A sinister revenge, p.8
A Sinister Revenge, page 8
“No need to be sorry,” I assured him. “Children know nothing beyond the upbringing they have. It is only adults who regret what they lacked.” I nodded towards the edge of the cliffs. “You said the fossil and this Lorenzo were lost?” I knew the answer, but I was interested in Merry’s impressions. Children, unburdened by the prejudices of adults, were often keen observers, in my experience.
“Yes, and more’s the pity. Lorenzo was a fossilist. It was he who discovered the Megalosaurus. He would have become quite famous from it, but the poor beast was carried away in the same landslide that took his life.”
“But it was on your father’s land,” I pointed out. “Would he not have received the credit for the discovery?”
Merry shrugged. “Father was not a generous man, but he was shrewd. Lorenzo’s family were wealthy and influential, and Father wanted to make use of their influence. He had ties to diplomacy and business. Making friends with the d’Ambrogios was a stratagem, nothing more. Allowing Lorenzo the credit for discovering the Megalosaurus would cost him nothing. Lorenzo was a gentleman and a scholar. He’d never have sold the fossil. He would have donated it for study and published a paper on it. In the meantime, Father would have ever-so-gently made certain the d’Ambrogios never forgot who was responsible for their son’s happiness.” He paused, no doubt intuiting my thoughts. “No, I did not understand that at the time. I was four years old. It was only much later I realised what sort of man Father was. He did nothing that would not bring him a benefit, and every word, every gesture, every kindness had a cost.” Merry broke off suddenly. “I am sorry. One ought not to speak ill of the dead, particularly if the dead is one’s father.”
“On the contrary, my dear Merry,” I said, rising and dusting off my skirts. “The dead are the very best people about whom one may speak the truth. They are far less likely to bring suit for slander.”
He grinned and offered me a hand as we clambered down from St. Frideswide’s seat. I paused at the edge of the cliff path. “How did Lorenzo d’Ambrogio happen to find the beast in the first place?” I enquired.
Merry explained how the creature had been situated within the face of the cliff, a thin layer of black marl, rock, and soil that concealed the skeleton until a sudden storm had caused it to be revealed, as perfect as the day it had lain down to die. He went on for some time in vivid detail, laying out how the earth comprised layers, each formed uniquely in its own epoch and containing a perfect microcosm of its history and its fauna, one atop the other since the beginning of time. It was all information I knew perfectly well—one had only to look a single time at William Smith’s geological map of England to understand the principle—but there is no better way to win a man’s regard than to let him believe he is teaching one something new. Besides, there was something adorably schoolboyish about his enthusiasm, so I let him carry on about the fossil until at last he wound down.
“Imagine,” he finished, “it was simply there, this magnificent specimen of Creation, resting within the stone for millions of years.”
“You know rather a lot about fossils,” I observed. “And you do not seem to have the usual clerical aversion to believing the Earth is considerably older than four thousand years.”
“If the Lord God can make a universe in six days, then he is capable of anything,” Merry said.
“I admire your faith, Merry,” I told him sincerely. “It is good to have something in which to believe.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Science,” I said with promptitude. “But for those who wish to find it, the hand of God may be detected there. One may see the glory of a creator in the artistry of a butterfly’s wing or the perfection of a shark’s design. I have no quarrel with your occupation,” I assured him. “Only with its tendency to inflict itself on the unwilling.”
“I am no proselytiser,” he assured me. “I can scarcely minister to the flock I already have. I could never find it within me to go and collect others.”
“Is the work of a country parson so arduous?” I teased.
“You would not imagine it, but yes,” he replied with fervour. “I am called upon for births and deaths and baptisms, which I anticipated. But there is so much more! Every quarrel, I am asked to adjudicate. Every wayward youth, I am expected to find honest work. Gainful employment for a man who has lost his position. A bit of firewood for a cold hearth, a home for a fisherman’s orphan. Every problem, no matter how large or small, is laid at my doorstep. I must be all to them—father, landlord, master, shepherd, teacher. It is . . . it is a great responsibility,” he said finally. His colour had risen during his outburst, and he had spoken quickly, with great passion. But as he wound down, he seemed to collect himself. “I am sorry. I ought not to complain.”
