Awash with such tender memories, I very nearly faltered in my resolve to bring him to heel. It would have been so easy then to reach out to him, to offer him conciliation.
I opened my mouth. “Stoker—” I began.
Before I could finish my thought, the train lurched to a stop. “Dearsley! The stop for Dearsley!” cried the conductor.
We had arrived.
CHAPTER
7
As is my custom, I travelled lightly, with a carpetbag and a small valise comprising the whole of my impedimenta. Stoker, on the other hand, required the support of several local fellows to extract his heap of trunks from the baggage compartment and pile them into a wagon. This was something to which I was accustomed from some months of travelling in Tiberius’ company. His lordship never set foot outside his own home without packing half his wardrobe, a saddle custom-made from the finest Circassian leather, a toilet case befitting one of the more pernickety archdukes, a Sèvres tea set, and a substantial quantity of his favourite foods and liquors. He even, to one region notable for its remoteness and the rudimentary nature of its plumbing, conveyed a canvas bathtub with assorted salts and scented waters.
Stoker was nothing like half so fussy. His trunks held the various oddments of his trade—several types of clay for modeling, tools, sawdust, scraps of fur, needles, thread, and eyeballs. Boxes and boxes of eyeballs.
“Must you bring so many eyeballs?” I had enquired politely as I watched him wedge yet another tray into his trunks.
“They are very particular eyeballs, Veronica. I cannot trust mymounts to just any pedestrian eyeballs,” he chided. He was, of course, correct. One of the qualities unique to his specimens was the bright, lively gaze he managed to achieve, due entirely to the fact that he had worked diligently to achieve mastery of the lampworker’s art. Many a peaceful evening had passed with us tucked in the Belvedere bent contentedly over our work, Stoker with rods of glass and a fiery torch and me with a case of lepidoptera in need of attention. (As Stoker tended to work stripped to the waist, I was often distracted from my own scientific efforts, but we shall draw a veil over these diversions for the moment.)
We were the only travellers to alight at Dearsley, but an absolute pack of porters descended upon us, maneuvering the baggage swiftly into its own wagon as we were guided through the miniature station. “I know where I am going,” Stoker muttered. His mood had grown increasingly gloomy through the duration of our journey, and I turned to him, suddenly intuiting what lay behind his fit of the morbs.
“How long has it been since you were last here? At Cherboys, I mean?”
“Not long enough,” he said as one figure, more unkempt than the porters and wearing a black cassock and the tabbed white collar of a vicar, detached himself from the crowd.
“Stoker!” The clergyman hurtled towards us with the rumbustious enthusiasm of youth. I had only met him once before, but I recognised him instantly from a meeting at Bishop’s Folly where he had deeply embarrassed himself by offering an insult to my reputation. The fact that Stoker had threatened immediate bodily injury did not in any way diminish the handsomeness of his forthcoming apology in my eyes.
I smiled broadly to show I bore him no ill will. “Hello, Merryweather.” It was a less than conventional way to address a vicar, but the lad bore far more resemblance to a shaggy, shambling dog than a man of the cloth.
Merryweather came to a stop just short of us and gave me a shysmile, flushing to the roots of his curling hair, the tresses dark as a polished chestnut. His eyes, like those of every Templeton-Vane save Stoker, were bright brown—lively and watchful.
“Miss Speedwell, good afternoon to you. I am so pleased you have come to Dearsley,” he said, putting his hand out in a show of friendliness. “I have long since wished to repeat my apolo—”
I thrust my carpetbag into his outstretched hand. “Take my bag and we shall say no more about it, Merryweather. Your contrition is noted and appreciated. Now, lead on. I am longing for a cup of tea.”
He took my bag but did not move, his gaze fixed upon his elder brother. “It is good to have you here again at last,” Merry said. There was a wariness in his expression, and I realised he was in a state of some nervous anticipation. Hardly surprising, considering the fact that the last time they had been in the same room, Stoker had called him a carbuncle and lifted him clear off his feet by his clerical collar.
“Hello, Merry. I see you’re still in harness,” Stoker said, dropping his gaze to his brother’s distinctive garments.
Merry shrugged with a rueful twist of the lips. “Yes, well.” He said no more, but there was a resignation to his tone that I did not like. It was customary for the youngest Templeton-Vane son to enter the Church, and Merry had dutifully taken holy orders in spite of lacking both temperament and vocation. But he had not dared to cross his father and, later, Tiberius. I felt a pang of pity for the boy, locked as he was into a fate quite different to that of his desiring. I knew only too well the sort of determination it required to chart a course of one’s own choosing. Perhaps Merryweather might manage it for himself, if only he had the proper encouragement.
But that was a matter for another time, I decided, and I prodded Merryweather with the point of my parasol. “Tea, Merryweather.”
“Of course, Miss Speedwell,” he said, instantly contrite as he led us away.
Waiting for us was a luxurious conveyance marked with the arms of the Templeton-Vanes. Merry handed me in and proceeded to give me a thorough tour of the village as we bowled along. A fair number of people were milling about and I wondered if it were market day although I saw no telltale stalls or bunting.
“No, they’ve come out to see Stoker,” Merry said, grinning, when I ventured the question.
Stoker had lapsed into silence and sat glowering in the corner of the carriage. Merryweather went on, pointing out the tiny street of shops and the various other landmarks and amenities. I recognised them from the map in the book I had unearthed in the Belvedere, but it was pleasant to have a guide, and I let Merryweather continue without interruption. “There is the village green with the duck pond, and the doctor’s house is Wren Cottage, that pretty little Georgian house with the dispensary attached. Most convenient for the villagers. Just there is the school, oh, the children are at the windows, waving.” He paused and raised a hand to them, smiling, as Stoker slunk further down in his seat.
Merry pointed. “And there on the other side of the pond is the church—mychurch, St. Frideswide the Lesser’s,” he added, should I be in any doubt on the matter. We rode swiftly along the main road as it swept in an arc around the walled churchyard and into a narrow, leafy lane that led away from the clustered cottages. The whole village could not have encompassed more than fifty houses, but it was snug and prosperous, neat as a pin with late roses rambling over the warm honeyed stone.
“You’ll notice there are no thatched roofs here,” Merryweather pointed out. “Father thought them unhygienic, so he had every last one stripped and replaced with slate.” The effect made the village only slightly less picturesque than it ought to have been.
“They are also a fire hazard,” I remarked. To my astonishment,Merry began to cough, a sort of choking wheeze that ended only when I slapped him forcefully upon the shoulder.
“Are you quite well?” I asked when he had recovered his breath.
