Reckoning (12 page)

“Of course you must go.” I forced a smile. Anxiety was mounting in my chest. One by one, my guests were leaving. I did not wish to be alone.

“You will be all right?” Jane tilted her head and gazed at me, a concerned frown creasing her brow.

“I’ll stay with Mary,” Becky reassured her. She turned to me. “Would you like me to sleep here tonight?” she asked. “I have no shift, and you look so unwell.”

I felt a rush of relief. “Yes, please,” I whispered.

“Oh, how kind,” Jane replied gratefully. “I hate to think of Mary all alone in such a state. I shall rest peacefully knowing you are here.” She kissed me good night and let herself out of the room.

“You have eaten nothing since breakfast, have you?” Becky said gently.

I shook my head.

“I thought as much!” She got to her feet. “I will help Mrs. Frobisher tidy up and then prepare a tray.” She looked at me like an anxious mother wondering about the health of her sickly child. “Do you feel strong enough to come down and eat in the parlour?” she asked.

Though I was not at all hungry, I didn’t have the heart to refuse Becky’s kindness. I smiled weakly. “Yes, I think so,” I told her, and she hastened out, leaving the door ajar so that she would hear me if I called.

I have taken refuge in the old companionship of my journal.

While I’ve been writing, I’ve heard the front door shut behind the last few guests, and pots and pans have been clattering in the kitchen. Mrs. Frobisher has just called up her goodbyes. I shall venture down and see how Becky is getting on.

L
ATER

Becky came out of the kitchen as I descended the stairs. Her sleeves were rolled up, and there were soapsuds on the apron she wore. She smiled when she saw me.

“Supper’s almost ready. Why don’t you stoke up the fire while I finish the tray?” she suggested, ushering me through the parlour door.

I knelt before the hearth and rebuilt the fire that Mrs.
Frobisher had laid for the guests. I was grateful for the task, and by the time I had the flames roaring once more in the grate, Becky had returned with a tray of tea and sandwiches.

She placed it on the table beside what had been Father’s chair, saying, “I don’t care whether you are hungry or not—you must at least eat a sandwich.”

Taking the plate she offered me, I curled up on the sofa, the warmth of the fire permeating my nightgown, helping me to relax a little. “Dear Becky, I am so glad you are able to be here with me tonight,” I told her.

“So am I,” she answered as she poured out two cups of tea from the pot.

I could not help but smile. “I didn’t drink the other one,” I confessed.

“Ah, well, I won’t tell Jane,” Becky joked. “But you’d better drink this one—my mother always says there’s not much a good cup o’ tea won’t improve the outlook of.”

She leaned forward to pass me the cup. “What a pretty pendant!” she exclaimed, noticing the vial of holy water against the neck of my nightgown. Normally concealed behind high collars, it now hung on its gold chain, clearly visible against my neck.

I touched the small crystal bottle self-consciously. “I too like to keep the boggarts at bay,” I told her, trying to keep my tone light—though the memory of having seen Quincey
Harker here in Purfleet that very afternoon sent my mind reeling again.

“It’s holy water!” Becky gasped in amazement. “I did not take you for a superstitious soul, Mary!”

“It’s more a memento of a trip I once took than anything,” I lied.

Fearing she might ask more about the vial or the trip for which I claimed it a memento, I hurriedly asked, by way of distraction, “Won’t Helen miss you tonight?”

Becky shook her head with a wry smile. “She’ll be glad of the peace—and the privacy. Normally we use the room at different times, what with our working different shifts—but when I have a night off, we can find ourselves tripping over each other.”

“The company must be comforting, though,” I pointed out.

Becky nodded. “It is,” she agreed. “I’ll miss Helen when she leaves to marry her Johnny. I’m sure it won’t be long, now he’s back home. And then I’ll have to get used to sharing with someone new. . . .” She sighed wistfully. “I would so love to know how it feels to have a room all my own!”

“Have you never had one?” I asked, surprised.

“I’ve four sisters at home and three brothers.”

