come face-to-face with the daughter he had abandoned, it would have been the baron. But with the loss of this sole intermediary to remind him of his hapless youth, the prince could put it behind him, leaving the uncomfortable knowledge of my existence to Special Branch to mind for him—perhaps with an annual report he might skim and then toss aside before he settled to a good roast beef dinner and a game of whist.
But above all this was the knowledge that my time with Stoker was finished too, and that realization burned the rest to ash. Unsolved puzzles abounded at present, and Stoker himself was not the least of these. I still had not yet divined the cause of his friendship with Lady Cordelia or his antipathy for his family. I had not discovered his wife’s fate or heard the story of the man he had murdered. I was convinced he carried within him a thousand fathoms, and I had plumbed so few. I wanted to know everything about him, but I felt like Schliemann standing upon the buried walls of Troy. The truth was there, waiting to be unearthed. If only I had time . . . We were free to go our separate ways, no longer bound by investigation or curiosity or whatever strange sympathy had held us together. We were free, but this liberty felt like the bitterest imprisonment. The thought of living the rest of my life without his irascible temper to challenge me, his idle verses to cheer me, his pockets full of sweets and his mind full of secrets and sorrows . . . but it would profit me nothing to dwell upon these.
And so I sat down to dinner and made polite chat with the Beauclerks. Stoker and I exchanged glances, both of us keenly aware that our time at Bishop’s Folly must be at an end. I waited for him to explain that the investigation into the baron’s murder was in abeyance—some prevarication would be required here—and that we no longer required their hospitality. But he said nothing, and the words stuck in my throat as well. His lordship had just received a mummy he was tremendously enthused about, and he was happy to carry the weight of conversation, but Stoker could bear no more company. He excused himself as soon as the sweet was served, and Lady Cordelia rose as well.
“I ought to look in on the children,” she said vaguely, taking herself upstairs and leaving me alone with his lordship.
He shoved the decanter of port in my direction. “I may not be very good with people, Miss Speedwell, but even I could sense an atmosphere tonight. Tell me your troubles, if you like.”
Before I could stop myself, the words began to pour out of me, a trickle at first, then a torrent, aided by a sympathetic ear and quantities of a very excellent port. Naturally, I did not relate the most dangerous details of our adventure, but I told him enough for him to understand we had been in peril of our lives and that the peril seemed to have passed, at least for now. I told him of Stoker’s losses and my own dullness of feeling now that the escapade was finished, of my lowness of spirit and my horror at having large ambitions and not a generous enough purse to fund them.
To my astonishment, his lordship proved an excellent listener, and when I had concluded, he ordered strong tea for us both. It had grown late—or early, I realized, as the streaks of dawn had begun to gild the sky. Morning came early at midsummer, and we had talked through the night. But I felt cleansed now, purged of my worries, and as light as ether.
“It was very good of you not to give us away to the police,” I told him. “You are a true friend to Stoker.”
He looked uncomfortable, as all Englishmen do when complimented. “He has been a good friend to me. Or rather, my sister. The precise nature of their relationship eludes me, but Cordelia has informed me Stoker offered her friendship and succor at a time when she was most in need of it. Whatever that means,” he added with a rueful smile.
If I had hoped to hear revelations concerning the origin of their relationship, I was doomed to disappointment. His lordship was not a man to pry—as I had just learned to my own advantage. He had been a restful companion and a good listener as well as kindly.
As if intuiting my questions about why Lady Cordelia had not confided in him, he shook his head. “I am no good with ladies’ troubles.”
“You have done remarkably well with mine,” I pointed out.
He flushed a little, the same becoming rose shade as his sister when something excited her emotions. “I find listening to you to be very interesting. I have not much experience with ladies, you know. My sister, of course. And my aunt. My wife. But they were all calm, unruffled. Very capable women. None of them has had need of me to solve their problems, so I have little skill with it. I only hope I can learn before my children require me,” he added with a furrowed brow. I saw then that I had judged him a little harshly. It was not his intention to burden his sister with the care of his children, any more than it had been his intention to leave his offspring too often to their own devices. He lacked the skills to communicate with them, but not the will, and with the will, all else could be made right.
“I have no doubt you will surpass your own expectations,” I said, feeling a rush of sudden sympathy for this gentle man. “Your instincts are excellent. You have proven that by trusting Stoker and me rather than exposing us to the police.”
“I can only quote Xenocrates, dear lady. ‘I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.’”
“A worthy philosophy, my lord. Let us drink to Xenocrates.”
We lifted our cups of tea and toasted Xenocrates, and in that moment, I felt Inspiration whisper in my ear. The plan came to me as fully formed as Athena sprung from the brow of Zeus, and I outlined it for his lordship in detail. There was no chance to think twice about the propriety of what I was asking. I must cast the dice and see how they fell, I told myself. I had not thought the thing through, but for every question Lord Rosemorran put to me, I had a ready response, and when I finally fell silent, leaving him to deliberate upon my question, he stared at me with mingled awe and disbelief.