“It is as you say—a great responsibility to be so much to so many. Is there no one to help?”
He shrugged. “It is because I am one of the family—a Templeton-Vane. If Tiberius were here, it would fall to him, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he shrugged.
“Is there no curate? No estate manager?”
“Tiberius does not believe there is work enough for me to require a curate, and the estate manager has held the job forty years and more. He grows tired and is often ailing. And he is not from Dearsley. He is a Bristol man, and even though he has lived amongst them for four decades, the villagers consider him an incomer still. He does a fine job of keeping Cherboys in order, but if there is a misunderstanding between the villagers who work on the estate, they bring their troubles to me. It is just the way of folk here. They have been under the dominion of the Templeton-Vanes for so long, they cannot imagine an existence where they are not cared for by the family.”
“And Tiberius has neglected his duties,” I supplied.
Merry turned to me with shocked eyes. “I would never say that. It is not neglect. It is apathy. He simply chooses to spend his time in London and abroad, and we are forever the afterthought.”
“And it does not ameliorate the situation to have no lady of the manor, I imagine. A viscountess in residence would look after the poor of the parish,” I ventured.
His expression was rueful. “Yes. If Tiberius married it would ease the burden a little. As it is, the Greshams do much to help.”
“The Greshams?” I recollected Tiberius mentioning the brother and sister who had joined the fateful house party when Lorenzo d’Ambrogio fell to his death.
“The doctor. I pointed out his cottage as we passed through the village,” he reminded me. “He and his sister are most beneficent. They do what they can, but it is not the same as if Tiberius were here.”
“It seems unkind that they have all left you here to shoulder the burden alone,” I said at last.
“I would not mind so much if I thought any of it truly mattered. Tiberius is a viscount, after all, and sits in the House of Lords. Rupert is always doing something important with diplomacy—and most likely running the government behind the scenes, if I know him, as well as standing as the member for his district. And Stoker, well. Stoker used to be the wayward son, the prodigal who would never make anything of himself, to hear Father tell it. But one only has to look at him to find a man who is utterly content within himself. His work, his friends, you—” he added, dropping his eyes bashfully. “He has found purpose, real purpose. And what he does makes a difference to those around him. Sometimes I fear I am sinking into shifting sands here, just drifting in the current instead of acting. I ought to be doing something, I feel, but I do not know what, and so I am left to wonder what is the point of me?” Before I could respond, his smile turned wistful. “But you are wrong. I am not alone now. At least for the duration of this house party. I am glad you have come. And I know Tiberius would want me to tell you to consider Cherboys your home.”
“I will,” I promised, “as I shall consider you my friend.”
“I am honoured. Veronica,” he said, carefully, as if testing my name. “Are you ready to return to the house?”
“Not just yet. I would like to enjoy the view a while longer.”
“Then I will leave you if you think you can find your way back?”
“My dear Merry, I have navigated the jungles of Costa Rica with nothing more than a broken compass and my own wits. I promise you, I will be perfectly fine.”
After he had gone, I stood staring out to sea as the sun lay long golden rays upon the rippling waves. I never tired of the ocean, the promise of it, the enduring way it beckoned to me, suggesting adventures just beyond the horizon. But the sea was not the reason I stayed behind.
When I was certain I was alone and Merry did not mean to return, I climbed carefully up St. Frideswide’s seat, settling comfortably onto the sun-warmed stone. The notion that a long-dead saint could imbue a woman with the power to determine her own fate and keep true to herself even in love was so much superstitious flummery, I knew.
But one can never be too careful.
