A Curious Beginning

“Good. I should hate to miss it.”


And to his credit, Stoker laughed.

? ? ?

In the interest of further restoring my strength with fresh air and a little fortifying exercise—as well as providing a distraction for Stoker—I insisted upon walking out the next afternoon, thrusting a hamper of sandwiches at Stoker as I took up my net. We passed through the village so he might call in at the post office to see if his friend in Cornwall had sent along the latest London newspaper. He emerged a moment later, his hands empty, but his air was one of deep satisfaction, and I noted the edge of a thin parcel peeping from the top of his pocket.

“Come along,” he said, taking my elbow. “I know just the spot where we shan’t be overheard.” We walked some distance out of the village, passing a few prosperous farms and an aggressively ugly Norman church before crossing the churchyard and into the copse beyond. I stopped short as he closed the gate behind us.

“A bluebell wood!” I exclaimed. “How lucky we are to find them in bloom so late. Is there anything so lovely?” A river of bluebells flowed through the trees, carpeting the ground and filling the air with sweet, subtle perfume.

I spread a rug in a patch of gilded sunlight and stretched out, watching a pretty little Hipparchia janira—a common Meadow Brown butterfly—flap slowly amid the milkwort and oxeye daisies. Stoker took out his knife and applied himself to a pair of apples, removing the peel from each in a single long russet curl.

“That must serve you well as a taxidermist,” I noted, taking a healthy bite of the apple. “It takes real skill to have the skin off in one unbroken strip.”

“A thoroughly unladylike observation,” he returned.

“Yes, well, being a lady is a crashing bore, or hadn’t you noticed?”

He shrugged. “You seem to enjoy it.”

“As you pointed out, I am not exactly a lady.”

“You are when it suits you. You are fortunate that in our world those ladylike trappings provide you with a bit of protective coloration to hide what you really are.”

I tipped my head thoughtfully. “And what am I really?”

“Damn me if I know,” he replied. “I have been attempting to discover that since the moment you dropped into my lap, but you are as elusive as those wretched butterflies you hunt.”

“I am an open book,” I assured him.

He gave a snort of derision and rummaged for the parcel he had retrieved from the post office. He extracted a newspaper and a letter—a note from his friend, no doubt.

As he read, I reclined against a tree, twisting a curl of apple peel around my fingers. The air in that perfumed field was intoxicating, and it roused instincts within me that I seldom permitted myself to let slip the lead—at least not in England. I had no intention of acting upon them; that was strictly forbidden under the rules I had set and of which I reminded myself sternly and often. But it was pleasant to ponder the possibilities. “That groom, Mornaday, is rather handsome, wouldn’t you say?” I said, thinking aloud.

He peered at me over the newspaper. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Veronica, I realize you are accustomed to exercising your affections with a certain degree of freedom, but you cannot go about the countryside seducing assorted strangers. We are attempting to preserve the fiction of a happily married couple.”

“Piffle. We gave a poor picture of it when you permitted Salome to—well, perhaps we had best draw a veil over that incident,” I said, arching a brow at him. “And you have no fear I will misbehave with Mornaday. I only ever indulge my baser requirements when I am abroad. But if I did, Mornaday would serve quite nicely. He is a perfectly attractive fellow. He has lovely hands.”

Stoker refused to rise to the bait. He resumed his newspaper, turning the pages with an outraged snap.

“Too lovely,” I said slowly, sitting up.

“Hm?” He was busy reading again and paying me scant attention.

“For a groom, Mornaday has very soft skin. I noticed it when we first shook hands. His palms were very smooth, free of calluses. Have you ever known a man who works with horses to have tender hands?”

“No, they have hands like shoe leather,” he said, peering intently at the newspaper.

“Then what is he playing at in taking a job as a groom? He claims it is his regular employment, but that must be a lie.”