Reckoning (10 page)

“But—”

She winked. “Trust me. The most dangerous thing in Purfleet tonight—is yours truly.” She slammed the coach door shut. “Thanks for the lift! You’re an angel!” she called up to me, and then she turned and walked away.

I called to the driver to move on.

Now that she was gone, I felt foolish to have been so distrustful. Stella was just an exuberant girl. And I’d be well served to take a page from her book. I decided I would not let those few tremulous moments cloud what had been a perfect evening. I had ventured out without harm, and I should feel pleased. I would cap my evening with one final triumph. “You may leave me at the corner,” I called up to the driver, taking Stella’s cue as we neared my house.

The carriage dropped me off as I’d requested and rumbled away. I found myself alone in the empty lane. The great night sky yawned above me. My old anxiety sparked—but I kept it in check. I could see my garden gate in the moonlight and fought the urge to hasten toward it. Instead I compelled myself to walk slowly, urging my tightening muscles to relax, struggling to keep my breathing
even. The soft breeze rattled the last leaves clinging to the branches above me, but I forced myself not to look up. Finally I let myself through the garden gate, a sense of triumph surging in my breast.

As I made my way up the garden path to the front door, a fox yowled in the distance, the unearthly noise finally unsettling my nerves. Quickly I fumbled for the key in my bag, the familiar panic beginning to take hold of me. The back of my neck grew hot with a prickling sensation—the feeling of being watched.

And not just a feeling. This time, it seemed like utter certainty. Who was there, hiding out in the darkness?

Another howl, closer this time.

My heart lurched. I hastily scanned the shadowy garden behind me but could see no movement.

I found the front door key and jammed it into the lock. I pushed open the door and then slammed it behind me.

There was a figure in the shadows at the foot of the stairs. I clutched my throat, gasping out loud. Then I realised it was Becky and laughed in relief.

“Sorry if I startled you.” Becky grinned. “I’ve just come down from checking on your father.”

“Is everything all right?” I asked anxiously.

Becky hesitated. “Well, I hate to even mention it, but he seemed a tad listless this evening,” she informed me with a little frown. “I suggested he have an early night and helped
him to bed. He is sleeping well now. So I think he was simply tired.”

“I shall go and see to him,” I said, pulling off my coat and making for the staircase.

Becky gently touched my arm and drew me back. “I checked on him not a moment ago, Mary,” she said. “He’s sleeping peacefully. Best not disturb him, eh? Rest will do him more good than anything. He’ll be fine by the morning, I’m sure.”

I took my foot off the bottom step with a sigh. Becky was right. I was over-reacting.

She took my coat from me and hung it up. “Shall I make us some tea?” she offered. “It will warm you up. It must have been chilly out there.”

I nodded. “Tea would be lovely,” I replied gratefully.

Becky patted my arm. “Good,” she said. “You go and warm yourself in front of the parlour fire and I’ll put the kettle on.”

I did as she suggested and soon felt a little calmer as I reflected on the progress I had made that evening. Though I had not completely conquered my fears, I felt well on the way.

Before long, Becky entered carrying the tea tray.

“There was frost as I returned,” I told her as she filled two cups. “You will be careful not to slip on your way home?”

“It’s sweet of you to think of it, Mary, but my shoes are
sturdy,” Becky assured me with a smile. She handed me a cup and settled back on the sofa.

“Do you really think Father is just tired?” I fretted. “He’s been so ill in the past.”

“Your father might not be in the best of health,” Becky said seriously, “but he still has a lot of fight left in him. He would not give in easily to my insistence he go to bed. He wanted to wait up for you to hear about your evening with Lord Bathory!”

I stared at her gratefully. “Becky, you are such a comfort.”

She clicked her tongue dismissively at the compliment and abruptly twisted the subject back around to my evening. “Your father’s not the only one who’s eager to hear how your evening went,” she said, a gleam in her eye.

And so I told her and found it a pleasure to do so. Since Lily died, I have sorely missed a friend to whom I could confide in matters of the heart. I told Becky every detail of the evening.

“Oh, how exciting!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide behind her spectacles when I told her that Bathory had asked to see me again. “Imagine! You are being courted by a lord!”

I smiled and nodded. I hadn’t the heart to spoil her romantic notions by telling her that it was Bathory’s intelligence and sensitivity that most attracted me. And most importantly, that he somehow made me feel safe.

Despite Becky’s reassurances, I couldn’t stop myself from
hurrying up the stairs to check on Father after she had left. As quietly as I could, I let myself into his room.

He was indeed sleeping, but I was alarmed to see how very pale he looked—and his breathing was shallow. Panic shot through me as I held his wrist—the pulse felt quite faint. This was surely more than just fatigue? The pallor, the shallow breathing . . . the symptoms Father had were indicative of a vampire bite.

My anxieties awoken again; they possessed me now. I hastily pulled back the collar of Father’s nightshirt to check for bite marks.

There was no sign of such harm.

I felt myself calming again, common sense beginning to return.

