Reckoning (11 page)

THE TIMES

13TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

D
EATHS

D
R
. J
OHN
S
EWARD

Journal of Mary Seward

13TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

This evening I retired to my room, hating the emptiness of the house and longing for the warmth and comfort of bed. I lit the lamps and crossed over to close the curtains.
Something caught my eye in the darkness beyond the garden fence. There in the gloom, I saw a small glow. As I focused more upon it, I realised it was not a single light but two—like a pair of hot coals flaring in the darkness.

My heart lurched as my mind made sense of what I saw. I grasped the sill to steady my legs. Two red eyes were staring up at me. Demon eyes, the like of which I had seen before.

At Castle Dracula.

Stifling a scream, I shut the curtain, struggling to contain my blind terror. Had I really seen a vampire lurking there just beyond my gate? Coming here for me?

I had to know.

I flicked back the curtain and stared out into the darkness.

The quiet lane was empty.

I sank onto the bed, fighting the gulping breaths that heaved in my chest. Of course I had imagined it. The hours since Father’s death have been long and traumatic. My over-active mind has been pressed to its very limit.

How I wish I were not alone in this house.

18TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

It will soon be time to make our way to the church.

I welcomed the comfort of daylight this morning—even
though it heralded the day I have dreaded for so long: that of Father’s funeral.

I drew back my curtains to see dark clouds obscuring the sky but was as numb to the dismal weather as to all other distractions. At least, I thought absently, I will not have to suffer the impertinence of sunshine.

Mrs. Frobisher has helped prepare for the reception, which will be held here after the service. I could not have managed it alone. When she arrived this morning, she bustled straight into the kitchen, poached an egg, and set it on the table, insisting I sit down to eat it before I did anything else.

I obliged, though I tasted nothing as I ate.

The first of the funeral flowers arrived—a cross-shaped arrangement of white carnations from Becky, which she could no doubt ill afford. Accompanying it was a regretful note saying she would be unable to attend the funeral. She has been afflicted by a nasty virus—I pray it is not the same one that did for Father. Helen, too, sent her apologies—unable to leave her shift at the sanatorium to attend.

When an exquisite wreath of lilies was delivered from Bathory, I cried. How I wish he and Father had met. They would have enjoyed each other’s company, I’m sure, their keen intellects a fine match.

Dear Father, how will I bear to say farewell to you this afternoon?

I hear the Edwardses’ new motor carriage arriving. They are going to take Mrs. Frobisher and me to the church, following the hearse. Andrew took possession of the vehicle only yesterday. They had been so excited while anticipating its arrival over these last few weeks. How sad that its first journey will be such a sombre one.

L
ATER

This has truly been the darkest of days.

The grey clouds thickened as we emerged from the church service to follow Father’s coffin out into the churchyard. A grave had been prepared for him next to Mother’s. Jane and Andrew stood on either side of me, and I was thankful for their nearness as Father’s coffin was solemnly lowered into the ground.

I was utterly unready to face life alone. To care entirely and only for myself. How could I remain without Father to guide me?

But the moment the thought occurred, Father’s own voice rang in my head, scolding me.
There are girls your age married now, Mary. Running their own households and starting their own broods. You are strong. Stronger than the lot of them.

You can go on alone. You must.

The vicar’s words seemed to wash over me as I stared down into Father’s dark resting place. To see him cast into the shadows tore at my heart.
His soul is in the light.
I repeated this over and over to myself, but still the tears welled in my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. He would not be waiting at home on my return. He would remain here now, beside Mother.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a new mourner let herself in through the lych-gate and hurry past the gravestones toward us. With a jolt of surprise, I recognised Stella. She gave me a sympathetic smile before lowering her eyes and solemnly bowing her head.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection into eternal life . . .”

I forced myself to join the other mourners in taking a handful of the freshly dug earth to drop down onto Father’s coffin.

As I stepped back, a discomfiting awareness began to prickle along the back of my neck—that sensation of being watched. It spread across my shoulders and rippled down my spine. I felt Jane’s hand slip into mine and give it a comforting squeeze. Squeezing hers in return, I glanced quickly around the graveyard, beyond the faces of the other mourners, my gaze flicking among the trees and shrubs.

But I could see no one there. I felt a flare of anger within me. My morbid obsessions were simply too much. How
could I let them distract me from this final farewell to Father?

The ceremony drew to a close. I thanked Reverend Halifax and then told Jane, Andrew, and Mrs. Frobisher that I would see them back at the house.

“Won’t you come back with us in the motorcar, Mary?” Jane pleaded.

I shook my head. “I would like to say a final farewell to Father alone,” I told her. “I’ll be fine walking home, Jane. Honestly. Will you help Mrs. Frobisher take care of the guests until I arrive?”

“Of course, Mary,” Jane answered. She kissed my cheek gently. “Don’t be too long; the rain promises to worsen before it clears.” She turned and followed the other mourners as they slowly made their way over the wet grass toward the lych-gate.

Left alone, I sank, unheeding of the weather, onto the grass at the side of Father’s grave and drew my fingers through the pile of earth next to it, feeling the wet soil catch under my nails. “Goodbye, Papa . . .” I whispered brokenly, my childhood name for him emerging from somewhere deep inside me. “Oh, God,” I sobbed. “Whatever shall I do without you?” I bent my head and let my shoulders sag as tiredness and sorrow weighed me down.

I sat on, unwilling to leave Father as the rain pelted down on us both. It soaked through my coat and dripped off the
brim of my hat, but I didn’t care. Only when the church spire disappeared into gloomy shadow did I realise that the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon. A return of the prickling sensation I had felt during the service began to creep up my spine . . . over my shoulders . . . around my neck, constricting my throat. I spun around, half expecting—and desperately hoping—to find nobody there as before. . . .

