A Curious Beginning (3 page)

He put a hand to my arm, and I was startled at the strength of the grip of those soft, elegant fingers. “I do not jest with you. I saw the notice in the newspaper about the death of your guardian, and I come to see you, only to find they have already found you. I am, almost, too late.”

He bit off his words then, as if he had said more than he intended, but I seized upon his statement. “You said ‘they.' You think this intruder has friends? Friends with malicious designs upon me?”

He shook his head. “You saw the carriage. What sort of burglar rides in a private conveyance? No, I cannot explain, child. I can only tell you that you must leave this place. Now. You have chased him away, but he will return and he will not come alone.”

“You know him?”

His fingers gripped my arm still more desperately. “No! I do not, but I can guess. And your very life may depend upon my being able to persuade you that I am not some crazy man and that I speak the truth. And yet how am I to persuade you? You must believe! I am the Baron von Stauffenbach,” he repeated helplessly, his voice thick with anguish. “Please, my dear child, if you will not accept my offer to take you to London, at least permit me to see you onto a train myself. You may ask to go anywhere in the world at my expense. But I must know that you are safe.”

I had always followed the maxim that intuition should be one's guide, and so it was in this case. The gentleman's obvious distress was persuasive, but his willingness to permit me to choose my own destination decided me. O! There ought to have been a frisson of foreknowledge, a shiver of precognition that the choice to accompany the baron would prove the single most significant decision of my entire existence. And yet there was not. I was aware of a mild curiosity about his excitability and the natural lifting of the spirits that accompanies the beginning of any great journey. But above all this was the cool satisfaction at having saved myself the price of a ticket to London. It was to cause me great amusement later to reflect that my life turned on a penny that day.

He gestured towards the front door. “My carriage is outside and I will offer you every comfort.”

“And once in London?”

He shook his head. “I will have to make plans as we go. I did not anticipate this.” He fell to muttering again, this time in German, and I covered his hand with my own.

“I will come.”

The years seemed to fall away from him. “Thank God for that!”

I detached myself gently. “I will fetch my bag.”

He shook his head forcefully. “We cannot tarry, child. Time is of the greatest importance!”

I patted his arm consolingly. “My dear baron, I am already packed.”

I
was as good as my word, and within ten minutes of agreeing to leave with the baron, I was in his carriage, my carpetbag and butterfly net perched on the seat beside me. I left the remains of the Harbottle treasury with a note for the landlord and considered the matter closed. I reasoned the sum should be sufficient to settle the damages. I had brought with me my own slender funds, tucked carefully into a clever pocket hidden in my jacket. I had changed from my mourning ensemble to a costume of my own design, and the baron regarded me curiously.

“You are not what I expected,” he ventured at last, but his tone was not unkind and his eyes shone warmly.

I nodded. “I seldom am. I have tried, I assure you. I have been brought up to do good works and to conduct myself with propriety and decorum, and yet I am forever doing the unexpected. Something always gives me away for what I really am.”

“And what are you, child?”

“A woman in search of adventure,” I said gravely.

The baron sketched a gesture that encompassed me from head to toe. “And these garments will help you to find one?”

I was quite proud of my ensemble. My boots were flat and laced almost to the knee to protect my lower limbs from thorns and branches whilst butterflying. I had modified my corset to a more athletic arrangement with light steel stays that might, in an hour of necessity, be used as weapons. I wore slim trousers tucked into the boots, and over it all a narrow skirt with a peculiar arrangement of buttons that permitted it to be raised to the knee or opened entirely to allow me to ride astride. There was a fitted jacket to match with an assortment of clever pockets, and into one I had tucked the good luck charm I was never without—a tiny mouse of grey velvet called Chester, the sole relic of my childhood.

My only jewelry was the small case compass pinned to my jacket, a present from Aunt Lucy to commemorate my first expedition—“So you will always find your way, child,” she had told me, her eyes bright with unshed tears as I left home for the first time. I brought with me nothing of Aunt Nell's except an appreciation for a clean white shirtwaist. The fabric of this curious suit was a serviceable dark grey wool, but I had made one or two allowances for vanity. The grey wool was trimmed with scrolls of rather dapper black silk passementerie, while my hat was an absolute confection. Broad of brim, with a snug, deep crown, it was crafted of fine black straw and wound with a length of black silk tulle that could be lowered to veil my face should bees prove troublesome. A bouquet of deep scarlet silk roses clustered on one side, a splash of delectable color I had been powerless to resist. But even they had a purpose to serve in the field, being the perfect perch for delicate specimens with damp wings.