“Really!” As an only child, I had often longed for sisters and brothers. And then a thought came suddenly into my mind. “You
could
have a room to yourself, Becky . . .” I ventured.

Becky raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What do you mean?” she queried.

“I’ve got more spare rooms than I could ever need,” I explained. “You could move in here. I’d be glad of the company now.”

Becky stared at me, her eyes wide behind her heavy spectacles. And then she exclaimed, “Oh, Mary, do you mean it? That would be wonderful!”

I nodded. “That’s settled, then,” I said. “And of course, you will have a key to your room so that you may have your privacy.”

“Oh, my goodness . . .” Becky breathed. “I could never have imagined. . . . Thank you, Mary. I shall fetch my things tomorrow!”

Becky is in what will be her room from now on. I checked that her bed was made up and she had a nightdress and towels and knew where everything was. I can hear the reassuring sound of her moving around, breaking the silence that has governed the house in the nights since Father’s death.

I sit at my desk, a shawl wrapped around me against the cold. But before I seek out the warmth of my own covers, I shall kneel beside my bed and give thanks to God for having Becky here. Her presence is a great comfort.

Seeing Quincey Harker today has shown, indisputably, that in escaping from Castle Dracula, I have not escaped its
malevolence. It has finally sought me out. At last my old tormentor has stepped from the shadows.

And strangely, though I fled the graveyard in terror this afternoon, I must confess to finding some perverse relief in knowing that my obsessive anxieties are now proven to have just cause. The terrible reality of Harker’s return is somehow less crippling than the weight of uncertainty I have endured for almost two years.

I do not think Harker would attempt to strike at me here in this house. I know which weapons will defend me, and I know how to use them. He is well aware of this, I am certain. I long to line the windows and doors with garlic, but though plentiful on the continent, I have never seen it for sale in provincial Purfleet. From what I recall from Father’s papers recording the battle with Count Dracula all those years ago, his colleague Van Helsing sent for garlic all the way from Haarlem in the Netherlands—where his friend Vanderpool raised the herb in hothouses.

I shall send word to Haarlem, but for now I must rely on my crucifix and holy water. And I shall take Van Helsing’s bag from the closet and unwrap the remaining unused stakes brought back from Transylvania. I stored it away there two years ago, praying that I might never have need of it again.

Even then I knew that my prayers were in vain.

Journal of Quincey Harker

18TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

I made my presence known to Mary Seward today.

The scent of her blood, running warm through her veins, was hardly dampened by the rain. My belly twisted in hunger at its fragrance, the desire to possess her almost overwhelming—but I forced myself to hold back. The harder the path, the greater the reward . . .

She stared at me in such terror, trembling like a lamb on the butcher’s block—which only served to whet my appetite—but she has lost none of her spark. She challenged me!

Oh . . . to captivate her would bring such pleasure! Under my vampire gaze, she might as well challenge the rain to stop falling. To watch her grow soft and pliant . . . to feel her sinking into my arms and yielding to me . . . I would relish it.

But I let her run and gave no chase.

For now.

Journal of Mary Seward

19TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

When I arose this morning, I informed Mrs. Frobisher that I would be returning to work at the sanatorium. I had not been there since Father’s death and knew that my absence on the shift would have been making extra work for others.

Becky’s door was shut when I passed it. I felt a flash of guilt at keeping her up so late, when she was still recovering from her virus. And so I crept quietly from the house so as not to disturb her slumber.

When I reached the sanatorium, I reported to Sister that I was back. She gave me a rare smile of welcome, along with her condolences for my loss. Thanking her, I took a deep breath and returned to my duties.

“Nice to have you back, Mary!” Sergeant Hopkins called from a chair by the window.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” I replied, glad to see his friendly face. “You’re still with us, then?”

“They’ll be discharging me any day now,” he promised.

Pleased to hear of his progress, I walked on down the ward and saw that Helen was tending Lieutenant Moreau, the soldier so badly wounded by shell fire. I hurried over. “Has he not improved while I’ve been away?” I asked quietly.

