A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(29)
Or at least it would have been had a heavy fog not obscured the view. Grey mist hung like shrouds at the windows, swirling about the casements like fingers of the dead, looking for a way in.
He gestured for me to take one of the Stuart chairs in front of his desk, and I did so, spreading my skirts smoothly over my knees and returning to the subject of his nephew. “So many young men his age do want settling down,” I said with some sympathy. “Perhaps a long voyage,” I suggested. “To dangerous lands. A few perils are just the thing to shape a young man’s character.”
The smile deepened. “And a young woman’s. I understand you have traveled the world on your expeditions. You are V. Speedwell, the regular contributor to the Journal of Aurelian Contemplations, are you not?”
“I had no notion you read it!” I exclaimed. “You made no mention of it at dinner, and Tiberius led me to believe you were not terribly interested in butterflies.”
“I must confess, my knowledge is limited to our own glasswings, but after our conversation last night, I rooted out the latest copies of the journal. My father used to subscribe and I never got around to stopping them from coming. I was terribly impressed with your articles.”
“You are too kind,” I murmured.
“Not at all,” he assured me. “I will tell you, Miss Speedwell, I rather suspected that Tiberius had inflated your interest in the glasswings as a means of securing your invitation. He is such a curious fellow, I admit I have never entirely understood him in spite of our many years of friendship. It is the difficulty in making friends with a man so much cleverer than oneself,” he finished with a self-deprecating smile.
I made the proper noises of protest, and he held up a hand. “I harbor no illusions about my abilities or my defects, I can assure you. I am aware of my limitations and my worth, which is more than most men, I think.” His genial gaze turned thoughtful. “I wonder, will his lordship make any difficulties about your hobby when you are married? Surely the Viscountess Templeton-Vane cannot continue in trade.”
His manner was deliberately nonchalant, but there was a tautness to his hands as he rested them upon his desk and a bright inquisitiveness to his gaze. There was something about my relationship with Tiberius that unsettled him, but I could not imagine what it might be.
I smiled. “I would never give up lepidoptery, not for any man,” I told him truthfully.
“What if he insisted?” he pressed.
“I should insist harder,” I assured him.
“Yes, I rather think you would,” he said with a slow nod. He was silent a moment, then seemed to give himself a little shake as he assumed the manner of a genial host once more. “I do hope you are finding your visit a pleasant one.”
“I am indeed. The island is a fascinating place.”
He brightened. “Do you really think so? In that case, I must apologize for the fog. If not for the cloud, you could see all the way to the Three Sisters.”
“Three Sisters?”
He took down one of the framed maps upon the wall and pointed. “Here we are in the castle. Just to the west, off this little bit of beach, lie three smaller islands in a row, each more barren than the last.” They were marked out in thick black ink upon the map, a delicate chain of islands set in a perfectly straight line pointing towards the horizon. I realized then that these were the little isles I had spied from my window upon rising that morning.
“Why are they called the Three Sisters?”
He smiled. “Are you familiar with Cornish folk, Miss Speedwell? We are a superstitious lot. We cannot see a simple geological formation without attaching a myth to it. But sometimes, just sometimes, there is more than myth at work. The story goes that when the castle was built, this isle was the only one, but that the owner of the castle had four beautiful daughters, so beautiful he was jealous of them, and guarded them so that they would never love anyone but him.”
“He sounds a dreadful bore,” I remarked. “And possessive to boot.”
“No doubt,” he said. “And no doubt his daughters agreed, for three of them built themselves a boat in secret, and one day, when he was not watching, they set out to sea in their little craft, determined to escape him once and for all.”
“What happened to them?” I asked.
“It is said that the father was so angry, he summoned up three rocks from the depths of the sea and the little boat was dashed upon them, killing his three eldest daughters.”
“How could a mere man raise islands, no matter how powerful his rage?” I asked.
“Ah, he was no ordinary man,” Malcolm Romilly told me. “Have you heard of pellar families?”
“I have made the acquaintance of Mother Nance,” I replied.
“Ah, then you have met our resident witch,” he said with some satisfaction. “It’s all nonsense, of course, but the legends draw sailors to our shores and coin to our businesses, so we must nurture them.”
I cast my mind back to the stories of my childhood. I remembered clothbound books of faery stories and one, of drowned blue, that talked of mermaids and selkies and other magic of the seas. “Mother Nance told me that pellar families are given special powers, derived from consorting with mermaids, I believe.”
“Indeed! A pellar family is a family not to be trifled with in these parts. In each case, an ancestor has rendered aid to or fallen in love with a mermaid. In return, they were given a precious gift. In some cases, it is the second sight or an ability to foretell doom. In others it is healing magic or a way with animals.”