Reckoning (8 page)

Bertie exhaled. “I knew you’d understand.” He turned and tapped a tall, dark-haired man on the shoulder. “Giles, would you look after Miss Seward for me?”

The dark-haired man turned, gave me an appraising look, and then smiled. I felt a tremor of anxiety; there was something slightly unsavoury in his gaze.

“It would be a pleasure, Bertie,” he said, holding out a hand to me. “Giles Maitland.” He introduced himself with a little bow.

Reluctantly I let him lead me back among the dancers, my disconcertment rising at the tight grip he kept on my hand.

“I spotted you earlier,” he murmured in my ear as he held me, too closely, against him. “Silly little Bertie for passing you on.”

I pulled away from the hold he had on me and kept him at arm’s length as we danced. My propriety seemed to amuse him.

“I’m curious as to how our paths have not crossed before tonight,” he commented.

“I don’t go out much,” I answered coolly. “My father’s health isn’t good, and I don’t like to leave him.”

“Ah,” he responded. “A dutiful daughter. How charming.”

As soon as the music ended, I felt a rush of relief. The dancing had made me hot, and Mr. Maitland’s overly tight grip had awoken a feeling of claustrophobia in me. I longed for cool, fresh air. “Thank you for the dance,” I said politely as I pulled my hands free from his, “but I should like to take some air now.”

The French windows that led out onto the wide, flag-stoned terrace were open. I could see that the terrace was lit with lanterns, and, feeling I should be safe enough out there, I made my way to the door.

The cool evening air bathed me as I stepped out. I crossed over to the terrace edge to lean on its cold stone balustrade. It was a relief to be out of the crowded room, but as I looked out upon the dark garden beyond, I felt my familiar anxiety begin to stir.

“It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

I spun around to see that Giles Maitland had followed me out. My anxiety grew. “It is lovely,” I agreed, not meeting his
gaze. “However, I was about to go back inside.” I turned to leave—but Mr. Maitland, not to be shaken so easily, placed a hand on my arm to stay me. My heart began to race a little; I was intimidated by his forwardness.

“Surely you don’t have to leave just yet,” he said. “It’s a rare treat to find such an attractive woman out here in the country.”

Was he ignoring my lack of interest on purpose? “I’m sorry,” I replied. “The air is a little chilly out here. I want to go in.” I pulled away from his grasp—but as I turned, a sudden loud fluttering rose from a tree beside the terrace. I caught my breath as the dark, web-winged shape of a bat loomed up into the moonlight.

The creature swooped beneath the string of lanterns edging the terrace and dove across the balustrade so close to me I felt the air from its wings on my cheek. Speechless terror ripped through me and I lurched backward—falling against Mr. Maitland.

I found myself gripped in his tight embrace. “Ah, changed your mind, have you?” he murmured in a knowing tone that made me shudder. He spun me around to face him. “That’s more like it.”

“Let go of me!” I gasped, pushing against his chest.

But he just laughed and held me tighter. “I like a woman with spirit. I believe this will be a kiss worth fighting for. . . .”

I recoiled in horror as he lowered his mouth toward mine.

“Maitland!” A man’s voice spoke from the doorway. “It
should be clear—even to you—that the lady does not welcome your attentions.”

Taken by surprise, my captor loosened his grip. I immediately pulled myself free and, panting with relief, turned to identify my saviour.

Standing in the doorway was the man Jane had pointed out earlier. Andrew’s employer, Lord Bathory.

The two men gazed at each other for a long moment—and then Mr. Maitland backed away. “Provincials,” he muttered. With an angry snort, he strode back into the house.

“I have never been able to stand that man,” Lord Bathory commented after Maitland had gone. “I’ve known him since Eton, and he’s always been a bully.”

“Th-thank you,” I stuttered, my voice trembling.

“You look shaken,” Lord Bathory noted, concern in his voice. “May I fetch you some refreshment? A sherbet, perhaps? Sweetness, I believe, is good for shock.”

I shook my head, taking deep breaths to calm my still-pounding heart. “Thank you, but I think I’d rather go home,” I replied.

“Oh no.” Lord Bathory looked at me, his grey eyes earnest behind his spectacles. “Do not let a cad like Maitland frighten you away,” he said. “I’m sure our hosts would be disappointed if you left so soon.” He tipped his head to one side. “And that buffoon, Maitland, would take it as a victory if you fled.”

His words struck the right note in me. Of course I shouldn’t let a bully like Mr. Maitland drive me from the party, and it would be too bad of me to disappoint dear Jane. “You are right,” I agreed, my voice a little stronger now.

