A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

“’Tis the potpourri Miss Mertensia makes for me to keep in the linen press,” Mrs. Trengrouse told me. “And the flowers,” she added with a nod towards the tall vase of exuberant hydrangeas standing upon a polished oak chest. “She always does the flowers for guests. Not much for conversation, but she likes folk to feel welcome,” she said with a slight air of defensiveness. She was obviously devoted to her mistress, and I gave her a reassuring smile.

“It is very charming, Mrs. Trengrouse, and far too grand. I shall feel like a princess.”

She broke into a smile, and her face, sad in repose, was transformed. “That is very kind of you to say, Miss Speedwell.”

She turned to leave, but Stoker raised a hand. “I daresay I can find my own way, Mrs. Trengrouse.”

“I daresay you could, sir. From here, the stairs lead only to your chamber. There is no proper bathtub in your room, for the stairs are too narrow, but hot water will be brought so you can wash at the basin.”

“You needn’t show me,” he assured her. “I am used to looking after myself.”

He did not even glance at me as he left, and I turned away, feeling somehow chastened by that parting thrust.

But Mrs. Trengrouse had other matters on her mind. She moved swiftly to plump a pillow. “There. That’s better now.”

“It is good of you to take such trouble.”

She turned to me in obvious surprise. “It is my job, miss.”

“Have you been at the castle long?” I reached for my hatpin and tugged it loose. I wore a hat for travel and for any possibly dangerous enterprise—hatpins were among the most effective weapons I owned—but there was never a time I did not find them tedious in the extreme, no matter how luscious the flowers I insisted upon as embellishment.

Mrs. Trengrouse moved forward, never hurried, but with a swift competence I would come to discover characterized all of her actions. “Since I was twelve years old. I came as a nurserymaid when the late Mrs. Romilly bore Mr. Malcolm.” She took my hat and shook the dust from it.

“Then you are a friend to them indeed!”

Her smile was one of the gentlest reproof. “I would never presume, miss. I see you have come without your maid. Shall I take this for you and have one of the girls give it a good brushing?”

“That would be most appreciated, thank you.”

She inclined her head. “If there is anything you want while you are here, you have only to ask. It is Mr. Malcolm’s express wish that his guests have every comfort.”

“I will remember that,” I promised her.

She left me then, closing the door gently behind her. I undressed and slipped into the bath, the warm, scented water lapping at my skin as I thought of Tiberius, in the room just below, doing exactly the same. I wondered precisely how long it would be before he attempted to make the trip up the narrow, winding stair. And I thought of Stoker, in the room just above, and wondered what further surprises the evening would hold.

•   •   •

A short while later, there was a scratch at the door and an apple-cheeked maid appeared. She was young but tidy, with a spotless apron and neat dark plaits pinned at her nape. “Good evening, miss,” she said as she bustled in, the skirts of her starched cotton frock snapping. “Mrs. Trengrouse said as you had no maid of your own I was to wait upon you during your stay.”

“That really is not necessary,” I began.

She pressed her lips together firmly. “I am afraid Mrs. Trengrouse insists, miss.”

“Of course she does,” I murmured. “Very well, you can begin with the unpacking.”

The girl was as quick as she was determined, and in the veritable blink of an eye she had unpacked my solitary bag, hanging the clothes upon pegs in the wardrobe and arranging my comb and brush and pot of cold cream of roses on the washstand. My lepidoptery gear—specimen jars, ring net, pins, field notebook—was deposited in the bottom of the wardrobe. My books were placed in a tidy stack on the mantelpiece, and the boots I had worn during my travels were set outside the door to be collected by the boot boy. An enormous cake of soap smelling of herbs had been provided, and by the time I had rinsed off the suds and patted myself dry, she had shaken the wrinkles from my one evening dress and assembled a regiment of hairpins.

She stroked the fabric of my evening dress as I slipped into my dressing gown, knotting the belt at my waist. “’Tis a fine color, that is, miss,” she remarked, turning the fabric this way and that to catch the light. “What d’ye call it?”

“The dressmaker pronounced it azure,” I told her, “but to me it is the precise shade of the Morpho butterfly.”

“The what, miss?” I seated myself at the dressing table and she began to dress my hair.

“Morpho didius,” I explained. “A beastly great butterfly native to South America.”

“South America! Fancy that,” she said, gathering my hair into loose waves to pin at the crown of my head. “Imagine someone going all the way to South America just to catch a butterfly. They’d have to be daft,” she added.

I did not bother to tell her I had journeyed much further in my quests. “What is your name?” I asked her.

“Daisy, miss. And if you want me, day or night, you’ve only to ring the bellpull by the fireplace and I’ll come.”

I gave her a careful look and decided against delivering a lecture upon the evils of domestic servitude in exchange for low wages.

She jerked her head towards the floor, indicating Tiberius’ room. “I saw his lordship on my way up,” she said, plucking a hairpin from between her teeth. “The word belowstairs is he is your intended, miss.”

“Well, then it must be true,” I temporized.

She gave a little sigh. It