“A most impressive creature,” I told Stoker. “Is it male or female?”
“Male,” Stoker pronounced. “But unlike other Antipodean marsupials, the male has a pouch into which it can withdraw the scrotal sac for defensive purposes during an attack. It is an extraordinary specimen. It ought to have been mounted to display the full range of its bite.”
“Eighty degrees,” Jonathan put in. “Is that not what you said?”
“More or less,” Stoker agreed. “You can see here—” He was offagain, pointing out the intricacies of the animal’s anatomy, from its remarkable jaw to the jaunty angle of its tail.
“I will leave you to it,” I said quietly. They both made the appropriate noises, but they scarcely seemed to notice when I withdrew to the far side of the room in order to examine the cases of lepidoptery specimens. Those I had already found were old, from Sir Geoffrey’s time, and, due to the deleterious effects of shipping and improper handling, had noticeably deteriorated in quality. But as I moved on, I received a shock, for the next case was much newer, and I recognized the hand that had inscribed the labels.
Ornithoptera euphorion, I read, tracing the neat penmanship. I remembered Jonathan Hathaway laboring over this particular case, mounting the pretty set of Cairns Birdwings he had netted in Australia. It had been raining in Sumatra and butterfly hunters do not give chase in the rain. We had settled in for a long afternoon of writing up our journals and labeling our collections, exchanging stories and admiring each other’s handiwork. I had been assembling a particularly lucrative collection of Saturniidae for a gentleman in Scotland with a passion for moths and had just secured the largest exemplar ofAttacus atlasI had ever seen. Nine and a half inches across, it was enormous and almost wildly beautiful with its rusty colorations and geometric patterns. Jonathan had insisted upon toasting my success while Harry had speculated on the amount of the bonus I could expect for capturing such a beauty. Jonathan had finished his case of birdwings that day and shipped it home to Hathaway Hall, but I had carefully stowed my Atlas with the rest of the moths. Within six weeks, they would be destroyed in the eruption, and I never did see the payment for the days I had spent roaming the jungles of Sumatra. But what I remembered most of that day was the genuine pleasure Jonathan Hathaway evinced at my success.
I glanced up to find Harry standing behind me. “I recall that day,” he said softly. “It was the day I decided to ask you to marry me.”
“Don’t,” I ordered. “Or I will tell him this instant.”
“You were never more beautiful than when you were on the hunt,” he went on.
I rose, but his hand came around my wrist. “Can you bear to destroy his happiness?” he asked, flicking a glance to where Stoker stood, working on the thylacine. He was taking notes, calipers and magnifying glass at hand, singing “The Maid of Amsterdam” with a few particularly explicit additions he had doubtless learnt in the navy. He looked utterly content, and I wrenched my wrist free from Harry’s grip.
“Do not test me,” I hissed. But even as I left the room, I realized how easily Harry had discovered my Achilles’ heel and how true had been his aim.
•••
After dinner that evening—more delicious food and bland conversation—we gathered again for coffee around the hearth. This time Effie joined us for dinner and Anjali had even been permitted to appear when coffee was served. After the first cups had been drunk, Lady Hathaway snapped her fingers at Anjali. “Go with Effie. She knows what I want.”
Anjali bowed her head and followed Effie from the room.
“What are you on about, Granna?” Charles asked affectionately.
Lady Hathaway gave him a slow smile as she folded her hands over the top of her walking stick. “Just you wait, boy. I do love a surprise.”
“At your age!” Mary said with more candor than tact.
Lady Hathaway’s mouth thinned. “When you have reached my advanced years, Mary dear, I do hope you will have acquired a little wisdom to compensate for the loss of your good looks.”
Jonathan’s lips twitched with a suppressed smile, but Mary seemed not to notice how thoroughly she had been put in her place. There was a complacency to her, the self-satisfaction of the young, I thought. She knew well enough that in a short while, she would be undisputed mistress of Hathaway Hall. Her things would be moved into the master suite, no doubt after she had redecorated, stripping away every last reminder of Lady Hathaway. By virtue of her age alone, she would triumph. Viewed in that light, it was rather sordid and a little sad, I decided. Lady Hathaway had clearly been a person of some influence, accustomed to wielding power over those around her. With the passage of time, she had become smaller until all that remained were the tiny tyrannies of the elderly inflicted upon the young.
It all made me exceedingly grateful that I had no proper family to speak of. I enjoyed the smug solitude of an orphan, with no obligations to trouble me and no expectations to stifle my whims. It might be lonely at times, if I were entirely honest, but how much better to be alone with my dignity intact than at the mercy of my relations!
It was only a few short minutes until Effie and Anjali returned bearing a small casket. I was not familiar enough to distinguish among the various styles of Indian workmanship, but the artistry was clearly from that part of the world. It was wrought silver, badly tarnished but still lovely. Effie presented it to her grandmother with a flourish while Anjali handed over a key, an enormous thing with a thick silken tassel attached to one end.
“Granna,” Charles Hathaway began, half rising from his seat, “is that—”
She waved him back to his chair. “It is indeed, Charles. Do not fuss.” She settled the casket on her lap and fitted the key to the lock. It turned with an audible protest, and Effie had to help, but at last there came a decisive click and the lid sprang free.
Lady Hathaway beamed down at the contents, an expression offondness warming her features. “There you are, my darlings,” she crooned. “It has been a long time.” She reached a hand into the casket and brought it up again, dripping in rubies.
We gasped as they caught the light, flinging it back again, the glittering scarlet sparks warming the pale, withered flesh of her hand. She gave a delighted laugh and dipped her hand again, this time emerging with a string of emeralds. Pearls followed, long strands of them looping about her arm. She presented earrings and brooches and bracelets, all set with the same gems, and a turban ornament in the shape of a peacock’s tail, paved with rubies.
“Do you see that little hollow?” she asked us, demonstrating the empty chamber at the top of the turban ornament. “That is where a plume would go, always an ostrich feather of purest white. And here,” she added, touching a spot just above the elaborate scarlet tail, “this is where the heart of the peacock belongs.”
She reached a last time into the casket and drew out a velvet box. She handed it to Jonathan. “Open it, lad,” she ordered.
He gave her a questioning look, but she flapped her jewel-laden hands at him. “Do as I say.”
He looked at the group. My own expression must have been one of wide-eyed wonder, for I had never seen such an assemblage of jewels and I had once worn the crown jewels of the Alpenwald. The others looked frankly astonished at the magnificent display heaped in her ladyship’s lap.
Jonathan took a deep breath and opened the box. He caught his breath, and I knew he was not pretending. His awe was entirely sincere. With reverent fingers he drew out a stone, an enormous thing, as red as blood and shimmering with the crimson glow of a still-beating heart.
