A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  * * * *

  Summer, 1862

  As spring collapsed into the dawning of summer and Babette found herself increasingly short of both breath and patience, a new curiosity arrived to further complicate her bothersome situation. One day—a Thursday, if she recalled correctly—Grandfather came to her in the reading room.

  Babette looked up from her book and saw Grandfather as he stepped through the doorway. More importantly, she noticed the woman standing behind him: a tall blonde with exquisite features, dressed in a rich gown of blue that matched her eyes.

  Babette gasped at the sight of her. She looked exactly like Korbinian, save for the color of her hair. It was as if Korbinian had dragged himself from the grave, put on a dress, and transformed himself into a woman.

  Just to haunt me, Babette thought. It was the sort of thing he would do. Or would have done.

  Babette blinked away a tear and slowly rose from her seat.

  “Stay, stay,” Grandfather said, extending a hand to stop her. “You must not exhaust yourself in your condition.”

  That was all anyone talked about these days: her “condition.” Like she was sick with consumption.

  “Babette,” Grandfather continued, motioning the strange woman forward, “we have a special guest whom I would like to introduce to you. This is Elisabeth von Fuchsburg, sister of dear departed Korbinian.”

  Babette stiffened. What was Korbinian’s sister doing here?

  Despite Babette’s misgivings, the woman approached with a charming smile and extended one gloved hand to her.

  “Please, call me Ilse,” she said. “You must be Babette. My late brother wrote often of you in his letters. Indeed, he wrote of little other than his great esteem and affection for you.”

  Babette smiled back, but the compliment made her feel peculiar. Korbinian had spoken of his sister only rarely, as if he were eager to keep her hidden.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle von Fuchsburg,” Babeete said. “Shall you be staying with us long?”

  “Oh yes,” Ilse said. “Why, with Monsieur Varanus’s kind permission, I will be staying until after my nephew is born. Mother and Father passed on several years ago. Now, with Korbinian gone, his child is the only family I have left. And you, of course,” she added, squeezing Babette’s hand tightly. “Though I understand that my brother was murdered before you could be married, I should like to look upon you as my sister. Would that be all right?”

  What a peculiar person.

  “Yes, I expect so,” Babette said, looking at Grandfather for guidance. He merely smiled encouragingly in response.

  “May I join you?” Ilse asked, indicating a nearby chair.

  Babette wanted to say no, but she looked at Grandfather and saw him nod. Babette took a deep breath and smiled at Ilse.

  “Of course,” she said. “I was only reading. I would adore some…company.”

  It took a moment to force out the last word, but Babette could not bring herself to be rude to a guest of Grandfather’s, least of all Korbinian’s sister.

  Ilse sat and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Well, I think I shall leave you two to become acquainted,” Grandfather said. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  Babette looked at him and saw the sentiment in his eyes: behave yourself. Having made his point to her, he turned and left.

  Babette placed her book on a nearby table and turned to Ilse.

  “Well, you must tell me all about yourself,” she said. “I fear that Korbinian spoke little of you.”

  “Oh?” Ilse asked, her eyes fluttering for a moment. “I expect he intended for us to meet one another in person when you joined us in Fuchsburg after the marriage.”

  “Yes, of course,” Babette said. “I should like to see Fuchsburg someday. Korbinian spoke of it often.”

  “Oh, but you will see it,” Ilse said, her smile broader than before. “You and the child will be spending a great deal of time there. Fuchsburg is the only place for my brother’s child to be brought up. Don’t you agree?”

  Babette bit her tongue and simply smiled in reply.

  * * * *

  Ilse proved to be a constant feature in the villa. With each passing day Babette hoped that she would leave, and each day Ilse demonstrated her disinterest in departure. The woman was pleasant enough, but something about her charm and politeness set Babette’s teeth grinding. Ilse was like a German Claire de Mirabeau, all smiles and no substance. She talked endlessly of Society but had nothing of any interest to converse about. Time and time again, Babette tried to introduce a subject of merit—whether the Classics, philosophy, or politics—and time and time again, Ilse steered the conversation back to something trivial.

  And the worsening of Babette’s condition did not make Ilse any easier to bear.

  One day late in summer, Babette finally lost her patience. As Ilse sat with her in the drawing room, prattling away about the latest Paris fashions that they were both missing, Babette turned to her and said:

  “Fräulein von Fuchsburg, I have no interest whatsoever in Mister Worth’s latest creations, and if you continue to prattle on about fashion, I will be forced to beat you senseless with a croquet mallet!”

  Ilse blinked a few times and slowly set down her cup and saucer.

  “My goodness,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I never imagined that you possessed such a distain for fashion. Perhaps I should have…”

  “Are you incapable of sustaining a conversation of any significance?” Babette demanded, rising to her feet. “All you can speak of is fashion or marriage or the south of France! Have you no concept of a wider world?”

  “I hear that Saint Petersburg is quite majestic,” Ilse said innocently.

  Damned harebrained fool!

  Babette began shaking in anger. She looked at Ilse, expecting shock and instead saw a pleasant smile.

  She’s taunting me.

  Ilse rose and took her by the hand.

