It was decided. We were to embark on the Grand Tour.
She placed in my hands all arrangements concerning our travels. Months of planning followed. I spent weeks gathering information, acquiring respectable lodgings beforehand and procuring enough letters of credit to secure our journey.
Time flies swiftly when enclosed in purpose.
I took one last look at my bedroom and said goodbye to its sordid memories because a year or two might pass before I ever saw its furnishings again. And just when I was about to shut the door, I leaped inside once more and ran to my night table.
“I'm not leaving you behind,” I mused as I took the old piece of paper, torn from the traveling guide; the one spark that had ignited the adventure now lying before us.
I folded it and slipped it into my vest's pocket.
I reached the staircase's landing. The front door stood open. Outside, the coach waited. Alisa peeped through the carriage's window drapes wearing the sweetest of smiles.
The sight of her gleaming joy delighted me beyond words. It compelled me to run and join her as fast as I could, but before I did, I wanted to do something else.
I dared not enter the room. Outside, by the wall, I waited in silence.
Her eyes scrutinized entire rows of book spines as she was standing before the cabinet, but her finger hesitated between two of them. Every book the library possessed answered to her exclusive choosing. Endless tomes of Geography and History filled those shelves... Mother may not have had the privilege of the superior education we had received, and still, I had never known a more passionate reader. She devoted entire afternoons feasting her eyes on compendiums of History.
In the last eight years, Mother and I had barely spoken. She knew of my wanderings out of town but never asked a single question when I returned home after days or weeks of absence. My father's disdain I could withstand, but it was her emotional detachment which hurt me the most.
“I know you're standing by the door,” she said. “Come in.” She chose a book at last and sat on the chair by the hearth.
I went to her and knelt by her side.
My eyes met her large green eyes as I looked up; her fair skin did not yet show the deeper lines that come with maturity. I dared to hold her hand, and she allowed it.
It always struck me that Mother carried deeper secrets than my mind could imagine. This woman had known a loss of greater magnitude than I could ever have experienced: the removal from her motherland, the loss of her firstborn followed by so many others, and more recently, the tragic loss of her eldest son... all those children, dead.
However, one truth remained. In spite of the pain and sorrow engraved in her heart, Mother's face showed but few traces of it. She did not seem a day older than as I remembered her as a child.
“Is this the day?” she said.
“It is. We leave in a few minutes...”
“I fancy Alisa is already inside the carriage.” She hinted a smile.
“She is.”
Mother pressed my hand and fixed her eyes on mine with such an earnest stare that it ran me through and through.
“Bear me no ill will, my son,” she mused. “Half my life I've spent in silent mourning—”
“Please, don't say that.”
“No, Ivan. It must be said,” she whispered. “I should have been there for you when he died... I simply could not. I hope one day, you will understand. But for now, forgive me, son.”
Her words shook every fiber in my body. And for a moment, stunned as I was, words eluded me until I pushed my tongue into speaking.
“It's all past, Mother,” I said. “And I’m the one who must ask you for forgiveness.”
Contained and as self-possessed as she could, she cleared the tears from her cheeks.
This was the first time I had seen her weep. To witness such a wave of emotion coming from her brought me to the verge of tears, and I wept too.
With endearing care, she held the sides of my face. “I see so much of me in you...” she said. “Never submit to the ways of the world, Ivan. You must live a life of your own and abide by your own rules. As long as you follow your heart, the path will always be clear.”
I could not help but be fascinated and confused by her words. Perhaps Viktor's death had dealt her the final blow, and all of Mother's emotional barriers had fallen at last... Whatever the reasons for opening her heart to me thus, I embraced this moment dearly.
“I love you, Mother.”
She sniffled and gave me a gentle smile. “I love you too, my son.” She paused. “We must never speak of this again.”
“Never again, if that is your wish.”
“Very well, off you go.”
Mother rose from the chair and held my arm as she led me to the front door.
Alisa waved from inside the carriage and beckoned me to join her at once, but I refused. I would not leave until I knew she would be well and content with our departure—if such a thing were possible when her two only living children were bound to leave the country for a year or two.
“Mother,” I whispered. “I could stay... if that would please you.”
“Nonsense!” she said. “It pleases me to see you go. Remember what I said the first time you set off for Bristol?”
How could I not? A larger world lies beyond this little town. I remembered those words with great fondness. I nodded in silence.
“Travel and see the world, Ivan. Let us see what you make of it.”
An hour had passed since we had taken the road to London. In silence, I fixed my eyes on the book on my lap; its words, meaningless. Before me, I saw nothing more than myriad senseless letters stumbled upon one another, a puzzle I had no intention of solving for the time being.
“That's it, you win!” Alisa closed her pocketbook of Shakespeare's sonnets.
I furrowed my brow. “Won? What do you mean?”
“I made it a contest to find out which one of us could hold their tongues longer in this carriage... and well, I've given up. So, you see, you win.”
Her game amused me. “And pray, tell. What did I win?”
“You get to pick one sonnet, and I'll read it to you.”
