by Minda Webber
Eve returned Jane's smile, recalling again the gossip she had heard when she first came to town: dire predictions about a master vampire and a vampire slayer being forced together in wedlock till death did they part. Pessimists had proclaimed that the Earl of Wolverton would be staked before the month was out. Vampire lovers had predicted that Lady Jane would meet a toothsome demise. But their marriage had set the supernatural world on its head, causing vampires to roll over in their graves and vampire hunters everywhere to shake their heads, along with their garlic cloves. In spite of these gossips and manuremongers, the couple had fallen in love and walked happily into the crypt before sunrise, proving all skeptics wrong.
"How is work at the hospital proceeding?" Eve asked encouragingly. She had recommended that the blood-shy countess volunteer her time at a hospital on a thrice-weekly basis for several hours a day. Lady Jane had flinched when the words surgical ward were mentioned, but had agreed. Eve felt that if Lady Jane were repeatedly exposed to blood, her phobia would decrease.
Lady Jane smiled. "I enjoy helping with the patients most of the time. So many need a cheerful face or some genial conversation to help ease their pain. Imagine how dull it would be to be stuck in bed for days on end! And I haven't gotten ill at the sight of blood for weeks now, thanks to you."
"No, no. You should congratulate yourself, Jane," Eve said. "You've worked very hard."
She felt like shouting with triumph. When Jane had first started treatment five months ago, she couldn't even stay in the same room with a bloodied patient without casting up her accounts. This new report made Eve cheerfully optimistic. So many of her patients seemed almost hopeless cases. Too often months could turn into years before you saw progress, and from her studies she knew those years could easily slide into decades. If only the brain's problems were like a toothache and you could just pull out offending memories or fears, she mused. But at least for now Jane's nausea had subsided, and the countess was getting better. It was all Eve could do not to dance a pirate's jig.
"How about the fainting episodes?" she asked.
"Well, I am doing quite well with a little bit of blood… but when it comes in great amounts, I do still tend to faint," Jane confessed. "But at least I no longer become queasy. Asher is very proud of me—with the exception of the spider incident last month in the family crypt. Actually, he found it hysterically funny until I locked him out of our bedroom for his hilarity."
Eve half smiled. "I'm glad to hear it's going well."
"Yes, although I must admit that the hospital does need more thorough maids. You should have seen the dust bunnies under some of the cabinets," Lady Jane remarked. "I have spoken to the hospital administrator about it."
Eve nodded encouragingly. She knew her patient's disdain for dirt. When she had first met with Asher about his wife's phobia, she'd had several suggestions for after the Lady Jane finally made the transformation from mortal to vampire. The family crypt should be cleaned thoroughly on a daily basis. Asher should be Jane's blood donor, and it was recommended that his native soil—which vampires were required to keep nearby—should be placed in lacy little bags filled also with lavender. And all frolicking in the graveyard would be strictly forbidden, unless he wanted himself and his wife to have a complete dustup.
"I'm sure the hospital administrator appreciated your suggestion," she said. Eve's newest patient—one Mrs. Monkfort, who also hated dirt—would not have merely suggested it, but put her words to action and had the entire ward cleaned. Of course, Mrs. Monkfort was extremely obsessive—to the point of mania—while Lady Jane was only a trifle overwrought.
"I'm not so sure. Ever since the time I fainted at his feet, the poor man tries to avoid me."
"Shockingly poor manners, I'm sure," Eve consoled Jane, adding to her notes.
Patient is particularly sensitive to the slights of others, having lived with an overbearing, autocratic father who found fault with everything she did or does, from badly sharpening stakes to marrying a monster.
Eve knew that in most situations, a mere major would be overjoyed that his daughter had risen so high above her pedigree, but Major Van Helsing had been vehemently disgruntled that his only daughter was sleeping with the enemy. He did not like the idea of a Van Helsing rising out of a coffin to drink rather than stake at sunset.
"How is the situation with your father?" Eve questioned, jotting down notations on her patient's chart.
