Chapter 7

Amavi ego a teneris annis studium Natura .

From my tender years I have loved the study of Nature.

—G. A. Scopoli, Entomologia Carniolica (1763)

"Do you have personal favorites among all these, sir?" Adela asked Lord Dere, a blush coming without effort.

"I do, which you would soon have discovered if you came upon any of their dog-eared pages," he answered. "Shall I show one to you, Miss Barstow?"

Blessing her luck—why, with a few hours spent in the library, pulling each volume off the shelf to consider its condition, she might have a wealth of subjects with which to fascinate him!—she nodded, fixing a look of glee on her face and following him to the center bookcase. From the lowest shelf he withdrew a modest volume and placed it lovingly in her hands.

Adela's expression slipped a little when she saw the title. " Ento-mo-Entomologia C-Carniolica? " she ventured.

He nodded, beaming. "Open it. Please."

As her sister Frances had pointed out earlier, Adela "had small Latin and less Greek," but when she turned past the marbled endpapers to the title page, there was no mistaking the word in large print: " Insecta. "

"Oh, I see," she breathed. "It is—a book about…bugs?"

The baron's smile widened. "Insects, yes. With more than forty plates of illustrations."

"Fancy that!" She gave an uneasy titter. "I'm afraid the Latin is sure to be beyond my understanding, though."

"Never mind the Latin, then," said Lord Dere kindly. "I can scarcely be bothered with it either, when the pictures are so fine. Do look at them."

Now, it must further be told that Adela Barstow, however courageous she was in every other aspect of her life, was, in the presence of insects, snails, and spiders, the most hen-hearted of cowards. Whenever any family member wanted to play a prank on her, he need only place one of these creatures upon her pillow or beside her plate or in her workbasket for Adela to be reduced to a squeaking, quivering jelly.

Feeling the blood drain from her upper half, she with trembling hand began to turn the pages of Entomologia Carniolica , the shaking only increasing as she began to see, over and over, the heading "Scarab?us." Scarab?us dubius. Scarab?us fasciatus. Scarab?us cyatheger. Scarab?us adiaphorus. It was like holding the lid down on a particularly terrifying jack-in-the-box, afraid of what would spring up if she let go. Scarab?us sylvestris…

And then there it was! The first illustration plate, composed of two facing pages of beetles, ten in all, the largest as big as her hand and real as life. With a yelp, Adela jumped and dropped the book as if all ten scarabs had leapt at her. She took a stumbling step backward, only to have her retreat at once thwarted by collision with the very solid person of Mr. Weatherill, whose resulting whuff of breath only drew wider attention to her panic.

"Miss Barstow!" he and Lord Dere said together.

"I am terribly sorry," Adela gulped, inwardly berating herself. She lunged to retrieve the fallen book just as the baron stepped forward to—what?—ensure she had not lost her senses? Whatever the reason, the unfortunate result of this second conjunction was that Adela's face came perilously close to the most inexpressible portion of Lord Dere's inexpressibles, an infinitely more humiliating impact avoided at the last instant only by her twisting to the side and falling to her knees.

Then all was noise and confusion. Adela found herself hauled up by Mr. Weatherill on one side and Frances on the other, to be deposited on a sofa, Frances and Lord Dere peppering her with questions.

"I'm sorry," Adela kept repeating. "I felt a little faint."

"I would offer you sal volatile, Miss Barstow, but there is none on hand," declared Mrs. Dere. "For I am never faint."

"It's a shameful weakness," agreed Adela to appease her, but this effort miscarried in that respect, for Lord Dere strode to the door and called for the nearest servant.

"A cup of tea and perhaps a buttered roll for Miss Barstow," he ordered. She demurred, of course, saying she had already breakfasted, but he waved this away. "You Barstows have been through a great deal in the past week, and if I am not wrong, you have been the manager of your removal and arrangements, Miss Barstow. It is no surprise at all that you should have overtaxed your strength. You rest here, while we continue to mill about. And would you like anything to peruse while you wait for your refreshment?"

Determined to throw the helve after the hatchet, Adela said distinctly, "Perhaps the insect book? I might then study those beautiful illustrations at my leisure."

"But Della, you hate b—" was as far as Gordy got before Frances shouted, "Gordon, you have something on your lip!" and clapped a hand to his mouth to wipe the imaginary speck away. When he wriggled and scowled in protest, she dragged him off to the farthest corner to "show him something marvelous."

