The Mysterious Madam Morpho

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “It’s better than being caught.” She gulped, barely able to breathe. “You know as well as I do that I would be hanged for what I’ve done.”

  He scooted even closer, his forearm lying on the wood boards alongside hers.

  “You didn’t leave just for the chance to join the caravan. What are you really running from?”

  Imogen didn’t know if it was the anonymity of the darkness or the forced physical intimacy or the warmth he radiated, but the words seemed to form themselves before she had even considered the question.

  “My mother died when I was very young, and my father prized me somewhere between the aged parrot in the parlor and the stuffed bear in the front hall. Aside from one hour a day of rigid lessons, he rarely acknowledged me, offering no warmth or love. I think he actually considered me an experiment. If he came across a talking bludrat, he would have treated it no differently. I longed to impress him or, at the very least, to prove to him that I was worthwhile. I studied in secret after I had finished his assignments, won several certificates through correspondence school, and received an invitation to study at King’s College under the name John Bumble.”

  “So Imogen Morpho isn’t your real name?”

  She snorted. “You must be joking. Of course not. I was born Jane Bumble, the plainest, most solid of old London names. But in my most secret thoughts, I dreamed my name was Imogen and that I was destined for great things.”

  He paused for a second, and she could nearly hear him making the connections.

  “Surely your father isn’t Randolf Bumble, dean of the London Zoo?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I didn’t even know he had a daughter.”

  “Few did.”

  “Cripes, I barely knew he was human. Most austere man I’ve ever met, and that’s coming from someone who builds automatons for a living.”

  She dropped her forehead to the wood, fighting tears. “You have pinned the tragedy of my childhood in a single sentence, sir.”

  His arm twisted against her sleeve, his hand covering hers with a searing heat. “Do go on.”

  “Naturally, when I arrived for my first class at university, the scandal was great. I still find it amazing that in such advanced times as ours, one of the greatest universities of the world persists in rejecting half of the population due to gender. With the help of my maid, I had secretly sewn a conservative female version of the classic King’s College uniform, and my hope was that under my robe, it would be little noticed.”

  “That you never considered the telling beauty of your face is almost laughable.”

  “I was raised in near isolation. I saw the maids, the cooks. I had a governess briefly, but Father dismissed her for hysterics, by which I mean he once caught her hugging me when I broke a finger at age eight. There were few mirrors in my house, as they reminded him of my mother. I had very little idea of feminine beauty.”

  “But they let you study?”

  “After a great deal of debate, yes. I had thoroughly scoured the laws and had an answer to every inquiry. They could not refuse me without causing a great stir. As it was, I was allowed to continue, provided I did not reveal my scholarship to anyone outside of the college. My father was understandably furious and disowned me that very day.”

  His hand tightened around hers in what she took as both anger and sympathy. “That is unspeakably cruel.”

  “And yet I took a fierce joy in it.” She chuckled. “There I was, penniless, with nothing but my class robes and a handful of secondhand books. And yet it was as if a weight had been lifted from my soul. After classes that day, I found myself sitting on the steps of the library, trying to puzzle out where I might sleep for the night without being eaten by bludrats. And that’s where Professor Beauregard found me and offered me use of the cottage on his estate in exchange for my employment in the eclipsazoology wing of the Natural History Museum. Despite his many similarities to my father in harshness, manners, and misogyny, I accepted on the spot. That night, asleep in my own bed for the first time, I felt as if I had begun a bright new period of my life. I was an independent woman at last.”

  “I assume from your bitterness that such was not the case?”

  “Indeed not. Professor Beauregard had more planned for me than simply cataloging new specimens in the museum.”

  “Did he?”

  She cleared her throat meaningfully. “He did. I was practically a slave, entirely dependent on his goodwill. I went to class in the morning and worked all night and every weekend. Even the maids had a half-day on Sunday, but not I. If his papers weren’t graded perfectly, if his museum wasn’t kept up to the strictest standards, if I didn’t make myself available in every possible way, I was well aware that I would find myself stripped of my degree and on the streets without a friend in the city and with nowhere to go but the poorhouse or the whorehouse.”

  “And in the end?”

  “In the end, he broke my spirit, took my innocence, taught me the cruel ways of the world, and made it clear that life among vagrants in a caravan would most likely treat me better than a life of control by the most wealthy and erudite scholar of London’s most celebrated circles.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the intimate silence was their breathing and the subtle rasp of clothing on wood. The stays of her corset dug into her stomach painfully, helping her to hold back the deep, whooping breaths that might have allowed tears.

  “I am sorry that someone who should have protected you used you most cruelly for his own ends,” he whispered. “Well do I know that there is nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks he knows everything.”

  “To be honest, I did not anticipate that he would discover the missing specimens so soon.”

  “Men who can’t be trusted trust no one,” he said. “I’m surprised he allowed you access to them in the first place.”

  “It was a fortuitous accident. I was cataloging a donation from a patron. He expected me to find nothing but dusty boxes, useless portfolios, and old handbills.”