Helen turned to me with a look of surprise at my arrival. “He had,” she murmured in a hushed whisper. “But this morning I found him like this—pale and listless. He doesn’t even have the strength to sit up.”

Suspicion chilled my veins. The symptoms had the same ominous familiarity I had come to dread. But how could Harker have entered the ward undetected? There were always nurses on duty. “Perhaps it’s a fever. Is there any sign of infection?” I asked, feeling guilty at the hope that sprang in my heart at the idea.

Helen shook her head. “The lieutenant’s wounds are healing well,” she answered. “No sign of inflammation; only this weakness and lethargy. It must be a virus, brought in by one of the wounded men.”

“Has the doctor seen him?” I asked.

“He’s coming shortly,” Helen replied. She drew away from the lieutenant to attend to her next patient, giving my arm a squeeze as she passed. “Glad to see you, Mary,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”

I nodded my thanks and then, as Helen began speaking with the soldier in the neighbouring bed, I went up to Lieutenant Moreau. Perspiration pricked my fingers, though they felt icy as I drew back the collar of his nightshirt to search his neck for bite marks.

As with Father, there were none.

And yet, the coincidence of Quincey Harker’s reappearance . . .

How could it be ignored?

I looked down at the lieutenant, felt the cool, clammy skin of his brow, noted the faraway look in his half-closed eyes—so like Father’s. . . .

Dear God, the idea that Quincey Harker preyed on Father sickens my very soul. And now it seems he’s turned to my patients to satisfy his hunger for blood. Does he mean to torture me? To take away from me everything that is dear?

I must stop him. But how can I prove that a vampire is at large in Purfleet?

I dare not alert anyone else to my fears—they would think that my grief had sent me mad!

I should stop writing now—banish such disturbing thoughts from my mind. Bathory’s carriage will be arriving for me in half an hour.

Do I really dare to venture out into the night? My heart races at the thought. . . .

Damn Quincey Harker! I shall not let that fiend destroy the life I have fought so hard to rebuild. I owe it to Father’s memory. And I shall not break my word to Bathory.

I have my crucifix and holy water—and shall welcome the chance to use them against him should he attack.

L
ATER

I have returned safely, thank God. Though I cannot say I did not tremble as I stepped out of the front door and into the darkness.

I was grateful to have Becky to wave me off as I climbed into Bathory’s brougham. She would be leaving for her shift at the sanatorium later, and I could not help but warn her to be vigilant. “Keep to the main route and stay out of the shadows,” I called to her from the cab window. “Keep your holy water about you.”

She smiled at my fussing but promised to be watchful if it would set my mind at rest.

This time, Bathory was waiting at the table reserved for us in the hotel dining room. It was positioned within a windowed alcove—though heavily curtained, I was relieved to note. Seeing me, Bathory stood up and greeted me with a reassuring smile. I felt glad that I had come.

Our conversation flowed easily as we chatted about his
estates in the West Country and how glorious the landscape was around there.

“Although my estates provide me with some activity—and more than enough income—I cannot sit idle for the rest of my time,” he told me earnestly. “I feel I must contribute to the nation in any way I can—use my privileged position, what influence I have—for the common good.” He told me of his plans for a speech he was to make in the House of Lords the following week. I remembered Father’s comments of approval for Bathory’s previous speeches. Bathory clearly had the potential to be a great humanitarian. I felt a rush of admiration for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, seeming a little embarrassed. He poured more wine into my glass and then topped up his own. “I must be boring you with such talk. . . . I really must compliment you on your gown. The colour on you is certainly most becoming.”

His quick tongue had changed the subject before I’d even had time to assure him that I hadn’t been bored at all. I looked shyly down at the simple pink gown I had chosen and then smiled back at him. “Thank you,” I said.

“You remind me of a midsummer rose,” he murmured with a smile.

I lowered my lashes, a little flustered. No one had said anything remotely romantic to me since John—and I had not expected such from Bathory.

