Reckoning (9 page)

Journal of Mary Seward

4TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

I have just returned from my dinner with Lord Bathory—though he insists I now call him just Bathory, as his other friends do.

I had never had reason to visit the Royal Hotel before but, of course, had passed it many times, having grown up in Purfleet. I’d always been impressed by the hotel’s imposing Victorian facade, its steeply pitched gables and sweeping lawns.

It wasn’t easy, venturing out into the night again, despite the protection of the covered carriage. My heart pounded as we travelled through the darkened lanes. I peered fretfully out of the carriage window, searching the shadows; somehow, not looking was even more frightening. But knowing Bathory awaited me, I found the strength to bear the anxiety
that seared my veins. I hoped I’d find him as convivial as when last we met.

I hurried from the brougham into the welcoming light of the Royal Hotel’s lobby and found myself awed by its opulence. My nose was immediately filled with the heady scent coming from a spectacular display of hothouse lilies positioned to the side of the sweeping central staircase. I made my way, a little self-consciously, toward the reception desk, my tread sinking into the deep-piled carpet. I felt my rather plain dress must look dowdy amid such elegance.

But the immaculately dressed man behind the desk smiled warmly as I approached, and as soon as I told him my name, he quickly ushered me into the dining room and led me toward an empty table.

“I will call Lord Bathory’s room and tell him you have arrived,” he informed me, taking my coat as I slipped it from my shoulders. He draped it over his arm and pulled out a chair so that I might seat myself. The snow-white tablecloth seemed to whisper as it brushed against the pale green silk of my dress. My nose was filled with another heavenly scent—of roses this time, decorating the centre of the table.

As the man withdrew, I gazed around the room. It was lit by new electric lamps hanging from the ceilings and fixed to the walls, the vivid light glittering on the crystal glasses and silverware that graced the tables. I felt I had entered the very lap of luxury.

“Would you care for a drink, miss, while you are waiting?”

Starting at the unexpected voice, I turned to see that a waiter had appeared beside me, like a genie from a lamp. “Just a glass of water, please,” I replied, relieved that my answer had come out with some degree of self-assurance. “And would you ask for Lord Bathory’s carriage to be ready for me at ten?”

“Certainly, miss.”

I caught sight of Bathory hurrying into the room just then, looking a little flustered. He was still straightening his tie as he headed toward the table, his grey eyes full of apology.

“Open some champagne, Simkins,” he said to the waiter, his voice breathless.

The waiter glanced at me. “Will you still require water, miss?” he asked pleasantly.

I saw Bathory’s face cloud with uncertainty on hearing this.

“Oh no, champagne would be lovely!” I quickly replied, secretly a little thrilled.

Looking relieved, Bathory seated himself opposite me, smoothing his fair hair hurriedly with his hand. “Do forgive me for not being here to greet you,” he apologised. “I found myself lost in a book I picked up in London this morning and forgot the time.”

“I’ve been here no more than a minute or two,” I assured him.

Simkins returned with the champagne then. He filled our glasses and, with a respectful nod, silently glided away again.

Bathory picked up his champagne flute. “Let’s make a toast,” he said. “To another pleasant evening in excellent company.”

I picked up my own glass and touched it against his. I was surprised to discover that I found Bathory to be somewhat more handsome than I remembered—despite his slightly dishevelled appearance! But more importantly, I was relieved to feel the same comfort in his company as before.

“How was your journey?” he asked.

“It was quite comfortable, though I do not like to travel in the dark,” I confessed. It seemed right to be honest.

“You should have said!” Bathory exclaimed. He snatched the spectacles from his nose, and I saw his grey eyes were filled with concern. “We might have had lunch together instead of dinner.”

“No, no,” I replied. “It is a ridiculous fear of mine, and I am determined to overcome it.”

“Then I’m sure you will,” Bathory replied kindly. “Nevertheless, would you like me to travel back with you later?”

“No, thank you,” I answered, touched by his concern. “I won’t conquer this fear if I am mollycoddled.”

Bathory smiled. “Bravo, Miss Seward,” he exclaimed. “If only I had half as much conviction, I should fashion myself into someone else entirely.”

