Mina Part 6

IV

In the room upstairs, Mina was preparing for bed. She had little energy to undress, none at all to write in her diary or in the journal still hidden in her traveling cloak. It seemed now that the only journal that mattered was the one she had taken from Dracula's castle. She dug into her traveling bag and slipped it into her pocket, then opened each of the drawers in her bureau. One held her slips and chemises, another corsets and stockings, the others less intimate clothing. All the garments were neatly folded and arranged. It seemed a violation of every ethic she held dear that someone should be paid to do this work for her, yet that would be her life now unless she fought for it to be otherwise.

She didn't have strength to spare for that battle. The fatigue that had plagued her in the last days of their quest had lessened, but still it seemed to surround her like a dense fog m.u.f.fling her emotions, and her ability to concentrate on anything beyond the hour to come. Nonetheless, she had to plan.

There were answers in that journal, she told herself. Her main goal must be to have it translated.

She pulled the bottom drawer out of the bureau and put the journal in the s.p.a.ce beneath it then replaced the drawer. Hardly a secure hiding place but the simplest one for now. With that done, she washed her face and went to bed.

The dreams came. They were expected, for, in the days since she left the vampire's castle, the dreams had always come when she felt most helpless. His form was shrouded by the mist. His face was turned to her, but she could see only his lips, the fangs that were the mark of his terrible curse, and his eyes so filled with need.

Her arms lifted, her lips parted. When he touched her, she moaned with delight.

And, as always, reacted with horror. She cried out in her sleep for him to stop, beat the covers away with her hands. On the train that brought them back to a world of orderly cities and civilized men, Jonathan had always lain beside her, had always awakened and comforted her. Now she fought on her own and, when she woke, he was not with her.

"Jonathan," she whispered, certain that in all her life she had never felt so totally, so terribly, alone.

The room smelled of rose sachet, a scent she had always a.s.sociated with her youth, with her mother, with an innocence she had lost so suddenly only weeks ago. Loneliness and memories pressed too close, and she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and went into the hall. At the top of the stairs, she halted.

The house was dark except for the light spilling into the foyer through the open parlor door. She smelled the smoke from Jonathan's cigar, heard Millicent speak her name.

She sighed when she heard the woman's voice. Did Millicent ever smile? Ever laugh even when she was young? Mina doubted it.

No, to her Millicent was one of those women who saw life as a trial, her virtue constantly at risk. The heaven Millicent hoped to achieve with this behavior would hardly be any better.

Before her journey with the men, Mina had not been one to eavesdrop, but now she was less certain of herself, less willing to trust that people who cared for her intended the best for her. She descended halfway down the stairs and, in the shadows of the landing, sat listening to their conversation.

" . . . few weeks Chapel has taught me so much," Millicent was saying. "And you know how easily I manage things. If Mina is still ill, I could rent out my cottage the way I do my lands and stay on as cook. In the beginning, I could also handle Mina's duties so she can rest and recover. Jonathan, I'm worried about her. She hardly ate and drank nothing but the sherry. She seems so pale and fragile, like an empty gla.s.s."

The woman had no way of knowing how appropriate the metaphor was, Mina thought, as she listened to Jonathan mumble some agreement.

"I'd like to help you ... both of you in any way I can." Mina clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. "Say no, darling," she whispered. "Please say no." Even as she spoke the words, she knew the truth. The woman had raised Jonathan. He could never turn her away.

"She is still weak. Yes, I suppose, if Mina agrees."

And what could she do but agree? Mina thought. Millicent would see through every excuse she would give for managing the household on her own. Mina would never be forgiven if she demanded that the woman be asked to leave. Millicent was, in her own devious way, far more deadly than Dracula had ever been, because Jonathan loved her.

"And there is the matter of the sherry, Jonathan," Millicent said sternly. "You cannot just talk to her. You must be firm with her.

Promise me."

Mina did not need to hear her husband's reply to know what it had been. Feeling suddenly chilled, she pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and moved slowly up the stairs, her bare feet making no sound on the thick green carpet.

