“Mary, you should get out yourself,” said Catherine. “You’ve been here three days now. Have you slept at all? You don’t want to make yourself sick, either. Mrs. Poole says unless you come home for a bath and change of clothes, she’s going to come fetch you herself.”
“I lay down on one of the other beds for a while,” she said. “Dennys showed me a place to wash, and Alice brought new underclothes this morning. I’m all right, Cat. I just want to be here when he wakes up. I was the one who shot him, you know.”
“That was an accident,” said Wiggins. “You can’t blame yourself for that, Miss Jekyll. You didn’t mean to shoot him.”
“Thank you. I’ll try not to.” But she did blame herself, didn’t she? It was completely her fault. Whether or not she had meant to shoot Sherlock, she had pulled the trigger that had sent the bullet into his shoulder. He had almost died from loss of blood because of her.
“Remember we have a meeting with Ayesha this afternoon,” said Catherine. “You’ll be there, right? We need to discuss Athena Club business before she leaves for Budapest.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” said Mary, scarcely listening. If only he would wake up! She felt something around her shoulders and looked up, startled. Had Diana actually hugged her?
“We’ll see you back home, Sis,” said Diana. “Remember, if he dies, you’ve still got us!”
“He’s not going to die!” said Catherine. “Dr. Radko said so, and so did Ayesha. Mary, he’s not going to die. Mr. Wiggins, could you show us out? I think I’d better take Diana home before she tries to say anything else helpful.”
“What?” said Diana. “What did I say this time?”
When they were gone, Mary looked back down at the sleeping face of Sherlock Holmes. She remembered how she had knelt by him in the field beneath the keep, pressing her hands to the place where the blood was bubbling up, bright red. Ayesha had come up beside her and said, “Move aside, Mary.” Then, as Mary stood watching, the President of the Alchemical Society had put her hands on the wound. A bright light had spread from them, a light that glimmered like opals. She had stayed like that for five minutes, ten, fifteen. The other girls had been doing things—carrying the body of Mrs. Raymond inside, for she had died almost instantly of Margaret Trelawny’s pistol shot, and locking Margaret herself in the dungeon. She had heard about all that later. At the time, she had noticed only the ghastly face of Sherlock Holmes as Ayesha fought for his life.
Finally, she had risen. “He will live,” she said. “I have done what I can. Time must do the rest. He will be ill for a long time, but he will not die.”
Mary had knelt beside him in the grass and cried, as she had never cried before in her life, because our Mary never cries—but she cried that day, ugly racking sobs, and her tears fell like the rain in Marazion.
“Mary.” The voice was familiar, although oh so tired!
Startled, she looked up. Sherlock Holmes was awake! He was looking at her with kind gray eyes.
“I shot you. I almost killed you.” She wanted to make sure he knew that—her culpability.
“I know. I remember.”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. You could have died.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. “Mary.”
“If you wish me to hand in my letter of resignation, I will of course do so. I can’t imagine that you would want to work with me after—”
“Mary, come here.” He pulled her down toward him, and suddenly it seemed so natural, so inevitable, that she should lean down and kiss him with all the longing of the last few days, the last few months. His lips were soft and firm, his hand on her cheek both strong and tender. It was everything she had scarcely known she wanted in one moment of perfect, intensely felt life.
“Mary,” he said when she had pulled away again, afraid of hurting him, “I’ve never seen tears in your eyes.” He brushed them away with one finger.
She took his hand in hers. “They’re tears of gratitude, I think. But you should sleep now.”
“Yes, nurse,” he said, smiling, but his eyes were already half closed. She sat with him, holding his hand, until he fell into a deep, healing sleep.
MARY: Cat, is it absolutely necessary for you to include that scene?
CATHERINE: Yes.
Justine hesitated. Should she be here, standing in front of Dorian Gray’s elegant town house in Grosvenor Square? She still did not know what to think of Mr. Gray. And yet, somehow, she had felt that she should see him again, perhaps only to make up her mind about him.
Not certain whether she should or not, she rang the bell. Before it had stopped ringing, the door opened. She was startled to see Mr. Gray himself standing there, holding the door.
