Lord Rosemorran seemed at a loss as we stood outside. “I hardlyknow what to think,” he managed at last. “She has always been there. Ever since I was a child, I thought of her as immovable, fixed.”
“You make her sound like the Rock of Gibraltar,” I said with a smile.
He smiled in return. “Exactly that. She is our rock.”
Hours passed, slowly. Lumley, the butler, brought chairs for us, and from time to time a frightened maid peeped around the corner, then whisked away to report that there was no news. We, none of us, had an appetite for dinner. Lord Rosemorran’s sister, Lady Cordelia, took charge of the children and sent food up, but we sent it back untasted. She came to sit with us after putting the children to bed. We said little more until the physician emerged, his expression somber.
“I will not pretend her condition is not serious, my lord,” he began. “She has indeed suffered a severe attack of angina. The worst of the crisis is past, but it remains to be seen if she will return to consciousness or how great—if any—damage the heart has sustained.” He looked to Stoker. “You said you dosed her with foxglove?”
“I did.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Likely saved her life with that. It’s a dangerous proposition but in cases like these it is the only possible chance.”
Stoker’s relief was unspoken but palpable.
“May I see her?” Lord Rosemorran asked.
The physician shook his head. “She is resting now with that girl. I’ve had a stern word with her about keeping watch. If there are any changes, she will alert you. I will return in the morning to look in on her and assess her condition further. If she shows signs of distress, send for me at once.”
His lordship walked the physician downstairs as Lady Cordelia rose, smoothing out her skirts. “I will sit with her. Weatherby is loyal but she is flighty as a hummingbird in a crisis.”
“You will fatigue yourself,” I protested.
She waved it off. “It will give me something useful to do.” There was a slight bitterness to her mouth, a new resentment I had not seen before. Lady Cordelia was by far the most intelligent member of the family, but her talents were often wasted in domestic trivialities. She seemed to be floundering of late, not least because she had endured a painful trial of her own only a few months past.
“You will send for me if you have need?” I asked.
She gave me a grateful nod. Stoker stepped in. “I will walk Veronica to her lodgings and return to sleep in the China Bedroom. Wake me if there is anything I can do,” he urged.
She accepted with thanks and bade us good night before slipping into Lady Wellie’s room. The door closed with an air of finality and Stoker took my hand, leading me down through the quiet, slumbering house. Lord Rosemorran had taken himself to his study; a slim band of golden light shone under the door. We passed through the side door and into the cool air of the night.
The grounds were quiet, sleeping under stars that were mere pinpricks within the city. Stone paths meandered between manicured hedges, leading from one part of the estate to another. We reached the door of my little Gothic chapel and Stoker turned, his eyes glittering in the darkness.
His hands were heavy on my shoulders. “Tonight—” he began.
“Is not the night for us,” I finished.
“Still, I cannot rest,” he said, his nerves obviously strung as tightly as mine. He tipped his head. “I think we should have an outing. It is not too late.”
CHAPTER
3
To my very great surprise, within a short period of time, we were bound for Hampstead Heath in one of his lordship’s carriages, a stout wooden crate following in a cart. I asked no questions. It was oddly restful to be simply carried along, like a cork in a river current. The evening was cool, brisk even, but without dampness for once, and as we climbed out of the metropolis and into the clearer air of the heath, I found my spirits rising.
Stoker directed the driver to a secluded house, a Queen Anne villa nestled on significant grounds. It was thickly—if unimaginatively—bordered by shrubbery, tangled and overgrown. The house itself was in good enough repair, although here and there the pointing wanted freshening. Wood smoke poured from the chimneys. An old-fashioned house, I thought with pleasure. I hated the throat-thickening clouds of coal soot that blanketed the city. An honest wood fire was a joy too little encountered, I reflected.
Stoker directed the porters who had come with the cart as he lifted a hand to the door knocker, a tarnished brass affair fashioned into the shape of a dolphin.
The door was thrown back almost instantly by a small man who peered nearsightedly through a pair of smudged spectacles. His hair stood out like spun sugar, a great airy tuft at each temple, with an expanse of bare pink scalp in between. His brows were lavish and expressive, and beneath them twinkled a pair of bright dark eyes.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane!” he cried. “This is an unexpected pleasure! And you have broughther!”
I made a modest little bob of the head, but he was staring past me, towards the crate that was being unloaded from the cart. “Oh, my good fellows, do be careful, I beg you!” he called.
“Mr. Pennybaker,” Stoker said gently, recalling his attention. “May I present my associate, Miss Speedwell? Veronica, this is Mr. Pennybaker, a collector of natural history.”
The little fellow, slight as an elf, blinked furiously as he looked up at me through his spectacles. “Veronica Speedwell? What a delightful name. A great joke of the botanical variety,” he said, nodding in agreement with his own observation. “A great jokeindeed.”
