Gibbous House 51

The night had turned cold, although it was almost April. I had quite forgotten how much difference a few degrees of latitude could make to the climate, and how isolation and the absence of civilisation could lower the temperature. The faint sounds of the pond were almost masked by the Northumbrian wind. For the first time I contemplated turning my back on Gibbous House and all I had not quite inherited. But a slight unpaid burdens the soul more than any sin. I lifted the iron monkey's chin and swung the knocker as forcefully as I knew how. The satisfying sound that it made produced no satisfactory result, at least in subsequent minutes. On the point of rattling the monkey's brains again, I was surprised when the door swung wide. Blinded by the light of an oil lamp, I fervently hoped that, if it were Mrs Gonderthwaite admitting me, she had taken the time to dress.

Fortunately, when my sight had returned, it became clear it was not she, but Miss Pardoner who bore the lamp. She stepped gracefully aside to admit me. There was a touch of high colour on her cheek and her lips seemed a little swollen. It was possible she had run to answer the door knocker's summons. We stopped at the foot of the stairs; forced to intimacy by the Chinese Chippendale desk behind her and the rough oak chest at my back. She retreated a step, leaned against the vulgarly ornate escritoire, and ran her hand along its bevelled edge. I kept my distance - such as could be kept in such confinement. Chin up, head slightly tilted to one side, she appraised me, showing no deference or need to speak. I expressed my surprise that she was not already retired. Her reply was succinct;

'I keep late hours, Mr Moffat.'

'And bad company..?' I ventured, but the woman remained quite unprovoked, and merely continued to provoke myself in her turn, with her bold looks.

'Miss Pardoner,' I said, gesturing at the blue of her skirts, 'Pretty and distinctive though this cerulean hue might be – it is scarce your colour.'

'But I like it Mr Moffat, it is the exact colour of the Chalk Hill Blue butterfly - a truly beautiful creature.'

She attempted a fluttering of the eyelashes after the manner of a Eliza Wharton, a fictional daughter of a clergyman. It was not a success; there was nothing of the Coquette in her manner. Still I made reply, out of courtesy:

'Miss Pardoner, it is not the butterfly that interests me, but the moth.'

'And the moth, does it perish at your flame?'

The tell-tale corner of her mouth rose once again. She looked momentarily downward, toward the front of my breeches. My blood was up after the despatch of the careless shepherd. The woman had not finished:

'Or do you pin it, spreadeagle - to a board - at your leisure?'

As I mouthed, 'soon, very soon,' to the retreating flash of blue, she scampered up the stairs and through the 'looking-glass.'