She felt sure some of the woman's fears came from traumatic events in her early life, and with Major Van Helsing as Jane's father, it was no wonder. So far Eve had been unable to uncover any particular event, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. Often life's major events were so horrific that the mind buried them so deep that they lay beneath layers and layers of the subconscious, like a sunken ship slowly being buried by sands at the bottom of the sea. This resulted in the ship's eventually becoming completely invisible to the naked eye over time—just like lost memories.
"If I were still at home, I would be polishing the Van Helsing silver daily. The major was not happy when he discovered Asher is a vampire, but since we destroyed the evil Dracul at the time, some of the bite was taken out of him. For a year or so, my father wasn't really overbearing about my husband and me and the whole vampire-and-slayer relationship."
Eve nodded, thinking that Asher and Jane seemed like they had an excellent marriage, and both still acted very much in love.
Lady Jane continued: "But in the past seven months or so he has become quite contrary, as if he fears I'll go over to the dark side. Ridiculous, since Asher isn't even dark. And this whole problem with my being sickened by blood means that I shan't be turned into a vampiress anytime in the near future! Yet still the major blusters and gives me dark looks."
"Much as when you lived with him?" Eve wanted to majorly wallop Major Van Helsing. He was like her own father in many ways, a blustery autocrat who thought he knew best, and who hounded anyone not falling in with his plans. The major had expected Jane to carry on the family name, happily staking her way through life. Captain Bluebeard wanted grandkids and for Eve to sail her life away, pirating and looting. But as mad as her father made her, Eve at least felt he loved her. From Lady Jane's comments, Eve wasn't sure the major even held his daughter in affection.
"Yes. Although Asher is now included in these looks. Do you know my father still believes that the only good vampire is a dead vampire? Thank heavens the rest of my family no longer believes that nonsense! Asher, being Asher, could care less about the glares, but he does feel a bit guilty at the major's disapproving stares directed at me."
"Regretfully, Major Van Helsing is who he is, and has his own fears to live with," Eve said. She sighed. "I doubt your father will ever truly change his opinions. You know the old cliché, that you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Well, I rather doubt you can teach an old vampire slayer, either. He will always judge a vampire by his coffin, and not what lies in his heart. I highly recommend that you ignore any feelings of guilt you suffer for disappointing your father, and not let the man's feelings affect you at all." Eve was reminded again of her father's devious interference. She could hardly wait to track the old reprobate down, and to tell him exactly what she thought of his rotten plan.
She grimaced and continued with her advice: "No, we cannot remake ourselves to suit someone else's image. We must always be true to who we are and what we are, with all our faults and all our remarkable capabilities for forgiveness and talents for whatever," Eve counseled. Her thoughts grim, she made another notation, this time for herself:
Lock Bluebeard in a sea chest and throw away the key.
Lady Jane nodded, an intense expression on her face. Growing up under her father's rule had made her want to please everyone, most especially the major. The major, a man not to be satisfied with anything, had never lavished a single word of praise upon her, making her feel like a failure. That continual feeling had severely crushed her spirit, and if not for her beloved ostrich; her dog, Spot;
her dearest friend, Clare Frankenstein; and her brother, Brandon, she likely would have faded away while polishing the family silver.
"You're quite fortunate, you know," Eve reminded her. "You're married to a handsome earl who loves you, and the rest of your family admires him."
"I know. I am quite pleased at how my uncle, Jakob Van Helsing, my cousins, and brother have all taken Asher into their confidence. Why, my brother can hardly wait at times for Asher to come popping out of his coffin to talk to him about things," Jane said. "Although the first few times it happened, Asher said his nerves were in quite a state. A vampire usually gets staked when he wakes to find a Van Helsing standing over his coffin. He doesn't get asked what gift to buy an angry mistress."
Eve laughed. "Yes, I can imagine. Having a renowned vampire hunter perched by your coffin could be quite unsettling."
Jane blushed becomingly. "My husband never minds rising to the occasion when I wake him up."
Eve made a notation on her pad:
True love is a wonder to behold.
