A Grave Robbery (Veronica Speedwell, #9)

by Deanna Raybourn

“Why do they all have such unfortunate names? First Parthenope Fleet. Now Undine Trevelyan. Why do we never meet a Mary Smith? I should like, just once, to meet a Mary Smith.” “What sort of interesting things would ever befall a Mary Smith?” I demanded. “Who would stab or poison or garrote a Mary Smith? It is unthinkable.” “Not everyone of our acquaintance need be murdered, Veronica. In fact, some people find it preferable to make friends with normal folk.” “How very depressing,” I said, sipping again. “I pity them their small lives.”

“Wait? Veronica, I had no notion that word was even in your vocabulary. You are the most impetuous, headstrong, reckless—” “There is no call to make hurtful remarks,” I cut in. “Hurtful? I mean them as compliments.

“I cannot think of anything more horrifying than shackling oneself for all of eternity to a woman with anything less than your courage. You are a lioness, Veronica.”

I was merely reflecting on how felicitous it is to be understood and loved for oneself—really loved, with no design to alter or diminish the object of one’s affection. It is a rare thing.” “To change one hair of your head would make you something other than Veronica,” he said simply.

“I was jesting, you know,” he said in a low voice. “You may weep in front of me. I do not promise to enjoy it, but I will endure it.”

“Well, I forbid you to die,” I told him. “I should not like that at all, you know. I have grown far too accustomed to you to do without you. But I do not think you should have to do without me. So I think we should make a pact. Neither of us is permitted to die without the other. What do you think?”

“Grants! Patrons! Yes, for men,” she said, fairly spitting the word. “Male scientists need only click their fingers and pots of money are made available to them because they are men and because they intend to put electricity to use in ways to benefit other men—ships and trains and public lighting. But explain to a man how much more useful it would be for a laundrymaid not to break her back over a mangle and see how quickly he buttons up his pockets. It is maddening.”

It was an abominable practise to hamper the development of daughters, but it was deeply ingrained. My only consolation was the growing number of young women whose talents were being fostered by organisations such as the Curiosity Club. Perhaps with time, luck, and money enough, we could effect change.

(Men who claim to be beyond the grip of strong emotions are, in my experience, the very ones most likely to fall prey to them.)

“And the cure for inconvenient females is always to lock them up,” I finished dryly.

I saw then that Eliza’s crime had been as much stepping out of her place as endeavouring to reanimate a corpse.

I could well imagine this quiet, watchful girl, liberated by her own audaciousness to attempt what these two men could never even dream of. It would have been a heady time for her as she threw off the confines of the role into which society had forced her. How long had she bided her time, waiting to burst free like some poisonous flower, no longer in bud but fully and violently in bloom?

“Veronica,” Stoker said, his eyes brilliant in the low lamplight, “I have known you in every possible way a man can know a woman. I understand you better than you will ever admit because one cannot fully love what one does not fully comprehend, and believe me when I say I love you entirely and comprehend you completely.

“Afraid of what?” I demanded. “Of losing that which I have come to realise I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you—in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. You are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.”

“I am not that bad,” I managed hoarsely. “No,” he said with a slow smile. “You are not bad at all. If I could have created—as Eliza Elyot attempted to—a perfect woman, I could never have imagined you. But that is my failure. Not yours.”

“Only one man in a thousand—ten thousand—would have answered me as you have just done.” He reached up and set the monkey gently aside. It chattered in annoyance, but Stoker ignored it as he rose and pulled me to my feet. “Only one woman in ten thousand would have deserved that answer.”

“Someday,” I said, a trifle acidulously, “perhaps men will stop finding unconscious women to be an allurement.” “Some men prefer a lady who is silent,” Spyridon replied sagely, “because they like to think they are smarter than their women and if she talks, he finds out he is stupid. Me, I prefer a woman to talk. It is better this way.” “I think, Spyridon, we are going to be very good friends,” I told him.