A Curious Beginning

He nodded towards the net. “My father was a collector. I know an expensive ring net when I see one.”


“That still does not explain your purpose in bringing me here.”

He stepped closer and I saw that the brown eyes were flecked with gold and amber. “Does a fellow need a reason when the lady in question is so enchanting?”

He had pitched his voice low and husky, and he had to stand quite near to me in order to be audible, by design, I suspected. I shook my head. “No, Mornaday. It will not do. You have seen Mr. Stoker. He is a large fellow. He throws knives with astounding accuracy. You would not dare bring me here for mere flirtation.”

He hesitated, then reached forward suddenly to take my hand. “I brought you here because I was afraid for you.”

“Afraid for me? My dear fellow, whatever for?”

His expression was grave, the flirtatious note quite absent now from his delivery. He was as sincere and plainspoken as a parson. “As you say, Mr. Stoker is a large fellow and he throws knives. That quarrel sounded dangerous.”

“If you heard that, then you know I gave just as good as I got. Rest easy, my gallant. I can assure you I am utterly safe with him. He would sooner cut off his own arm than harm a hair of my head.”

“Can you be certain of that? I understand you have known him only a short while. Such limited acquaintance can be deceiving.”

I sighed. “You are correct, of course. One may be entirely mistaken in one’s assessment of a character if it is taken too quickly. But that goes for the ordinary person, Mornaday. And I am no ordinary person. I have traveled the world and made extensive acquaintance from the tip of South America to the Swiss Alps. I am thoroughly skilled at taking the measure of a man quickly. And I can tell you that I am content to remain in his care.”

The narrow gaze did not soften. “It is a strange life for a lady, this traveling show. Are you certain he does not coerce you to be here? You have chosen it of your own free will?”

“As much as anyone chooses anything,” I promised him.

“How long have you been acquainted?” he asked.

“Long enough,” I returned tartly. This was an interrogation, not a seduction, I reflected with no little irritation. I had no intention of succumbing to his blandishments, but it was a trifle insulting that he had not made a better job of offering any. “Your concern is very kind, but I think this discussion is at an end.”

He sketched a slight bow. “Forgive me if I have been indiscreet. But it is important that you know you may rely upon me should you ever have need of a friend. Remember that.”

I smiled. “Very kind indeed. Now if you will hand me that butterfly net, I mean to be off. I think I spy a Lasiommata lurking beyond that stream and I mean to have it.”

? ? ?

Fresh with purpose, I returned from an hour in the meadow with a pair of pretty captives in a jar. They were nothing special, and certainly not worth the trouble of killing, but appealing nonetheless. I carried them back only to admire them. I would set them free, entirely unharmed, after a few hours.

Mr. Stoker was pacing in front of the caravan when I arrived. “Aren’t they lovely?” I asked, brandishing the jar. “I saw a lovely Lasiommata, but it eluded me, and I had to settle for these two as compensation. This is merely a common Vanessa atalanta, but I do think it charming. And here is Gonepteryx rhamni. I quite prefer the common name of Brimstone butterfly, don’t you?”

“Where in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ have you been?” he demanded.

“In the meadow, as you can plainly see.”

He took me firmly by the elbow and thrust me up the stairs and into the caravan. There he pushed me into one of the armchairs and positioned himself directly in front of me.

“You are not to do that again,” he said severely. “I was half out of my mind. If you mean to go off, you must tell me.”

I considered this a moment, then shook my head. “I do not think so,” I said politely.

“What the bloody hell do you mean you don’t think so? I just gave you an order.”

I smothered the urge to laugh. It would have been very rude, and I had little doubt it would have inflamed his temper even further. I adopted a deliberately soothing tone.

“I am sorry you were worried, Mr. Stoker, but I am quite capable of looking after myself in a meadow. I went hunting for butterflies. You do recall that I am a lepidopterist?”

“Yes,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “But you must not go haring off on your own. It is not safe.”

“How absurd you are! Not safe indeed. What could be safer than a meadow? Do you know what you will find in a meadow? Cows. There are cows in a meadow. Cows and wildflowers and butterflies.”

He dropped his head into his hands. “You are the most impossible woman I have ever known,” he said, his voice muffled.