She smiled and commented, "Dreams do come true." For some people, she thought wryly.
Jane nodded happily. "Yes, I am fortunate. A series of misfortunes and my fears ended in a marriage made in hell but a honeymoon made in heaven."
"Oftentimes good can come from mishaps and mayhem," Eve agreed. Although in her case, it was quite different, she thought fretfully. Just look what trying to avoid being married had cost her! Her fake marriage was now being shoved down her throat, along with a tasty yet tasteless blackguard pretending to be her husband.
Glancing over at the clock upon the fireplace mantel, she realized that time had passed swiftly. She reached inside a desk drawer and pulled out several different pictures with black smeared upon them: her art treatment therapy. She handed one to Jane, determined to get to the root of the woman's phobias.
"It's time for the black stains again?" Jane asked approvingly. "I do so love to use my imagination on them. It's like when I sit down to sketch birds."
"Inkblots," Eve corrected kindly. No matter how many times she used her inkblot therapy, her patients got the terminology wrong. She'd even tried to drill the name home using a roar-shock method, but to no avail.
Her patients' inability to remember the name was particularly aggravating, because Eve was rather proud of her thrilling new methodology in treating the mentally ill. It had begun as an accident back at the University of Vienna. For an internship, she had been working at a hospital. One night, tired and worn-out from three straight days and nights of being on call, she had spilled a bottle of ink. At the time she had been taking notes. A patient had commented on the black spots, giving Eve a brief glimpse into his fog-shrouded mind. Soon she was trying the stains on other patients, and eventually discussed it with her mentor, Dr. Kroger. He had embraced the new therapy. Together, they had refined the stains to conform to various images they felt might stimulate the subconscious mind.
"Now, what does this one remind you of?" she asked.
"Asher putting on his cloak," Jane replied. "Did I tell you that he thinks I have the prettiest feet he's ever seen?"
"Odd, I thought the earl would be a neck man," Eve remarked.
Lady Jane blushed. "He loves my neck, too," she admitted. "He's just batty about necks and feet." Then, pointing at a certain spot on the stain, she added, "Yes—Asher's putting on his coat, and that is Spot by his foot."
Eve rather thought the inkblot resembled a pirate sword. "This one?" she asked, holding out the next picture.
"Let me see. Hmm." Jane put her finger to her chin. "This one reminds me of Asher rising from his coffin. He's smiling happily upon seeing me. Waking him is so divine. Did I mention that he calls me his little ray of nonfatal sunshine?"
"How lovely," Eve replied stoically. Each to her own desires, she decided. Holding up another mess of black splotches, she asked, "How about this?"
"Asher—waltzing."
Eve twisted her pearl necklace, making notes on her notepad.
Obsessive patient. Whereas a spot definitely resembles a person walking a plank, Lady Jane sees her bloody husband. We need to focus more on her fear of bloodlust rather than plain old lust.
Warily, she flipped over the next picture.
"Dr. Eve, really!" Jane protested. "I can't believe you have a picture of Asher stepping out of the bath!"
Eve almost broke her necklace, twisting it viciously. This was really too much. Young love was a wondrous thing, a many-splendored thing, but not when it barred the way to unlocking submerged and perhaps crucial memories. "Lady Jane, I beg to differ. This particular ink spot is of a crow's nest aboard a pirate ship. I have never had any erotic ink spots in my possession, nor will I. And I certainly would never place in my therapy an ink spot of your husband without any clothes. Perhaps if you look closer at the picture, you might see something else." Her fingers began to tap on Henry Morgan's skull in slight vexation. "Something not dealing with your husband."
Accepting the request good-naturedly, Lady Jane lowered her head to again study the ink spot. Her brow wrinkled in concentration. Finally, after several moments passed, she spoke decisively: "You're quite right. I can see that now. It isn't a picture of Asher standing nude in this black blot."
"Inkblot," Eve again corrected.
Lady Jane glanced up and nodded. "You're quite right. This ink splot looks like Orville, my pet ostrich."