"Yes—yes I do—er—hate books ," Adela struck in wildly. "Books about things, that is. I mean, I hate them in comparison to the things themselves. Things which can be observed and—er—touched and—er—experienced. How can books possibly compare?"

To her amazement, the baron met this gabbled pronouncement not only with credulity, but with inexplicable delight. "Can it be so, Miss Barstow?" he asked, swiftly retrieving Entomologia Carniolica for her and opening it again to the first plate.

Now that she was prepared for it (and safely seated), Adela managed to fix her eyes on the loathsome beetle portraits. It helped to cover them partially, on the pretense of tracing their outlines with her fingers. And to work at deciphering their Latin labels in their calligraphic script.

"This one I have," said Lord Dere, a hum of excitement in his voice. He pointed to easily the most hideous of them. " Lucanus cervus. Both male and female specimens. It is the male pictured here with the well-known stag horns, from which it derives its common name."

What else could poor Adela say? "H-have you? How—splendid. I would very much like to see them."

A snort was heard behind her, but when she whipped her head around it was Mr. Weatherill, sneezing multiple times in succession into his handkerchief. When she turned back, Lord Dere had already crossed the room to open a long, shallow drawer in one of the cabinets.

Mrs. Markham Dere was upon the baron in a flash. "My lord! What can those be? I beg you, put those hideous things away." But while her vehemence was enough to make him hesitate, he was the next moment swarmed by Peter and Gordon, and Mrs. Dere was compelled to give way. The tray of pinned beetles, male Lucanus cervus occupying pride of place in the exact center, was set with great ceremony on the table before Adela, and she must lean forward with every sign of apparent delight to inspect it.

Amidst the boys' clamor, Adela need not speak right away, a lucky thing, considering she was struggling against an inclination to gag. No, she need only smile, lips parted and eyes wide and awed. Lord Dere received this silent tribute with a twinkle in his own eyes, and it would have been an unqualified triumph, if not for Mr. Weatherill looming over the baron's shoulder, a skeptical eyebrow raised as he scrutinized not the beetles but Adela herself.

Confound the man! Why shouldn't she like insects, if she pleased?

"They're—marvelous," Adela breathed. "In such excellent condition, sir. One might imagine them caught just today or—or—or still alive."

Lord Dere swelled with satisfaction. "My collection has been the work of years, Miss Barstow, and I have many more examples for your viewing pleasure, but this magnificent fellow I found at least twenty years ago. I cannot tell you what gratification it gives me, to meet a young lady with an interest in the smallest members of our natural world."

"But, sir," uttered Gordon, glancing up from the tray to regard Lord Dere with incredulity, "Della has never— ehrmmf !"

"I missed a spot!" bellowed Frances, grabbing her brother's mouth and scrubbing her hand back and forth over his protests. When he kicked at her, she dragged him backward, hissing sternly in his ear.

"Heavens," Mr. Weatherill said mildly. "Remind me to keep my upper lip clean around Miss Frances."

" What have you never, Miss Barstow?" asked Peter, poking her. "What was Gordon going to say, before his lip got dirty?"

"Oh—I'm sure he was going to say that I have never—er—before been known to demonstrate a strong interest in such creatures." (Adela thought the nearer she held to the truth, the less there would be to explain later to Gordy.) "But goodness, aren't they something? So—so intricate, if one really looks at them." She did just that, forcing herself to sit forward on the sofa and to bend over the case, her eyes blinking rapidly. She could feel her palms break out in perspiration and her skin prickle as she imagined the repulsive little things crawling—scuttling— springing. Did beetles spring?

Dead beetles don't spring, at any rate, Adela scolded herself. And this one has been dead twenty years. Gripping Entomologia Carniolica to her chest as a shield, she hunched another inch closer, only to hear a rap on the case as the stag beetle flew at her!

With a shriek, Adela vaulted up, dropping her book shield and nearly knocking down small Peter Dere in her scramble, but the boy's yowl of surprise halted her flight.

"Miss Barstow!" Lord Dere and Mrs. Markham Dere gasped, the former concerned and the latter astounded at such a display.

"I—I—was startled," panted Adela. Her gaze flew to the tray of beetles, now lying innocently motionless atop the table.

"I do beg your pardon," said Mr. Weatherill, reaching down to rub his knee. "How clumsy of me to bump that."

"You did that?" she demanded with an accusing point of her finger. He had jolted the case on purpose—she could swear it!

The tutor shrank in mock alarm. "Yes—as I just confessed…"

Though she began to sputter, whatever regrettable words might then have issued forth were conveniently forestalled by the entrance of Wood with the requested tea and buttered roll.

