A Curious Beginning

I smiled at him and he almost, very nearly, smiled back. “I think I should like to sleep now,” I told him.

He rose then and tugged my feet until I was stretched upon the sofa. He tucked a blanket around me and bent to stoke the fire. When he had finished, he took another blanket and made a makeshift pallet upon the rug, taking the flask of aguardiente with him.

“There is always Wellington’s campaign bed,” I reminded him.

“I would rather be near to the fire.”

“In the interests of propriety, you ought to be at least on another floor of the Belvedere,” I teased.

“I do not care. I am staying with you until this business is finished.”

“Lady Cordelia will think—”

“To the devil with what Lady C. thinks.” He settled himself heavily onto the blanket and removed his boots. He took no pillow but folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, taking the occasional deep draft from the flask. “I like Cordelia but I shall bloody well be damned if I do anything just because she might have thoughts she oughtn’t.”

I smiled into the silence that followed this pronouncement.

“Veronica?”

“Yes, Stoker?”

“I know you are resilient as India rubber, but when the lot of this hits you, it will come like a brickbat. Trust me.”

I thought of the secrets he carried, the pain that bedeviled him—pain of which he could not yet bring himself to speak. “And what should I do when that happens?”

“Do not keep it to yourself. Someone reminded me of the story of the Spartan boy and the fox. Someone who ought to take her own advice.”

With that he fell silent, and soon his breathing was deep and even and he slept, while I lay wakeful long into the night, thinking of all we had learned.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


The next morning I woke to find Stoker had risen and gone, the flask of aguardiente entirely empty. He must have wakened some time in the night and finished it off, but I did not mind.

“‘Take it,’” I muttered, thinking of Sir Philip Sidney, “‘thy necessity is greater than mine.’” I refilled the flask with plain whiskey from the store cupboard—not half as potent, but useful in a pinch, I decided—and still there was no sign of Stoker. The little room for washing was empty, so he must have already attended to his ablutions. I did the same, pleased to find that my arm was stiff but there was no sign of incipient infection. Whatever his professional faults, he was a gifted doctor. I dressed myself with a little difficulty and opened the door upon a June morning dazzling enough to lift the dourest spirits. Flowers bloomed around the door of the Belvedere, and drifts of early rambling roses were just unfurling their petals, filling the morning with their fragrance. I stood upon the step, drawing in great lungfuls of the air, as good as any to be found in London.

Just then I heard a wet snuffling sound as the bushes gave an ominous rustle. Before I could whisk myself back into the Belvedere, the beast was upon me. A massive creature of bunched muscle and long fur hurled itself aloft, knocking me squarely to the ground before coming to sit firmly upon my chest. A wet, lolloping tongue caressed my cheek, and hot breath redolent of meat blew into my face. I thanked heaven for the thickness of my Psyche knot, which had taken the force of the creature’s violent affections and softened my landing. Doubtless it had saved me from a nasty blow to the back of the head.

“Betty! I say, Betty, come back here!” A man broke through the bushes and stopped short. “My dear lady, I am most heartily sorry. Betty! Betony, desist this instant!” He accompanied his order with a sharp tug to the beast’s collar, and she withdrew from my person, sitting next to me with an adoring expression.

The man came forward to help me up, and I saw then he was a gentleman, dressed in a country suit of rugged tweeds. I took his hand and got slowly to my feet.

“I must apologize again. I do hope Betony has not hurt you. She is a puppy, really, and poorly trained.”

“She is charming,” I said, almost meaning it. I patted my head. “And I think my hair took the worst of it.” I felt for my pins, but they were secure, and I dusted my skirts, wincing only a little as my arm gave a sudden throb of protest.

“You are hurt,” he said. “We must determine how extensive the injury is.”

“It is nothing,” I assured him. “At least nothing that the dog has done, I promise you, my lord. You are Lord Rosemorran?”

He blinked several times, as if trying to recall something. “Rosemorran? Oh yes. That’s me. I say, have we met?”

“I am afraid not. My name is Veronica Speedwell, and I am trespassing.”