“I have made you uncomfortable!” Bathory immediately observed, his clear grey eyes now shadowed with remorse. “Do forgive me.”

“Oh no,” I assured him. Almost without thinking, I reached out and touched his hand. His fingers felt cool, strong, and smooth beneath my mine. “There is nothing to forgive.”

With a certain hesitancy, Bathory slowly placed his other hand on mine. “You must see how much you have come to mean to me, Mary,” he declared quietly. “I think . . . No, I know,” he corrected himself. “I know that I am falling in love with you.”

Love! Instinctively I thought of John and the wounds he had inflicted on my heart. It was still too fragile to welcome such emotion from another. “Xavier . . .” I eventually managed to whisper. Using his first name felt appropriate, though strangely intimate. “It is too soon for me. I—I cannot . . .” My words trailed away in my reluctance to hurt him with rejection.

He squeezed my hand and gave a melancholy little smile. “I just wanted to tell you what is in my heart, Mary,” he said. “Having your company is enough.” He gently withdrew his hands from mine, and I was surprised to find that I regretted the absence of his touch.

I felt the need to explain myself. He deserved that at least, having opened his own heart to me. “My heart was broken . . .” I began clumsily. “By a soldier I nursed at the sanatorium.”

“I’m sorry,” he sympathised, and though he did not press me, I felt I wanted to explain more.

“His name was John Shaw,” I went on. “And the John I fell in love with was a sweet, gentle man. But he had experienced terrible things in the war. And then other . . . difficult circumstances . . . arose.” My hands began to tremble, and I quickly hid them in my lap. How was I to explain what had happened to John without touching upon the dark, unnatural world we had uncovered?

Bathory waited patiently for me to go on.

I gathered my thoughts for a moment and began again. “John’s sister, Lily, became a good friend of mine. She set off on an unwise elopement. Together John and I followed her, hoping to rescue her from her dangerous enterprise. But our pursuit was in vain. Lily . . .” This was still so hard for me to say out loud. “Lily died. Just before her wedding. And John . . .” I dared not detail John’s evil transformation for fear Bathory would question my sanity, so I finished as honestly as I could. “John was so badly affected by events that he turned away from me.”

“Was that because he blamed you in some way for what had happened?” Bathory asked, narrowing his gaze.

I shook my head. “The horror of it all made him . . .” My heart twisted in anguish as I remembered the monster he had become. “It made him cruel . . .” I finished. I lowered my gaze, praying he would not press me further.

“You poor darling,” Bathory said tenderly. “That you have trusted me with such confidences means more than you can possibly imagine.”

Deeply touched, I once more reached out for his hand. “Lord Bathory . . . Xavier . . . I am truly blessed to know such a man as you. I truly hope, one day, to be able to return your sentiment.”

He turned his hand beneath mine and softly grasped my fingers. “I know you are not in love with me, Mary,” he declared softly. “But will you at least get to know me better?” He looked searchingly into my eyes. “You would be made most, most welcome at my estate. Would you consider visiting? As an honoured guest—a dear friend?”

Father’s words echoed into my mind—entreating me not to hide away, not to blight my life with fear from what had gone before. And I did so value Bathory’s friendship. But how could I go to him when evil hung all about me?

With a deep breath, I looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you for the invitation. I will consider it,” I promised.

As Bathory’s brougham carried me home, my mind whirled with all that had transpired. His friendship had fast become such a comfort to me.

But as I walked up the garden path a few minutes later, my lighter mood fled as the inky black night seemed to seep into me. I clutched my crucifix and pendant. Was Harker out there, watching me? Looking for a way to inflict further torment?

Fury flared in my chest. It was because of Harker that I could not be with Xavier Bathory. I realised that if I were ever to find the happiness that Father had so wanted for me, I would have to destroy Harker first.

I turned to look out defiantly into the shadows, beginning to recognise in myself something of the old Mary, the person with iron determination in her soul.

The person who would, most certainly, act against evil.