Mina Part 5

Duty and habit won. When her five bags were safely on the inlaid wood floor of the foyer, he took her on a tour. She hid her amazement at the magnificent dining room-at its red brick fireplace, oak wainscotting and windows overlooking a small rear yard enclosed by a stone wall and iron gate. She seemed more at home in the parlor, where Chapel himself spent most of his idle hours in the empty house, and warmed her hands against the small gas heater. Later, in the kitchen, as she examined the cupboards and stove and, with great curiosity, the water heater, Chapel finally understood her behavior. She was not wealthy, nor even exposed to wealth, and now that her nephew had acquired it, she was convinced it could be as easily taken away as it had been given. Chapel took her through the second floor. She noted that the main bedroom with its east-facing windows and the smaller attached room that Mr. Hawkins had used for a private study would be perfect for Jonathan and Mina. "The little room will make a fine nursery," she said in a conspiratorial tone, as if children were the furthest thing from Mina Harker's mind.

"Mrs. Harker said the same," Chapel noted dryly. "We've already moved the couple's clothes in here, Madam Millicent."

She was looking away from him, so he sensed rather than saw her approval when he called her that. When she turned to face him, her eyes were softer, her mouth less rigid. "Miss Millicent," she said.

The other bedrooms-two across the hall from the main one and a third at the top of the servants' stairs above the kitchen-were not private enough for her taste, so he took her upstairs.

The third floor had a wall dividing the two large rooms and a water closet in the front from the three small servant's rooms in the rear. Once, the front quarters had been used as the children's room and sleeping s.p.a.ce for nurse, nanny or, when the children were older, tutor. The rooms still had their original mauve walls and whitewashed floors. Just before Mr. Hawkins died, he had ordered them to be washed and the old velvet curtains replaced with white Irish lace. The iron bed had a lace coverlet and there was a large oak armoire and dresser along one wall. The room had most recently been occupied by Jonathan and Mina. After Mr. Hawkins died, Chapel had ordered the master bedroom painted and had the Harkers' clothes moved into it. Now these were the best empty rooms in the house.

"I'll move in here," Millicent declared.

"They suit you, Miss Millicent," Chapel said. "Before you settle in, shall we have some tea?"

They sat together in the parlor, where, in the next few hours, Chapel learned a great deal about the new owner of what he privately considered "his house." With an affection for her nephew that bordered on adoration, Millicent told him of Jonathan's history. "His grandparents had been dairy farmers, his father a shopkeeper in Reading. When Jonathan was a baby, they would take him to work with them. His first year was spent surrounded by bolts of linen and lace, spools of thread and notions. When the store grew prosperous enough, my brother opened a second. Jonathan's mother managed it, and until Jonathan was old enough for school, he lived with me."

"He was their only child?"

She nodded. "My brother's wife was not a strong woman. Jonathan was her one blessing."

"And yours as well." Seeing her frown, he quickly added, "Considering how much you love him."

"I raised him," she responded. "Even though I did not learn to read until I was nearly an adult, I knew the value of an education, Mr. Chapel. I taught Jonathan his alphabet, his numbers and his prayers. When he started school, his progress ... well, if I'm biased, so were his teachers.

"His father taught him to keep the business ledgers, and he did so meticulously. His mother used to comment that he worked too hard and that he should spend more time doing things he liked such as sketching and writing. Jonathan ignored her-not disrespectfully, of course. Jonathan was never disrespectful. He was serious, though, far more than his mother."

"I wouldn't doubt it, Miss Millicent," Chapel responded. "And it was the frivolous att.i.tude of hers that caused my brother to lose the second shop."

Chapel did not approve of gossip, especially not of the dead. He poured more tea from the delicate blue-and-white porcelain pot then carefully changed the subject. "And how did you get by?" he asked.

Millicent's smile was tight-lipped, filled with satisfaction. "With great care. The terms of our parents' will gave me their house and my brother nearly all the land. He sold his acres while I used mine. Every square meter of that soil produced, Mr. Chapel, and every milk stall in the barn was occupied. In the early years, I did the milking and delivered the calves myself. Six years later, I bought my brother's land back from the new owners. Once I was too old to run the dairy, I sold off the stock and rented the land.

Now I live off that."

Hard work was admirable, Chapel knew that lesson well, but something in her tone made him uneasy-as if she judged the world entirely by her ethics. "And you never married?" he asked.

