A Curious Beginning

I gave him a cool smile.

“To begin with,” I told him, stepping nimbly away, “I do not think your clothing could endure it.”

“My clothing?” His head snapped back as if I had doused him with cold water. The dreamy expression was gone from his eyes as he stared down at me.

“You have just split the backside of your trousers with that demonstration of virility. I hardly think you can afford another.”

I turned on my heel and went into the caravan under my own power, as steadily and smartly as I had ever done anything in my life.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


I awoke the next morning to find Mr. Stoker up and dressed and thrusting a cup of tea under my nose. “You’ve five minutes to dress before we leave,” he said coldly.

From a quick glance outside, I deduced he had not spoken in jest. The camp was full of activity—the various tents had all been dismantled and stowed, and I saw that enormous draft horses had been harnessed to each of the caravans. He had busied himself in stowing anything loose into the cupboards and making certain the furnishings were properly secured. He tossed me my bag and left without another word. I drank my tea hastily, scalding myself a little, for it was strong and hot, and dressed as quickly as I could. Having long experience with aguardiente and excellent recuperative powers, I suffered no ill effects from the previous evening and even whistled a little tune as I repacked my bag and tucked it into a cupboard before leaving the caravan.

“Good morning, missus,” called a voice. I looked to the front of the caravan, where a groom was walking up with a pair of horses. His trousers were patched and his face half-hid beneath the shadow of his cap.

“Good morning. Are those for us?”

“Indeed they are, and no finer horseflesh will you find in this establishment,” he assured me. He paused to let me greet them, holding them quite still while I stroked their velvety noses. “I’ve kept them back special for your caravan, missus.”

He lifted his head and I saw then that he was a surprisingly comely fellow, with warm brown eyes that fairly danced. His mouth was merry as well, smiling almost as if it had a will of its own.

“That is very kind of you.”

He shrugged. “Well, it takes a brave lady to let a fellow throw knives at her.”

“Brave or entirely devoid of sense. Take your choice.”

The grin deepened, and I noted that his cheeks were dimpled. I had seen the other grooms in passing, gnarled old fellows with skin like shoe leather. How they must have hated this delightful young man!

“I am Mornaday,” he told me, extending his hand. I shook it, feeling a tiny rush of pleasure at the touch of his warm, smooth palm against mine. One of the horses tossed her head and gave a snort.

“Ah, all in good time, love,” he told her soothingly. He gave me a nod. “Best get these ladies hitched. I’ll see you later, missus,” he promised.

I went to collect a roll and another cup of tea, and by the time I returned Mr. Stoker was already seated on the narrow bench behind the horses. He did not offer a hand as I climbed up beside him.

“Good morning,” I said politely. “Where are we bound?”

“Ten miles down the road. Village called Butterleigh.”

“Only ten miles? How curious. I should have thought we would go further.”

“The horses can manage fourteen, but it isn’t wise to push them so far every time.” He picked up the reins, and at some unseen signal, the caravans all began to move forward. The professor and Otto rode in a curious conveyance, a landau of sorts padded in old velvet and shaped like a scallop shell. It was highly theatrical and the professor gave a jaunty wave as they passed us to take the lead on the road to Butterleigh.

I turned to Mr. Stoker, but he kept his gaze fixed forward and said nothing. I suspected I had pricked his pride the night before. Whether it was the moonlight or the euphoria of having got through the performance without maiming me, the flicker of interest I had seen from him was clearly the aberration of a moment, and a more logical fellow would have shaken my hand and thanked me for my firmness. Instead, Mr. Stoker was indulging in a first-class fit of pique, and had we not been thrown together on the road, I would have left him to it. However, I was not prepared to travel next to his stony silence, so I embarked upon conversation, certain he would not rebuff me—at least not for long.

“The professor likes to travel in style,” I observed.