A Curious Beginning

I did not take the opportunity to instruct him on the lethal properties of a cunningly wielded hatpin. We resumed our walk then, but I fancied there was a trifle less coldness in his manner than there had been before.

“What will you tell your friends?” I asked suddenly. “They will want to know why we have come to them.”

“You will be my newly wedded bride whose family do not approve. I will say we are in fear of being apprehended by your wicked guardian who was robbing you of your fortune and that we require a place of safety until we can secure the money for ourselves.”

“That is a plot straight from a penny dreadful. No one could possibly believe it. More to the point, you and I could hardly masquerade as a couple joined in the harmonious state of matrimony. We seem distinctly unsuited.”

He did not speak. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and placed himself directly in front of me. It was like running straight into a mountain, I thought as I collided with him, dropping my bag and net to the road and putting out my hands to avoid a fall.

He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved something—the item he had taken from his trunk, I realized. Before I knew what he was doing, he had taken up my left hand and stripped off my glove. He pushed something cold onto my finger.

“What is this?”

“A prop,” he replied.

I stared at the slim gold band that rested on my finger. It was bent slightly, and the gold was scratched, as if it had been hurled in a fit of temper. “How is it that you happen to have a spare wedding ring in your possession, Mr. Stoker? Are you in the habit of abducting ladies and forcing them to pose as your wife?”

He snapped in response. “That is none of your concern. Now, you will answer to the name of Mrs. Stoker whilst we are among my friends. You may address me as Stoker or husband, I care not which.”

“What about Lucifer?” I muttered under my breath.

He ignored me. “What is your Christian name?” he demanded.

“You may call me Mrs. Stoker,” I instructed him, lifting my chin. His laugh was harsh and low.

“No one who knows me would believe for a moment I would engage in such formality with a woman to whom I was married. What is your Christian name?”

“Veronica,” I said at last.

He gaped at me. “You mean like the plant veronica? The Plantaginales commonly known as speedwell? You are joking.”

“I am not,” I replied with some irritation. “My aunt Lucy was very fond of gardening.”

“So she named you as a sort of botanical joke?”

“Veronica is a very useful plant,” I pointed out. “It is also known as bird’s eye and gypsyweed and it is the largest member of the family Plantaginaceae. It makes a very fine tea for the relief of catarrh.”

“Christ, I suppose you ought to be grateful she didn’t call you Gypsyweed. Haven’t you a more familiar name? Something other children or a sweetheart called you?”

“I knew no other children, and my sweethearts, as you so vulgarly phrased it, are none of your concern.”

He lifted a brow. “Sweethearts? Plural? You are a dark horse, aren’t you?” I said nothing more, and he sighed. “Very well. For the duration of our time here, you will be my darling Veronica.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there rather too firmly for comfort. “Now, put a smile on your face and gaze at me with adoration. We are here.”

All was quiet save the skittering of night creatures and the occasional call of a nightingale. The camp itself, a motley collection of tents and farm wagons and Gypsy caravans, was slumbering. Here and there a lamp glimmered like a glowworm in the darkness, but only one spot betrayed that anyone might be wakeful. It was a sizable tent, striped in red and gold and hung with Chinese lanterns that bobbed in the light breeze. Mr. Stoker kept a hand tucked under my elbow as we picked our way through the camp. Each of the tents and caravans boasted a colorful sign, but we were moving too quickly for me to take them in. At last we reached the striped tent and paused outside, long enough for me to read the banner that stretched across the front of the tent, the letters spelling out in elegant scrolls: PROFESSOR PYGOPAGUS’ TRAVELING CURIOSITY SHOW.

We had arrived.





CHAPTER NINE


Before I could form a question, Mr. Stoker had reached out and twitched a small streamer of bells that hung outside the flap. From within, a stream of music issued, an odd, otherworldly sound of longing and wistfulness, almost painful to hear, it was so sharp with yearning. A voice rose above it.