The relaxed intimacy Chapel had created vanished, and he was certain that the question concealed some terrible secret. "No,"

she said curtly.

"Then Jonathan and Mina are your only family?"

"Jonathan. Mina . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Mina is the woman Jonathan loves, and he has always been so sensible, so of course I care for her because she is his choice. But my loyalty is to my own, Mr. Chapel, as I am sure your loyalty is to your own." Chapel had been most loyal to Mr. Hawkins, who had treated him less like a servant than a brother. Nonetheless, he nodded.

"Now I should like to move in," she said. "After, I think I would like to cook us dinner."

Before Chapel had a chance to clear the tea service, Millicent had carried the tray downstairs to the kitchen. There, she rinsed the cups and pot and placed them in the cupboard, running a finger over the shelf and tsking in disapproval when it came away dusty.

They carried her bags to her room. This time she took the lighter ones and paused at the first landing to catch her breath until Chapel, concerned for her health, told her to put them down and made an extra trip. While she unpacked, Chapel found fresh blankets and sheets, then took her list and went shopping. As he picked out the ham and the vegetables she had asked him to get, he thought again of how difficult it would be to live with the woman.

A dairy maid, in the third-floor guest rooms. "Miss Millicent," he said aloud as he lifted the grocery bag and started out the door.

A challenge, he thought, as he stopped at the end of the street and, with his own money, purchased a bouquet of bright pink chrysanthemums from a florist stall.

Millicent had said she intended to rest, but when Chapel returned to the house, he discovered that she had put on a work dress.

In his absence, she had scrubbed the china cupboards and was now on hands and knees using the soapy water to wash the floor.

Chapel stopped in the doorway and stared at the scene a moment. Acting solely on instinct, he crouched beside her and held out the flowers. As she took them with hands reddened by the harsh lye soap and scrubbing, he shook his head sadly. "My dear Miss Millicent. Hard work is admirable, but if you care for your nephew, there are some things you must no longer do."

He saw her anger rise then dissipate, to be replaced by doubt. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"In your nephew's house, you can be one of the family. If you wish to work, perhaps you could run the household, though, in one as small as this, that is usually the wife's duty. If you have a special talent for cooking, you could do that on a daily basis and oversee the planning of special dinners. But under no circ.u.mstances can you act as the scullery maid. Never! Now, come." He pulled her upright and pointed to the sink. "Wash your hands. We'll make dinner together and then we will talk."

In the hours that followed, Chapel told her about Mr. Hawkins's early life, the struggle that, only in the last decade, had finally brought him wealth. "He acquired a very important client, a n.o.bleman, who paid him well. The money was valuable but even more so were the people his client knew. Mr. Hawkins was suddenly being received in society, and he was perceptive enough to know that he was unskilled. He found the means to educate himself and he prospered."

"What did he do?"

"He hired me. No, don't frown. I am telling no more than the truth. He hired me because I have worked all my life in the houses of the very wealthy and, more importantly, in the houses of the nouveau riche. I know manners, Miss Millicent. I know what must and must not be done if one is to prosper in society, and I would consider it a great privilege to teach someone as well intentioned as you."

"To teach?" Millicent said. Had Chapel known her better, he would have understood that the vague tone of her voice was disapproval.

"Yes," he replied.

"And I could be cook?"

Chapel looked at the remains of the meal-the ham with its rich honey basting, the turnips and carrots baked with it, the biscuits as perfect as any he had ever tasted. What could the woman do with desserts, he wondered, or with stocks? "Without a doubt," he replied. "I think the Queen herself might hire you."

II

By the time the train reached Rotterdam, Mina was once more ill. She could eat nothing, drink only a little broth. The symptoms frightened her and Jonathan, but Dr. Seward noted the fever that accompanied them. "It's nothing more than influenza," he told them, "and not a very serious case."

"We'll put off crossing the channel until you're better," Jonathan said.

Mina shook her head. "I'll keep warm. I'll sit inside close to the stove through the entire crossing.""Is that wise?" Jonathan asked Seward.

"I want to go home," Mina insisted, looking to Seward for support.

"The boat can hardly be more drafty than the halls on the train," Seward commented.

They crossed to England during a downpour. Every window in the steamboat's pa.s.senger room was tightly latched. The wind, blowing relentlessly from the west, carried the engine smoke through the vents used to provide a draft for the woodstove that gave the only respite from the frigid North Sea air.