“Oh, surely we can think of something better than that...” I said with a hint of scorn. But as soon as I noticed the slight scowl on her face, I added, “… compelling as your reading is, dearest.”
She forgave my rudeness with a quick nod.
“I know!” I said. “Let us play a game of chance. I'll ask you three questions, to which you shall provide an answer by means of your precious pocketbook.”
“How so?”
“By opening it and reading the sonnet fate has chosen for you, of course!”
“A random answer?”
“We must have faith in his work,” I said. “After all, it is a poet's gift to translate the heart's secret language, is it not?”
She sighed. “Since you’ve won the first game, I see no reason to deny your wish.” Alisa closed the book and placed it on her lap.
“First question,” I said. “Dear Mr. Shakespeare, what is your advice for my sweet sister at this point in her life?”
“Such an odd question... really,” she mused before opening the book.
“Well?” With fidgeting fingers, I instigated her to read aloud the sonnet.
“Against this coming end, you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give...” She paused and launched at me a staggering look of annoyance over the top of the book. “This game of yours is faulty. It makes no sense at all.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” I folded my arms over my chest and sank my back on the seat. “I think it's quite clear. The poet suggests motherhood, and that would require, I’m afraid, a husband.”
“Children are not in my plans,” she said. “Nor is finding a husband.”
“Do not be crossed, dearest.”
“I am not crossed. Disappointed in the game, that's all.” She closed the book and her eyelashes fluttered. “The
second question, what is it?”
“Now, this one should be easy,” I mused with a condescending tone.
“Please, do not consider me as fragile as that,” she said. “I can answer any question, I assure you.”
“Any question?” I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes. “Well, in that case, the question is this: how does your heart regard mine?”
Alisa’s cheeks tinged red. She pursed her lips and opened the book. Whatever lines her eyes met on the page, she found entirely displeasing.
“This game has proven nonsensical,” she muttered. “I shan't play any longer.” She turned the book upside down and placed it next to her.
“Alisa—”
“The roads are in such good conditions, have you noticed?” she said, staring through the window.
In that moment, I knew nothing would compel her to address the topic which had managed to cause her such unease.
“I suspect the weather is to blame,” I mused. “It hasn't rained in days...”
“Yes. I suppose that must be the reason.”
She ceased all manner of speech after that. A good hour must have passed, and she fell asleep.
The pocketbook haunted me as it lay open before me.
On impulse, I reached for it, impatient to discover the reason behind her reaction. What could have caused her such distress? For someone who had been most keen on reading Shakespeare's sonnets aloud, her sudden refusal to comply bemused me.
The page before me displayed the sonnet. A few lines stood out from it, underlined.
I began to read.
“Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?”
Puzzling.
I returned the book of sonnets as it was, and closed my eyes for the rest of the journey.
Dinner and a good evening's rest was all I needed, or so I told myself. We could not have arrived at London at a better time.
Alisa kept to herself most of the evening, locked in her room as soon as she had drunk the last sip of wine from her cup when dinner was over.
Had I overstepped my boundaries as I teased her with my games? Perhaps so. Perhaps I had taken for granted the frailty of her nature. After all, I had no experience engaging Alisa outside of our home's walls. I felt as awkward and incapable of it as if we were complete strangers.
Once, when we were children, it had been simple for us to run and play, to laugh under the scorching summer sun, to confide in each other, and even grow sad together in darker times... When did that ever change?
I pushed my chair back from the table and climbed to my room upstairs.
The cacophony of hurried crowds as they passed by the inn's backstreet filtered through my windows. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling's wooden beams while my mind raced. And even though I could not pinpoint any particular thought disturbing it, a sudden sense of unease crawled beneath my skin.
After turning on the mattress more than thrice, I knew I would not sleep. I stood up, got dressed with haste and rather wretchedly—just my breeches, the shirt, and an unbuttoned vest. I tied my hair fast and walked out the door.
With no certainty as to my destination, I moved as if led by inertia. I had visited London many times before. Its highlights and hidden treasures of leisure I knew like the back of my hand.
I must have walked for an hour before I decided to stop and acknowledge my surroundings.
“Care for a treat, m’Lord?”
An exotic silken shawl embroidered in oriental motifs slipped from her bare shoulder.
I smiled and shook my head.
Where else would my steps lead me, if not to Rosemary Lane? In spite of the late hour, the bustling street was bright and merry.
Rouge-tinged cheeks and lips stood out amidst the throngs of wealthy pleasure-hunting visitors; but unlike those sordid faces one would meet in Ratcliff Highway, these were youthful, refined and some even exotic. Their bawdy services aimed at a very different portion of society and were by no means inexpensive.
Thunder struck in the distance. I walked several blocks and refused many an invitation to the lining alehouses and brothels in the street. Something unsettled my mind and for once, it was not my brother's haunting memory.
The street emptied by the hour as lightning fluttered and the first raindrops poured; though they stained my clothes, I found a small sense of peace as I moved down the deserted street. Rain mattered little to me.
