“From The Fairy Queen,” Stoker agreed, holding up a program. A stack of them had been stuffed beneath the ass’s head and he thumbed through them. “Odd to think of a French company performing Purcell, but then it seems they were quite catholic in their tastes. Some Mozart, Berlioz’s Les Troyens, Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore, ah, even Beethoven.” He began to hum tunefully from Fidelio, and I turned to the earl, who was struggling to remove the donkey’s head.
“Let me help you,” I urged.
“Most kind,” he said as I tugged at the velvet ears. It took a good deal of yanking—the donkey’s head proving as stubborn as the animal itself—but at last the earl emerged, red-faced and a little sweaty.
“Jolly good fun. Must put that aside for the children,” he said. “They might like to put on an amateur dramatical for midsummer.”
I was not a little relieved to hear that his lordship intended at least some of the collection to find its way to the dressing-up box. Stoker had opened another crate and was half-drowned in a sea of silks and velvets—the peploi of Trojans, the embroidered robes of Asian kings, and an enormous panniered gown of spangled purple that could only have belonged to a Queen of the Night.
“But why,” he asked the earl, “did you buy all of this if you only meant to give it to the children?”
Lord Rosemorran rummaged through the crates until he found the one he wanted. “Ah! This is why,” he said, prying it open. Nestled in a heap of excelsior was a tangle of brown wooden limbs and heavy silk strings. “The marionettes,” he explained, lifting one out. It was a harlequin, dressed in the distinctive multicolored diamond pattern, an enormous feathery pom-pom attached to its hat. “They are from Sicily, made by the Castrovinci family in the seventeenth century. Look here, a Tancred!” He plunged his hand into the excelsior and emerged with a puppet dressed in a suit of armor, the visor of his helmet thrown back to reveal a lavish set of black moustaches. “Ready to ride off on Crusade. You know, the Sicilian puppet theatre . . .”
What followed was nearly an hour of discussion on the history of the Sicilian puppetry tradition. I like to think it would have been diverting had I not been fatigued from the Channel crossing, but in fact, it would not. There was far too much explanation on the intricacies of choosing the correct type of olive tree for a marionette, and I reflected, as his lordship’s gentle monologue continued to burble on, that no one should ever know quite so much about puppets.
At last, his lordship, reminded of the delicacy of the awaiting Alpenwalder cheese, wound down and left us amidst the litter of crates and excelsior. The canvas sails proved to be painted backdrops used to set the scene for the opera company, and the other boxes were packed full of furniture, props, costumes, and wigs. I made a few choice selections to hold back from the children’s dressing-up box and Stoker scrutinized them.
“Why are you keeping those?” he inquired.
“Disguises,” I explained. “We may not intentionally seek out adventures, but they seem to seek us and it is best to be prepared.”
He lifted one garment between his fingertips. “This is a scarlet cassock. Veronica, exactly when do you plan on disguising yourself as a cardinal?”
“One never knows,” I replied loftily. I tossed it into a crate with the other items I meant to keep and dusted my hands. “And now, food,” I said with a decisive gesture.
Upstairs in the Belvedere was a sort of snuggery, fitted with a Swedish stove, Napoléon’s campaign bed, and an assortment of cushions for the various dogs we had collected—Betony (the earl’s Caucasian sheepdog), Nut (an Egyptian hound of Stoker’s), Huxley (his bulldog), and my own noble Vespertine, a deerhound of great distinction. We took luncheon with them and later tea, spending the afternoon in a haze of cozy domestic bliss as we read through our correspondence, skimmed newspapers, and crumbled scones for the dogs. I glanced up to find Stoker deep in concentration as he read an editorial regarding the subject of votes for women—he supported the notion—and something thudded in my chest. At the time I put it down to indigestion. (The earl’s cook was an accomplished woman, but occasionally her rock cakes were frankly indigestible.) Only later did I wonder if it might have been a premonition. For that afternoon was the last truly uncomplicated moment of happiness I was to know for a long time.
CHAPTER
2
The summons came the next day—a brief note from Sir Hugo Montgomerie, the head of Special Branch of Scotland Yard, delivered just after Stoker and I had settled to breakfast in the Belvedere. Stoker helped himself to a dish of eggs, arranged as usual on the sarcophagus we used as a sideboard, whilst I munched contentedly through a stack of buttered toast and read the newspapers, eager to see what I had missed during our travels abroad. A more serious soul might have reached first for the Times, but I have never claimed that particular virtue. I happily unfurled the latest edition of the Daily Harbinger, an illustrated periodical given to ludicrous flights of fancy complete with pictures of the most lurid variety. Stoker deplored my taste in newspapers, but I had found the Daily Harbinger to be highly instructive upon occasion. The fact that the pieces were only accidentally and intermittently based in truth did not alter my enjoyment. I had discovered the stories within were best taken with a hefty pinch of salt. But one thing I marked was the absence of any mention of the fiend whose reign of terror had dominated the headlines the previous autumn. After his orgy of killing early in November, it appeared the Ripper had slipped once more into the hell-bound shadows whence he had come, and London seemed to breathe a little easier as the spring commenced.
Not that the city was without its tensions. Parliament was sitting, and—unsurprisingly—the question of independence was on everyone’s lips. unrest in the empire, screamed the Harbinger.
“Whose independence?” Stoker asked in reply to my remark upon the subject.
I began ticking off the groups on my fingers. “Women. The suffragists staged a rally in Green Park, shouting loudly enough to be heard inside Buckingham Palace, although the queen was not in attendance. The Irish, predictably. There have been a spate of demonstrations in Dublin in favor of Home Rule. The Brazilians are thoroughly at odds with their emperor. And now the Indians. Apparently the notion of self-rule has gained popularity there as well. Members of the Commons intend to introduce bills to debate the idea of self-government for both countries, although not the vote for women,” I added darkly.
“The queen won’t much care for talk of India breaking free of the empire,” he mused. “Rip says she quite likes calling herself empress.”
Stoker’s second brother, Sir Rupert—Rip to his family—had been knighted for services to the Crown. Officially the accolade had come for translating Chinese poetry, but Sir Rupert had confided one night after a third glass of whisky that it had actually been conferred for diplomatic work of the most discreet variety. Her Majesty was seldom seen in public, having withdrawn to Windsor Castle after the death of her beloved consort, but Sir Rupert still saw her occasionally, enough to note the creamy, catlike expression of satisfaction she wore whenever the subject of her Indian title arose in conversation. He was loyal to a fault, but upon this particular occasion, he had performed a marvelous impression of her, complete with a napkin draped over his head and an upended pudding dish in place of her tiny crown.