Abruptly, she gestured towards my dress. “That is clever,” she said, peering closely at the curious arrangement of my costume. On the right-hand side, from just above the ankle to just above the knee, a deep pocket had been stitched, just wide enough to permit a furled umbrella to be tucked neatly away, ever at the ready should I require it but without encumbering my hands.
I spread my fingers. “A butterfly hunter needs her net,” I reminded her. “Mr. Templeton-Vane devised this for me so that I can secure my umbrella when I am on the hunt. But I have found it generally useful in keeping one’s hands free.”
“And you carry no reticule,” she noted.
I demonstrated the further modifications to my ensemble, interior pockets fitted into the seams of my dress, deep but easily accessible, and one secret compartment located just under my modest bustle. “And if I button back the skirt, you will see that I am wearing trousers underneath.” I showed her. I had a few variations on my hunting attire but all modeled on the same basic principle: a narrow skirt, slim trousers, and a fitted jacket of serviceable and handsome tweed. Underneath was a well-tailored white shirtwaist, and my legs were protected from brambles by flat leather boots that fitted like a man’s and laced to the knee. The original design had been my own, but the pockets were entirely Stoker’s doing, both in conception and in execution. He had learnt tostitch as part of his training both as a surgeon and as a taxidermist. The fact that he occasionally used those skills to alter or mend my clothes was a particular pleasure to me.
“It’s the cleverest thing I have ever seen,” she pronounced. “At first glance, you look like any other countrywoman, but you can move like a man in it.”
“I can move like a scientist,” I corrected. “And that is more to the point.”
She smiled again, and I sensed a softening in her. Mertensia had put me in mind of a hedgehog before, prickly in her defenses, but she had clearly found in me a kindred spirit.
“I could send you the specifications, if you like,” I told her. “Any competent dressmaker could run it up for you.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I would like that.”
I took advantage of the moment of rapport to put a question to her. “I was surprised to hear of the disappearance of your brother’s bride. What do you think became of her?”
Her face shuttered immediately. She picked up a shovel, clutching it with practiced fingers. “Speculation is the refuge of an idle mind and mine is seldom without occupation. Forgive me, Miss Speedwell. I must get on.”
“Veronica,” I corrected. “After all, you do not stand on ceremony,” I added with a smile.
Mertensia did not smile back.
CHAPTER
5
Mertensia recovered enough from her momentary brusqueness to walk with me to the edge of the terrace, pointing out the path that would lead me eventually to the little village nestled at the foot of the castle. Patches of fog had drifted inland, draping wisps of gossamer mist over the trees. “If you mean to go to the village, go now. There will come a storm later and you won’t enjoy the walk back if it’s raining. Do stop in at the Mermaid for some cider. We grow the apples here in the lower orchard and it is like nothing else you will ever taste,” she promised. “Mind you do not go into the pubs,” she added. “Their trade is with the sailors who call in on their way to Ireland. The inn is the only suitable establishment for unaccompanied ladies.”
The grounds were cleverly laid out so that they seemed quite private right until the end, the path winding through copses thick with trees in the full glory of their late summer foliage, dressed in coats of glossy green in every shade imaginable. The air was humid and heavy, pressing close against me as I walked, drawing beads of perspiration from my temples. I picked my way down the path, into the mist-shrouded trees. The formal gardens gave way to orchards and then to wilder patches of forest, little copses that had been so cleverly planted they gave the impression of much larger woods.
I kept to the path and in a very short time found myself at the foot of the mount on the main street of the village. It was a bustling little place, boasting a shop, a church, three schools, an inn, a trio of pubs, and a smithy, all dating from the Tudor period to judge from the architecture. The half timbering was old, but the plastered bits had been freshly whitewashed, and the windows in each were gleaming. It had a tidy, prosperous look. The blacksmith was busy at his forge, shoeing a horse whilst a farmer waited. A few of the island’s women were gathered at the shop, purchasing stamps or exchanging gossip as they waited to be served, falling to interested silence as I posted my letter to Lady Wellie. Strangers were clearly a matter of note in so small a place, and I gave them a cordial nod as I emerged from the shop. Down the street a buxom maid poured a pail of water onto the steps of one of the pubs, sluicing it clean. In a patch of sunlight in front of the church, an elderly woman sat tatting, her cat at her side, licking daintily at its paws. It was as peaceful a place as any I had seen, and I felt a curious somnolence steal over me. It was like walking into a storybook village, a sleepy place where folk never changed and life went on as it always had throughout the centuries.
Even the inn seemed like something out of time, I decided, as I pushed through the door and entered the low-ceilinged main room. The sign out front had depicted a fairly lascivious-looking mermaid, but within all was peaceful. Chairs and tables were scattered about, good plain oak, so darkened by time and polish that they were black as walnut. I glanced about for a proprietor, and to my surprise, the elderly woman from in front of the church appeared, cat trotting neatly at her heels.
“Good day to you, Miss Speedwell,” the woman said in a curious, creaking voice.
“How did you—” I paused and began to laugh. “Of course. It is a small island, after all.”
She smiled, displaying a surprisingly beautiful set of teeth. “Old Mother Nance knows more than you might believe, my dear.” Shegestured with one long-fingered hand. “Come into the parlor and sit by the fire. The mist is rising and it won’t be long before the sun is gone. You must warm yourself and take some cider,” she insisted. She guided me into a smaller parlor where a merry fire was burning upon the hearth. It was much colder in this room with its stone walls and tiny windows and she noticed my shiver.
“This is the oldest part of the inn,” she told me. “Built into the living rock, it is. You can feel the damp, can you not? The whole island is laced with tunnels and secret passages.”
“Not surprising for a property owned by a Catholic family in the reign of Elizabeth,” I pointed out.
She laughed, a small wheezing sound that shook her bony shoulders. “Lord love you, my dear. You think they practiced secrecy because they were recusants? Nay, the Romillys were smugglers, child. That is how they made their coin and crafty they were with it. There’s not a square inch of this island that doesn’t hold a secret.” She turned away and busied herself for a moment before returning with a tray upon which perched a tankard. “Take it and drink,” she urged.
“Only if you will drink with me,” I told her.
She seemed pleased at the invitation. She fetched herself a tankard and we toasted before I sipped. Mertensia had been right. The cider was sweet and cold, but behind the bright apple taste was a sharp note of something dark and complex, like an excellent wine.
“You mark the difference,” Mother Nance said.
“Miss Romilly mentioned that the local apples are unique,” I agreed.
“Grown in the bones of a dead man,” she said solemnly.