She had just reached the door to her room when she noticed a growing light on the servants' stairs at the opposite end of the hall.

A moment later, Laura, in a white nightdress, reached the second-floor landing. Mina was lit by the gaslight coming from her room, Laura by the oil lamp she held. Each stared silently at the other.

Laura took a step toward Mina. Mina, alarmed, put a finger to her lips, motioned the girl away and retreated to her room.

She had just returned to the warmth of the bed when Jonathan joined her. He undressed quickly and put on a nights.h.i.+rt, then slipped into bed beside her. She pressed her back close to his chest. The warmth of his body felt delicious, his arms so comforting as he held her. "Were you sleeping?" he asked.

"Off and on." She took one of his hands and kissed it. "I was waiting for you."

She heard him murmur something in a voice too low to be heard. His hand moved to her breast. She rolled over and faced him, willing herself to be pa.s.sive, to let him take his pleasure while thoughts of the vampire and the pa.s.sion he had aroused in her coursed through her, potent as blood. "Jonathan," she whispered and, just for a moment, yielded to the pleasure. Her body tightened. She kissed his chest, pulled his head down to find his lips.

But it was already over as suddenly as it had begun, with no fulfillment for her save in her memories.

She could sleep now that Jonathan was with her, his warmth and presence comforting her. For the first time in days, she did not dream. A new set of problems had replaced the old. The present dispersed the past.

Mina woke with Jonathan the next morning, to see him off on his first day at work as head of the firm. She sat across from him at the small table in the parlor, drinking tea and eating biscuits Millicent had baked for them the night before. She tried to think of something encouraging to say, but every attempt only seemed to make him more insecure.

Following a long silence, he mentioned Millicent's concern about the sherry. "I couldn't tell her why you needed it and I promised her that I would speak to you. Try to sleep without it and, when you can't, put a bottle in the cabinet here so she doesn't see you drinking it.""Jonathan, you make it sound as if a gla.s.s of sherry is a sickness. Besides, what business is it of hers?"

"My mother ... was very cruel to Aunt Millicent, especially when she drank too much. Millicent tolerated her tirades, most likely because she would not have been allowed to care for me otherwise. Please, don't drink in front of Aunt Millicent any longer."

He paused to look at her face, her lips pressed together, her eyes soft with sorrow. "I don't like to speak of what she and I endured," he said, pulled her to her feet and hugged her tightly. "We'll banish the past together, I promise you."

SEVEN

I

Winston Gordon, Lord Gance, liked to compare himself to Lord Byron, the distant uncle who shared his surname. Both were poets, he was fond of a.s.serting publicly, though only his close friends were allowed to read his creations and they made little comment on his skill. His intimate friends were more likely to agree that both were libertines. The similarity ended there. While the poet had been short and somewhat fat, with a sanguine complexion caused by a blend of heredity and drink, Gance was tall and exceedingly pale, with eyes of such a pale gray that they often looked colorless in bright light. In spite of an appet.i.te for food to rival that for s.e.x, he was also slender to the point of emaciation. Only his profile, with its cla.s.sic nose and thin, delicately curled white- blond hair above the receding hairline, and his direct, often insolent, stare, showed the blood tie between the men born nearly a century apart.

In spite of his heritage, Gance was a businessman, not a romantic, and revolutions held little interest for him. Indeed, he was quite committed to the empire, for India, along with sundry investments on the Continent, had made him wealthy beyond the dreams of his ancestors.

His father had been the first n.o.ble to employ the legal services of Peter Hawkins, noting to young Winston that Hawkins had more honesty and skill than the advisors to the Queen. In the years that followed, Hawkins had proven his worth, and Lord Gance saw no reason to abandon a successor who seemed nothing more than a younger duplicate of the scrupulously honest Hawkins himself.