Lord Bathory smiled. “Good,” he said. And then he started. “What am I thinking?” he went on. “Do please forgive my lack of manners. I have not yet introduced myself. Lord Xavier Bathory.” He bowed slightly and held out his hand.

With a smile, I took it. “I know who you are,” I confessed. “Jane told me. I’m Mary Seward.”

“Mary Seward . . .” Lord Bathory pondered, as if trying to remember something. “Ah—I have it!” he said. “Little Grace’s saviour! How delightful to meet you.”

I felt my cheeks flush again; I was quite disconcerted by the way Lord Bathory was now gazing at me with such frank admiration. “N-not exactly a saviour,” I stammered. “I only brought her back from Europe. It is Andrew and Jane who have given her a loving home.”

Lord Bathory lowered his pale lashes. “I seem to have embarrassed you,” he said. “I am so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course,” I replied, grateful for his sensitivity.

Looking relieved, Lord Bathory went on. “I had not expected to find anyone else hiding out here on such a chilly night,” he admitted. “I would hate dear Jane to know how ill
at ease I feel among such a lively crowd. She is a hostess of great kindness and consideration.”

I smiled guiltily at him. “I came out here to hide too,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me. But perhaps we should go back in now before we are missed.”

Lord Bathory nodded. “Perhaps if we face the throng together, it won’t seem so daunting.”

“Perhaps,” I responded, a good measure of doubt in my voice.

Side by side, we reentered the drawing room. A roar went up from the crowd as the band struck up one of the latest tunes from America.

“I think something a little stronger than a sherbet may be required,” Bathory whispered, staring ahead in dismay.

“A glass of wine at least,” I answered, almost smiling.

It was strange. Though I’d never met Lord Bathory before, it felt as though we were co-conspirators, and I found myself surprisingly at ease in his company.

“Do you think you might survive here alone while I brave the throng and fetch us each one?” he asked.

I nodded, welcoming his gentle humour. I found myself tapping my foot in time to the music, and when he returned with our glasses, we fell into easy conversation until dinner was served—a hot buffet followed by a delicious choice of puddings and desserts.

“Ah, I see you two have already introduced yourselves,”
Jane observed, clearly delighted as she passed by carrying another huge fruit trifle to the table.

After we had eaten, Lord Bathory and I moved to the quietness of the parlour and took chairs beside the fire to continue our tête-à-tête.

The subject of literature came up.

“I fear you’ll find me rather dry on that topic,” Lord Bathory told me apologetically. “I would rather grow dusty among the classics. Modern writers seem so sure they have the answers—and yet anyone who has read Thucydides will know we are still making the same mistakes; one has only to look at the war.”

“You would like my father,” I commented. “He also is well read in the classics—though I’m afraid I never got much past Virgil.”

“There is little wrong with that—Virgil is a marvellous writer!” Lord Bathory’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. He began to quote a passage I’d learned as a girl and still remembered. “‘It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide. . . .’”

“‘But to climb back again, to retrace one’s steps to the upper air—there’s the rub, the task.’” I completed the quote for him.

Lord Bathory stared at me in surprise.

“You did not expect such education in a woman?” I teased him.

“Certainly not in Purfleet,” he answered, suppressing a smile, which his eyes betrayed.

I suddenly realised that for the first time in a very long while, I felt truly at ease. If only for that reason, leaving Lord Bathory’s pleasant company would be something of a cause for regret. As I remembered the journey home ahead of me, my heart grew heavy again and the unwelcome pounding in my chest returned. “I really must think about making my way home,” I said quietly. “I have someone sitting with my invalid father; I should not keep her out too late.”

Lord Bathory nodded. “I understand. Shall I call for your carriage?” he offered as we both stood.

I shook my head. “I walked here; I live only a few minutes away,” I explained.

“Then you must use my carriage,” Lord Bathory insisted. “It’s frosty out there now, and the lanes may be slippery underfoot. I have business to discuss with Andrew before I leave, so I’ll be staying for some time.”

“You are kind, but I couldn’t,” I protested.

“Please take my carriage,” Lord Bathory gently insisted. “My driver will be back long before I need it.”

I smiled at up him gratefully. “Thank you!” I breathed, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. I grasped Lord Bathory’s hand and shook it warmly. “You have no idea how you have put me at ease.”

At the touch of my hand, Bathory looked alarmed. He
took a step backward. “I—I am glad to be of service,” he stammered, looking at his shoes.

