A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(31)

He handed it to me and I opened it to find pages of illustrations, each carefully tinted by hand. “These are originals!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes. Grandmama Euphrosyne had that book bound in order to keep her collection of illustrations in one place. Not only did she document every butterfly found upon the islands, she included sketches of their habitats and notes on their habits—eating, mating, duration of pupation, and other quite technical terms with which I am thoroughly unfamiliar. It is quite comprehensive.”

“It is amazing,” I breathed, hardly daring to touch the book.

“Take it with you,” he urged. “Study it at your leisure.”

“Are you quite certain? It is almost impossibly valuable,” I warned him. “I realize it is important to your family collection, but within the history of English lepidoptery, this book is incalculably rare.”

“I am entirely certain. There are notes of where to find the glasswings that might prove useful to you. Things haven’t changed all that much on the island in a century,” he told me.

I thanked him profusely and clutched the book to my chest as I left him. I turned at the door to thank him again, but he was not looking at me. He had moved to the window and was staring out at the grey sea stretching to the horizon.





        CHAPTER





7


I hastened to my room with my trophy and read through teatime. I missed the bell entirely, so engrossed was I, and Mrs. Trengrouse appeared a little while after with Daisy bearing a tray. “A little morsel, miss,” the housekeeper explained, shooing the maid from the room as soon as the girl had placed her burden upon the narrow writing desk. “Tea is served downstairs, but I thought you might like something special,” she told me, and I realized this was a sort of reward for my discretion with respect to Helen Romilly’s inebriation. Mrs. Trengrouse went on. “There is a plate of wine biscuits and a glass of our own red wine if you want a bit of proper refreshment. The grapes are grown here on the island on the vineyard head.”

I looked up from my book, blinking hard. “Vineyard head?”

“The spit of land to the southwest. The soil and winds make it suitable for the growing of grapes. ’Tis not a fine vintage, mind you, but quite nice enough for the luncheon wines,” she assured me.

“I am certain it will be delicious,” I told her.

She paused and looked at the enormous book in my lap and the notebook tucked under my chin. “If you would like to work comfortably, I can have one of the lads bring up a proper table. The writing desk is fine for a lady’s letters, but that book is far too cumbersome. You would want to spread your things out a little, I should think.”

I thought of the narrow stairs approaching my room. “That sounds like a great deal of trouble.”

“Not in the slightest,” she told me. She left, and I returned to my book, nibbling absently at the wine biscuits and tasting the wine. It was light and flinty with a hint of something unusual, a mineral quality that I attributed to the rocky soil of the island. I preferred the heavier vintages I had sampled in Madeira and put it aside, devoting my attention to the biscuits instead. Richly spiced and tasting strongly of pepper, they were delectable and I was just finishing the last crumb when a knock sounded at the door. A burly lad entered when I bade, carrying a plain table in one hand.

“Where shall I put this then, miss?” he asked in the soft Cornish accent of the local folk.

“Under the window, thank you,” I instructed. He set it neatly into place and then returned in a moment with a chair, upright but comfortable and well padded. “On Mrs. Trengrouse’s instructions,” he told me, touching his brow. I smiled to myself. I had certainly worked my way into the housekeeper’s good graces, it seemed.

A moment later, Daisy reappeared, box in hand. “Extra pens and ink, paper for writing and blotting, and a penknife in case you forgot your own. Pencils too,” she said.

“Let me guess, Mrs. Trengrouse’s instructions,” I hazarded.

She grinned. “Right you are, miss. I hear you went down the village way today. Did you meet anyone of interest?” She had turned away from me, using the corner of her apron to wipe nonexistent dust from the corner of the desk. I could see only her profile, but something about the curve of her lips seemed sly.

“I did. I met Mother Nance from the inn, the one who claims to be a pellar witch.”

“Oh, and did she tell your fortune, miss?” Her manner was a shade too eager for casual curiosity.

“Not in so many words,” I told her in a cool tone.

She rubbed harder at the sleek wood. “You ought to ask her, miss. She knows everything, does our Mother Nance. She can tell things that haven’t yet come to pass.”

I smiled thinly. “I prefer a bit of mystery in my life.” I gestured towards the tray of refreshments. “Thank you for your efforts, Daisy. You may take that away.”

She did as she was told, reluctantly it seemed, bobbing a swift curtsy as she took up the tray and vanished.

I passed another hour in happy contemplation of the butterflies of Euphrosyne Romilly until the words swam together on the page and my posture had grown stiff, then prepared myself for the evening meal. Dinner was a strained affair. Helen was pale and quiet after her afternoon’s imbibing, content to sip at a glass of sparkling water and feed titbits under the table to her cat. Caspian was clearly in a sulk following his quarrel with his uncle, while Malcolm ignored him entirely. Mertensia talked animatedly with Stoker about various plants and the pests who fed upon them while Tiberius was content to apply his attention to the excellent food and the even better wine.