A Curious Beginning

“Yes, well, faces change,” he said softly. I did not look at his scars, but I knew he was thinking of them, for his features had taken on a faraway and tortured expression. Before I could ask, he caught sight of the garment in my hand. “In the name of bleeding Jesus, what are you sewing? Is that my shirt?”


“It is, and I must say, it is in a deplorable state. But at least the material is quite good and will stand up to proper mending. Unfortunately, mending is not one of my skills,” I said, holding up the shirt. Somehow I had managed to attach it to my own skirt, and I took up scissors to snip it free. Mr. Stoker was not so patient. He grasped it and jerked it loose with a single wrench, the stitches popping as he brandished it at me.

“But this is the shirt from my bag. Where is the shirt I was wearing?”

“Hanging out to dry, along with your stockings. They were both filthy and smelled vile. I washed them and hung them out so I didn’t have to smell them any longer. It is a lovely sunny day, so they ought to dry quickly. I found this in your bag and thought you could wear it today, but it wanted mending, so I was attempting it as a sop since I knew you would be outraged at my washing your things.” I nodded towards his other garments. “Your suit is terribly rusty. I brushed it, but it looks as though you have put on quite a bit of weight since you bought it. I daresay the seams will have to be let out.”

He fixed me with a venomous look. “Did you just call me fat? And did you clean the caravan?”

“I offered no observation upon your physique, but since you ask, if I were to make a comparison, Cabanel’s Fallen Angel comes to mind.”

His brow furrowed. “I am not familiar with it.”

“Aren’t you? You ought to look it up sometime. Quite his best work, I think. A trifle sullen, but I am sure you will see the resemblance,” I said sweetly. Cabanel’s Lucifer was indeed sulky, his painted eyes filled with tears of rage at his fall. But the rest of him . . . the memory of that long shapely thigh and beautifully muscled chest sent a delightful frisson down my spine. “And yes, I may have tidied up a little.”

I had done a good deal more than that. I had moved the chairs and plumped the cushions, cleaned out the stove and laid a fire, and picked a few sprigs of wild hyacinth to stand in a little jug upon the table. The windows sparkled, and the brass rails of the caravan gleamed. I was well pleased with my efforts.

He curled a lip. “What a lovely wife you make.”

“How revolting. I didn’t do any of this for you, you impossible man. I did it for myself. I prefer to be surrounded by order and cleanliness. And as a scientist, I can only say your penchant for filth is deplorable.” He was still staring at the shirt in his hands. “It isn’t the Shroud of Turin, Mr. Stoker. There are no religious mysteries to be found there. It is a shirt.”

“It is a symbol of your interference,” he said stubbornly. “I had no notion when I brought you away from London that you would be so . . . so managerial.”

“You ought to have,” I pointed out. “I did much the same in your workshop, and I would do the same at Buckingham Palace if I found arrangements did not suit me. I think better when I am in motion and things about me are orderly.”

“And what do you have to think about?” he demanded.

“This business with the baron—” I began, but I had no chance to finish. A knock sounded at the door of the caravan. It was open, and the visitor had rapped at the doorjamb before putting her head inside.

“Good morning,” said Salome. Her lips were twitching with amusement, and I wondered how much of our conversation she had overheard.

Mr. Stoker, still half-naked, promptly thrust his arms into his still-torn shirt.

“Good morning,” I told her. “Do forgive my husband. He is being shy this morning. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, but no,” she said, lingering in the doorway. “I merely wanted to extend an invitation to you.”

“To me? How very kind.”

Mr. Stoker made a strangled sound.

“Not at all,” Salome continued smoothly. “It occurred to me that you traveled only with a very small bag and likely do not have a costume for participating in Stoker’s act. Come to my tent later. I will make certain you are properly attired.” Her ebony gaze swept me from top to toe.

I thanked her warmly and offered her some refreshment, which she promptly declined. She left then, and I noticed the smell of her musky perfume lingered. I moved to open the windows further to let in a little of the freshening breeze and banish the heavy scent.

Mr. Stoker gave me a level look. “She wants something,” he said. His voice was oddly flat and his color was once again high.

“Of course she does,” I agreed. “No doubt she wants to have a nice cozy chat about you.”

He blinked furiously. “What do you mean?”

I waved him out of the way and drew the curtains back to air them out.

“The lady is naturally curious about your bride, and one cannot blame her. Obviously there has been a relationship of some significance between you—and a decidedly carnal one unless I miss my guess.”