  “Now Babette,” she said, “you must not upset yourself so in your condition. It must be the heat. I told your grandfather that you ought not to be so far south. You should have come to Fuchsburg straight away. The climate is much healthier, and it will be most difficult to travel once the child is born.”

  It was the same thing she had been repeating for months at every opportunity.

  “Ilse,” Babette said, “as I have told you no less than fifty times since our first meeting, I have no intention of raising my child in Fuchsburg!”

  As she shouted, releasing months of frustration, she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. It lasted just a short time but then came again. Her entire body quivered, and her knees suddenly grew weak. She sank to the floor, unable to stand. Her legs were wet. The pain came again.

  “Ilse, I would be much obliged if you would call for my grandfather. I think something is very wrong.”

  * * * *

  William stood on the outside terrace and watched the morning sun. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  James and Niccolo stood beside him. Niccolo held a lit cigar, which he smoked with relish. James looked positively ashen. The contrast made William chuckle.

  “William,” Niccolo said, “you will soon be a great-grandfather. How exciting.”

  “The thrill of a lifetime,” William said flatly. “I imagine it is rather like having a grandchild, only with far less responsibility.”

  “Father, you mustn’t say such things,” James said, clutching his hands. “Not even in jest. This is Babette’s child we are speaking of.”

  “Yes, of course, James.” William stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Of course, all this does bring up an important topic we have not yet discussed. What to do about the child.”

  James turned and stared at him, mouth agape.

  “What to do? Father, you and I both know how to raise a child. We will employ the best nurses, the best governesses, and the best tutors.”

  “That is not quite what I meant,” William said. “What I meant is
that Babette is unmarried. She cannot be a mother. A widow with child is a tragedy, but an unwed mother is a scandal of unimaginable proportions. We cannot subject her to that.”

  James frowned deeply and let out a sigh.

  “I will be the father,” he said.

  “James, I think you may be mistaken about the nature of the problem,” William said.

  “Nonsense,” James replied, “we have already concealed Babette’s pregnancy. We shall simply say that the child is mine, not hers.”

  Niccolo let out a laugh. William understood his amusement. Bloody fool! James had no idea what he was talking about.

  “James, as noble as it is for you to fall upon your sword for you daughter, who precisely is supposed to be the mother of the child?”

  “What?” James asked.

  “Madonna!” Niccolo exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “James, your father means that you cannot be the father of a child without there being a mother.”

  “Yes, of course,” James said, suddenly flustered. “Well, a serving girl perhaps.”

  “They will not accept it,” William said. “They will know it would be concealed. And besides, no one would ever believe that you were capable of a tryst with a serving girl. No, James, I fear that would only work if your late wife were still with us.”

  William noticed a familiar scent approach from behind them. He looked over his shoulder and saw one of the servants in the doorway.

  “What is it, Giovanni?” William asked.

  “Pardon, Signore, but the doctor has finished,” Giovanni said. “Your granddaughter has given birth to a healthy boy.”

  William clapped his hands and said:

  “Wonderful news! Niccolo, put that dreadful thing out, there’s a good man. This is a time for celebration, not for fouling the air with the smoke of that American weed!”

  Niccolo chuckled but did not put out the cigar.

  “James,” William said, “why don’t you go along ahead and see to Babette. Niccolo and I have one or two matters of finance to discuss.”

  James hesitated, his face becoming pale.

  “I, uh…” he began. He turned to Giovanni and asked, “Is there much blood?”

  “Yes, some,” Giovanni said, “but the doctor says she is well.”

  James grew paler.

  “I think I shall wait in the parlor until the linens have been changed,” he said.

  “Yes, James, I think that would be best,” William said. “Giovanni, fetch him some brandy, there’s a good fellow.”

  When they had gone, Niccolo exhaled a long series of smoke rings and asked, “Your son is afraid of blood?”

  “Alas, yes,” William said. “Babette’s birth was complicated. Her mother bled to death while resting afterward. James was the one who found the body. He has been sensitive ever since.”

  “Poor man,” Niccolo said.

  “He will persevere,” William replied. “In the meantime, I have a more serious problem to attend to.”

  “Yes,” Niccolo said, “how to conceal a child.”

  “Alas,” William said, “the list of options is rather short.”

  * * * *

  When he entered Babette’s bedchamber, William saw that Giovanni had understated the amount of blood. The bedclothes were drenched in it. For a moment, William had recollections of Babette’s poor mother.

  Thank God James had elected not to enter. No doubt, he would have fainted.

  William saw Babette lying in bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. She looked exhausted, but her expression was rapturous as she held the newborn child in her arms. One of the serving maids hovered about at the bedside, but it was unlikely Babette would allow her to do anything with the child.

  William turned to the doctor, who was busy washing his hands in a basin of water.

  “How is my granddaughter?” William asked.

  “Surprisingly well,” the doctor said. “And the child is healthy. Fine lungs as well, I can tell you.”

  “I see a great deal of blood.”

  The doctor nodded and said, “She experienced significant hemorrhaging toward the end. I was afraid for her safety, but it appears to have healed of its own accord.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “As you say.” The doctor nodded. “By rights she should be dead, but she is well. I do not understand, but I am most relieved.”