“I am short of domestic staff at the moment, Mr. Frank,” he said. “My English servants have left me, and I have sent my French staff ahead to my house in Antibes, where I intend to spend the winter. Do you wish to step over the threshold? You are most welcome, but you should be aware that you are entering the house of the most scandalous man in London. Or so my aunt Agatha calls me.”
Beatrice had mentioned a scandal of some sort, involving the playwright Mr. Wilde. But Justine never paid attention to such gossip.
“Mr. Gray,” she said, “I have come to correct a misapprehension. You see, when we met in the opium den where Mary and I were looking for Mr. Holmes, I was in disguise. I am, even now, in a disguise of sorts.” She looked down at her masculine clothes. “I am not Justin Frank, but Justine Frankenstein. Because of my height, it is easier for me to go about London dressed as a man. I apologize for the deception. I did not want our acquaintanceship to continue under false pretenses.”
“But you wanted it to continue?” he said with a smile. It was the innocent, angelic smile of a choir boy. “Come in, please come in—that is, if you wish.”
Justine stepped over the threshold and followed Dorian Gray down the hall into a parlor that made her gasp with astonishment. What would Beatrice think of this, if she could see it? The art on the walls, the furnishings, the bibelots, reminded her, more than anything else, of Irene Norton’s parlor in Vienna.
“Do you like it?” asked Mr. Gray. “I’m a collector, of sorts.” He looked as pleased as a child when you admire his new toy.
BEATRICE: I have seen his parlor since. It is magnificent, but might be more elegant if there were fewer objets d’art in it. He cannot seem to help his acquisitive instinct.
CATHERINE: And he collects people the way he collects those knick-knacks of his. I think he’s collected Justine as yet another curiosity.
JUSTINE: He most certainly has not. I know the rest of you do not like him, but Mr. Gray is my friend.
BEATRICE: We did not mean to criticize your friend, Justine.
DIANA: Of course you did.
Justine was less susceptible to physical beauty than most women. She could feel the beauty of a sunset or a flower, but in men and women, she had always admired intellect, probity, evidence of inner worth. And yet there was something about Dorian Gray—something delicate that reminded her of a porcelain figurine or a musical instrument. He was short for a man, half a head shorter than she was—quite the opposite of Atlas or Adam Frankenstein! His golden hair shone in the late morning light like a halo around his head. If she painted him, and it occurred to her that she would like to, it would be as a seraph, with wings rising from his shoulders. And yet Beatrice had warned her that he was reputed to be extravagant, profligate, immoral. “The charge of immorality is nonsense,” said Beatrice. “It is leveled by a prudish society against one who chooses not to live by its strictures. However, he is not a good man. Remember that he has abandoned Mr. Wilde, who is languishing in prison. And I have heard that both young men and women have been led into trouble, attempting to imitate his aesthetic lifestyle.” Justine had no idea what to make of all this.
“Come,” said Mr. Gray. “Let me show you my Tanagra figurine—or better yet, since you have told me that you are interest
ed in art, come see this painting. It is by Mr. Whistler, in quite a new style.”
Justine walked over to the painting. Yes, it was indeed new—a visual nocturne, the coming of twilight over the Thames. “I am myself a painter,” she said. “But I have never attempted anything like this. Perhaps I should try. After all, this is a new era, as Catherine keeps pointing out. Perhaps I should try to be more modern.”
“Mr. Frank—Miss Frankenstein,” said Mr. Gray. “Please understand that it makes no difference to me what you call yourself, or what clothes you wear. Whether you are Justin or Justine is immaterial. It is you, yourself, that I wish to know better. Although the name Frankenstein—I have heard it before.”
“Yes,” said Justine, startled that he had recognized it. But of course he must be very well read. “It was a book by Mrs. Shelley—”
“About Victor Frankenstein. Yes, I have read it. Many believe it to be a work of fiction, but alas, I know it to be fact!”
Justine looked at him with alarm. “Why alas, Mr. Gray?”
