A Curious Beginning

His face went quite still, as immobile as marble under a sculptor’s hand—and just as pale. For a long moment he did not speak, but then he gave a gusty sigh and the fight seemed to go out of him. “How did you know?”


“The letters on the Wardian cases in your workshop. There are few natural historians with the initials R.T.-V. For Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. The cases were from an expedition, were they not?”

“If you know my name, you already know the answer to that.” His voice was clipped and cold. Our exchange of confidences was clearly not proceeding as he had anticipated, but I thought I would push my luck just a bit further.

“The Templeton-Vane Expedition to Amazonia: 1882 to 1883. For the purpose of cataloging the wildlife of the Amazonian rain forest,” I recited from memory.

“How noble you make it sound!” he mocked. “That’s what the newspapers and scientific journals called it. Really we were after hunting jaguars. As you can see, I found one,” he added with a flourish towards the scar upon his face.

I attempted a different tack. “Why do you no longer use the name Templeton-Vane?”

He gave me a smile that was half a snarl. “If you know the name Templeton-Vane, no doubt you know the answer to that question as well.”

I smoothed the bedcovers, pushing back the memories that threatened to engulf me. “I was on an expedition of my own at the time—in Java. You will understand why my grasp of news from the rest of the world is somewhat faulty.”

His brows lifted in astonishment, some of his bitterness falling away. “Java? Good God. You were there? When Krakatoa erupted?”

“Yes. I had the good sense to get as far away as Sumatra, but as it happens it was not nearly far enough. Things were . . . difficult.”

“I can only imagine.”

“No,” I said reasonably. “You cannot. No one can. I certainly couldn’t. That sort of horror is unimaginable, even for the most morbid of us. In a curious way, it proved Aristotle correct—‘In all natural things there is somewhat of the marvelous.’ If you use ‘marvelous’ in the strictest sense, as describing something that causes astonishment. I have never been so little, nor the wonders of the world so vast, as in those hours when the whole of the earth seemed to crack open.” I paused, then resumed my discourse with an air of brisk detachment I did not feel, could never feel about that time. “News from home was scarce. It was months before I saw an English newspaper. I only ever heard that your expedition was unsuccessful and that you disappeared for some time into the jungle.”

“And that is all that you heard?” he asked, his eyes bright with interest.

“I told you, I was familiar with the name and that you undertook an expedition to the Amazon which was not a triumph. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

“Well, that explains why you remained in my care even though you knew who I was. Anyone else would have run as if they had seven devils on their heels.”

I gave him a jocular smile. “Come now, how bad can it be?”

“As it happens,” he said, not returning the smile, “very bad indeed. I lost my marriage, my honor, and damned near my eye as well. The newspapers called me villain and scoundrel and monster and printed a hundred stories of the evil I have done.”

I shrugged. “You know what newspapers are. They forever make mistakes.”

His gaze was dark and fathomless as a midnight sea. “Yes, they do. In my case, they did not tell the half of it.”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


After his dramatic pronouncement, I was silent a moment, then shook my head.

“I do not believe it. I should like to hear the truth. From your own lips.”

He spoke slowly, as if chipping each word out of ice. “The truth is a hard mirror, and I am in no mood to look upon my reflection.”

“I can well understand that, but you would do better to remember the story out of Plutarch about the Spartan boy and the fox.”

“The Spartan boy and the fox?”

“Yes, the lad stole a fox pup but the Spartans had very strict rules against thievery. He hid the animal in his cloak, and rather than allow his misdeed to be found out, he let it gnaw out his vitals while he kept his silence.”

“And your point is?” he asked acidly.

“Simply this: that truth is like that fox pup. If you suffer its ill effects in silence, it can do irreparable harm. Perhaps even kill you.”

He opened his mouth, and I waited for the blast of temper. But it did not come. Instead, he gave me a level, appraising look, and I thought of Keats’ description of Cortez staring at the Pacific “with eagle eyes.” He had eagle eyes, sharp and perceptive. “I know. But not yet. Just not yet.”

It was more than I had dared to hope for. It was enough—for the present.

The thought of Keats sparked a memory and I smiled at him suddenly.

“What?” he asked, his tone suspicious.