Gance had arrived at Harker's office to sign some papers for the purchase of a winter estate in southern France when he pa.s.sed a young woman coming out of the offices. Though he was certain he had never met her, she seemed startled, almost fearful, when she saw him. She stared at his face a moment too long then modestly looked away. She was pretty, but there was little remarkable about her except her magnificent chestnut hair, which she had tied back somewhat hurriedly it seemed, and her complexion, which was pale enough to rival his own. Then she glanced at him again. Her eyes, he decided, were incredibly beautiful, and her expression managed to be both frank and sad. He was certain some terrible business had brought her here. "I just pa.s.sed a woman going out," he commented to Harker's clerk. "What is her name?"

"Mrs. Harker, sir, Wilhelmina. She and Mr. Harker were married on the Continent only a few months ago," the clerk replied, the evenness of his expression hiding his distaste. Gance's excesses were well known to anyone who listened to gossip.

"And is Mr. Harker free?"

"He will be in a moment, sir."

Gance took the time to sit and consider everything he knew about the Harkers. After his business was complete with Jonathan, he asked how Jonathan liked Mr. Hawkins's house.

"It's beautiful, particularly the view of the cathedral and its grounds."

"We share an appreciation of that. My own estate is just to the north of your home. Since we're neighbors, I'd like to invite you and your bride to a holiday dinner I'm giving on the fourteenth." Harker knew him well enough that Gance expected him to attempt to decline. Before he could, Gance added, "It will be a formal affair. A number of your other clients will be attending along with some of our neighbors. I think it would be wise for you both to attend."

"Thank you. We ... will do our best. My wife and I recently returned from a trip to Austria. Since her return, she has not been well."

"All the more reason to buy her a new gown and give her a chance to get out. I'll count on you both." Gance smiled, genuinely it seemed, and left before Harker could refuse. Harker could, of course, refuse later, but Gance doubted that he would do so. On the walk home, Gance noticed Mrs. Harker going into a dressmaker's shop and stopped to watch her through the window. She moved confidently among the satin and laces, viewed with interest the woman's sketches. Mina Harker knew fas.h.i.+on. She knew what she liked. He decided that she was beautiful. If she had been single, or married longer, he would have managed to meet her now.

Instead, he waited until she had left the shop then went inside. He'd done business with the owner a few times, and she had always done perfect work. Now he drew her aside from her other customers and explained that heirs had just moved into the Hawkins'

house. "I've invited the Harkers to my house for dinner next Sat.u.r.day. The chestnut-haired woman in the green skirt who just left here is Mrs. Harker. She will need a gown, I think. I suggest that you contact her."

"And how can I be of service to you, sir?" the seamstress asked.

"By making her look as lovely as possible for her husband's sake. I suggest that you make her a gown of this fabric." He pointed to the bolt of green velvet, with a color so deep it appeared nearly black.

The woman knew him well enough to understand. "I will try to convince her," she said. "With her coloring, I'm certain she'd look stunning in it."

Gance tipped her well and went on his way, happy in the thought that he would see Mrs. Harker again and soon.

II

We have been at home nearly two weeks, and I think fondly of the snow that fell in the mountains of Transylvania, of the deep blue skies and marvelous sunsets, Mina wrote in her journal the following night. It is odd to think of that place as beautiful when such tragedy happened there, and yet, after weeks of fog and chilly rain, I would do anything to see the sun. I ordered Laura to clean the parlor and dining room windows and to rehang the velvet draperies to let in more light.

Though Millicent complained that the draperies look strange pulled back so far, it is now possible to read a newspaper in the afternoon without use of the gaslight. I mentioned the savings to Millicent, who only looked at me oddly, as if guessing that she was being placated and not certain how.

As I expected, Jonathan is working a great many extra hours. Having the position as head of the firm fall on his shoulders so suddenly with Mr. Hawkins's death has placed a terrible burden on his conscience. He is terrified of not living up to the firm's reputation, or of making some mistake that will remove all the good fortune that came to us. I tell him that Mr. Hawkins had faith in him for a reason, but it does little good. I wish I could help him, but I know so little about his work that he will not allow it, nor does he have the time to teach me.

