I shuddered thinking of Mr. Barnum’s repellent specimen. He had presented it during the height of the fashion for cryptids, creatures half out of myth, displayed to a gullible public audience for the price of a small coin. This particular item had been fashioned from sewing a fish’s tail to the torso of a monkey. One look at the thing and any person of science would have rejected it out of hand, but the average individual yearning for entertainment would be more persuaded by novelty than accuracy. There had been a fad for such things after the publication of Mr. Darwin’s text. When On the Origin of Species had first burst upon the scene, many misread its premise of a common ancestor shared by man and ape to mean that men were descended from monkeys—a perfectly ludicrous notion. But the idea was just sensational enough to persuade people to part with their hard-earned money to see proofs in the shape of horrible hominids, patchwork mannequins fashioned of simian limbs and human features. The fact that such grotesqueries were displayed at fairgrounds and pleasure palaces instead of respectable scientific institutions should have been sufficient to ensure their ridicule, but too often I had seen perfectly intelligent and rational people convinced by one of these repellent fakeries. Our intrepid journalist acquaintance, J. J. Butterworth, had even written a series of articles after spending a fortnight with a traveling show. She had pasted false hair onto her face and arms and displayed herself under the bill of the Ape Woman of Nova Scotia, for which she was paid the princely sum of ten pounds.
Before I could return to the subject of Jonathan Hathaway, Stoker dropped a heavy hand to my shoulder. “In any event, all you promised Sir Hugo was that you would try. You made him no guarantees of success,” he reminded me. He dropped his hand and gathered up his stack of paper parcels. Several were marked with the label of a scientific supplier, but the smallest bore a bright red and white string and an illustration of a dancing sweet.
“Honey drops,” he said, grinning. “And now I am for my thylacine,” he told me with an unholy light in his eyes.
I might have stopped him then, told him I had something of importance to discuss. But his attention had already wandered; he was with his thylacine—I had noted the use of the possessive pronoun. Whatever price Lord Rosemorran paid for it, I was certain Stoker would always take a proprietary interest in the beast.
“Go on, then,” I said, forcing a smile to my lips. “I must clean myself before I befoul Mrs. Desmond’s carpets any further.”
He left me then in a swirl of frock coat and honey drops. I made my way to my room on leaden feet. But in half an hour I had rung for hot water and washed myself thoroughly, dressing in my blue gown once more and sending my tweeds down to be cleaned along with my boots. The pieces of my butterfly net were wrapped in a spare petticoat with the same reverence the Egyptians of old gave to their mummies. I laid the bundle in my carpetbag with a sigh of regret. That net had collected as many memories as butterflies—trekking the lush foothills of the Andean alps, venturing to islands beyond the edge of the world, sunrises and sunsets and every moment in between. How I missed my adventures!
I dashed away a sudden bit of moisture from my eyes and stiffened my spine. This would never do. Being with Harry had resurrected so many ghosts, and my emotions were in tumult as they had never been before. I had prided myself on knowing precisely who I was and what I believed. Yet in the two years since I had come to London, that had been tested, over and again, the bond between my image of myself and my own identity stretched until it had at last snapped. I would have said firmly and without hesitation that I was a forthright person who valued honesty and plain speaking, that I would stride boldly into difficult situations and face them head-on, prepared to take my stand whatever the cost. Instead, I found myself beset by emotion at the sight of a broken butterfly net, hiding in my room as I kept a terrible secret from the one person I ought to have told. Why this devilish concealment? Was it pure cowardice? I searched my heart and found that it was not reluctance to endure Stoker’s wrath which decided my course. I had withstood his temper often enough—in fact, I have admitted in the pages of my recorded adventures more than once that I found his displays of spleen to be invigorating as his eyes shone and his muscles flexed with indignation or fury. Had I any expectation of his committing any violence, it would not have been so. But Stoker, more than any person of my acquaintance, would never harm me. I knew that as well as I knew my own name. He was incapable of inflicting suffering upon me.
But, oh, how I despised myself for inflicting it upon him! I knew that concealing my past from him would divide us, but the truth would be wounding, I had no doubt of it. It would come as a blow, both the fact of my marriage and the fact of its concealment. I would have to deliver the strike in a time and place that would permit him the agonies he would no doubt experience. Anger, wounded pride, betrayal—these were uneasy sentiments and he deserved to grapple with them privately, not in the company of strangers such as the Hathaways.
At least, that is what I told myself as I left my room, justifying my choice to delay telling him the truth. I was also mindful of Jonathan’s—how quickly I had come to think of him by that name!—unsubtle hints as to his intentions should I reveal his secrets. I split no hairs; I appreciated no sophistry. He could twist it however he liked, but the plain fact was that he had chosen blackmail. He trusted not in my long-dead affection for him but in the fervor of my feelings for Stoker to shield him from the consequences of whatever crimes he chose to perpetrate. And for all his pretty speeches about Lady Hathaway and new beginnings, I did suspect he nurtured some less wholesome scheme to divide that lady from her wealth.
There was only one proper course to be taken, I decided. In order to protect Stoker for as long as possible and to keep Lady Hathaway from becoming the victim of Jonathan’s villainous plot, I would have to remain at Hathaway Hall, keeping a watchful eye upon everyone, ready to unleash my own particular hell in defense of those who did not understand what sort of viper they nursed within their bosom.
Refreshed if not wholly persuaded by my logic—I am keenly aware of my own hypocrisies even as I indulge them—I bathed my tear-swollen eyes and dressed for dinner in the one silk gown I had brought. It had been freshly sponged and returned to my room, and I fancied the violet silk flattered my eyes and skin. I took extra care with my hair, plaiting and coiling it atop my head. I felt once more in possession of myself, and it was with fresh resolve that I descended to dinner, determined to keep a firm grip upon my emotions and apply rational principles to my situation. I would watch Jonathan (Harry! I corrected myself sternly) with the keenness of a raptor. I would harden my heart against his protestations of innocence and remind myself that he had engaged in a polite exercise of extortion in order to get me to do his bidding. Well, two could play at that sort of game, I decided. All I required was to find the weakness in his armor. I am, it has been noted by criminals of the loftiest distinction, a worthy adversary, and although it would pain me to view Harry in that light, I would balk at nothing to keep Stoker free from his clutches. Thus determined, I went to dinner in a mood of dangerous optimism.