The hat was a stroke of inspiration, and I pointed this out to the baron. “You see, the fashion for narrow brims has made it necessary for ladies to carry a parasol as well, but that means the hands are never free. With this hat, I am entirely protected from the elements, yet my hands are unencumbered. I can lower the veil if I like to shield my face, and the hatpin is reinforced to make a very fine weapon.” I gave a short laugh. “You needn't look so startled, Baron. I do not anticipate having need of it.”

“Even after you find an intruder in your home?” he asked softly.

I folded my hands in my lap. “Yes, about that. I know you said you believe my life is in danger, but I must tell you I think you are quite wrong. No, the fellow was a lowly villain in search of easy pickings. Doubtless he, like you, read in the newspaper of poor Aunt Nell's passing and realized the cottage would be empty during the funeral. It is a common enough occurrence. The fellow was simply an opportunistic housebreaker, and I surprised him by coming home somewhat sooner than he expected. When I gave chase, he was alarmed at the thought of having a witness to his crimes and attempted to frighten me by making it seem as if he would carry me off. That is all.”

The baron looked pained. “But if you do not truly believe yourself to be in danger, why have you come away with me?”

My tone was deliberately patient. “Because you were leaving Little Byfield. I was planning to depart this afternoon in any event, but you have very kindly saved me the cost of a ticket to London. I am obliged to you.”

The baron clucked his tongue and muttered an imprecation in German. “And I thought I had persuaded you. Oh, child, what must I say to convince you of the dangers before you?”

“Surely it cannot be so bad as all that. I expect you are merely hungry. Things always look darkest when one is hungry or tired, I find.” I reached for my carpetbag and unbuckled the straps. “I have some apples in here and some cheese. I regret there is no bread, but this will serve until we can stop for some refreshment.”

I proffered an apple and a wedge of weeping Cheddar, and the baron took them, turning them over in his hands. “The apple is a bit soft now, but it is from the orchard in Little Byfield and quite sweet, I promise,” I told him.

The baron shook his head. “I do not require food, my dear.”

“Spirits, then?” I rummaged in my bag until I found a flask, which I withdrew with a flourish. “It is a little something I acquired in South America, very good for restoring one's nerves.”

He handed back the food but took the flask, swallowing a mouthful under my watchful eye before choking hard. “Very nice,” he gasped.

I assessed his color. “You've a bit more pink in your cheeks, I am glad to say. You looked quite pale, you know. Have you difficulties with your health?”

“My heart,” he told me, handing back the flask. “Sometimes the breath, it does not come easily; sometimes there is pain. But I have work yet unfinished.”

“Work?” I replaced the flask carefully and tucked the food back into a clean cloth. “What sort of work?”

“To keep you safe,” he said softly, and it was this gentleness that caught my attention. I peered at him closely, scrutinizing him from his aristocratic brow to the well-formed lips under the generous mustaches, the graceful hands that clasped his knees loosely, the watchful eyes that never left mine. “You have her eyes,” he murmured at last. “Your mother's eyes.”

My heart rose in my throat, threatening to choke me. I could not speak for a moment, and when I did, my usually low voice was quick and high. “You knew my mother! How very extraordinary. I must confess, I know nothing of her.”

He hesitated. “She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he said simply.

I gave him an arch smile. “I suspect I look nothing like her, then.”

The baron protested, as I had expected he would.

“No woman can be so lovely and not know it,” he told me firmly. He put a finger under my chin and tipped my head this way and that, studying me carefully. “You might be her twin. It is uncanny, as if I were looking into her face once more. The same lips, the same cheekbones. I told her once I could cut glass upon those cheekbones. And of course, the eyes. I have never seen eyes that color before or since.”

“Aunt Nell used to say it was not decent to have violet eyes, that they were the telltale sign of a bad nature, like ginger hair or a hunchback. And village children used to tease me about being a bad fairy—a changeling child.”

“Children can be very stupid,” the baron said gravely.

“And dull, which is why I have no interest in becoming a mother of six,” I told him. He lifted his brows.

“Six is a curiously specific number.”

“I had a curiously specific offer today, but let us speak no more of that. Of course, I do not wish to be a paid companion or a daughter-in-law either. I have had quite enough of attending to elderly ladies,” I finished absently.

“They were good to you, though?” he asked, his tone shaded with anxiety. “The Harbottle ladies? They treated you with kindness?”

“Oh yes. I was fed and clothed and I don't suppose I ever wanted for anything, not really. I had a new dress every season and new books to read. Of course, that was due to the lending library. We moved so often I could never keep books of my own. Aunt Lucy always bought a subscription to the library as soon as we settled in a new village. As I grew older, I pursued my own interests. I have traveled far and seen much of the world, and when the aunts had need of me, I returned to care for them. It was a pleasant enough life.”

“Did you mind, all of this moving to and fro?”