  “Instead, you found a miracle.”

  “I thought so. He saw only an opportunity.”

  She felt she had said too much, that he would press her further for details on the magic behind the butterflies or the other things her professor had claimed of her. Another pause strung out, Vil’s nervous scuttling below the only noise. Mr. Murdoch leaned close to her ear and whispered something so softly she could barely hear it.

  “Beg pardon?” she asked, breathless from more than her crushing stays.

  “Never mind,” was his only answer. Before she could press him, a sharp knock sounded on the door below.

  “It’s open,” Vil called, louder than necessary.

  “We must be silent until they are gone.” She felt his breath so close that she went light-headed. “Don’t move a muscle, if you can help it. I’ll not let them take you, whatever happens.”

  He squeezed her hand again but did not let go.

  8

  The door opened, bringing the cadence of harsh voices and hobnail boots. She traced the sound as it moved from the outer chamber and into the workshop, right below her. Over the frantic thumping of her heart, she could make out most of the words.

  “Vilhelm Murdoch?” The Copper’s London accent was no comfort, nor was his gruff tone.

  “Th-th-that’s me,” Vil stuttered.

  “Papers.”

  Boots moved around the workshop, and Imogen could imagine the Coppers walking, stooping, poking a clock here and lifting a tool there, hunting for places where stolen specimens might be hidden. A fist sounded against the wood walls, but the note was solid, and the boots moved onward. For the first time, Imogen realized that she had not seen a bed in either room of the wagon and wondered where it might be hidden or if perhaps her mysterious companion never slept at all.

  “Mr. Murdoch, you
are aware that we hunt a fugitive?”

  “I r-r-read about it in the papers. A w-w-woman, it said?”

  “Indeed. Medium stature, slender build, last seen dressed as a King’s College fellow.”

  “Ain’t been no one of that sort in my wagon. I’d have noticed.”

  After a dangerous silence, the Copper said, “Then you won’t mind if we have a look around.”

  “N-n-no, sir. Please do. I don’t need dangerous women mucking up the clockworks.”

  Boots clunked around, and Mr. Murdoch’s hand squeezed hers again. Just then, it occurred to her that Vil had claimed to be Mr. Murdoch. Vilhelm Murdoch. She turned her head to face the man lying beside her in the dark and longed to ask him exactly who he was.

  “Lots of books,” a different Copper’s voice growled, as if that were a problem.

  “I am a literary man,” Vil said with offended conviction. “And much of my work is conjectural. See here, the diagrams?”

  The Copper snorted in disgust, and Imogen heard a book fall with a thump. Frankly, she was amazed that Vil could utter such a sentence without stuttering.

  “What’s in the trunks?”

  “Metal, of course. F-f-for my creations.” Snap open, firm snap shut.

  “What’s in here?”

  “Toilets.” Door opened, door shut.

  “What about over here?”

  “A closet.”

  Imogen held her breath as the door below their perch opened, letting in the faintest trace of light. With her head turned, she found herself looking into the wide green eyes of the mysterious man by her side, his mouth barely open and a look of wonder and worry on his face.

  “Lots of suits for a recluse,” the Copper said.

  “I like to stay well c-covered, sir. With so many Bludmen about, you can’t blame me.”

  To Imogen’s boundless relief and amazement, the door closed, bathing them in darkness again.

  “Too true, too true,” the Copper said, far more amiably. “But if you’re leery of them, why in Sang would you work for one of the bloodthirsty bastards?”

  Vil barked a harsh laugh. “If you can’t b-b-beat them, join them. I keep mostly to myself, in any case.”

  “That’s what we heard,” the Copper said. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Murdoch. Here’s a broadsheet, should you come across any strange women.”

  A moment of silence passed, and Imogen imagined Vil reading the bill.

  “This woman,” he said. “She could be anyone.”

  The Copper grunted. “Aye. Apparently, neither her father nor her employer could give an accurate description to the artist. Should you have the unfortunate luck to meet her, you’ll know her by her dangerous mind and manly behavior. Betraying creature actually bribed her way into King’s College to study with the men. Unnatural, if you ask me.”

  “Most unnatural,” Vil agreed.

  Two sets of boots marched across the wagon, and the door opened.

  “B-b-best of luck to you, sirs,” Vil called.

  “To you as well, Mr. Murdoch,” one of the Coppers answered.

  The door closed, and Imogen exhaled, laying her cheek along the smooth, cold wood of the ledge. She felt the tension likewise uncoil from the body of the man beside her, and he reached out to cup her face in the darkness.

  “Henry Gladstone,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “That’s my real name.”

  It caught her entirely by surprise, the fever of his touch and his words. Before she could react or figure out why the name was familiar or stop herself from leaning her cheek gently into his palm, the closet door opened.

  “I b-b-believe you are safe,” Vil said, and her companion answered, “Thank you, Vil.”

  In the faint light of the doorway, their eyes met again.

  “I believe you have some explaining to do, Mr. Gladstone,” she murmured.

  “Call me Henry,” he said.