“My dear Miss Speedwell,” he began. “I hardly know how to reply.”
“Say ‘yes,’” I commanded. And to his credit, he laughed.
“Very well. One can hardly say ‘no’ to a force of nature. I accept your proposal.”
And we toasted that as well.
• • •
After another revivifying cup of tea, I made my toilette and left Bishop’s Folly without meeting Stoker or Huxley or any of the Beauclerks. Even Betony seemed to have something better to do that morning. I had taken pains with my appearance, wearing my black silk and pinning on my large black hat with the luscious roses. I collected more than a few admiring glances as I made my way into the heart of a euphoric London. It was Jubilee Day, and the bunting swung gaily overhead—ropes of flowers and banners of blue, white, and red proclaiming VICTORIA OUR QUEEN. The crowds were thick with spectators and hawkers crying their wares, selling food and lemonade and Jubilee memorabilia. The snorting of horses, the smell of hot grease, the chants of the crowd—all mingled to riotous effect as all of London had turned out to wish her well upon the anniversary of her accession.
I found a lamppost and by mean
s of a tuppence bribe persuaded the youth ensconced there to give up his place to me. I stood on the base, one arm holding fast to the lamp as I watched the procession roll past. First, the soldiers, resplendent in brass-buttoned scarlet tunics, and marching in step to the bands that played with sharp precision. The sober dignitaries came next in their carriages, foreign heads of state—from the European sons-in-law who had married into the family to the maharajas who had conceded their kingdoms to its matriarch. The Europeans sat stiffly correct in their morning suits and chivalric orders, but the Indians were resplendent in vibrant silks and gems that glittered in the sunlight. Then came the Court, various officials and ladies-in-waiting, each decked in their finest, the duchesses blazing with jewels as feathers bobbed from their plumed hats, the gentlemen laden with various orders. They waved and nodded and smiled at the crowds, whipping them into a frenzy of anticipation. I saw Sir Hugo, riding discreetly, dressed in sober black and keeping a weather eye upon the crowd as the cheers rose higher and louder.
And then they came—the family. Carriage after carriage rolled past with them, her children and grandchildren, a family occasion that happened to be a matter of state. There were the children of the Prince of Wales, my half siblings, clustered together in their privilege, and I expected a pang at the thought that we should never know each other. But there was nothing in my heart save silence.
Next came the Prince of Wales himself, beautifully tailored and genial, lifting a manicured hand as he smiled to the crowd. This was the man Lily Ashbourne had loved and lost and died for heartbreak over. I wondered what she would have thought of him. Would she have recognized the boy she once knew in the greying man he now was? And I wondered, too, if he ever thought of her. Was she a passing fancy? A fevered dream? Or was she a regret he would carry to the end of his days? I could read no answers in his serenely satisfied expression, and in an instant he was gone, borne away in his golden carriage amidst the patriotic cheers.
Finally, she came, in the grandest carriage of all. The equipage was pulled by half a dozen cream horses, perfectly matched. She was smaller than I had expected—and plumper, like an autumn pigeon with its feathers fluffed out against the coming winter. She wore an unapologetically ugly black bonnet and carried a bouquet of roses. I had only ever seen her in profile, on coins and stamps, and it astonished me to find she was smiling. Her teeth were small and not particularly good, but she was clearly happy at this outpouring of joy, reveling in the love and approval of her subjects. She did not turn her head my way as she passed. There was no moment of recognition between us. And I knew there never would be. Whatever unpleasantness her children caused her was their business. She would make it none of hers.
The carriage passed by swiftly, the horses’ hooves clipping briskly as they trotted forward, carrying her on to St. Paul’s for the ceremony of thanksgiving in honor of her reign. The crowd surged forward, moving in her wake to get one final glimpse of their queen. I did not follow them. One look had been enough.
• • •
I made my way slowly back towards Bishop’s Folly. I was halfway across Green Park when he found me. I ought not to have been surprised. He had, after all, told me once he could track a jaguar through a jungle for forty miles and never lose it. It would have been child’s play to him to trail my enormous beflowered hat.
“Been to see your granny?” Stoker asked blandly.
I gave him a small smile, which he did not return. “Not that she noticed. But yes. I needed to see her, just once. And now it is finished. I can move forward and put all of this behind me.”
“Can you? There are still one or two questions as yet unanswered,” he pointed out. There was a distance in him I could not bridge, a coldness that had settled over him as soon as the danger had passed. He had retreated once more into the guise of a stranger. I did not know why he had sought me out. Perhaps he merely wanted to weave in as many loose strands as we could. I owed him as much, I thought bleakly.
