He said nothing, but I understood the warning implicit in the gesture and bit my tongue hard against another laugh that was bubbling up. After that, things began to happen quite quickly. The crowd hurried in, jostling and whispering, and then, with a final flourish of hyperbole, we made our way through the rear flap. I waved and smiled, and Mr. Stoker scowled, which suited his role as mysterious conjurer quite perfectly. He secured me in the restraints and I blew him a kiss, which seemed to distract him, but only for a moment. He turned but did not address the crowd. They fell silent with expectation, and still he said nothing. The moment stretched on, the tension peaking in exquisite torment, and only when they were at their most fevered and excited did he speak. It was masterfully done. They were spellbound, all eyes fixed upon him as he moved slowly in front of them. I realized then how exotic he must seem to these plain countryfolk. He was big as a farm lad, but he moved with a natural grace that would have done credit to any member of the genus Panthera. He was predatory as he stalked them, demanding their attention and respect, and they watched him in awe as he conjured items seemingly from thin air. He brought out silk handkerchiefs and velvet roses, a handful of golden coins, and from behind one boy’s ear, a tiny mechanical bird that hopped when he held it on his palm. They were intoxicated with him, as much from the force of his personality as the tricks themselves.
He directed their attention to the arrangement of knives and made a great show of asking the village blacksmith to test my restraints and his own blades. The fellow agreed that all was as it should be and Mr. Stoker stepped to his mark, bouncing the first knife slightly on his palm. The crowd was hushed, their nerves taut as an archer’s bowstring as they waited. Again he toyed with them, delaying the inevitable until he judged the moment was ripe. Then, in a motion so fast a cobra would envy him, he whipped the knife through the air, pinning it to the board beside my head. The crowd roared, and he did it again, eleven more times in quick succession until the knives were quivering around me. They cheered and he bowed. He made no sign of releasing me, so I merely smiled and inclined my head as they applauded. One of the lads had been appointed to pass his hat, so he made his way through the crowd collecting the coins they showered happily upon him.
At last he turned to me, saying nothing as he removed the blades. Then he moved to unbuckle the restraints. “Can you walk on your own?” he asked softly, his mouth grazing my ear.
“Doubtful,” I admitted.
He sighed. “No matter.” He released the restraints and scooped me up in the most undignified fashion possible, flinging me over his shoulder like a sack of grain and waving to the crowd. They roared in laughter and I suppressed the urge to kick him as he ducked out of the tent.
“Was that necessary?” I demanded of his backside.
“Entirely,” he told me. “You said you cannot walk and I have no intention of throwing out my back simply because you cannot hold your drink. This is the easiest way to carry heavy loads.”
I did kick him then, but I missed, for my foot swung at empty air and he merely clamped a large warm hand to my thigh. “Mr. Stoker, that is most inappropriate,” I said, more for form’s sake than out of any real objection. I had found the experience thoroughly stimulating. But we had reached the caravan by then and he set me on my feet.
“Thank you for the ride,” I said cordially.
He leaned closer to me, and I realized the moon had risen, slightly fuller than the night before, shedding a romantic silver light upon the landscape. His dark hair was tumbled and the moon glinted upon his earring, giving him a mysterious air. In the distance I heard the music from Otto’s accordion—some melody I had never heard, full of longing and promise and urgency. Even the roses had unfurled, wafting their heady fragrance into the night air to intoxicating effect. It was as if the entire world conspired to create an atmosphere so romantic only a poet might have done justice to it.
Mr. Stoker’s gaze rested on mine, then moved down to my lips and back again. His lips parted, slowly, so slowly, and he spoke. “We can’t repeat it, Veronica,” he said, his voice oddly thick.
He leaned closer still, and the night seemed full of him. The clean male scent of him was in my nose, and I could feel the solid warmth of his flesh as he stood so very near to me. “No, we mustn’t,” I agreed. “Such proximity is dangerous.”
Something warred in his face, dueling emotions he could not quite master. “Yes, quite dangerous,” he said, moving closer still, almost unwillingly, his body seemingly drawn to mine against his wishes. It occurred to me then that he was dangerously close to doing something we would both regret—probably the instant it happened.
I gave him a cool smile.
“To begin with,” I told him, stepping nimbly away, “I do not think your clothing could endure it.”
“My clothing?” His head snapped back as if I had doused him with cold water. The dreamy expression was gone from his eyes as he stared down at me.
“You have just split the backside of your trousers with that demonstration of virility. I hardly think you can afford another.”
I turned on my heel and went into the caravan under my own power, as steadily and smartly as I had ever done anything in my life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I awoke the next morning to find Mr. Stoker up and dressed and thrusting a cup of tea under my nose. “You’ve five minutes to dress before we leave,” he said coldly.