She hesitated, then continued on in shorthand.

In spite of her apparent kindness, I find it impossible to be at all comfortable in Millicent's presence. All her affection is centered on Jonathan. With our age and temperament so different, we have nothing in common at all. Nonetheless, she is the only family Jonathan has left, and I will learn to accept her for his .sake.

I have begun to meet some of our neighbors as a result of an invitation to a client's dinner party-a relation to Lord Byron, imagine! It is a formal affair, and Jonathan asked that I have a gown made. I knew no one, but a seamstress whose shop I'd visited had a card delivered to me. I stopped by this afternoon and had a fitting. While I was there, a number of local women came in to place orders or pick up dresses. I spoke to a few of them, and one of them, Winnie Beason, invited me for tea tomorrow afternoon. Mrs. Beason is somewhat older than I, and though her hair is darker than Lucy's, her skin that magnificent shade Jonathan calls Cornish ivory, she reminds me of Lucy. They share that same happy interest in life and an independence that has no respect for petty conventions.

At the dress designer's suggestion, I picked a French design for my gown. It has a sea-green satin blouse and sleeves and a deep green velvet layered skirt, cuffs and collar. She wanted to make a matching evening cape, but I thought the price too extravagant, especially since Jonathan asked me to order three additional gowns, one more formal and two for afternoon wear. I chose cream.

for the formal, pale blue and white for the others. The white is probably too thin for winter wear, but even with the holiday season and the dinner we are giving for Jonathan's staff, I cannot imagine the need for four new gowns in the next few months. I told this to Millicent, certain that she would agree, and she said that socializing was one of my duties-as if a party were some sort of ch.o.r.e to be endured! I think sometimes that she must have had a sad and lonely childhood and wish we could he better friends.

When I went into town yesterday, Jonathan took me to lunch and we laughed with as much joy as we had when he courted me. Last night, I waited eagerly for him to come home, but at dinner, he was as solemn as always. It is what Millicent expects from the little boy she still thinks him to be, and it is what he gives her. I would give anything to hear him laugh so happily in her presence.

As Mina put the diary in the drawer of her dressing table, her eyes focused on the bureau, the place where she had hidden her journal and the book she had taken from Dracula's castle. She opened the door to her room and listened in the hallway. Jonathan was downstairs in the study, working a few extra hours before bed. Millicent had apparently already gone to sleep, for the stairs leading to her room were dark. Mina shut her door carefully and pulled her journal from its hiding place. She slipped into bed and, in the light of a single lamp, began to write hurriedly in shorthand.

I have tried to find a translator for the book I brought back but so far have had no success. Exeter is not the cosmopolitan city that London is, and I hope that, sometime in the future, I can go to London and find the help I need.

Jonathan said that Mr. Harker often had to travel there on business. Perhaps when Jonathan goes, he will take me and I will have a chance to slip away.

I wish I could tell him what I have done and why, but I do not dare. Van Helsing's warnings would make Jonathan uneasy, my doubts even more so. Besides, Jonathan seems to have put the ordeal behind him. I will not be the one to remind him of it.

In a way, I thought I could forget as well. This is the first time I have opened this journal since our return to Exeter, and I do so with some sorrow.

The fainting spell on the boat seems to have been an isolated incident. I've felt no nausea, no recurring fever to signal a pregnancy. As a result, I am nearly certain I am not pregnant, though I am somewhat late. Anxiety can cause that, I have heard, and I've certainly had reason enough to be anxious in the last few months. Still, a child for Jonathan and I would be a respite from what looks to be an endless life of leisurely boredom.. If only I could work as I did before Jonathan and I were married. As it is, between the solicitious Laura and Jonathan's aunt, there is nothing here for me to do.

Now Jonathan is working downstairs and I am alone as always. I find myself longing for those days on the Continent, when we were so close, so caught up in the horror and adventure of the chase. I feel restless, anxious. I think of the pledge I made to Dracula in my dreams. I would follow my - desires, I said. I thought it easy then. It has not been so.