Mina sat close to the stove, on the end of one long, wooden bench. Jonathan dozed beside her, his hand holding hers, as if protecting her even while he slept. Dr. Seward sat nearby drinking tea with an acquaintance also making the crossing. Mina's body beneath the fur stole, thick wool coat and socks and high leather shoes was wet from fever and sweat. She uncrossed her legs, and the cold draft against her thighs set her to s.h.i.+vering once more. She controlled it as best she could and looked outside at the angry gray sea, shrouded in mist.

It reminded her of Carfax. Of him.

Would she ever be free of his memory? The thought made her angry. Impatience was no virtue, she reminded herself. She had time, years to forget, all the years she would share with Jonathan. Soon they would be home, in the house in Exeter that Mr.

Hawkins had willed to them. There had been so many changes, but none could equal the change she had already endured.

A pain, born perhaps of memory, started deep inside her, growing as she focused on it, until she was doubled over, one fist clutching her midsection while the other hand remained in Jonathan's grasp.

When he saw the agony in her expression, Dr. Seward moved toward her, but she motioned him to remain where he was. Her stomach was churning and she needed air-that was all the pain signified. She slowly withdrew her hand from Jonathan's, but as she began to stand, a dizziness as insistent as the pain made her stumble. She gripped Jonathan's shoulder for support.

He woke immediately, his eyes instinctively seeking her, his arm supporting her as she fell heavily onto the bench. She had been flushed with fever earlier. Now her skin was white, her lips almost as pale.

"Mina!" Jonathan cried.

"I can't breathe," she said, looking alternately from Jonathan to Dr. Seward to the curious pa.s.sengers who had formed a circle around them. She saw something more than a physician's concern in Seward's expression and thought of what she had read about Lucy's last days. Her symptoms were far too similar for her to feel anything but terror.

An older woman stepped forward, tapped Seward on the shoulder and whispered a few words to him. A moment later, she helped Mina to walk to the head and latched the door behind them. The room was even closer than the pa.s.senger shelter and reeked of vomit and excrement. The woman pulled open a porthole then began unb.u.t.toning Mina's Jacket. A wash of salt spray and a gust of cold air blew against Mina's face. She s.h.i.+vered, but the fresh air made the pain subside enough that she could manage to loosen her corset on her own.

"I suggest you take that thing off and pitch it out the window," the woman said with a good-natured chuckle.

"I couldn't," Mina replied, shocked at the suggestion.

"You haven't told your husband yet, I take it?" the woman commented.

"Told him what?"

The woman smiled. "You didn't know either. It must be your first."

"A baby?" Mina asked.

"I had six, all of them boys. Believe me, I know the signs."

"Dr. Seward told me I had influenza."

The woman snorted. "I never knew anyone who learned she was pregnant from a doctor, especially one who would let a patient cross the Channel with what he believes to be the flu." She noticed Mina's expression, the shock, the dread. "What's the matter, girl, don't you want a child?" she asked.

Mina faced the porthole as she replied, as evenly as she was able, "Oh yes, but not so soon." When she turned and faced the woman, her expression was as serene as it had been on the journey to Varna, her emotions once more perfectly under control.

She readjusted her clothing and moved close to the porthole. The spray on her face felt wonderful, the cold air bracing. Terns circled the boat. She heard their harsh cries and wished she were on deck, watching them, feeling the beating of the wind on her body, hearing the thunder of the waves.

He had controlled even this power, and now he was gone. Would she be condemned to think of him in times of ecstasy? Would her nights with Jonathan be marred by the memory of his hands, his lips and her own surrender? And the child? How could she ever look at the child and not wonder ...

No, they had done much but nothing that could have led to conception. The blood in the child was another matter. If there were a child. How could anyone be certain so early. She tried to remember her cycle. If anything, her monthly was not even due yet.

"Please don't say a word about this," she told the woman. "Since we're already traveling, there's no reason to worry the men."

"Of course. You look much better. Shall we stay here awhile?"

"Please."

A pounding on the door made that impossible. Mina and the woman went out and sat close to the door talking of their lives. In the hours that pa.s.sed, Mina listened to the woman describe the bookstore she and her husband owned in Cambridge and the constant trials of dealing with the university students who were often so poor they couldn't help but become thieves. The conversation was so pleasant that Mina almost forgot her concerns, remembering them only at the times when she was forced to lie about their trip and what had preceeded it.