Eve wanted to jump up and shout, Hoist the mainsails, we've got a strong wind at long last. She was finally getting somewhere. No mention of her patient's dratted husband.
"Yes," Jane continued firmly, as pointing at the picture. "This is Orville, my ostrich, walking in the garden with my beloved Asher."
Chapter Eleven
All About Eve
While Eve was privately seeing her patient, Adam was busy gossiping with Mrs. Fawlty, who gave him a quick tour of the Towers. The irascible housekeeper was a font of information about his wayward wife; she had been with Eve since the opening of the asylum. Listening to Mrs. Fawlty, Adam began to get a much better handle on Eve, for the housekeeper gave descriptions of her waking life. He quickly discovered that his bustling bride worked with patients morning and night, due to the fact that at least some of her patients could counsel with her only after dark, such as vampires, night hags, and gargoyles. Most of her time was spent in work, though Eve did attend some balls, routs, and plays. But mainly she stayed at the Towers, trying to cure the cretins under her care.
After several cups of tea bettered with brandy, Mrs. Fawlty admitted that Eve could be a mite autocratic whenever she wanted her way—which happened to be most of the time. The housekeeper also confided that Eve could be testy as well, which Mrs. Fawlty believed was the result of EBS—Empty Bed Syndrome. Dr. Eve's bed was empty of all but her sweet self, you see. When Mrs. Fawlty confided this last nugget of information, the lusty housekeeper gave Adam a knowing look followed by a pert wink. Next the housekeeper added that since the master was home, the missus would probably be early to bed and later to rise. Yes—she had grinned leeringly—there would be all kinds of risings. Which in her good opinion meant that Dr. Eve would have a tendency to be singing in the mornings rather than ordering everybody about.
After this rather revealing conversation with the housekeeper, Adam next encountered a leprechaun. He watched a few moments in silence as Fester carved out a hole in the wine cellar with a pickax, and after overhearing that Fester was hiding pots of gold, Adam had searched in high spirits, rubbing his hands gleefully together as he tried to spy the treasure about which Fester kept yammering. Adam had never seen a pot of gold at the end of any rainbow, but he still believed. After all, he was part Irish. If Fester said he had pots of gold, then no doubt he did.
Adam understood that Eve would have him walking the plank if she thought he might filch a pot or two of gold from one of her patients. Still, a man did what he had to do, and he couldn't help his infamous inclination. He had found himself in th
e situation of having to sing for his supper too many times before.
Casting aside his doubts, he carefully inspected the cellar, looking beneath every wine rack and odd box, all the while stifling the little twinges of guilt he felt. He rationalized his snooping with the fact that Fester was a patient of Eve's, and not likely to be leaving the asylum in the near future. Therefore, the leprechaun really had no need of pots of gold. And Adam would take only one or two of them, leaving the rest for the demented Fester.
Alas, Adam came up empty-handed, not finding any pots of gold. Not even one measly doubloon. It brought him to the unhappy conclusion that Fester, like Eve, had an overactive imagination.
Adam might have been more disappointed in this quirky turn of events if he hadn't decided to converse with the leprechaun to see just how delusional Fester was. Fester turned out to be highly entertaining, and extremely knowledgeable about government conspiracies. Adam was particularly impressed with the conspiracy about the Corn Laws, which Fester believed were an attempt by Parliament to cover up the huge circles found in cornfields. The leprechaun then added vehemently that the government was keeping the common masses from discovering that elephants resided in England, where they liked to play a game much like the one called ring-around-the-rosy. Furthermore, these elephants were going to be used to march over the Alps when England invaded Switzerland for its chocolate. It seemed that England had a shortage of chocolate, Fester had ended grandly, and Parliament didn't want the common masses to panic.
Being the gentleman that he was, Adam had nodded approvingly at the appropriate spots, hiding his grin. As far as conspiracy theories went, Fester's lacked common sense but had panache. He gave the inventive leprechaun a pat on the back for effort, and even helped him fill in one of his "gold holes." Then he had advised the daft dwarf to try his hand at writing.
