A Curious Beginning

The journey was a pleasant one, and by afternoon we were comfortably ensconced in a river meadow, the caravans and tents arranged much as they had been before. A number of grooms I had not yet met busied themselves unhitching the horses and securing them in a makeshift paddock a little distance away. Soon, cooking fires were kindled and chairs and tables appeared and the campsite took on its customary air of pleasant busyness.

In contrast to my excellent mood, Mr. Stoker had sunk into a gloom from which he seemed determined not to stir. We quarreled loudly about leaving the windows of the caravan open, a fight that seemed far more about him taking advantage of the opportunity to shout than any real opinion on the state of the windows. I shouted back because I enjoyed the exercise, and in the end I threw my flask of aguardiente at him and told him to marinate in the stuff if it would sweeten his temper. I left him sulking in the caravan and took my net to pursue what winged prey I might find in the river meadow. I seldom hunted properly in England as my clients all preferred more exotic species, but the chase kept my skills sharply honed, and I prepared for this expedition as carefully as for any other. I fished out a selection of minuten—the tiny headless entomological pins used for display—and worked them into my cuffs. It was a clever trick I had learned to keep them upon my person and save the trouble of carrying a box. It also served to discourage unwanted suitors from attempting to hold my hand—a not uncommon occurrence upon my travels. I slipped a small jar for common specimens into my pocket, but anything exotic demanded something more exacting.

The lush red roses of my hat had been specially ordered and were lined with cork, the perfect repository for such specimens. Any truly rare finds could be swiftly dispatched with a careful pinch to the thorax and then pinned to the roses, out of the way and in no danger of damage from a jar or box. It was my own technique and one I had not seen duplicated anywhere except by a rather eccentric fellow from Belgium who appeared one day on a meadow path in the Rocky Mountains with a cloud of Hoary Commas—Polygonia gracilis with its splendid escalloped orange wings—quivering upon his sola topee. He looked like a madman, but I realized instantly that as a woman I could employ the habit to much better effect. My ensemble was completed with the addition of my compass, the one piece of equipment essential to any explorer. I made a note of the direction of north and picked up my net.

No sooner had I stepped from the caravan than I nearly collided with the attractive groom, Mornaday. He extended a hand full of fruit.

“Pear, missus?” he asked with a bob of the head. “I was collecting fruit for the horses. They do like a bit of a treat. The pears are only a little green. Will you have one?”

I thanked him and took it, more to be polite than out of any real desire to eat it. I bit into it and was surprised to find it ripe, the juices bursting forth from the snowy flesh and over my hands.

“Ah, you’ve a good one there!” he said with a chuckle. He brandished a striped handkerchief and I took it gratefully, laughing as the juice dripped from my chin. “That’s better,” he said, glancing at my butterfly net. “I say, missus, if you’re after butterflies, I saw a blue one, a Morpho, I think it’s called. Just down this way. I can show you, if you like.”

Taking my arm, he guided me down the riverbank quite some distance, through a watery meadow and to a secluded little copse, singing all the while. He had a very pleasant tenor, and his rendition of “Early One Morning” would not have disgraced the public stage. When we at last reached the clearing, I turned to him with an air of expectation.

“How very kind of you to guide me. A Morpho, you say?”

He gave me a broad smile. “It were bright blue, with black teardrops at the bottom of its wings,” he said promptly.

“I am afraid that is no Morpho, Mornaday. You have just described Papilio ulysses, a Blue Swallowtail indigenous to Australasia. Hardly to be found in Devonshire. Which leads me to conclude you did not see a Blue Swallowtail in this copse.”

He opened his mouth and I held up a hand. “Nor did you see a Morpho, my dear fellow. The Morpho habitat is strictly limited to Central and South America.” While he continued to gape, I gave him an extended lecture upon the species differences between the two most common Morphos, menelaus and peleides, and the Blue Swallowtail, Papilio ulysses. For good measure I discoursed at length upon instars and imagos, enjoying every moment of his glassy-eyed incomprehension. After half an hour or so, I took pity upon him and concluded my remarks. “And that brings me to the obvious question, Mornaday. Why did you create a pretext to see me alone?”

He hesitated, then grinned, and when he spoke, his voice was somehow more cultured than it had been before. The accent was smoother, and his vocabulary was no longer quite so limited, and his air of diffidence melted away under a more authoritative mien.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stoker. I ought to have realized that such methods would not deceive an expert lepidopterist.”

“But how did you know I was an expert? I might be the most casual hobbyist.”