But there was someone standing by the lych-gate. Quincey Harker.

Terror flooding through me, I scrambled to my feet. My legs felt weak, and I had to grasp Mother’s tombstone to steady myself. Yet thankfully, I retained wit enough to remember the vial that hung around my neck. With trembling fingers, I grasped it and held it up.

“Stay away!” I rasped, my voice strangled by fright. “This contains holy water.” Letting go of the stone, I fumbled with the stopper, uncorking it in readiness for a fight.

But Harker did not move. He just continued to stare, the intensity in his eyes burning into me. I clasped my collar around my throat and began to slowly move toward the gate, not taking my gaze from him for an instant, expecting every moment for him to lunge at me. But he remained motionless, following me only with his heated gaze as I passed him and let myself out of the churchyard.

Still watching him, I backed down the shadowy lane, and then I turned and ran, pressing my thumb hard against
the opening of the vial lest I should lose a drop of precious liquid.

The ground swam beneath my feet as I raced ahead, fearing at any moment the grip of Quincey Harker’s hand upon my shoulder. My hair streamed across my face, half blinding me, but I ran on. And all the while my mind whirled in all-consuming panic. The dark abyss of terror I had fought so hard to suppress for almost two years had opened again like the gates of hell and now yawned beneath me. Nothing stood between me and the bloodsucking undead that still lurked there. There really was no sanctuary from this malevolence after all.

I tore through the front gate of the house and up the path and then hammered on the door.

It opened instantly, and I fell into Jane’s arms.

“Mary!” Jane cried, sounding horrified.

Indeed, my appearance must have been startling. I was soaked through, my coat muddied from the grave. I looked past her and saw the hall filling with concerned faces.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” Jane ordered.

I felt weak with relief as she helped me to my room. I let her peel away my sodden clothes, replacing them with my nightgown. Then she wrapped the eiderdown from my bed around my shoulders and sat me in the chair next to the small bedroom hearth. Beyond the drawn curtains, the rain battered against the windowpanes.

“Oh, Mary, I should not have left you.” Jane sighed. “The grief has been too much for you.”

I had no words with which to reply. My mind swam in a delirium of shock.

A faint knock sounded at my door, and I started at the noise.

“Who is it?” Jane called.

“Lord Bathory,” came the answer, like a match struck in a storm.

Jane looked at me. “Shall I ask him in?” she said quietly.

I nodded.

She left my side and opened the door. “Come in,” I heard her say softly. “Will you watch her while I make her some sweet tea?"’

“Of course,” Bathory answered.

He came and sat down beside me, his grey eyes full of compassion. I felt his soft fingers encircle mine. “Oh, Mary, I am so sorry for your loss,” he murmured. “I got here just as soon as I could. I wish I could have arrived sooner.”

“There is nothing you could have done,” I whispered.

And it was true. I knew now that the darkness was truly upon me, that all I had feared was becoming real.

Now that I knew Quincey Harker had returned to Purfleet, it was nigh on impossible to dismiss the lethargy and pallor Father had suffered before his demise as coincidence. And the thought that he had, after all, been taken
by the thing we feared most was unbearable. I thanked God for the broken neck recorded on his death certificate; had his heart stopped beating from being drained of the last of its blood, Father would have risen again, a vampire himself.

And yet . . . Father had suffered no bite marks.

How could it be?

Confusion sent my mind whirling again, and I found myself gripping Bathory’s fingers desperately.

He stroked my cheek with such tenderness. “If only I could take your pain away, Mary . . .” he murmured.

I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks again. I longed to confide in him. But how could I? He would think me mad.

At that moment, Jane returned with the tea. She took one look at my pale, tear-streaked face and sighed. “Oh, Bathory,” she said quietly, putting down the cup and saucer on the hearth. “What a sad state of affairs all of this has been. I hate to think of Mary all alone now in this rattling old house.” She put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to her. “I will visit you as often as I can, Mary. And you must come to us too.”

“Jane is right,” Bathory agreed softly. “You should not allow yourself to sit alone and brood. Will you agree to dine with me tomorrow night?”

I stared up into his earnest grey eyes. I could not imagine how I would venture out into the night now that I knew
what waited for me there. “I—I should be poor company for you,” I stammered.

“I would be happy for us merely to eat in silence, if that is what you wish,” Bathory replied. “Just to know you were not eating alone in this house, where there is only sorrow for you, would set my mind at peace. Please say yes, Mary,” he implored. “I’ll send my carriage for you at seven.”

I had no strength to argue and only nodded.

He kissed my hand and then stood up and walked over to the door.

As Bathory let himself out, Jane handed me the tea. “Most of the guests have gone,” she informed me. “But Becky has arrived and has asked to see you.”

I nodded, relieved that she had overcome her own her illness enough to visit. “It will be a comfort to see her,” I murmured. “She knew Father in his final days.”

“I’ll fetch her in, then,” Jane said. She went over and called her from the doorway.

Becky entered. “I won’t come close, Mary,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed away from me. Her nose was reddened from her cold and her voice still hoarse. “This virus is the last thing you need—but I’m over the worst of it now and felt I must come and pay my respects.” Behind her spectacles, I could see that Becky’s eyes were filled with tears. “I knew your father only briefly,” she went on, “but I became fonder of him than you’d think possible in that short time.”
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “And Helen asked me to tell you she’s thinking of you too. Did you see Stella at the service? She said to let her know if there is anything she can do for you.”

“Thank you, Becky,” I murmured gratefully. “I am fortunate to have such friends. And I’m so glad Father had the chance to meet you.”

Jane cleared her throat, looking a little rueful. “Mary, I hate to leave you in such a state,” she ventured hesitantly. “But I need to get back to Grace. I’m sure Mrs. Frobisher will see to the last of the guests before she leaves.”