He picked up one of the two menus that had been left at the side of the table for us and handed it to me. “Now, what shall we eat?” he asked, picking up the other.

A wave of gratitude swelled in me as I watched him run his finger down the list of dishes. What an easy person he was to know.

The waiter returned to our table.

“Ah, Simkins,” Bathory greeted him. “Perfect timing—I am ravenous.”

“I’m pleased to see you have a guest tonight, my lord,” Simkins said. He looked at me and confided, “Most nights his lordship’s only companion is a book.”

“I shall do my best to rival such companionship,” I vowed, smiling.

“I’m sure you shall, miss,” answered Simkins, his eyes twinkling. “Are you ready to order?”

I had not yet looked at my menu, but I knew that I would choose fish. The bloody texture of meat had held no appeal for me since my return from Transylvania. “What fish would you recommend?” I asked Simkins.

“We have some excellent John Dory, Miss Seward,” Simkins answered at once. “Or there is lobster, should you prefer.”

“John Dory sounds perfect,” I told him.

He nodded and turned to Bathory. “And you, my lord?”

“John Dory too,” Bathory replied.

“Very good, sir.” Simkins lifted our menus and carried them away.

Bathory leaned toward me over the table, “So, Mary Seward,” he said. “I am keen to hear more about you—especially of how a girl from Purfleet came to be able to quote Virgil!” he added with a smile.

I hesitated, unsure of how to begin. “Well . . ."I started. “I’m the only child of a provincial doctor who taught me to have an appreciation for each of his many enthusiasms.” I touched one of the velvety red blooms in the centre of the table. “I am unused to glamorous surroundings such as these, though we have a comfortable home. Until he retired due to ill health, just before the war started, my father ran the local sanatorium in Purfleet.”

“And your mother?” Bathory asked.

“Mother was a nurse until she married Father,” I replied. “And then she devoted her time to me and the household. She died seven years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bathory said sympathetically. “You are following in her footsteps?” he asked. “With the nursing, I mean.”

“I am only a VAD nurse,” I explained hurriedly. “I have little formal training. But when the war started, I felt I must do something.”

“When the war is over—what are your plans then?” Bathory queried.

I gave a shrug. “I had dreamed of going to university to study medicine like Father,” I confided. “He ensured that I received a good education in the hope that I would gain a place in one of the new women’s colleges at Oxford. But then the war came . . . and so much has happened since it began, I feel utterly changed,” I told him honestly.

“The war cannot last much longer,” Bathory predicted. “There are tanks on the battlefield now—they must settle the thing one way or another. No more of this slow, entrenched carnage.”

“I pray you are right,” I breathed, thinking of the seemingly endless stream of soldiers still arriving at the sanatorium, their flesh ripped apart by shell fire, their skin and lungs burned by mustard gas.

“Perhaps when the war really is over, you might feel able to return to your dreams of university and a career,” Bathory pressed.

“You approve of women having professions?” I asked.

“To the highest degree!” Bathory exclaimed. “The world loses much by favouring only half its population.” His tone was earnest. “And I do not believe that such ambition need rule out marriage, either.”

Caught off guard by the unexpected mention of marriage, the scar on my heart left by John seemed to burn in my chest.

Bathory must have seen the distress in my face. “Oh, dear,” he said quietly. “Have I touched on a delicate subject?”

I lowered my gaze uncomfortably. “I was engaged to be married once,” I confessed. “But my fiancé turned out to be . . . different . . . than I thought he was.”

My voice trailed away as painful memories flooded my mind. I had no wish to pursue this subject further and so changed it with a question of my own. “What was the book that made you late for dinner?” I asked.

Bathory smiled. “A volume about the radiotelegraph,” he answered. “It is a fascinating read. I find myself intrigued by the whole invention. I am keen to know how electricity can possibly convey a human voice. . . .”

Our conversation tumbled on, dinner quickly passing. And then we were sipping coffee. Bathory’s keen mind might have intimidated me were it not for the gentleness and diplomacy with which he offered his arguments. I could see why he had begun to make his mark in Parliament and could imagine him going far, in years to come, so long as his shyness did not hinder him.