The sea had calmed and the pa.s.sengers were on deck when the steamer pulled into Grimsby hours later. The harbor was filled with sailing s.h.i.+ps, both British and Scandinavian, the docks covered with barrels of halibut, plaice and mussels. The water that covered the fish, like the sea itself, glowed silver in the soft evening light. Sounds were muted by the damp, colors faded. Mina sat beside Jonathan, guarding their bags while Dr. Seward hired a carriage to take them to the train station.

They ate on the train, saying little to one another. The past that had linked them so tightly was not one any of them cared to mention, and their futures were so different. Their good-bye was too quick to be awkward; then, on a second train, Jonathan and Mina started for Exeter and home. Mina stared at the dirty tenements, at the ragged urchins picking clinkers of coal from the ditches at the side of the rails and contrasted it with the bundled children eating stew in the peasant cottage in Romania. Progress- how little it gave the poor, how much it took away.

A strange thought, but fitting. She could already feel the weight of society, its demands for her future pressing down against her.

She closed the curtain, took out a book and tried to read.

III

In the weeks that followed her arrival at Jonathan's house, Millicent had doggedly learned manners and dress, h.o.a.rding each small fact with the same sullen avidity a miser did his coins. By the time Jonathan and Mina returned to Exeter, pale and exhausted from their journey, Millicent had rearranged the kitchen to her liking and hired Laura-a pet.i.te Irish girl with huge shy eyes who rarely raised her voice above a whisper and obeyed all of Millicent's orders with frightened perfection-to clean house.

Millicent, Jonathan and Mina ate dinner together at a small table in the parlor, the gas heater and candles giving the only light.

When the meal was finished and Laura had cleared the dishes, Millicent launched into a lengthy account of all she had learned and her a.s.sessment of what the household needed. "Laura, a cook and a butler. Three could run the house quite nicely," Millicent said to Jonathan, then looked at Mina, daring the young bride to contradict her.

Mina had no intention of doing so. The thought of servants seemed an invasion of privacy, so the less of them the better. "Do we need so many?" she asked. "There are only two of us."

"Mr. Hawkins had four and he rarely entertained. However, Mr. Chapel does agree with you. He told me that he is getting too old for full-time duties. He has gone to Wellington to be with his son for the holidays. After the new year, he would like work here in a part-time capacity to manage the hired staff when you and Mina entertain."

So there would only be a cook, a maid and an occasional Mr. Chapel. Mina smiled, grasped her husband's hand and said, "Aunt Millicent is right, darling. I had learned to type so I could help you with your work. But that would hardly be appropriate now that you head the firm. Instead I shall manage the household and be the best possible wife for you. Now, if you do not mind, I still feel ill and would like to retire."

"Would you like some sherry first?" Jonathan asked her. Mina ignored the older woman's disapproving expression. "Please," she said softly and took a gla.s.s from her husband. He had filled the stem goblet nearly to the rim, and she sipped it awhile then carried it upstairs with her.

"Is that her custom?" Millicent asked when Mina had gone.

"It helps her sleep. It was a difficult journey."

"Where did you go? What did you see?" Millicent, who had never traveled farther than London, was nonetheless fascinated with foreign countries.

Jonathan could never explain the horrors they had witnessed, the things they had done. The memory of the creature that still kept Mina awake at night for fear of the dreams that would come when she slept was not one he wished to share. Besides, his aunt was a stolid woman, her feet firmly planted in a reality that had no place for wolves, gypsies or vampires.

He decided to lie and listed places he had already been. "Amsterdam. Paris. Zurich. It was primarily a business trip for Lord G.o.dalming. I thought Mina would enjoy it, but during it she became quite ill. One of our party died of the same strange fever that affected her."

"Wine is hardly a cure for illness."

"A gla.s.s. One gla.s.s to help her sleep."

"Was how your mother started, remember? Jonathan, you are the master of your family. You have to be firm with Mina."

The way his father had never been. Did Millicent know the pain she caused each time she reminded him of that past. "Please, Aunt . . ."

Millicent's eyes, dark like her grandmother's, flashed with an anger that Jonathan recalled far too painfully. Her voice was as cool as ever. "Promise me that you'll at least speak with her."

His aunt didn't understand, indeed couldn't, Jonathan thought. Nonetheless, his aunt might have some reason to worry. "Very well," he said. "I'll talk to her tomorrow."