  9

  Getting down from their secret perch was nearly as difficult as getting up, possibly more so, thanks to the fact that Imogen was utterly discombobulated. No man had ever touched her face, much less looked at her with longing. Her assignations with Beauregard had been as swift and cold as shop transactions, and she had been neither warmed nor satisfied by his brief, harsh caresses.

  The first time he had caught her and used her, she had found a quiet corner of the museum’s cellar vault and sobbed her heart out into a handkerchief. After that, she had steeled herself to be just as remote and aloof, to consider it a duty and the fine line between her and a life of begging on the streets, a fallen woman. She had never felt her professor’s hands without gloves, never known a moment of tenderness.

  But now! That one ungloved hand on her face had seemed as intimate as a whisper in the night, and she was not yet ready to face him again by light of day.

  The moment her boots hit the ground, she nearly collapsed. Mr. Murdoch . . . no. Henry. Whatever his name was, he landed beside her and put a hand on her arm to steady her. The connection was no less shocking than the last touch, and she hid her disquiet by pressing her eyes to the leather cups of the periscope goggles and gazing at the caravan outside. The hillside that had held the Coppers when last she looked was now empty.

  “You’ll want to see the other side, I wager,” Henry murmured as he adjusted the dials and her view.

  The scene was eerie. All of the carnivalleros sat on the roofs of their wagons, their eyes pinned to the one next door to Mr. Murdoch’s. That was the engine, and Criminy Stain stood outside it, facing the door, arms crossed and eyebrows drown down in carefully controlled anger.

  “May I?”

  She backed away and let Henry look, her eyes straying to his backside. Imogen had never seen a man without a tailcoat or a university gown and found herself transfixed by the neat cut of his pants over lean hips, just a triangle of his shirt flashing from under his vest.

  “So the engine wagon should be their last stop, then,” he said. “That’s Vil’s, you know. He hasn’t anything painted on the side, as he’s neither an act nor a figure of mystery. Poor lad has to be satisfied enough to see his own name painted on my trailer.”

  “And what of your name?”

  “You already know more of me than is safe.”

  He stepped away from the goggles, arms crossed and face stern and watchful. She began to wonder if he regretted their whispered conversation in the dark, secretive crawlspace, and she didn’t want to think too sharply about how much of her own soul she had bared. Glancing around the room for an occupation, she sought something, anything to keep him from looking at her like that and making her heart race. With a few quick steps, she began moving his books off her trunk, stacking them neatly on the floor. He should have offered to help, but he just watched her struggling under the weight of the great tomes as if it were rather amusing.

  “Honestly, did you select only the most burdensome books to anchor my trunk?”

  “My dear lady, you’re as jittery as a one-legged crow.”

  She set down the encyclopedia with a slight puff of dust and drew herself up to her full height, giving him the look she had given any of the college fellows who deigned to ridicule her.

  “My entire life is buried in this trunk and was very nearly discovered by those horrid hooligans,” she said. “Of course, I’m anxious about their safety.”

  “Your butterflies are trapped in some fascinating state of suspended animation, Imogen, and, as such, require neither oxygen nor attention. You’re just feeling busy. It is a simple remainder from such a fright. But you needn’t worry. Your entire life is not, in fact, buried in that trunk.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “What do you mean by that?”

  He gave her such a slow, honey-sweet smile that she thought he might reach for her again, touch her face,
or dust her lips with another kiss. Instead, he walked to the bookshelf and selected a book.

  “Olivia Twist. Let me guess. One of your favorites?”

  “That’s mine! You beastly, beastly man!” Then she realized that his entire bookshelf was covered in her books. She knew every single volume, considering that she had spent the last year of her life buying them one by one from used-book sellers and hollowing them out with a penknife.

  “Rather elegant a solution, don’t you think? Hiding your darlings in plain sight?”

  “What if they’d picked up a book? What if they’d opened it?”

  He snorted. “Do you suppose Coppers are often bibliophiles? That men trained to hurt, to kill, to capture, and especially to hate anyone but their own species—do you think that they are learned men?”

  She ran a hand along the mismatched spines of her precious books. Even though she had known, upon buying them, that they would be destroyed for the most gallant of causes, she had still taken pains to buy the books she loved. It was as if by cutting out their hearts, she was still able to give them souls. Her butterflies.

  Quickly, cleverly, she sought out the first book. He had arranged them in alphabetical order, the tidy creature, and she found it easily enough. Fantastic Conjectures. One of her favorites. She plucked it from its place on the shelf and opened it, careful to keep the spine facing him. With one look inside, her eyes rolled heavenward in silent thanks. Her beloved Blue Morpho was in perfect form despite time and travel and his possibly careless handling.

  But no. Imogen was starting to see that nothing he did was careless.

  “But what if they had opened one?” she asked again.

  His face went dark, his eyes darting to the corner, where a large lump sat, covered in a canvas tarp.

  “I had a plan for that, too,” he said.

  “What is that, under the tarp?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I am a scientific woman, Mr. Gladstone. The most curious of creatures.”