“Because I learned it through a misadventure that happened to me in my youth—it is what started me down the road I now travel. An association with an older man, a Lord Henry Wotton, a member of the Société des Alchimistes. You will not have heard of it, I’m sure—it is a very select society of men interested in the sciences, biology above all. Lord Henry told me that Victor Frankenstein had belonged to the same society, a century before, and that Mrs. Shelley’s tale was true, at least in most particulars. Are you, then, related to the Frankenstein family? You mentioned that you were Swiss.”
“In a sense,” said Justine, warily. So Mr. Gray knew about the Société des Alchimistes! What sort of association had he formed with this Lord Henry Wotton, and how had it set him on his current path, as he so enigmatically claimed? She would very much like to hear more of his story. But there was no time this morning. She was due back at 11 Park Terrace.
“If you could stay for luncheon—I have some cold tongue, caviar, and champagne,” said Mr. Gray.
She would have liked to, although she would have had to explain to him that she did not eat flesh food. But she did not want to be late for the meeting with Ayesha.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gray,” she said, “but my friends are waiting for me.”
“Of course,” he said. “I envy you—friendship is the one luxury that money cannot buy. Au revoir, Mademoiselle Frankenstein.”
When she held out her hand, he leaned over it, turned it over, and kissed the palm. As she walked home from Mayfair to Marylebone, she could feel the imprint of that kiss inside her glove.
BEATRICE: Are you quite sure you want to go to Antibes with Mr. Gray for two weeks? Would you rather not stay with me and Catherine in Paris? There will be museums, and restaurants, and a painting from the Louvre to recover from whoever has stolen it.…
JUSTINE: Yes, I’m sure. I’m going to paint in the south of France. He has expressly invited me.
BEATRICE: I think it is a mistake.…
CATHERINE: But we all get to make our own mistakes. After all, Bea, you and I have made plenty of our own.
BEATRICE: Alas.
Lucinda was sitting on the window seat in the parlor. It had been lovely to spend a quiet morning all by herself, while everyone else was out on their respective errands. For the first time, she had been able to talk to Mrs. Poole, who reminded her of the Van Helsing housekeeper, Frau Müller. While she was growing up, Frau Müller had always been there, to bandage a scraped knee or provide a ginger biscuit. What would the world be like without women such as Frau Müller in it?
Just before lunch, Alice and Beatrice had brought back a group of mesmerists, who had eaten in the dining room with its large mahogany table. What an entertaining meal it had been! They had made water glasses and napkins disappear, turned apples into golden balls and slices of toast into butterflies that flew about the room. Magpies had flown out of a meat pie. Of course Lucinda knew it was an illusion, that with the passes of their hands and their patter they were merely manipulating her perception of reality. Still, she had not laughed so much since her mother had taken her to the fair, years ago, and she had seen the jugglers with their sharp swords, the little dogs with ruffs around their necks jumping through hoops, the Harlequin and Columbine of the Commedia.
And no one had commented on the fact that her lunch had consisted of a bowl of blood. Sheep’s blood, specifically, which was not her favorite, but Mrs. Poole had gone to get it from the butcher, Mr. Byles, especially for her. Of course, Beatrice had been drinking a bowl of something green that smelled foul to her sensitive nose, so she had not been the only one with unusual culinary needs. How comfortable she felt in this house, where no one bothered her and everyone accepted what she was! When she had agreed to become a member of the Athena Club, she had not truly understood what she was agreeing to. But now she knew. It meant becoming part of a new family in which she would always be welcome.
“Lucinda!” She turned from looking out at the street without seeing it, lost in thought, toward the door. There stood Laura in a walking suit. “Oh, my dear, I wish you’d come with me,” she said. She had already taken off her hat and gloves, and was holding a letter in her left hand. “Piccadilly Circus, lunch at Harrod’s Department Store, and then a walk through Hyde Park… It was all so perfectly English, even more so than I’d imagined. It’s heavenly here! I mean, I do miss Styria, and Carmilla, and Magda, and everyone at home, and the dear old schloss itself. In Styria I used to think I was very English, and now I realize how Styrian I am, even in my nostalgia. Still, it’s glorious to see all the places my father used to talk about with such longing. How I wish he could be with me now! Although I do think the cakes are better back in Austria, but don’t tell Mrs. Poole I said that.”
