Page 78 of A Sinister Revenge

“We will argue and then I will cook my ortolans à la d’Orlande for you and you will agree with me,” Julien said, with the perfect assurance of a man who knows his worth.

“We will see,” Tiberius replied.

He turned to kiss me farewell, and I held out my hand. “Are you not forgetting something? Five guineas, your lordship.”

He patted his pockets with an air of regret. “And me without my notecase! How distressing. I suppose I shall have to owe you.”

“Tiberius, you are the most—” I would have argued with him, but just then I caught sight of Nanny MacQueen barrelling down the steps of Cherboys. “Never mind,” I said hastily. “I will see you in London.” I returned his kiss and offered another to Julien, who handed me into the carriage. I moved to the far side and sat very still, as a mongoose will when confronted with a cobra.

Nanny kissed Stoker soundly on both cheeks, her good-bye punctuated with reminders about the importance of clean teeth and regular bowels. Stoker, with a hint of desperation in his voice, promised to attend to both. As he bent to kiss her, she grabbed him by the ears and pulled him further down, whispering something just loud enough for him to hear. He smiled in reply. “Yes, Nanny.”

He vaulted in to sit beside me, carrying the wolpertinger with exquisite tenderness. The coachman snapped the reins to start the team on our brief journey to Dearsley station. Lily waved a handkerchief in farewell while Nanny stood on the steps, giving me a baleful look.

I fairly itched to know what he had promised Nanny in parting, but it was beneath my dignity to ask. But I had a dreadful suspicion it had something to do with me.

As we bowled along, leaving Cherboys behind, Stoker continued to fuss over his wolpertinger with a care bordering on adoration.

“You cannot seriously intend to hold that appalling creature all the way back to London,” I protested as he settled it onto his knee.

It was frankly hideous, its lips drawn back into a snarl to reveal long, yellow fangs. The hare’s ears were long and cunning while the tiny antlers affixed to its head were nothing short of ludicrous. The wings, liberated from some unidentifiable bird of prey, had been stiffened with wire to stand proud of the body, spread with the malevolence of a bat in flight.

To Stoker, however, it was a thing of perfect beauty. He regarded it with all the fond infatuation of a father to his newborn babe. He fairly crooned to it as we travelled back to London, and I realised I should have to make my peace with the little beast if we were to enjoy any sort of domestic harmony. It assumed pride of place on Stoker’s desk, and when the Megalosaurus arrived for installation on the grounds of Bishop’s Folly, his happiness was complete. Of course, Lord Rosemorran’s children instantly adopted the Megalosaurus as a sort of playhouse as Stoker had once done, and he was forever chasing them out of the monster.

One afternoon in late September, he was driven to evict Lady Rose, the youngest of Lord Rosemorran’s impetuous offspring and by far the most troublesome, with the promise of violet creams and a lesson in one of the less lethal varieties of physical combat. They were still negotiating terms—Lady Rose had the advantage of him in that she was perched atop the Megalosaurus, and as any general knows, she who commands the highest position enjoys the advantage—when a small packing crate arrived bearing my name in an unfamiliar hand.

I used a prybar to access the contents and was delighted to find a small potted goat willow tree. Hanging from the branches were a collection ofApatura irischrysalides, the unfinished form of themagnificent Purple Emperor butterfly, one of our most tremendous native beauties and indigenous to Devon. A short note accompanied the offering.

My dear Veronica, it read,I hope you will accept this gift from one natural scientist to another. In friendship, Elspeth Gresham.

I marvelled at the little pouches, spun from the finest filaments to nurture the larvae as they completed the transition from immaturity to imago. With infinite delicacy, I carried the arrangement to my vivarium and placed it tenderly in a quiet corner. In the warmth and serenity of the vivarium, they would finish their journey, affording me the opportunity to study them at length. It was a thoughtful and generous gift, and I felt abashed that I had suspected Elspeth of various villainies instead of recognising a woman who suffered acutely from dashed hopes. I wondered how my own life might have been stunted had I never discovered my passion for lepidoptery or seized the chance to make it my life’s work. And I felt a rush of gratitude for the benevolence of a universe that had looked kindly upon my talents and given me scope for the exercising of them.

As I sat musing, a gentle movement caught my eye. One of the chrysalides, a little darker and a bit larger than the rest, swung on its branch. I came closer, witness to the moment when the creature within would stir forth for the first time. It is not a quick thing, the birth of a butterfly, but it never fails to enchant the curious mind. This tiny creature had crawled upon its branch with its caterpillar’s Herculean resolve and settled in to sleep the long sleep of the ages. And when its time had come, it had courageously pushed itself free and into the bright new world. I watched as the chrysalis fell away and the imago emerged, struggling a little with wings heavy and damp. It drooped on the branch, resting from its ordeal before shuddering its wings, testing them. I held my breath as it stretched out, reaching for the air.

And then it fell, dropping away from the branch and all the safety it had known, plunging towards certain destruction. But before it came todisaster, its wings took hold of the ether, bearing it upwards in a drifting, mazy spiral. It circled my head in a flutter of those jewel-like violet wings, and I laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it. There was no magic so elemental nor so moving as that of metamorphosis. I went to the door of the vivarium and threw it open. My new friend hesitated between the warmth of the interior, safe and quiet, and the fresh, bright, beckoning world beyond.

“Go now. You have everything you need,” I told it.

It circled my head again, then drifted away into the garden. It flew towards a shrub, then looped back, pausing for just a moment to perch upon the leathery head of Patricia, the Galápagos tortoise, like a frivolous piece of millinery. This time when it flew off, it lifted itself above the shrubbery and up into the slanting sunlight. I heard Stoker’s laugh as he retrieved Lady Rose and the barking of the dogs, circling in excitement. The air was heavy with the fragrance of the latest of the summer flowers, brave and bonny, and high above my head was the butterfly, circling ever upwards.

It flapped once more and then lifted itself away and into the blue beyond. Stoker turned to me, Lady Rose perched on his shoulders, and he smiled, a smile that would cause my heart to swell within my chest even if I saw it a thousand times.

“Be brave. You have everything you need,” I murmured to no one in particular. “Everything indeed.” Excelsior!