A Curious Beginning

“I must say, this makes an improvement, Mr. Stoker. I thought you entirely incapable of initiative, but I am very glad to see that I was wrong. I think there is every possibility of your making a thorough success of yourself if you continue on in this vein. Of course, one could wish you would turn your energies to something more profitable and wholesome than felonious abduction, but it makes a start, does it not?”


I smiled pleasantly at him, and he glowered at me from his seat opposite. I was thoroughly satisfied with how swiftly he had turned to anger, and I made a note of it for future encounters.

“I cannot make out if you are the bravest woman I have ever met or the most ludicrous,” he said in a stringent tone. “You ought to be frightened out of your mind, shrieking and swooning and sobbing upon the floor. Instead, you insult me.”

“Not at all! I meant it as a most sincere compliment,” I told him. “This act demonstrates considerable spirit and an unconventional mind, two qualities the great explorers have always united. And, more to the point, why should I be afraid? I have the consolation of a clear conscience, Mr. Stoker. I know I have in no way contributed to the baron’s misfortunes, and I do not think you believe it either. This is merely a passing fever of the brain, a momentary whim. Your reason will restore itself in due course, and we will proceed from there. In the meantime, I believe the best strategy for me to adopt is one of peaceful compliance, just as one would do with a sleepwalker or a madman.”

“You think me mad?”

“You did just abduct me,” I pointed out reasonably. “I do not know that I should not call it madness, per se, but you must own it is a bit peculiar.” I did not bother to explain that it could hardly be considered a proper abduction when I was clearly there of my own volition. I might have escaped him a dozen times, but it seemed unkind to raise the point when he thought he was doing such a masterful job of keeping me in tow.

I half expected a lecture of some sort, but he had said all he intended to say, and we fell into a sharp silence then. This time I did not attempt to rouse him from it. The hours slipped by, and the dusky purple twilight deepened to blackness. The stars emerged, shyly at first, and then winking brightly, and a lopsided, waxing moon rode above the trees as we journeyed further west into the countryside. Eventually he dozed, and I occupied myself by thinking of Mr. de Clare. Clearly he had things to tell me, but it was his misfortune that I had received such excellent instruction at the hands of my Corsican friend. An accomplished bandit, he had stressed to me the importance, at all times, of following one’s intuition, no matter what logic might dictate. I had done so at Paddington when faced with the question of accompanying Mr. de Clare, and it was not until I had the leisure of the train journey that I reasoned out why my instincts had insisted upon Mr. Stoker as my companion at the expense of Mr. de Clare. I had not been conscious of the thought at the time, but I realized, as I listened to Mr. Stoker snoring softly in time with the train wheels, that whether or not the baron had indeed sent him to retrieve me from Mr. Stoker like a parcel, Mr. de Clare had chosen his approach with care. He had not spoken to me when Mr. Stoker was at hand, but the moment we were divided, Mr. de Clare had presented himself. Had he truly been a messenger sent from the baron, he would have had no compunction about announcing his purpose to both of us.

Unless. I looked at my sleeping companion, the features drawn by a creator in a harsh mood, with no softness to spare. The nose was aggressive, the sort of nose Alexander would have looked down as he conquered the world, and the cheekbones and brows matched it in sharply molded grandeur. The jaw, though shadowed by the beard, was obviously strong, and the upper lip, what was visible of it, was slender and hard. Only the gentle curve of the lower lip betrayed him as a sensualist. That lower lip told stories to which the rest of his face gave a lie, and I wondered which to believe. Taken together, this collection of features could be hero or villain, martyr or tyrant, and if Mr. de Clare believed him to be my captor, it made perfect sense that he should wait to make his approach until Mr. Stoker was absent. Had he viewed himself my deliverer from whatever menace Mr. Stoker offered? It was a chilling thought. But I remembered again my lessons in Corsica and shook my head stubbornly. I would not, could not believe that Mr. Stoker would be my doom.

It was only much later that I decided my Corsican friend had much to answer for.

? ? ?

We changed trains at Taunton and again at Exeter before alighting at last at Taviscombe Magna. Here we were the only passengers to leave the train, and I was not surprised there was no one to meet us. Mr. Stoker gestured impatiently. “The night air is cold here. Have you a coat? Put it on.”

I retrieved a long striped coat from my bag and buttoned it securely. He merely slung an untidy old frock coat over his shoulders, wearing it as a cloak, and as we moved into the moonlight, I smiled.

“What is so bloody funny?” he demanded.