Only when Simkins approached our table and solicitously informed me that the carriage was waiting outside did I realise how much time had passed.

“Already?” Bathory asked, regret clear in his voice.

He escorted me to the entrance, helping me with my coat when Simkins brought it over. Frost had gathered on the grass and I pulled my coat around me, shivering as much at the cold as at the darkness.

“It will be warmer in the brougham,” Bathory promised, opening the door of the cab. He held out a hand to help me inside. It felt reassuringly strong.

Bathory closed the carriage door, and I drew down its window and leaned out to him. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I’ve enjoyed this evening very much,” I told him honestly.

“Then we might do it again?” Bathory asked tentatively.

I nodded. “I’d like that.”

Looking pleased, he stepped back and lifted a hand in farewell as the carriage pulled away.

A surge of elation lifted me. In Bathory’s company, I felt safe. Almost normal. Suddenly it seemed possible that I might rejoin the bright, busy world I had known before. Buoyed by happiness, I did not feel the need to peer from the carriage window or wonder what might be lurking beyond.

But before we reached the hotel gate, the carriage screeched to a halt, the horse whinnying in alarm. And then a wild hammering began on the carriage window beside me. Someone was pounding it with a fist. My heart lurched into panic. “What is wrong?” I called out to the driver, too frozen with fear to pull up the blind and see who knocked so fiercely.

Before he could answer, a woman’s voice sounded out. “Mary? Is it you in there?”

I raised the blind to peer out of the window.

Stella stared in at me. “Oh, thank goodness!” she cried.

I pulled down the window to hear her better. “Stella? What are you doing here?”

“I thought it was you I saw in the hotel lobby,” she told me, her voice breathless. “I was supposed to meet Sam here, outside the hotel, but he’s stood me up—can you believe it!”

Sympathy came instinctively to me at hearing her plight. “Oh, you poor thing,” I said.

“So would you mind dropping me home on your way?” she asked. “I’ve no money for a cab, and these shoes are killing me!”

Her request reawakened caution in me. I remembered my first wary impression of this girl—her brazenness—her feline movements. The thought now of sharing a carriage with her filled me with trepidation.

A thought came unbidden.
You have not seen her in daylight. Perhaps she is one of them. . . .

“Come on, Mary—open the door!” Stella seemed surprised at my hesitation. “It’s cold out here!”

I considered a moment. Was I being unreasonable? I had no evidence that Stella was anything other than mortal. Could I really abandon her here just to satisfy my own paranoia? I grasped my crucifix and holy water tightly to reassure myself of their presence. Then I forced a smile and opened the carriage door.

Stella climbed in and sat beside me. “Thanks, Mary,
you’re a treasure!” she exclaimed, turning to smile at me. Her white teeth seemed to gleam. Even here, in the dim interior of the carriage, she smelled of the cold night air.

I shuddered and slid my fingers between the buttons of my collar to finger the vial concealed behind.

“Fancy Sam standing
me
up like that! The
nerve
!” Stella sank back into her seat and then gave me a conspiratorial smile. “I suspect he may be married, you know. Maybe his wife found out. . . .”

I watched her closely, searching her face and her demeanour for any sign that she might be possessed of vampiric qualities. But her teeth showed no sharpness, her eyes no hint of red—and her pallor, I saw now, was simply face powder. I let my fingers fall from my throat. I’d let my anxiety get the better of me once more. Gradually my mind let go of its feverish whirl of doubt.

“You can drop me here.” Stella’s abrupt announcement a minute or so later took me by surprise.

“But where are you going?” I asked, startled. “We’re still a distance from your house.”

“I’m not going straight home,” Stella announced. She banged on the carriage roof to signal to the driver to stop, and as the carriage pulled to a halt, she opened the door and jumped easily down.

“But—wait,” I cautioned her. “It is late. Are you not afraid, walking on your own at this hour?”

Stella pulled her coat tight around her. “Mary, I’ve just been stood up, but I’ll be damned before I waste a precious night off.” She pointed to a nearby tavern. “If I slip into the tavern for a bit, I might find some
other
attention.” Her words dripped with meaning.