“Miss Jennings,” said Mrs. Poole, appearing suddenly behind her at the doorway. Lucinda wondered if she’d heard that remark about the cakes. “I see you found the letter that came for you today. There was also a telegram. I didn’t want to leave it on the hall table with the regular mail, in case it might be something private.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” said Laura. She glanced quickly at the telegram. The housekeeper had already disappeared again down the hall. “Now isn’t that just like Carmilla! ‘Vampire nest destroyed coming to England how would you like to tour the Lake District darling all my love C.’ I think she feels a little guilty for abandoning us. What do you think, Lucinda? Would you like to tour the Lake District?”
Lucinda shook her head. Really all she wanted was to sit here and feel the life of this house flow through her, to feel herself surrounded by friends.
“And this is a letter from my cousin, the Reverend Mr. Jennings. I wrote to him almost as soon as we arrived. He is my last living relative in England.” Neatly, she tore open the letter and glanced down the page. “He regrets to say that he is ill and under the care of a mental specialist named—I can’t read it, his writing is so spidery. Dr. Hesselius, I think. Therefore, he cannot come to London, but would be happy to receive me at his home in Warwickshire. I’m not entirely sure where that is, but he says there’s a day train from London. I suppose there is just enough time to see him before Carmilla arrives. Goodness, what a busy visit this is proving to be! We saved the Queen, and I had lunch at Harrods, and now I’m going to see where Wordsworth wrote his ‘Tintern Abbey’ and that daffodil poem.”
“It is not time for our meeting?” asked Beatrice, coming in with a mug of tea in her hand. Why must Beatrice always be drinking things that smelled so foul? But they probably did not smell foul to her. Lucinda reminded herself that not all the world shared her vampire senses. “Lucinda, if you don’t mind, I will share the window seat with you.” Beatrice sat on the window seat, as elegantly as always. Well, Lucinda would simply have to learn to bear certain smells. As her mother had once told her, a lady may feel disgust, but she must never show it.
“Of course. Please.” She slid over and made more room.
>
“The Athena Club’s meeting with Ayesha? Then I shall be off,” said Laura.
“You are most welcome to attend,” said Beatrice. “I do not think Mary would mind.”
“Attending a meeting with the Princess of Meroë, Queen of Kôr, and President of the Alchemical Society, as Count Dracula calls her, is not my idea of fun,” said Laura. “Whereas shopping is. I barely brought any clothes with me, and I’ll need more if I’m going to tour the lakes! Ta now.”
“Wait for me!” Just as Laura was leaving it, Diana burst into the room. “Don’t start without me! Oh. No one’s here yet.”
“Apparently, we do not count as someone,” said Beatrice to Lucinda with a smile.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Diana, glaring at her. “Where are the others? I thought Catherine was right behind me.”
“Look what came in the mail!” said Catherine, striding into the room like a puma that has caught its prey and is dragging its bloody carcass across the forest floor. In her hands she held a book.
“Is that it?” asked Beatrice, rising and going over to see. “Has it come? Is that—”
“Yes,” said Catherine triumphantly. “The Mysteries of Astarte by Miss Catherine Moreau. It’s going on sale today all over England. Now I just hope people buy it!”
“They will,” said Justine, standing in the doorway. She had apparently just come in, because she still had her cap and gloves on. “It’s an excellent book, Catherine. Congratulations.”
“Oh, you know, it’s just my first one,” said the author, with false modesty. “I’m sure the next one will be better. And easier, now that I’ve written one book and know how!”
CATHERINE: Which, for any of my readers who may be wondering, is not the way it works. Every book is as hard to write as every other book. They are never easy.
MARY: But I would think the process gets easier, over time?
CATHERINE: You would think. But no, it doesn’t. I’ve had just as hard a time writing this book as I had with the first one. Which is available for sale—
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 39