A light knock on the door startled Mina. She softly closed the book and capped the ink, placing both in a drawer. "Who is it?"

she called when both were out of sight.

"Laura." The girl cracked the door. "I saw your light. I was just going to bed and thought you might need something."

"Nothing, thank you." Mina blew out the candle and lay back in the bed thinking of Jonathan working in the study below her. As soon as she was certain the girl had gone, she placed the book back in its hiding place and returned to bed, s.h.i.+vering with cold, to wait for Jonathan so she could sleep in peace. The clock in the foyer chimed the hour then the half, and still Mina was alone.

Enough! she thought. Enough. She put on her dressing gown and went downstairs.

The smoke from his cigar drifted into the hallway. His chair was turned so his back was to her, and he seemed to be looking for some reference on the bookshelves that covered the wall behind the desk. She saw a crystal flask full of brandy on his desk, an empty gla.s.s beside it. It looked as if he had had one drink, perhaps two. This was not like Jonathan. She wondered if he had drunk some in an effort to relax.

The pool of light and the door that framed her made her feel small, vulnerable. She took a breath, intending to call his name.

"d.a.m.n it!" he muttered as he pulled a volume from the shelf. He checked the contents and returned it, then reached for another.

Not so certain of her welcome, Mina nonetheless called, "Jonathan?"

He turned, the momentary irritation at her interruption turning to duty, then welcome. "Mina. I thought you were sleeping."

"I . . ." What? she wondered. I thought you were my lover, my husband. I need you beside me. "I was lonely. I came to see how long you would be."

"Lonely?" He smiled and reached for her hand, but even as she walked toward him, his focus s.h.i.+fted from her face to the pile of papers on his desk.

Mina bent over, and as she kissed his cheek, she whispered, "Don't be too late. Exhaustion causes its own mistakes."

"He died," Jonathan said, resting his hand palm down on the papers covering his desk. "He died," he repeated, and Mina realized that he was a little bit drunk. "He left me all that was his, and then he died before he could even begin to explain what I had . . ."

Mina recalled clearly the hospital in Budapest where Jonathan had lain raving about wolves and bats and women with fangs. In his fever, he had sounded much like this."Jonathan!" she said sharply, and as he looked at her with dull surprise, she kissed him. "Jonathan," she repeated more softly. "It will be all right. I know it. How can it be otherwise now that we have gone through so much and survived?"

He did nothing but hold her hand as he sipped the dark amber liquid. She understood that he wanted nothing more than for her to leave.

She would not. Instead she would be bold for his sake. She poured more brandy into the gla.s.s, drank some then pa.s.sed it to him, beginning a silent ritual that continued until the gla.s.s was empty. Standing, she pulled him to his feet, not letting go as she led him through the study with its soft gaslight and up the dark stairs to their room, where a single candle burned. In the doorway, she paused and turned toward him. Illuminated from behind, her body was a warm shadow beneath her thin white nightdress. Thinking only of his need, he followed her as she backed inside.

Her hands reached up and cradled his chin as, on tiptoe, she kissed him. If his mind had been elsewhere, it was on her now and remained there as they tumbled onto the bed. Their fall set the velvet canopy of the bed swaying, its breeze extinguis.h.i.+ng the candle, leaving them alone in the wanton dark.

She kissed him shamelessly, as she had always longed to kiss him, then-more wickedly!-placed his hands where they would pleasure her most. It took little brandy to make Jonathan clumsy. Mina put herself astride him, moving long after he had finished, demanding her own pleasure.

Mina woke in the center of the bed, the quilts wrapped tightly around her. She recalled falling asleep in Jonathan's arms, but that had been hours ago, it seemed. She felt warm and sated and far too tired to wonder where he had gone. She drifted back to sleep as the clock in the foyer struck one, slept on through two and three. When Jonathan finally joined her again, she did not wake, nor did she stir when he left her in the morning. If she dreamed at all that night, she did not remember.