From a quick glance outside, I deduced he had not spoken in jest. The camp was full of activity—the various tents had all been dismantled and stowed, and I saw that enormous draft horses had been harnessed to each of the caravans. He had busied himself in stowing anything loose into the cupboards and making certain the furnishings were properly secured. He tossed me my bag and left without another word. I drank my tea hastily, scalding myself a little, for it was strong and hot, and dressed as quickly as I could. Having long experience with aguardiente and excellent recuperative powers, I suffered no ill effects from the previous evening and even whistled a little tune as I repacked my bag and tucked it into a cupboard before leaving the caravan.
“Good morning, missus,” called a voice. I looked to the front of the caravan, where a groom was walking up with a pair of horses. His trousers were patched and his face half-hid beneath the shadow of his cap.
“Good morning. Are those for us?”
“Indeed they are, and no finer horseflesh will you find in this establishment,” he assured me. He paused to let me greet them, holding them quite still while I stroked their velvety noses. “I’ve kept them back special for your caravan, missus.”
He lifted his head and I saw then that he was a surprisingly comely fellow, with warm brown eyes that fairly danced. His mouth was merry as well, smiling almost as if it had a will of its own.
“That is very kind of you.”
He shrugged. “Well, it takes a brave lady to let a fellow throw knives at her.”
“Brave or entirely devoid of sense. Take your choice.”
The grin deepened, and I noted that his cheeks were dimpled. I had seen the other grooms in passing, gnarled old fellows with skin like shoe leather. How they must have hated this delightful young man!
“I am Mornaday,” he told me, extending his hand. I shook it, feeling a tiny rush of pleasure at the touch of his warm, smooth palm against mine. One of the horses tossed her head and gave a snort.
“Ah, all in good time, love,” he told her soothingly. He gave me a nod. “Best get these ladies hitched. I’ll see you later, missus,” he promised.
I went to collect a roll and another cup of tea, and by the time I returned Mr. Stoker was already seated on the narrow bench behind the horses. He did not offer a hand as I climbed up beside him.
“Good morning,” I said politely. “Where are we bound?”
“Ten miles down the road. Village called Butterleigh.”
“Onl
y ten miles? How curious. I should have thought we would go further.”
“The horses can manage fourteen, but it isn’t wise to push them so far every time.” He picked up the reins, and at some unseen signal, the caravans all began to move forward. The professor and Otto rode in a curious conveyance, a landau of sorts padded in old velvet and shaped like a scallop shell. It was highly theatrical and the professor gave a jaunty wave as they passed us to take the lead on the road to Butterleigh.
I turned to Mr. Stoker, but he kept his gaze fixed forward and said nothing. I suspected I had pricked his pride the night before. Whether it was the moonlight or the euphoria of having got through the performance without maiming me, the flicker of interest I had seen from him was clearly the aberration of a moment, and a more logical fellow would have shaken my hand and thanked me for my firmness. Instead, Mr. Stoker was indulging in a first-class fit of pique, and had we not been thrown together on the road, I would have left him to it. However, I was not prepared to travel next to his stony silence, so I embarked upon conversation, certain he would not rebuff me—at least not for long.
“The professor likes to travel in style,” I observed.
“It is his idea of free advertising,” Mr. Stoker replied, thawing a little. “He knows every farmhand and small child we pass along the road will stare goggle-eyed and then tell half the county. So smile and nod as we pass. The more cash we can make for him, the more welcome we will be.” He flicked me a glance. “You did rather well last night. I quite expected you to faint.”
“I cannot think why.” I bristled. “I am not prone to nervous attacks, and I do not know why you believe I might be. I am stalwart as a lion, Mr. Stoker. Stalwart as a lion.”
He made a strange sound then, like a rusty squeezebox, and then, as it warmed and lit his entire countenance, I realized he was laughing. I poked him firmly in the ribs.
“I do not appreciate being laughed at.”
“Oh, I am not laughing at you, dear Veronica. I assure you. I am laughing at myself for being so foolish as to ever have doubted you,” he assured me.
I was not entirely persuaded, but as he had unbent enough to laugh, I did not pursue the matter. Instead I turned to the scenery, drawing in great, deep drafts of the soft June air. All was fresh and green, the trees unfurling their tender leaves, the hedgerows budding in the gentle sunshine. The entire land was awash with newness, and in the air was the sharp tang of cool earth, newly turned by the plow to receive the seed. Something about the fragility of it all pierced me then, and when a bird began to sing sweetly in the trees, I felt overcome. I had no words to describe my feelings; I was no poet, and neither was Mr. Stoker. But he must have felt something of the same, for he let the reins rest slack in his hand and drew in a deep breath of that bewitched air and began to speak.
“‘I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, / The air was cooling and so very still, / That the sweet buds which with a modest pride, / Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, / Their scantly leaved and finely tapering stems, / Had not yet lost those starry diadems, / Caught from the early sobbing of the morn,’” he recited. Then he gave me a glance, only a little self-conscious. “Keats.”
“Yes, I know,” I managed. “But you surprise me. I should have thought you would prefer autumn.”
“Oh, you have the right of it—I do love the ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ but I can summon enthusiasm enough for any season. As much as I want the rest of the world, there is some part of me so rooted in this island, I cannot shake the pull of it. For all the glories I have seen, the mountains and the seas and the horizon itself, stretching to the furthest reaches of the eye, there is nothing to touch an English morning in spring.”
