My dear Miss Speedwell,
Seldom does one encounter another collector with such exquisite taste, and it seems entirely wrong that I should possess more than my share of these beauties when a lady who appreciates them with perhaps even more fervour should have none. Also, I heard with some dismay that you will no longer be presenting a paper before the Aurelian Society. I hope this small token of my esteem for your professional accomplishments may dull the edge of what I can only imagine to be a keenly felt disappointment. I assure you, whatever unhappiness your absence causes you, it will be nothing to my own.
Your devoted servant,
Lord Ambrose Despard
No sooner had I come to the end of this pretty missive than Stoker gave a roar of unmitigated delight. The larger crate, as I suspected, contained the pangolin. The dogs circled it, sniffing curiously. Stoker stared, eyes gleaming with the same expression I have observed in the faces of newly made fathers.
“Well, it seems Lord Ambrose was not as put off by our questions as I thought,” I said.
“Indeed.” Stoker roamed around the little animal. It was far smaller than many of the other beasts that had had occasion to populate Stoker’s workshop. He had exercised his considerable skills upon Russian black bears, American bison, and even—on one remarkable occasion—an African elephant. But the size of these impressive creatures couldnot compete with the winsome charm of this specimen. His expression was frankly comical, the wide eyes being set at such a quizzical angle, it lent him the air of a curious and slightly worried Pierrot. In spite of its armature, its figure was not calculated to strike terror into the hearts of men. It was too modest in size, too oddly proportioned with its broad tail. One could easily imagine him rolling about as he assumed a defensive posture, short, stubby legs and pointed snoot tucked carefully away from view.
“I have seldom beheld a mammal so interesting,” I said. It was almost enough to make me give up lepidoptery altogether. Almost. I returned to my elegant Gorgon, gloating a little as I set him in a place of honour. He hovered over my desk, arrested in perpetual flight, a glowing beacon of perfection. It was a rare pleasure to keep a butterfly for myself. I seldom retained my trophies, even those I reared myself in the vivarium Lord Rosemorran had established for my use. Rather than hunting in the field, I restricted my efforts to breeding various species in this hothouse environment, only mounting them once they had perished from natural causes. They were then sold on to collectors, providing a healthy supplement to my income from his lordship who would not even accept a peppercorn rent for the use of his glasshouse.
His lordship’s generosity in this—and in so many other matters—meant that I seldom refused him when he asked a favour. That afternoon he requested we entertain Lady Rose as the governess had tendered her resignation that morning after her wayward charge had seen fit to pillage the governess’s dressing table in search of accoutrements for the tamarin. Lady Rose arrived bearing the little monkey, who looked decidedly harried. A multitude of tiny satin bows had been tied into its hair, it positively reeked of perfume, and it bore a streak of dull white along its back.
“Lady Rose,” I inquired with determined cordiality, “did youpowderthe tamarin?”
“Of course,” she said offhandedly. She had just helped herself to a piece of cake from the tea tray and spoke through a mouthful of crumbs.
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“Miss Fforde said she smelt. I thought she might withdraw her objections to keeping her in the nursery if she weren’t so noisome. I tried to give her a bath but she didn’t much care for that. She did something nasty in Miss Fforde’s bed, and Miss Fforde wasmostupset. She packed her bags before luncheon.” I unravelled this tangle of pronouns to understand that it was Miss Fforde, the governess, who had objected to the odiferous little pet and the monkey who had protested at having a bath. In any event, another governess had been cowed by the Beauclerk establishment—this one before I had even made her acquaintance.
“No, I imagine the tamarin would not care to be bathed. Monkeys do not, as a rule, disport themselves in water,” I told Lady Rose.
Stoker raised a finger in protest. “The Japanese macaque—Macaca fuscata—has been known to bathe in the hot springs in the cooler climate of the uplands.”
Lady Rose gave me a triumphant look. The child was rather too quick to enjoy any error or omission on my part. “Well,” I said smoothing my skirts, “then they are the exception that prove the rule. Have more cake, Lady Rose” I insisted, thrusting another slice towards her. With another child I might have feared instilling habits of overindulgence and perhaps bringing on a bout of indigestion, but Lady Rose had the dilatory powers of an anaconda and the cast-iron insides of a steam engine.
When she had finished her tea, Stoker mercifully took her off my hands to introduce her to the pangolin whilst I applied myself once more to my correspondence. The tamarin, perceiving Lady Rose’s distraction, took the opportunity to slip away to the snuggery by means of brachiation. I watched it a moment, admiring its nimble ways, andfeeling a certain softening of my sentiments toward the creature until I discovered the small deposit of excreta it had seen fit to leave behind on my favourite hat.
Between the cleaning of the hat, finishing my letters, labelling a case of rosy maple moths—Dryocampa rubicundais an exuberant little moth with unlikely pink and yellow colouring—and penning a handsome note of thanks to Lord Ambrose, the afternoon passed away quickly. Lady Rose was soon handed off to the ministrations of her aunt, Lady Cordelia, who remonstrated firmly with her about the resignation of this latest governess, and who refused to be moved by the child’s tears when the tamarin eluded her attempts at retrieval.
“I think,” Lady Cordelia said in tones that were dry and kind in equal measure, “we ought to give up the notion of keeping a monkey in the house. She is not yours, after all.” Lady C. turned to us. “I am selling tickets for the event at the Curiosity Club,” she told us, invoking the name of the establishment where women of ideas and daring gathered to exchange thoughts, celebrate one another’s accomplishments, and rest from the obligations of domesticity.
“What event?” Stoker inquired, darting a nervous eye to the railing of the snuggery where the tamarin was perched, watching his every move with a beady sort of possessiveness.
“An evening of tableaux vivants,” Lady Cordelia said, and I suppressed a groan. Tableaux vivants had been at the zenith of their popularity in the middle of the century, but had fallen from favour as more exciting modes of entertainment had been invented. There was little thrill to be had in staring at ordinary people garbed as figures from literature and assuming stiffly theatrical postures. I had often been keenly aware of the urge to stick one with a pin just to see what would happen.
Lady C. went on. “It is to benefit the fund that underwrites the studies of talented but impoverished young women. It shall be scenes from antiquity—the Bible, mythology, and so forth. We have a particularlyfine set of Greek heroes for the siege of Troy. Surely you will both come? Tickets are eleven shillings, ninepence.”
“To watch some poor devil stand around, shivering in his underwear?” Stoker demanded. “Thank you, but I am afraid I must decline. I am already engaged that evening.”
“I haven’t told you when it is,” Lady C. replied coldly. “Upon which evening are you engaged?”
Stoker grinned. “All of them.”
She sighed and turned to me, but I shook my head. “I am happy to contribute to the cause, but we have undertaken a new endeavour which I fear will keep us otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future,” I advised her.
Lady Rose had taken advantage of her aunt’s inattention to attempt to scale the nearest caryatid with an eye to snatching the tamarin. At the last moment, Lady Cordelia reached up and plucked the child down, setting the girl on her feet with a finality that brooked no opposition. “I saidno monkeys,” Lady C. told her with a firmness I had never heard.
Lady Rose reared back in surprise. Lady C.’s newfound resolve must have startled her, for she went with her aunt quietly enough, and after a hasty dinner, I instructed Stoker to make himself a trifle more presentable—mostly through the application of soap and water to remove the considerable filth that adorned his person. Sawdust, glue, ink, excelsior, cotton—these are merely a few of the substances I noticed had left their mark upon his clothing and hands.
“You needn’t dress formally, but clean raiment is desirable,” I told him.
“Why?” he demanded. “What tortures have you planned for me?”