CHAPTER
10
With Tiberius wrestling with the demands of his estate, Stoker using his Megalosaurus to elude me, and Merry locked in the study, struggling with his next sermon, I was the sole focus of the staff’s efforts. No sooner had I awakened than they sprang to action each day, plying me with food and drink, running baths, suggesting walks, and lighting fires in the various rooms they thought I might frequent. Library, music room, portrait gallery, morning room, billiards room—all were kept in perfect readiness for me. And when I ventured out of doors, it was to find fresh flowers and pitchers of elderflower cordial waiting in the Pineapple Pavilion or a basket and secateurs sitting expectantly in the cutting garden.
In the end, I took to hiding, filling my pockets with apples and biscuits to escape the endless courses of a formal luncheon served in the solitary splendour of the dining room. I darted behind doors whenever I heard Mrs. Brackendale’s familiar jingle, and I rose and washed before Lily could appear with my morning tray. The library soon became my favourite hideaway. It was a vast chamber, shelved from floor to ceiling, with a gallery circling the perimeter. The cases were stuffed with novels and tomes on every conceivable subject. Folios of maps were stored in wide wooden drawers and plinths held busts of famous thinkers. Glass terraria and Wardian cases housed specimens from around the world, ferns and flocks of bright songbirds mounted in flight. It smelt of beeswax and book leather, and I passed a good many hours tucked in the window seat of the library, reading and munching apples behind the draperies, which hid me from view. Only Nanny avoided me, for which I was entirely grateful.
But I missed Stoker acutely, an eventuality with which I was not entirely comfortable. Dependency upon anyone was an abomination to my independent spirit, but one cannot resist the lure of the twinned soul. One afternoon, the day Tiberius’ guests were due to arrive at last, I dropped my apple core into a handy aspidistra and went in search of him.
The Megalosaurus had been hauled into position on the island in the middle of the man-made lake. This had been dug some distance from the house and could be reached via the rose alley. Willows trailed their green sleeves into the dappled water, and a pair of particularly nasty swans paddled serenely past. On the near side of the lake, there was no bridge to spoil the view, only a tiny rowboat. But having once nearly met my doom after an excursion in a rowboat,[*] I elected to circle the lake and cross the narrow footbridge on the far side. More willows had been planted here, and it was with a sense of entering an enchanted glade that I pushed my way past the languorous fronds into the clearing at the center of the island.
The Megalosaurus crouched there on all fours, a long, low lizard of mammoth proportions with a small head and stout, lumbering legs. Its back was humped, the barbed spine running to a long, thick tail, and its head was ungainly, the heavy brow lowering over a pointed snout full of unpleasantly sharp teeth. It had been painted a violent shade of green, and the eye sockets had been fitted with glass orbs that glowed with malevolence. It was a dreadful creature, and I was not at all surprised that Stoker loved the thing. He had always been drawn to the outré.
I circled the beast, finding no means of ingress and no sign of Stoker. But I could hear him, his lush baritone raised in a cheerful, perfectly filthy song he had no doubt learnt whilst in Her Majesty’s Navy. I rapped smartly upon the side of the Megalosaurus. There was a pause in the song, and after a long moment, the beast began to shudder. A sort of panel, running from the base of its head to the start of its tail, rose slowly to reveal a wide opening. Stoker stood inside, begrimed and thoroughly happy. He was stripped to the waist, streaked with paint and glue, hair tied back with a leather thong, muscles rippling in the golden light of late summer’s afternoon. Tiny tufted catkins danced in the air, lending the whole tableau a fantastical air, and if I had not been a woman of science, I might well have imagined myself in the presence of some primitive god of myth, a divine being with dominion over great monsters and perhaps even the weather itself, a powerful lord of creation who would lift me as easily as thistledown and with one mighty thrust—
“Veronica?”
I blinked to find Stoker staring at me quizzically. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were woolgathering,” he told me. “I called your name twice. What on earth were you thinking about?”
