I held up a hand. “If we are to work as equals, then we shall certainly speak as equals. I am Veronica. That is Stoker.”
She inclined her head once more, with all the poise of a duchess. “Very well. I have brought dustcloths and a basket of supplies,” she added. “Brushes, neat’s-foot oil, beeswax. A few things that might be helpful in cleaning off the worst of the dirt so you can see what is here.”
“Bless you,” Stoker said, coming to take the basket from her.
She moved to the board of mounted butterflies I had just unveiled. “I know these!” She bent near, her smile wide. “They used to flutter about my grandfather’s garden when I was a child.”
“Junonia orithya,” I told her. “The Blue Argus. Handsome little things.”
“Indeed,” she said, surveying them raptly. “I remember once finding a number of purple caterpillars on my grandfather’s violets. I thought to pluck them off and save the pretty flowers, but he scolded me terribly and explained that if we wanted the pretty butterflies, we had to leave the caterpillars alone. He brought me back every day to watch them as they formed their chrysalides and emerged as the loveliest little butterflies with the patches of blue on their hindwings. Such handsome spots they had, like orange eyes!”
“You have the makings of a lepidopterist,” I told her.
She smiled, a rueful expression as she looked over the collection. “These poor fellows have had a time of it. Half of them with the wings broken.”
“They were imperfectly stored,” I explained. “They ought to have been mounted under glass to protect them. But they are a common enough species. I myself have netted hundreds of them. They would be easy for Mr. Charles Hathaway to replace.”
Her smile turned enigmatic. “I do not think he is devoted enough to natural history to make the effort.”
“Is nothing salvageable?” Stoker inquired.
“A few,” I told him. “And there is a lovely specimen with unique characteristics that would be a good addition to Lord Rosemorran’s collection.” I pointed it out to Anjali. “See here, where it has the rather subdued brown coloration of the female on one half and the more flamboyant traits of the male on the other? It is called gender duality and it is rare in butterflies. Always worth preserving if possible.”
She leant near. “How curious that the female should be so drab compared to the male.”
“A clear demonstration of the value of the female,” Stoker told her over his shoulder as he uncovered another shrouded case.
She blinked behind her smoked spectacles. “How so?”
“The female can be small and unremarkable and still attract a mate,” I replied. “But the male requires something special to secure her attention.”
“It is the same with most species,” Stoker said, not looking up. “The male must always be vigilant that he has shown himself at his best lest a rival secure a place in her affections.”
There was nothing pointed in his words, and yet I felt a glissade of some new coolness in his manner. Anjali looked from him to me, her expression frankly curious, and I dusted my hands briskly. “Apart from the dual-gender specimen, there is nothing in this case worth saving.”
“I fear it is much the same with the small mammals,” Stoker said, frowning at the case he had just uncovered. “Unless we have need of a family of red squirrels dressed as Crusader knights—complete with a tiny castle.”
“You cannot be serious,” I began, but Stoker pointed and I saw to my horror that he had not exaggerated. A tall mahogany case with large glass panels housed a tableau of twenty or so red squirrels garbed as Crusader knights. They had been arranged in front of a miniature castle, and perched upon the parapet was a little princess squirrel with a hennin, the veil held aloft by stiffened wires.
“It is appalling,” I breathed. “I must have it.”
“Veronica,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. “I will not have that monstrosity in the Belvedere.”
“Not for myself. For our dear friend Mr. Pennybaker,” I corrected.
Instantly, his objections dissolved at the mention of the kindly little man who had saved Stoker’s life through his swift thinking and skilled intervention at the conclusion of a particularly nasty investigation.[*]
“I shall purchase it myself as a present for him,” Stoker said.
I pointed to another, smaller case. “There is a tiny convent of dormice nuns with a rat abbess. Mind you buy that for him as well.”
Anjali worked with us, removing dust sheets and folding them with care, dusting where instructed as Stoker and I worked, assessing and making notes. We stopped for luncheon—taken in the Great Hall with Lady Hathaway. She explained that Charles was out seeing to his sheep, Mary was with the children, Effie had gone to visit her old nurse in a cottage on the moor, and Anjali naturally did not eat with the family.
“And Mr. Jonathan Hathaway?” I asked casually. “Does he not take luncheon with you?”
“He does, but today he was feeling a little stronger and thought to take a walk over the moor. The moorland air has recuperative powers, you know. When it is warm enough, I encourage him to go, each time a little further than the outing before so as to build up his stamina. He was desperately ill for so long. His color is much better now,” she said with satisfaction. “You may put that down to my excellent nursing.”
“Oh?” I said, spooning up a bit of thick soup.
“Indeed,” she told me, fixing me with her beady bird’s stare. “I sat at his bedside and read to him for a quarter of an hour every day without fail. And I instructed Mary and Anjali and Effie how best to care for him, how often to change the bed linen, when to feed him beef tea and nourishing jellies, how much mustard to put into the plasters for his chest. I was extremely thorough. I quite overtaxed myself in my zeal to care for him,” she added with a martyred air. “And now I must walk with a stick until I have recovered my health.”
“You must have a greater care for your own strength,” Stoker said, keeping his expression entirely serious. “It is very dangerous to let oneself become overtired. It makes you susceptible to all variety of ailments.”
“Ailments! My dear Mr. Templeton-Vane, do not speak to me of ailments, I have so many,” she said plaintively. “I suffer so. The damp, you see, is a trial to my bones. And we shall not speak of my gout. Some days it is utterly beyond my abilities even to rise from my bed. Only my devotion to my grandchildren and my own will sustain me. I cannot be enslaved to this feeble body,” she said, striking one hand against a drooping breast. “I must rally myself in order to see to them. I have no wish but to make certain they are happy.”