“Feathers,” I muttered as they left me. I sat for a long while, watching the flames die to embers, the room growing cold around me. At last the falling temperature drove me to my room where the fire had been kindled and a hot brick placed in my sheets. The warmth tempted me, but I was determined to stay awake until I had a chance to speak with Stoker. The weight of my secrets pressed upon me and I was eager to be free of them, no matter the consequences.
CHAPTER
15
In spite of my resolve, I must have drifted into the arms of Morpheus, for when I opened my eyes, a bleak grey daylight shone at the window. I was cramped, excruciatingly so, for having spent the night curled in the window seat, and it took several minutes to untangle myself and bring movement to my stiffened limbs.
As I stretched my neck, I caught sight of a piece of paper that had been thrust under my door. It was half a sheet of foolscap, and I knew the hand well, even in a hasty scrawl. It was from Stoker, a few words to explain that he and Jonathan had stayed at billiards until an unconscionably late hour and though he had tapped, I had made no answer. He explained that he was in need of specialist packing materials for the purposes of protecting the thylacine, and as none was to be had nearer than Exeter, he had taken the earliest train and would return after luncheon.
I tossed the letter aside with a few choice words that would have scandalized the rest of the household had they heard me. Now that I had made up my mind to confess all to Stoker, every hour the action was delayed had become torture. I felt suffocated by the burden of the truth, and even the air in the Hall seemed thick with my deceit. I couldbear it no longer. Without Stoker at hand, I realized there was slim purpose to my working in the Long Gallery alone. There was little work to be done with the butterfly collections and I could easily manage it whilst Stoker was occupied with his beloved thylacine. The rest of the Hathaways would doubtless be engaged in their regular activities and I had no wish to join them. I was, in a word, free.
With alacrity, I donned my working costume of tweed trousers and shirtwaist, buttoning over this a fitted waistcoat and a jacket. A narrow skirt, which could be buttoned up and out of the way if necessity demanded, concealed the immodesty of the trousers, while flat boots buttoned to the knee protected my legs. I took up my equipment—net, killing jars, cotton-wool pads soaked in a cyanide solution, and a small wicker hamper like a fisherman’s creel. A packet of minuten, the tiny headless pins of the lepidopterist’s trade, were neatly fitted into my cuffs, and for good measure I slipped my favorite knife into my boot. I wore no hat, content to feel upon my face whatever sunlight might oblige. I stopped in the kitchens long enough to ask Mrs.Desmond’s cook for supplies for my little hamper. She complied with generous wedges of cheese and fruitcake, apples, a bottle of cold tea, and sausage rolls. I waved her a cheerful farewell and burst from the door with the same sense of escape as a prisoner released from his confinement.
In a bound, I was through the summerhouse and onto the moor. It was early in the season yet, but I knew the watery meadows which lined the bogs were home to the pretty jeweled specimens of Dartmoor—fritillaries of every variety, hawkmoths, hover flies, hairstreaks, skippers, and even a few of my beloved swallowtails. They were domestic butterflies, much smaller and less brilliant than those of the tropics, but they were among the varieties I had chased first, with my child’s net. It kindled a keen sense of nostalgia to be in pursuit of them once more, scrambling over rocks and through puddles after the flash of a soft blue or gentle purple wing. I had thought once that I had lostmy taste for netting specimens, content to rear them by hand in my vivarium. But as I ran and climbed, intent upon the chase, my blood rose, and I felt a rush of familiar exaltation.
At noonday, I took my rest amidst a few standing stones atop an escarpment. The climb had been demanding, leaving me breathless with both exertion and delight as the countryside fell away before me. I could spot the various moorland folk about their business—shepherds moving amidst their flocks, peat cutters working the bogs for the slabs of peat used for the cottage fires. I perched above them all, sitting atop a standing stone that had conveniently toppled over, providing me with both seat and table for my picnic luncheon. The sausage rolls were squashed but delicious, the cheese flavorsome, the cake richly studded with fruits and spices. There was nothing like physical activity to heighten the pleasures of food, I reflected, dusting the crumbs from my fingers and draining the last of my tea.
I had just tucked the bottle back into my hamper when I spotted a familiar figure upon the moor, walking with careless grace, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. A rush of emotion flooded me and I snatched up my things to intercept him, flying down the little escarpment on winged feet.
So rapid was my pace and so stealthy my steps that he was taken by surprise.
“Veronica!” he exclaimed, obviously startled. He smiled, but I could tell from the quick dart of his eyes to the side that he was evaluating his odds of escaping.
“If you think we are not going to have this conversation, you are entirely mistaken,” I informed him. “You lied to me, Harry.”
“Veronica, that is a dreadful thing to say.”
“Your expression of wounded astonishment is most convincing. Tell me, do you practice it in the mirror for just such an occasion?” I asked.
He clucked his tongue. “It is a sad thing when a woman turns tocynicism. It’s very aging, you know.” I started forwards, but he raised a hand. “Peace, I beg you! Let us not quarrel, wife.”
“Do not call me that,” I spat. “And do not change the subject.”
“What we were speaking of?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“Your mendacity. You lied when you said that you merely wanted to remain at the Hall to enjoy the company of Lady Hathaway and give succor to her in her old age.”
“Not at all, and I am frankly offended you should think so.”
“The jewels,” I hissed. “You knew about the jewels.”
He winced. “I did notknow.”
“But you suspected.”
“Well, I did surmise,” he admitted. “Jonathan told me there were some extremely valuable things lying around, and I thought if the old dear wanted to make me a present of them, I would certainly not offend her by refusing.”
“Aha!”
He sighed. “You needn’t look so triumphant. We both know my character, Veronica. I acknowledge my flaws. I am an opportunist. I am feckless and a bit of a coward at times.”
I began to tick items off on my fingers. “You lie. You gamble. You cheat. You steal.”
“I most certainly do not!” he returned indignantly. “Is it my fault that I am so personable that ladies often want to make me presents? Sometimes quite lavish ones?”
My mouth went slack. “Is that what you do? Persuade ladies to part with their fortunes?”
“Well, I am not proud of it, but a fellow has to make a living and I was blessed with two assets—a passably handsome face and an exquisitely persuasive tongue. Now that I think on it, there is a third asset that has proven most useful—”
