A Curious Beginning

“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 mentioned 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.

“What is this?” But I already knew.

“Call it a birthday present. I noticed the date on the documents. You are five and twenty today. Happy birthday, Veronica.” Still I stared at the packet in my hand, almost unable to comprehend what he had done. “Those are the original papers proving your identity,” he told me gently. “Both the papers your mother turned over to Max and the set the Harbottles left for you in the bank.”

For a long moment I could not speak, and when I did, the words came out in a torrent. “But I burned those! You saw me.”

“You burned the packet I gave you. That is what I was doing when you thought I was writing up my notes on the elephant mount. I was creating a dummy version for you to destroy. I did agree that destroying the packet was the only way to buy your freedom,” he assured me, “but I thought it would accomplish the same thing if you only appeared to destroy it.”

“But why—”

He looked into the distance, his gaze fixed far away. “Everyone deserves the truth, Veronica. What you do with it is your affair. But you should not have the choice made for you just because some people are frightened by the facts. Burn it, publish it, throw it in the Thames—the decision must be yours and no one else’s.”

I turned the packet over, running my finger across the tape. I thought of the lives damaged and destroyed by what it represented—my mother, dead of a broken heart. Prince Albert, my father, the baron—all had been touched by the truth in those lines. A high price had been paid for the actions of a boy not yet twenty and the girl he loved.

“It is time to let the ghosts rest in peace,” I said finally.

“You mean to destroy it, then?” he asked.