“Never mind,” I said hoarsely. I fixed a cordial smile to my lips. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
He nodded. “It is stable enough for you to come inside.” He put out his hand and I took it as I stepped into the shadowy belly of the beast.
“Careful of the paint there,” he advised. “It is still wet.”
The creature smelt of fresh glue and wet plaster. The sculpted rib cage formed a curving back wall, each bone fitted with a sconce to provide illumination.
“I have been working by candlelight to make certain of the effect during the dinner. It is rather successful,” he said, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
“My god,” I breathed as the flames flickered suddenly. It was a vision straight from the depths of Hell, the small fires dancing over the bones. I was reminded then of the first time I had seen Stoker, in a similar state of dishabille, working to remount a massive elephant amidst a litter of bones and specimen jars.[*] He turned to me then, his eyes bright with excitement.
“Here, come out and see what I have done with the head,” he urged. We climbed out of the beast and moved to the front. He pointed to where he had installed a lamp in the head of the creature. “I have made the eyes translucent so they will glow.”
I circled slowly, taking it all in. It was monstrous and unnerving and I could only imagine how unsettling it would be to dine in such surroundings. “I love it,” I told him truthfully.
“It is as faithful a representation as I can manage without ever seeing the fossil in situ,” he explained. “I changed the angle of the neck. You can see here from the way the vertebrae are seated—” There was more, much more, but I confess I did not hear it. Stoker was never so happy as when he was engaged in his work, and although this creature was merely a facsimile of a Megalosaurus, the chance to apply recent findings to its appearance was an activity calculated to delight him. Somehow, for all their quarrels and grievances, Tiberius had struck upon a task that beguiled him more than any other I could imagine. And this pleasure seemed to dim his annoyance with me—at least so long as he enthused about his model, he was prepared to lower his guard just a little. It was an imperfect rapprochement; none of the troubles between us had been settled, but at least the rough waters had calmed a little. I listened, happy for the moment for us to be, even if fleetingly, as we once were.
He broke off several minutes later. “Why are you smiling? You do not care for dinosaurs.”
“No, I do not.” I said nothing more, wondering if he would intuit my thoughts.
He cocked his head, his eyes gleaming. “You have the most peculiar expression, Veronica. Are you going to try to seduce me now?”
Before I could respond, I felt a sharp rap upon my arm.
I turned to see a pair of shrewd eyes regarding me from below a ruffled cap.
“Nanny MacQueen, I believe,” I said faintly. “I am Veronica Speedwell.”
“I know who you are,” she told me. “And it is past time we had a chat. Come with me.”
I turned to Stoker, but he spread his hands helplessly even as he grinned at my discomfiture.
“And you put on a shirt, Stokie. I’ll not have you taking a chill and me left to nurse you back to health,” she told him severely.
“Yes, Nanny,” he said, obediently reaching for a shirt.
She poked me firmly in the ribs. “Come along, then. I haven’t got many years left and I’ll not waste them waiting for the likes of you.”
Nanny pivoted on her dainty heel and stalked over the footbridge, never glancing around, so certain was she of being obeyed. And obey I did, trotting meekly behind as I followed her to a small, sedate Georgian house that had been tucked neatly into a copse between the coast path and the rose alley.
If Nanny MacQueen were an old family retainer from a storybook, she would have had a quaint little cottage covered in rambler roses with polished copper pans hanging over a merry hearth and a pretty calico cat sleeping in a basket. But Nanny MacQueen was not that sort of retainer. She led me into an elegantly proportioned room furnished with excellent Regency pieces of fruitwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the only pet in evidence was a fat grey parrot that stood upon its perch and regarded me with as much obvious distaste as its mistress.
She pointed to a low chair upholstered in pearl-pink silk. “Sit,” she ordered. When I had done so, she rang a little bell and a cowed maidservant trotted in with a tray. Upon it stood a bottle and two small crystal glasses. Nanny dismissed the maid with a wave and poured out equal measures of a cloudy yellow liquid, handing me a glass.