I grinned. “If I am honest, I loathed it as a child. It always seemed that we moved just as I had amassed a good collection—eggs, frogs, beetles. I was forever leaving behind something I loved. The aunts were driven by their whims. One year we might live the whole twelvemonth in Lyme. The next they would have us move from town to town, four within the span of a year. I learned to accept it, as children do. And it taught me to travel lightly.” I narrowed my gaze. “You said you knew them. I do not remember meeting friends of theirs. They kept so much to themselves. And I never knew my mother, not even her name. What can you tell me?”

The baron opened his mouth, his lips pursed. Then he closed it sharply and shook his head. “Nothing at this moment, child. The truth is not mine to speak. I must seek permission before I reveal to you what I know, but I promise you, I will seek it, and when the moment is right, I will tell you all.”

I sighed. I was, truth be told, quite frustrated at the baron's obstinacy, but there was something steely in his manner that told me he would not be moved upon the point. “I suppose I will have to be satisfied with that.”

The baron relaxed visibly then, but almost as soon as his expression eased, a shadow passed over his features again. “For now, the most important thing is to make certain that you are safe.”

“You keep talking of my safety, but I cannot imagine why! I am the least interesting person in England, I assure you. No one could possibly want to harm me.” That was not entirely true, I reflected. The last paper I had written for
The British Journal of Lepidoptery
had stirred quite a bit of controversy, but as I always published papers and conducted my butterfly sales under the anonymity of my first initial and surname alone, no ill will could be directed towards me personally. As strongly as I pointed out that publishing in scientific journals was a scholarly accomplishment, the aunts had protested just as vehemently that filling orders for Aurelian collectors was too near to trade to be permissible for a lady. They had compromised, albeit reluctantly, that I might continue my studies and work under the cognomen of V. Speedwell.

In the end, I had not minded, and it never failed to amuse me to receive letters that began with the salutation, “Dear Mr. Speedwell . . .” True, I had nipped the odd specimen out from under the nose of less diligent hunters, for I was indefatigable in my pursuit, but the very notion of some sort of lepidopterist cabal after my head was enough to make me laugh.

A wraithlike smile touched the baron's lips. “I will pray to God that you are right and that I am merely borrowing troubles that will not come to pass. In the meantime, until I am certain, you will be guided by me?”

I looked at him a long moment, holding his anxious gaze with mine. Then I nodded. “I will.”

“Your trust in me is unexpected but most gratifying,” he told me.

“I am a great believer in intuition, Baron. And my intuition tells me that you are a man upon whom I may rely.” I did not add that he was the sole clue I had ever had to my mother's identity. I had no intention of permitting him to escape me until I had learned everything I could about my antecedents.

“From your lips to the ears of God,” he said, and it struck me that when the baron mentioned God he did not do so flippantly. Whatever matter touched me, it concerned the baron deeply.

I leaned forward then, determined to press my luck as far as I could. “Will you answer one question for me? I promise to ask no others until you deem it fit.”

“Very well.”

I stated the question boldly, as I hoped he would wish. “Are you my father?”

His kindly face creased in sorrow, but he did not look away. “No, child. I wish I were, but I am not.”

A sharp and unexpected pang struck my heart. I had thought myself indifferent to the answer, but I was wrong. “Then we will merely be friends,” I said. I put out my hand solemnly. Other men might have laughed. But the baron shook my hand, and having done so, he bowed over it and kissed it with courtly formality.

“We will be friends,” he agreed. “And I will do everything in my power to make certain you learn what you wish to know.”

“Thank you, Baron.” I nodded towards his brow. “You are bleeding again. It is not a very hopeful omen, is it? A journey begun in bloodshed augurs ill, according to the ancients.” I meant it as a jest, but the baron did not smile. And after a moment, neither did I.

•   •   •

The journey to London proved uneventful to the point of boredom, and I began to be a little sorry we had not taken the train. The baron insisted upon the precaution of ducking down various country lanes to make quite certain we were eluding any possible pursuers, with the result that the drive took twice as long as it ought. He also refused any suggestion of stopping for a meal, resorting instead to a selection of unappetizing sandwiches purchased at exorbitant cost from a roadside inn. I nibbled at mine as the baron continued to formulate a plan. He suggested and discarded a dozen options before throwing up his hands and applying himself to his own repast.

“We will think of something,” he assured me. “But it is not good to deliberate upon such things when one is trying to eat. It disturbs the digestion. So we will talk of other matters. Tell me, if you do not mean to be a governess or a companion, what sort of adventure do you wish to seek out?”

I wiped my mouth of crumbs and began to explain. “I am a student of natural history, all branches. I subscribe to all of the major journals on exploration and discovery. As you might deduce from my butterfly net, lepidoptery is my particular specialty. I hunt butterflies as a profession, filling orders for Aurelians who lack the means or the desire to hunt their own specimens,” I added.