I could scarce speak for the emotion that rose within me—a tremendous longing for some unnameable thing I had never known and was terrified I should never find. I was struck with a bone-deep love for my native country, an affection so tender I could scarcely breathe, and I turned away.
“Veronica, are you weeping?” he asked suspiciously.
“Don’t be ludicrous,” I returned tartly. “I do not weep. It is a symptom of the rankest sentimentality, and I am never sentimental.” I bent my head to study my compass. “West southwest.”
His lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “We are headed in the correct direction, Veronica. We have only to follow the tail of the horse in front of us.”
“I like to know where I am bound,” I replied. “Now, let us discuss the matter of money. How much will secure the professor’s goodwill?”
We fell to talking of financial matters then, and Stoker explained to me that the coins collected for the price of admission were enough to keep the show itself traveling, but not sufficient to pay the performers. The acts were expected to supplement their own salaries, either by passing the hat or through the sale of the cartes visites, the photographic postcards each act had printed up at their own expense. Some of these were gruesome—such as the one that showed a painfully thin professor and Otto, bared to the waist and exposing the band of sinew and muscle that connected them. Others were faintly salacious. (It needs little imagination to understand that I am speaking of Salome here.)
“Unfortunately, there isn’t much excitement to be had in a card depicting a conjuror,” Mr. Stoker said ruefully. “And no time to have some made up with you bound to the target and knives scattered all around.”
“Probably for the best,” I reminded him. “Such cards would only advertise our presence when we are attempting to behave as discreetly as possible.”
He quirked his brow at me. “We have gone about that in the most curious way, haven’t we? Joining a traveling show. I must have been out of my mind.”
“On the contrary,” I said with some briskness. “I found it to be a stroke of inspiration. We will be the purloined letters, hiding in plain sight, just like the story by Mr. Poe.”
“I do wish I shared your optimism.”
His voice was uncharacteristically soft, and I turned to him sharply. “What is the matter with you? We have now agreed upon something. Furthermore, I said something courteous to you and you have not cursed at me in a full five minutes. Have you a fever? Are you delirious?”
I put a hand to his brow and he slapped it away.
“That is better,” I said, satisfied.
“Hostility is exhausting to sustain,” he admitted. “Particularly at such close quarters.”
“Agreed.”
“I do not say I will not find it again,” he said in a warning tone. “But for the moment, I am rather more encouraged than I have felt in the past few days. We have shelter and food and a place of refuge, at least for a little while—long enough for me to discover the results of the inquest.”
“How? I trust you made arrangements before we left London?”
He hesitated, then decided, perhaps in the spirit of our recent amity, to trust me a little. “I did. I have a friend who will forward the newspapers as soon as the verdict has been published.”
“A friend! Why then did we not seek sanctuary there instead of with the show?”
“Because my friend is at present not in London.” I waited for him to continue, but he had resumed his shuttered expression.
“Then how will your friend receive the newspapers?”
“They will be forwarded from London, obviously. In turn, they will be sent to me in care of the nearest post office with only a day’s delay.” I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. “Yes, I was cautious enough to direct that they be sent to me under an assumed name.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my encounter at Paddington Station with Mr. de Clare, but I did not. He might have unbent enough to share a little information with me, and I took this as an excellent sign that we were making progress in this strange working partnership we had undertaken. But I also knew that my snippet of information could pr
ove either entirely worthless or enormously valuable—and I had no intention of tipping my hand until I knew the significance of the cards I held.
Turning back to the conversation at hand, I gave him a grudging nod. “It seems you have thought of everything. But you have forgotten the most important element of your plan—you have me for an ally,” I reminded him. “And I vow I shall not leave your side until we discover the truth of what happened to the baron.”
He swore fluently then, cursing until the birds stopped singing. I did not mind. In fact, I had rather missed his irascibility, and I found myself smiling as we made our way down the country lane towards Butterleigh. I knew we ought to be devising a strategy, deciding upon a course of action. But fleeing London, while securing our safety, had also removed us from any meaningful involvement in the developments. We were hampered by geography, and I decided in the inviting warmth of that late spring morning that this was not an entirely undesirable situation. The tumultuous events of the past few days and the exotic atmosphere of the traveling show had conspired to create a curious effect upon me. I felt entirely relaxed for the first time since I had arrived back in England to nurse Aunt Nell.
I had not realized what a toll those cold, dreary months had taken. I was not meant for sickrooms and poultices; I was fashioned of the stern stuff of adventurers. I had not the temperament for nurturing, and the tedium of Little Byfield had leached me of my natural vitality. I felt in this new adventure I was rousing to life again. I was a butterfly, newly emerged from the chrysalis, damp winged and trembling with expectation. I had witnessed the process often enough on my hunts, and I made a point never to net such tender beauties. I left them to stand upon a branch, opening their soft wings for the first time to the sun, letting its rays warm and revive them until they were strong enough to fly. There would be time enough for my own flight, I decided.
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