How foolish of me. I had only known Bathory for an hour or two. It was wrong of me to have been so forward with him.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologised at once, hot with embarrassment as I quickly let go of his hand. “It must be the wine. . . .”

He glanced up at me. “No. It is I who should apologise,” he said carefully. “As we have just seen, my shyness can sometimes be an impediment to politeness.” He smiled ruefully, and I felt my embarrassment evaporate. His self-awareness touched me.

“Do please forgive me if I gave the impression of feeling anything but pleasure at our meeting, Miss Seward,” he went on. “It has been delightful, and I hope to have the privilege of your company again one day.”

I smiled my forgiveness, and Lord Bathory gave a relieved little nod.

“I’ll call for my carriage, then,” he said, making for the hall, “and ask Jane to fetch your coat.”

Jane accompanied me to the front door while Bathory advised his driver where he should drop me. His carriage was a stately brougham with a grey mare fidgeting in its harness.

“I suppose I ought to get one of these newfangled motor carriages,” Lord Bathory commented conversationally as he handed me into the secure comfort of the brougham. “But I
can’t imagine the sound of an engine can ever be as beautiful as that of hooves.”

I nodded my thanks to him and called goodbye to Jane. They both waved as the driver closed the door. I fell back onto the soft leather seat and let the gentle rocking of the brougham lull me into tranquility.

The night, it seemed, had been a success.

L
ATER

Arriving home, I found Becky alone in the parlour, reading the newspaper.

“Oh, it is you!” she said with a smile as I walked in. “I thought I heard a carriage pull up outside.” She put down the paper and stood, pushing her spectacles back up her nose with one finger.

“How was Father?” I asked anxiously.

“Oh, we had a lovely chat,” Becky reported. “He is such an interesting man, your father! And then I made him some cocoa and helped him up the stairs to bed. I think he quite enjoyed the company. I certainly did.” She beamed.

I smiled back. She really was sweet. “Thank you so much, Becky,” I replied. “Will you be safe getting home?”

“To be sure,” Becky replied. “I’m just a few strides away.” She took her coat and headed for the door.

“Thanks again, Becky,” I said as she took her leave. She crossed herself with a small vial of holy water and then disappeared through the garden gate. I blew out the lamp and bolted the door before going straight upstairs to bed.

The relief of arriving safely home and of finding Father also safe and well has brought with it a deep exhaustion—but I felt it important to record the events of this evening. It has been such a night. For the first time in almost two years, I overcame my fears enough to venture out into the dark. In Becky, Father and I seem to have hit upon the ideal companion for him. And thanks to Lord Bathory, my evening out became a pleasure instead of an ordeal. No small thing! Father will be so pleased when I tell him in the morning.

Perhaps the darkness and terror I felt have passed at last!

Note from Lord Xavier Bathory to Miss Mary Seward

T
HE
R
OYAL
H
OTEL
P
URFLEET
23RD
O
CTOBER 1918

Dear Miss Seward,

I wanted to send flowers days ago but worried I might seem over-solicitous. Now I fear I have left it too late and you will think me offhand. But I send them today, no matter what—your agreeable company spurring my determination to overcome my vexing shyness. I hope you will accept the bouquet in gratitude for making my evening at Blanchard House such a pleasant and memorable one.

While I am being so bold, might I ask if you would consider dining with me one evening at my hotel? I will quite understand if you would rather not—but if you
would care to, I promise not to bore you with too much Thucydides. . . .

                                              Yours sincerely,
                                              Xavier Bathory

Journal of Mary Seward

23RD
O
CTOBER 1918

I have just received flowers from Lord Bathory—an exquisite bouquet! The parlour already smells heavenly with the scent. What is more, Lord Bathory’s note contains an invitation to dine with him.

I don’t know what to feel about the proposition. I am sure I would enjoy another evening in his company, though that would, of course, mean braving the night again. . . .

However, if Lord Bathory has found it within himself to stand up to his shyness and invite me, then shouldn’t I at least attempt to do him the service of matching that courage with an acceptance?

L
ATER

I made a few blooms from Lord Bathory’s bouquet into a posy for Father’s study and took it in to him—as much to gain his opinion on Lord Bathory’s invitation as to brighten his day.

He was seated on the sofa, struggling to fold his morning newspaper. The great broadsheet seemed to have got the better of him, and I fear I heard an oath as he flapped it first this way, then the other.

I placed the small vase of flowers on his desk, which he rarely uses anymore, and then offered to take the paper from him and fold it back to the page he required.