Of course there were no bites! There had been no sign at all that evil had infested the parish. I had faced the night, and nothing had threatened me except my own paranoid suspicions.

And so I have retired to bed. I really must try not to indulge these panics of mine. It does no one any good—least of all Father.

If he appears no better in the morning, I shall call in the doctor to him.

Journal of Quincey Harker

C
ARFAX
H
ALL
P
URFLEET
4TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

Tonight I went again to Mary Seward’s house.

Her father’s bedroom was still illuminated—I flitted up to the roof to where I could lean over and peer in through a chink in the heavy curtains

Miss Seward was there, tending to her father. “Mary, dear?” the old man murmured. “It is stuffy in here again. Open the window; there’s a dear girl.”

“It’s frosty out, Father,” Miss Seward protested. “Just a crack will be enough,” her father pleaded. I heard the wooden creak of the frame as Miss Seward pulled up the sash just an inch.

The fragrance of warm flesh that seeped out into the cold
night air sent me momentarily dizzy from hunger and I almost lost my grip. I dragged myself across the tiles, away from the window, and lay there—waiting.

“Good night, Father. Sleep well,” I heard Miss Seward say. The light was extinguished, and I heard the door close as she left her father alone.

I cannot wait much longer.

Journal of Mary Seward

9TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

Father has grown worse, I fear! After examining him this morning, Dr. Jamieson asked to speak with me in the parlour.

My heart hammering in dread of what he might report, I showed him in, drawing back the curtains to let in the weak sunshine. We sat stiffly facing each other on either side of the hearth.

“Mary, I confess I am still at a loss as to what exactly ails your father,” Dr. Jamieson began gravely.

“My God. Is there really nothing you can think of that might help him?” I begged. “Surely there must be something in this day and age!”

“Mary, my dear,” Dr. Jamieson said gruffly, “if there was,
believe me, I would already have done it. No similar cases have come to light in the vicinity. The complaint remains a complete mystery. It is most frustrating.” He sighed heavily and then leaned forward and took my hands in his. “Mary, your father is an old man whose heart has been weak for years. . . .”

I snatched my hands away and stood up, discomfited beyond endurance. “You think he’s going to die!” I exclaimed, a sob breaking in my voice.

Dr. Jamieson slowly shook his head. “I merely meant to say that you must try to prepare yourself for the possibility, my dear. It is by no means certain that your father has lost his battle with this affliction. But no one can fight the battle for him.”

I took my seat once more, ashamed of my frantic outburst. “Of course,” I agreed. “I understand. But we must try to remain positive. After all, Father is finding strength from somewhere to hold on.”

Dr. Jamieson smiled. “That’s true enough,” he said. “And between you and Mrs. Frobisher, he is getting the best of care. We can do no more.”

10TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

It is not yet dawn, but I shall get no more sleep. I awoke just now with tears upon my cheeks.

In the dream I just had, Father and I stood together on deck of an ancient ship. The enormous sky above us was heavy and bruised by rolling thunder; rain began hammering down on us like stones. The waves swelled higher until the deck swayed beneath us. Yet still we stood, hand in hand, facing the tempest together. Ahead I saw a wave so great my heart seemed to shrink within my chest. And as it hit us, I felt Father’s hand slip from mine, though I gripped his fingers with all my might. I watched him slowly fall away from me—and as he sank into the dark depths of the ocean, his dear face seemed to transform. I felt a tearing grief claw my heart as I saw not Father, but the once-dear face of my fiancé, John Shaw.

I had lost my father to the same dark place as my love.

I pray that such an abominable eventuality remains no more than a tormented figment of my anxiety-filled imagination. For I don’t think I could survive losing my dear, brave, honourable father to such a fate.

11TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

Once again, Dr. Jamieson has reported no sign of recovery. It gets no easier; each time he tells me this, the pain of it strikes me anew.

After showing the doctor out, I returned to Father’s room
to kiss him goodbye before leaving for work. “I shall bring my supper up here when I return,” I told him. “That way we’ll have more time to talk before you need to sleep.”

“I would like that, my dear,” Father murmured, giving me a weak smile.

I went back downstairs to find Mrs. Frobisher in the kitchen, preparing Father’s beef tea. She would feed it to him after I had left, as usual.

An envelope waited for me in the hallway. It was a hurried note from Bathory, apologising that business had kept him from writing all that he wanted to—but that he was thinking of me—and of Father. I slipped the note into my skirt pocket. It provided me with some small comfort.

There was a curious air of expectancy on the ward when I arrived. Patients who were well enough murmured excitedly to each other, frequently glancing up at the large wall clock. I wondered what intrigued them so. “Has something happened?” I asked one of the night nurses going off duty.

“I should say so!” she said with a tired smile. “Word reached us last night that it’s really going to happen: the guns will stop firing at eleven o’clock this morning. It’s the end of the war!”

“Peace?” I gasped in delight, feeling the first flicker of happiness I had felt since the onset of Father’s illness.