I bought a bottle of wine and enjoyed the rest of my stroll, even when it rained heavier still. The lights were few and dimmed; the crowds had vanished long ago, and I found the perfect skulking spot beneath a closed establishment's old shade.
By the door, I spotted a wooden market box and picked it up. Inside, I discovered an old pamphlet.
Blood spilled on the Crown Jewels
May 10th, 1671.
Captain Blood's adventurous attempt to steal the Crown's Jewels had featured on pamphlets and papers all across London for weeks.
The story had reached Winterbourne but a few days ago—how Thomas Blood had fooled the Tower's guard by impersonating a clergyman and devised a plot to gain access to the Tower of London's regalia. At which point, he had dealt one hard blow to the guard's head with a mallet, and flattened the crown with it too, in order to speed his escape.
One of Blood's accomplices had bagged the Orb in his breeches and dealt a quick stab to the guard who menaced to raise the alarm. Pandemonium had reigned as the guard's son reached the premises and cried for help, and the chase of an unidentified robber had begun.
By the end of the violent ordeal, Blood and his group were caught, locked in the Tower and there, awaited their fate.
Last I heard, Captain Blood had demanded an audience with the King himself, which had been granted—to the astonishment of most, including me. There was nothing but talk of it in the entire region; I heard it from the coachman, on our way to London, and from the innkeeper too—
“Vuoi compagnia?”
Wrapped in a long green bodice with paned sleeves and matching petticoat, she appeared. She stood behind the establishment's door and asked if I cared for company.
I folded the pamphlet and fixed it between my knee and elbow as I readjusted my seat to get a better look at her.
It was a pleasant sight. Pale skin and blond wavy hair; her large green eyes captured my image as an enticing smile drew on her face, though what she found delightful in me I did not know. My drenched clothes shrunk against my body and water dripped from my hair—hardly an alluring view.
“Italiana?” I said.
“Venetian.” She raised her chin in a proud whim.
The smile I gave her was transparent and without vice. Everyone knew Venetian courtesans stood out amongst the rest—not even the Dutch held such splendid reputation in the arts of seduction.
“I don't know...” I took a swig of wine before gazing at her once more.
A faint voice in the back of my mind charged against me for even contemplating to refuse such an opportunity. I do not know what possessed me. Was it a sudden sense of unworthiness? No. It was much more horrible than that. My conscience had stirred at some point during the evening, and now it threatened to awake from its long-kept stupor. And that, I would not abide.
The warmth of her hand covered mine as she knelt beside me. She drew back my drenched hair with her delicate fingers, and the enticing view of her green eyes loomed into my visual field.
“I'll take care of you, love,” she whispered.
The word was music to my ears.
“Love...” I said. The phrase struck my brain as quick as lightning. “Love is too young to know what conscience is...”
Too much wine.
“Come,” she said, giving a soft tug to my hand. “I'll show you what love is.”
I opened the room's window and the faint light of the upcoming day hurt my eyes. My head pounded with unbearable pain as I leaned my arm against the windowsill. Covering my
eyes with the back of my hand did little to appease the ache pulsing in my head.
“Here,” she whispered and her hand slipped around my waist. “Drink this. You'll feel better.”
I took the warm cup between my hands and inhaled its swirling vapors. The scent was agreeable, though I would have preferred Bordeaux instead.
The first drink passed the test. I sat on the bed and ran my fingers on her thigh.
“It's good. What is it?”
“Tea.” She finished the word with a smile. “It's rosemary.”
“Rosemary?” I said, amused. Like the street.
I finished the drink and fetched my clothes. Once I got dressed, I left three guineas on the night table, which was more than enough, and went downstairs. She waited for me at the doorway.
“Safe travels, My Lord,” she mused. “I'll be waiting for you.”
The level of commitment to her office was uncanny. I admired her for it. I almost believed her promise.
Before I walked out the door, she wrapped her hand around my arm. She held me in a long embrace and buried her face on my chest. It was then that I began to lean towards the authenticity of her demeanor.
“Stay safe,” she mused.
With my fingers, I cleared away a few strands of hair from her face. “I will,” I said.
A sudden wave of curiosity compelled me as I headed outside. And before I left, I turned back.
“You never told me your name, you know,” I mused.
“Lucia,” she said.
Whether it was her true name or not, I cared little. She had given me a peaceful night, and I would be grateful for it always.
The crossing from Dover to Calais had been a most impious experience. I had spent most of the time locked in the cabin, sick to my stomach, what with the ship's raging motion across the Channel.
Three days had passed before we reached Paris—enough time for me to recover from the voyage's adverse conditions.
As we moved through the Quai de la Tournelle, I drew back the coach's curtain. The day's first sunbeams struck between the passing trees, extending their gentle touch onto every surface near the Seine; tree leaves tinged in bright orange and gold, and beyond, the river coursed in shades of green and gray. Perhaps it was far too early in the morning and Paris slept still, but la Ville Lumière's peaceful air soothed my weariness.
Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Page 6