Reluctantly he handed it over. “I pray I have not grown too weak to manage the
Times,”
he huffed. “I have few enough pleasures left.”

I bent down and kissed his frowning brow, pained to hear him so distressed.

“You are a good daughter,” he told me, looking mollified. Then he caught sight of the flowers. “Thank you, my dear, very thoughtful of you. And such fine blooms for so late in the year,” he commented.

“A gentleman sent them to me,” I told him.

“A gentleman?” Father raised an eyebrow.

I nodded. “One I met at the Edwardses’ party.”

“Why did you not mention him earlier?” Father asked curiously.

I gave a little shrug. “We chatted, but I thought it only a casual meeting,” I explained. “I did not expect to hear from him again . . . but he’s invited me to join him for dinner.”

Father’s expression changed to one of delight mixed with caution. “Does he seem . . . trustworthy, Mary?” he asked.

I fell silent, pondering. Trustworthy? I had trusted John—only to watch him transform into a treacherous fiend. Lord Bathory did not have the youthful bravado of the John I had fallen in love with—nor the calculating charm and good looks of the evil Quincey Harker. Despite his aristocratic background, Lord Bathory was studious and reserved—his mind surely too full of philosophy and his heart too beset by timidity to be capable of deception? Deception required a determined and fierce single-mindedness. “Yes, Father, I think Lord Bathory is trustworthy,” I answered quietly.

“Bathory? Lord Xavier Bathory?” Father queried, his tone one of surprise.

“You know him?” I asked, surprised now myself.

“I know of him,” Father replied. He tapped the
Times
with a finger. “I have read some of the speeches he has given in Parliament. He must have a keen sense of duty, for they say he battles a natural shyness when standing to speak before his peers. But from what I’ve read, I’m glad he does. He seems like a well-read and levelheaded young man, which is just what this government needs.”

“Then you think I should accept his invitation?” I asked.

It was Father’s turn to fall silent, concern shadowing his eyes. “You know I cannot help but worry about you, Mary,” he said eventually. “I nearly lost you once. But it is my dearest wish to see you find happiness with a good man. I cannot bear to think you might grow old alone. So yes, I think you should accept his invitation.”

“Father, Lord Bathory did not mean his invitation as any sort of proposal, I’m sure,” I told him. A smile tickled my lips at the thought of Lord Bathory’s discomposure at the idea. “But I doubt if I will meet a man safer than he.”

And so, with Father’s approval, I have written my acceptance note and shall hire a carriage for the journey there and back.

ESSEX FARMER’S WEEKLY
2
ND
N
OVEMBER 1918
S
LAUGHTERED
S
HEEP
R
EWARD
O
FFERED

Purfleet farmer Bill Watts is prepared to pay a ten-guinea reward to anyone who can help him catch the creature responsible for killing four of his sheep. Bite marks on the animals’ necks suggest the culprit is a large hound.

“I’ve not seen killings like this before,” Watts
commented. “It seems the varmint kills just for the sport of it. It don’t savage nothing but the neck and takes no meat. If I catch the villain, I shall shoot it from here to kingdom come, and I’ll give ten guineas to anyone who catches it afore me!”

Journal of Qujncey Harker

C
ARFAX
H
ALL
P
URFLEET
3RD
N
OVEMBER 1918

It is strange to be back in this place.

Two years ago, I was here as Lily’s guest and suitor—and the very air felt alive with her sweet, trusting presence. Now these rooms feel dead, everywhere dulled by absence and dust.

No one has been within these walls since I hurried Lily away on our elopement to Transylvania, Antanasia fussing over our luggage, urging us to be gone, unconcerned about what we left behind. The dusty floors are now lined with shafts of sunlight, which slice their way like knives through the gaps between the shutters. Plants slump, dried up and
dead in their pots. The kitchen lies filthy, ruined by mice and rats that feasted on the food we left behind and scuttle still among the flour sacks and putrid remains of the pantry.

Nothing here has changed—and yet everything has. It is a gloomy house. I imagine it always was, except for the short time Lily graced its chambers. As I wander through its hallways, I half expect to hear her gentle voice calling from the stairs, searching me out as she used to, craving the comfort of my embrace. But I shall not dwell on such memories.

My suffering in the catacombs—surviving on the humblest of prey—has sharpened my hunger. It twists my belly and tortures my soul. But I am near my goal now: I can sense Mary Seward’s proximity as a wolf scents its prey.

I shall call on her soon.