Sister marched toward us, interrupting our conversation.
“The artillery is still hard at work while you stand there gossiping, Seward,” she scolded. “There’ll be plenty of casualties to come yet. An ambulance is bringing in more this morning. It’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I want beds ready and trays prepared.” She turned to the night nurse. “Time for you to go and get some sleep, Dawkins,” she ordered. “Night Sister won’t want you yawning all over her patients tonight.”

I nodded to the departing Dawkins and hurried over to help Helen, who was already sorting the trays.

A few minutes later, all thoughts of peace were driven from my mind by the sight of bloody, burnt flesh. The wounds borne by our brave soldiers never cease to shock me. As the stretchers were brought in, Helen and I set to work, helping to settle the men and change their sometimes filthy dressings.

One young soldier—a Lieutenant Moreau—let out a scream of agony as I peeled back the field dressing from a muddied, open wound on his belly. He jerked and struggled with the pain, his trembling flesh where it had been shredded by shrapnel clinging in strips to the lint. My hands began to shake.

Helen took the dressing from me. “I’ll do this,” she told me, and began to clean the wound. “You try and soothe him. Keep him still if you can.”

I stroked the lieutenant’s brow, my heart aching at the sight of his silent tears, washing pale tracks through the mud on his cheeks.

Suddenly a loud cheer erupted at the other end of the ward.

“They’ve done it!” Sergeant Hopkins’s voice rang above the rest. “The Germans have laid down their weapons. We have peace!”

“Is it true?” croaked the lieutenant, grasping my hand. “I won’t have to go back?”

“It’s true,” I promised him, hoping it really was. After so many years and so much death and suffering, had it really come to an end?

Sergeant Hopkins was waltzing unsteadily with another soldier, his crutch still under one arm. The other patients—those who could—cheered him on. Some began to sing “It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary.”

Sister looked on, and for once, her stern frown was replaced by a smile that utterly transformed her face.

I longed to rush home and tell Father. This news would surely rally him. But there was work to be done. The lieutenant was groaning with agony once more. His war was nowhere near over.

L
ATER

I ran nearly all the way home, wondering if Mrs. Frobisher had told Father the news.

She was bringing down the tea tray from his room as I burst in through the front door. “So you have heard?” She smiled.

“Peace?” I panted.

She nodded, rattling her tray so that the teacup sang in its saucer.

“Have you told him?” I asked her.

“And deprive you of the pleasure?” Mrs. Frobisher raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, thank you!” I cried, giving her a hug. Then I dragged the bonnet from my hair and raced up the stairs, unbuttoning my coat as I went.

Outside Father’s door, I stopped and gathered myself, fearful of alarming him with my excitement. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped into his room.

He lay pale but awake, propped up on his pillows. At my entrance, he drew his gaze from the window and looked at me. “Mary,” he breathed, a wan smile flickering over his pale face.

“Father, I have the most wonderful news.” I hurried to his bedside and grasped his wrinkled hand in mine. “The war is over. The Germans have surrendered; they laid down their arms this morning.”

Father slowly closed his eyes, and for a moment I feared he had slipped away from me. But he opened them again and sighed. “Thank God.”

We sat together for much of the evening, until I was sure he was asleep. And then I came to my room.

How my heart sings for all those soldiers at the front who tonight, for the first time since they left their homes, may sleep safely, undisturbed by a fear of no tomorrow.

12TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

The noise that awoke me in the early hours was not alarming. A muffled clump; that is all. And yet I sensed something was terribly wrong.

I struggled from the tangle of bedclothes and hurried out onto the landing, my breath fast and shallow as I hastened into Father’s room.

His bed was empty.

With a sickening horror, I guessed what had caused the noise that had awoken me and ran to the head of the stairs. The stairwell was lit only by the moonlight that streamed in from the window above it, but it was enough to see the shape at the bottom. A body, crumpled into an unfamiliar shape.

Father!

I grasped the banister, not trusting my legs to support me, and half ran, half fell down the stairs, holding myself up while my breaths became hysterical sobs.

“Father!” I screamed, but the body at the bottom of the stairs did not move.

I knelt beside him and lifted his head, which felt unnaturally limp in my hands. His face was frozen, and his eyes stared back at me—for the first time devoid of the warmth and love I’d always seen reflected there. They were empty and dead.

“No! Why were you out of bed?” I demanded. “Why did you not call me?”

I pressed him to me and thought of the lieutenant with his belly ripped open. I wished for his pain. Physical torment would be easier to bear than the grief that tore at me as I held Father’s dead body next to mine.

I do not know how long I wept. I could not bear to leave my dear father alone in the dark house while I fetched help.

Finally, dawn stirred me. Had I slept where I sat, hugging Father’s corpse? Perhaps the sound of the milk boy awoke me, for it is he I sent running for Dr. Jamieson. The doctor is with Father now. We laid him out on his bed, and the doctor is making a final examination for the coroner’s report.

Father has been taken from me.

I am utterly alone.