A Curious Beginning

“Your trust in me is unexpected but most gratifying,” he told me.

“I am a great believer in intuition, Baron. And my intuition tells me that you are a man upon whom I may rely.” I did not add that he was the sole clue I had ever had to my mother’s identity. I had no intention of permitting him to escape me until I had learned everything I could about my antecedents.

“From your lips to the ears of God,” he said, and it struck me that when the baron mentioned God he did not do so flippantly. Whatever matter touched me, it concerned the baron deeply.

I leaned forward then, determined to press my luck as far as I could. “Will you answer one question for me? I promise to ask no others until you deem it fit.”

“Very well.”

I stated the question boldly, as I hoped he would wish. “Are you my father?”

His kindly face creased in sorrow, but he did not look away. “No, child. I wish I were, but I am not.”

A sharp and unexpected pang struck my heart. I had thought myself indifferent to the answer, but I was wrong. “Then we will merely be friends,” I said. I put out my hand solemnly. Other men might have laughed. But the baron shook my hand, and having done so, he bowed over it and kissed it with courtly formality.

“We will be friends,” he agreed. “And I will do everything in my power to make certain you learn what you wish to know.”

“Thank you, Baron.” I nodded towards his brow. “You are bleeding again. It is not a very hopeful omen, is it? A journey begun in bloodshed augurs ill, according to the ancients.” I meant it as a jest, but the baron did not smile. And after a moment, neither did I.

? ? ?

The journey to London proved uneventful to the point of boredom, and I began to be a little sorry we had not taken the train. The baron insisted upon the precaution of ducking down various country lanes to make quite certain we were eluding any possible pursuers, with the result that the drive took twice as long as it ought. He also refused any suggestion of stopping for a meal, resorting instead to a selection of unappetizing sandwiches purchased at exorbitant cost from a roadside inn. I nibbled at mine as the baron continued to formulate a plan. He suggested and discarded a dozen options before throwing up his hands and applying himself to his own repast.

“We will think of something,” he assured me. “But it is not good to deliberate upon such things when one is trying to eat. It disturbs the digestion. So we will talk of other matters. Tell me, if you do not mean to be a governess or a companion, what sort of adventure do you wish to seek out?”

I wiped my mouth of crumbs and began to explain. “I am a student of natural history, all branches. I subscribe to all of the major journals on exploration and discovery. As you might deduce from my butterfly net, lepidoptery is my particular specialty. I hunt butterflies as a profession, filling orders for Aurelians who lack the means or the desire to hunt their own specimens,” I added.

But the baron was not listening. An expression of wonder stole over his face, and he sat back, his mournful little sandwich untouched. “Of course,” he murmured. “Stoker.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He collected himself. “A very old and very dear friend of mine—Stoker. He is just the man to help us now. He will keep you safe, child.”

My brow furrowed. “Baron, I realize I have been somewhat reckless in accepting your offer of transportation to London, and I have been quite cavalier in thinking that I must do as you bid me. But I do not believe I can countenance the notion of staying with this Mr. Stoker. He is even more a stranger to me than yourself. You must tell me something of him.”

“Stoker is a complex fellow, but I have never known a man more honorable. He owes me a debt of gratitude, and his own conscience will not permit him to fail me if I call upon his aid. I would trust Stoker with the thing I hold most dear in the whole of the world,” the baron said.

“You would trust him with your life?” I challenged.

“No, child. I would trust him with yours.”





CHAPTER FOUR


It was very late when we arrived in London—or very early, I suppose, for dawn was upon us, pale pearl grey light washing over the city as it began to wake.

“Only a few minutes more,” the baron promised, and he sat upright in the carriage now. His shoulders had slumped with fatigue the last several hours, and I had managed to sleep a bit, curled over my traveling bag with the baron keeping watch on the road behind. But as we came into the city I rose, rubbing at my eyes and pinching my cheeks and pinning my hat more firmly upon my head. My previous visits to London had been brief ones en route to other lands, confined to stuffy train stations and unsavory cabs. The sight of the great sprawling gloom of the metropolis enthralled me.