"Ah," said Lord Dere, "just what our poor Miss Barstow requires. Come, my dear. You are not only tired, but you are set on edge. This will help."

She allowed him to return her to her seat, and despite her vexation at Mr. Weatherill's teasing trick she was wise enough to rein in her show of temper and even muster a smile for the baron. "How silly I've been! I'm sure you're right, sir. Please, everyone, pay me not one jot more attention."

"Madam," Wood addressed Mrs. Dere, "Cook asked if she might consult you about the menu again. Something about there not being enough cold pheasant for two pies."

"Nonsense! Cook simply has no idea of the proper way in which to pick the most meat from the bones," insisted Mrs. Dere. But she begged the Barstows to excuse her and marched after the footman.

"That reminds me," said Lord Dere, taking advantage of his niece's departure to settle into the armchair to Adela's right, "I meant to send Mrs. Barstow a note—or to call myself—asking that you might all dine at Perryfield with us any days you please. We must not stand on ceremony."

"Thank you, sir. I know my mother is occupied with settling into Iffley Cottage, but I am certain she will wish to accept your kind offer in future."

"Tomorrow, perhaps?" Humor glinted in his eye. "I do not dare ask you all to come today, if there is indeed a shortage of pheasant. Say tomorrow and again Sunday following church."

"I will ask her, sir." Color rose to her cheeks, and the irregular throb of her heart was not at all pretended. Could it be, despite her blunders, she was succeeding? Making progress?

"Splendid. Now, if you don't mind, I will move this out of your way…" He took up the case of beetles to replace it in the cabinet, the two boys following in hopes of further exciting treasures and Frances following Gordon to ensure he told no tales.

Which left Mr. Weatherill.

Adela seized upon the others' absence to throw him a half-wary, half-cross look, which he met serenely as he claimed the vacated armchair. If they were the tentative allies she thought they were after their garden talk, the man should not be playing brotherly pranks on her. Because unlike with an actual brother, Adela could neither lash out at him nor seek revenge.

With a nod toward the boys gathered about Lord Dere he said impassively, "Clearly my pupils share your zeal for the insect world, Miss Barstow." Seeing Adela's lips tighten, his own twitched. "Therefore, if you wouldn't mind, perhaps I will take Entomologia Carniolica off your hands and up to the schoolroom—that is, unless you wanted to pore over it further."

Swallowing a retort, Adela fairly tossed the book at him, but if she hoped to catch him off guard she was disappointed, for he caught it neatly.

"I see the refreshment has already done its work," Weatherill further observed. "A commendable throw. Do you prefer bowling over or around the wicket?"

"Why are you being so teasing, sir?" Adela snapped, goaded. "Shouldn't you gather Peter and Gordy now and get to work?"

"Get to work, so you might get to work?" he returned. He tapped his chin, adding thoughtfully, "Not that my presence has hindered you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you? You must have hit your head harder on the door jamb than I thought. Then again, my poor fingers likely did not cushion the blow as much as one would hope. In any event, I allude to our earlier conversation—to your efforts to work yourself into our benefactor's favor."

Adela stole a peek at Lord Dere and the children still occupied at the cabinet before she hissed, "Then if you remember that talk, and you remember why I seek his good-will, why should you throw it in my face now? You may be a salaried employee, sir, but you would do well to imitate me. We all of us hold our places solely by his grace and favor, so what can be wrong in working to win his good opinion?"

"What, indeed? No, no, Miss Barstow. I well recall our garden chat. But I never supposed, when I spoke in generalities of marrying for advancement—a suggestion which discomposed you at the time, I might add—that you would seize so rapidly upon the idea. Nor that you would take our benefactor as your object. If I am not mistaken, he must be at least five and thirty years your senior."

If the fire in her eyes could have found material form, he would have been incinerated on the spot. "How dare you. Who says I am—doing what you say I am doing?"

His eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing for a moment. Then he made her a half bow. "It seems I have been mistaken."

"Indeed you have," replied Adela, now avoiding his gaze. She picked up the breakfast roll and tore it into several pieces. Then she shifted the teacup and saucer to a new position on the tray.

Mr. Weatherill sighed and gave a shrug. "I daresay it's not the first time I have misread the evidence." Slapping his hands on his rusty trousers, he rose. "If you will excuse me, Miss Barstow. As you pointed out, it is high time I ‘get to work.'"

Leaving her to her thoughts, he tucked Entomologia Carniolica under his arm and turned to call to his pupils.