  William hid a smile. Perhaps there was more Scion in Babette than anyone had given her credit for.

  “Babette and the child are well,” William said. “That is all that matters to me. Now, if you will both excuse us, I would like to sit with my granddaughter.”

  “Of course,” the doctor said, bowing his head.

  As the doctor and the maid slipped out the door, William sat in a chair by the bed. With one hand, he gently stroked Babette’s hair. She looked up at him and smiled, then looked back down at the child.

  “A beautiful baby,” William said.

  “Yes,” Babette murmured, her voice so filled with delight that William felt a tear come to his eye. “He will look just like his father.”

  “You are sure?”

  Babette smiled and said, “I know it.”

  “What will you name him?” William asked.

  “Alistair,” Babette said. “His name is Alistair Korbinian.”

  William smiled and took a deep breath. Babette was so precious to him, more precious even than his son. She was like him in thought and temperament, and her son would, no doubt, grow up to be a man worthy of his Scion lineage.

  It made William feel an honest twinge of guilt at the realization that he would have to take the child from her. Babette would be devastated, but unwed the child would be the ruination of her.

  It would be the ruination of them all.

  * * * *

  Autumn, 1862

  Babette knew nothing of her grandfather’s thoughts, and he was not quick to act upon them in any event. As summer drew on and faded into autumn, she spent almost every waking moment with little Alistair. She doted on him, reading aloud to him for hours on end from her favorite books, reciting Plutarch and Tacitus, Newton and Leibniz, Voltaire and Goethe as if they were children’s stories or works of poetry. To her delight, Alistair listened in rapture, staring up at her with his big violet eyes and gurgling with excitement whenever Babette found it necessary to emphasize a particular passage.

  For the first time since Korbinian’s death, life was perfect again.

  * * * *

  Then, one day in late autumn, Babette awoke to silence. She had become so accustomed to Alistair’s periodic disturbances that the lack of noise unsettled her far more than any hungry or frightened cries. She rose from bed in an instant. It was early morning, and she saw the first strains of daylight warming the sky.

  Alistair should have been hungry again. Why was there no noise?

  Clutching her nightshirt about her, Babette rushed to the bassinet that stood only a few paces away from her bed. She threw back the blanket, fearing the worst, and saw nothing.

  The bassinet was empty.

  What was happening?

  Babette rushed to the door and flung it open. The villa was quiet. No one stirred. But Grandfather would be awake. He would know what to do! Had Alistair been kidnapped? But no, that was nonsense. Perhaps Father had decided to hold Alistair for a time, to let her sleep properly. Grandfather had tried that once a month before, and Babette had berated him for it.

  She rushed along the upstairs passage and into Grandfather’s study. She saw him and Father sitting in chairs by the window. As she entered, they looked toward her. Grandfather’s grave expression made Babette’s heart stop with dread.

  No!

  “Where is Alistair?” Babette demanded.

  Grandfather and Father exchanged looks. Grandfather rose, his mouth set in a deep frown.

  “Babette,” he said, “I fear we have dreadful news.”

  “No!” Babette cried.

  “Alistair has…passed away,�
�� Grandfather said.

  “I’m so sorry, Babette,” Father said, standing and rushing to her, tears in his eyes.

  “No! No!”

  Babette looked from one to the other, waiting—begging—for them to reveal their cruel deception and to produce Alistair, alive and well, from some place of hiding.

  “I found him so in the small hours,” Grandfather said, “as I came in to check on the two of you. He must have passed in the night.”

  “It’s not possible…” Babette said.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” Grandfather said. “I am so very sorry. But there is nothing to be done.”

  Babette sank to her knees, gasping for breath. It felt as if a hideous weight was pressing down upon her shoulders, collapsing her body into itself. Her head swam and lights danced before her eyes.

  “No, no,” she repeated.

  Father knelt beside her and enfolded her in his arms.

  “Oh, Babette,” he said, weeping. “Oh, my dear Babette.”

  “Let me see him,” Babette said, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” Grandfather said. “It would only upset you further. But we plan to hold the burial for him tomorrow.”

  “Let me see him!” Babette shouted, struggling against her father. “Let me see him!”

  * * * *

  They did not, of course. In the end, Babette had to be restrained—for her own good, Grandfather said, though she hardly agreed with that statement. One of the servants brought a cup of medicine that the doctor had left, and she was forced to drink it. It tasted vile, and it made her head spin. Unable to resist further, she was carried back to bed.

  The rest of the day passed in a fog. When she finally regained her senses, Babette saw that it was evening. The sunlight was rapidly fading. She stood shakily and went immediately to the bassinet, hoping that it had all been a terrible dream.

  But the bassinet was empty, just as she remembered.

  Alistair was dead. Babette felt tears brimming in her eyes. It was like Korbinian’s death all over again. He had been returned to her through their child, and now their child was dead.

  She stumbled to the door but found it locked. She needed comfort, reassurance, but all she found was silence.

  Alone, she thought, as her body shook and the tears rolled down her cheeks. I am all alone.