I sighed. “More than one or two questions without answers. What is the identity of the puppet master—or mistress, rather—pulling at Sir Hugo’s strings? What has become of Edmund de Clare and have we heard the last of him? And was he telling the truth when he said the baron’s death was an accident?”
Stoker fell in step beside me, almost but not quite touching me. “Max believed in chivalry and courage and all manner of old-fashioned things. He died defending the daughter of the woman he loved. He would have chosen that death. And I think he did.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had the chance to throw the doors wide-open on this when he brought you to London. You were in a carriage with him for hours. He might have told you who you were, asked point-blank if you knew of the documents. But he kept it all shrouded in mystery because I think he wanted to face them. It was his own misfortune that he underestimated Edmund de Clare’s desperation.”
“I suppose,” I said slowly. “If only he had told me.”
His expression hardened. “Would you have believed him? A strange man you have never met, telling you that you are the legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales? You would have bolted out of that carriage at the first chance. And he would have lost you forever.”
I nodded slowly. “You are probably correct. I like to think I would have been too intrigued by his tale to be frightened into flight, but none of us are as brave as we believe.”
“I am not certain of that,” he told me, the words breaking fiercely from him as if he spoke against his will. “I think you are braver than any man I have ever known.”
His eyes were a shade too brilliant for comfort. Some new emotion had been kindled, wrestling against the coldness, and it discomfited me. I did not know what to say, so, as was my wont in times of confusion, I turned to the butterfly—always darting just out of reach, using its mazy flight as defense as well as a means of moving forward. I reached into my pocket and changed the subject.
“Speaking of money, here is your winnings from our wager. I had not forgot. You were entirely correct. The connection was there, only I failed to see it. That is the hallmark of a good partnership, you know—when one partner sees the forest and the other studies the trees. In any event, here you are. A bright, shiny new guinea for your watch chain.”
I proffered the coin and he took it. “I shall wear it with pride. And if I ever run out of money, I will always have the means to buy a bottle of gin,” he told me with a hint of his old raffishness. “Well, I suppose it is time to move on,” he said briskly.
“Of course,” I replied. “This little adventure of ours has cost us dearly. We have almost no money, your collections and home have been lost, and we were very nearly murdered. You would be the most illogical man in all of nature if you did not wish to put it behind you. But having said that, I wonder if perhaps there is not just a little of the daring adventurer left in you.”
He went very still. “What do you mean?”
“I made a proposal to Lord Rosemorran last night.”
I outlined the details, explaining carefully the scheme that his lordship and I had devised, and all the while Stoker listened intently, interrupting only once to ask a question.
“He is serious this time?”
“Indeed. He wants to make the Belvedere at Bishop’s Folly into a proper museum. And he cannot do that until the collections are cataloged and expertly prepared for display. Once that is done, expeditions will have to go out and secure the specimens to fill in the collections. It is enough work to keep us busy for twenty, nay, thirty years if we like. We have a home base here in London and expeditions when we long to go out into the field—funded expeditions,” I corrected. “His lordship means to collect subscriptions from his wealthiest friends to underwrite the cost. Between expeditions we will each draw an appropriate salary, and his lordship will turn over the Belvedere for our work. He is also prepared to offer us a place to live. He ment
ioned the smaller buildings on the estate, the little follies Lady Cordelia pointed out to me when we arrived. His lordship says it will be a small matter to have them fitted out properly for us each to have a small residence of our own. I have already claimed the Gothic chapel,” I warned him, “so mind you do not cast your eyes upon it.”
I held my breath as he considered, and in that moment of stillness it seemed all of eternity slipped past. Empires rose and fell and wars were fought and children were born and lived and grew old and died before he answered, and the worst of it was that I could not show him by word or gesture how very much his reply would mean to me. We were stalwart companions at arms, partners in adventure. I asked nothing more of him than that.
He stared at me, his expression inscrutable. “I feel as if I have been dropped into a whirlwind.”
“You have not answered,” I pointed out.
“I would be a fool to refuse,” he said simply. “And I am no fool.”
The tightness in my chest eased and I could breathe once more. This was not the end, then. Whatever this strange connection was between us—it was not yet finished.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “I am glad this is not the end,” he said, echoing my thoughts, and then he hesitated a moment, his gaze intent, his hands curling into fists as if to keep himself from reaching out.
But the moment passed, and when he spoke, I had the oddest sensation it was not what he intended to say. His voice was casual and his manner relaxed. “Well, Veronica, I can say in all sincerity I have never known anyone like you. You have thought of everything.”
“I tried,” I said modestly.
“It must be difficult for people to surprise you,” he said, looking out over the great green sweep of the park.
“It seldom happens,” I admit.
“Well, then I shall take great pride in this,” he said, withdrawing a packet of papers from his pocket. He handed it to me.
A Curious Beginning Page 33
