by E. C. Hibbs
Benjamin tapped the edge of his glass to mine. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“And to you, Sir.” I sipped the drink slowly, forcing my lips not to pucker at the sharp taste. Benjamin’s eyes wandered over me.
“If I may ask,” he said suddenly, “how would you say it?”
I frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“In the Hungarian tongue. How would you wish somebody a Merry Christmas?”
I couldn’t disguise my surprise. I hadn’t spoken Hungarian since leaving Fiume; I had the impression from Margaret that I wasn’t to utter a word of it in front of my new family. But, I decided, Benjamin was probably just curious, and so I relented.
“Boldog Karácsonyt,” I said.
Benjamin let out a small chuckle. “Extraordinary,” he grinned.
I returned the smile, disguising my awkwardness by taking another mouthful of the champagne. Then I made good use of the fan again, feeling very grateful for it.
“Forgive me. I’m not used to gatherings such as this.”
“Ah, don’t worry, Miss.” Benjamin leant in a little closer to whisper in my ear. “Personally, I find them a bit monotonous myself! But it can’t be helped, I’m afraid, not when one is part of such a circle as my father.”
I glanced between him and Henry, who had returned to Norman’s side. The two men were engrossed in conversation, one arm tucked behind their backs. Henry had lit a clay pipe and puffed out a cloud of smoke before holding the bowl loosely in his hand.
“Do you mean the mining business?” I asked. “Where is the mine he owns, if I may ask?”
“Mines, dear lady, mines,” corrected Benjamin, with a slight air of arrogance. “They are in Wales, all five of them. They have been in the family for two generations now.”
“And you shall inherit them one day, I presume?” I said, hardening my tone ever-so-slightly to counteract him.
“Certainly.” Benjamin swallowed the last of his champagne and signalled to the butler again, who silently approached to take away his empty glass. Miss Lockwood acquired one for herself while he was near.
“What a marvellous legacy for you, Sir.” I readjusted one of my gloves. “Tell me, please, do you have any siblings? This house could surely hold an impressive family.”
The smugness dropped a little from Benjamin’s face and his smile seemed to become much more natural. I went to apologise, worried that I had overstepped some boundary, but he gave a simple shake of his head, cutting me off before I could speak.
“I’m sorry to say that I am an only child,” he said. “There is only myself and Father who call this place home. And the servants, of course.”
“Of course.” I lowered my eyes. “I am sorry for questioning you, Sir.”
“There is no need to say sorry, Miss. What of yourself, if I may ask? Have you any family back in your homeland?”
I nodded, imagining Zíta and Erik in my mind. “I have two elder cousins, who raised me like their own child. I was very sorry to bid them goodbye.”
“What of your parents?”
“They’re dead.”
“Did you know them?”
“Not really.”
He nodded in understanding. “I am very sorry.”
We were called to dinner then, and Benjamin smiled broadly before offering me his arm. I went to slide my hand into his elbow, when I noticed for the first time that there was a small bandage wound around his palm. I must have frowned, because Benjamin bobbed his head a little to catch my eye.
“Don’t worry about this,” he whispered. “I was just careless hanging a painting.”
With that, he took me through to the dining room, where a long table had been set with a fine linen cloth and polished silverware. Henry sat at the head, and Benjamin escorted me to my place close to Norman and Margaret. I quietly thanked him; then watched him walk away to sit beside his father.
I turned back to the table top. In front of me were a flaming candelabrum, and more types of fork and spoon than I could name. Reminding myself to start with the outermost pieces and work inwards, I picked up my napkin, shaking it out of its ludicrous folded shape, and laid it across my lap. Then I noticed that a card was propped beside my plate, and dull shock sparked through my veins.
It didn’t read Éva Kálvin; the true form of my name. Instead, an anglicised version of it had been scribed: Eva Calvin.
I sat there dumbly for a moment, unable to stop staring at the inked lines. It wasn’t much of a change, but my entire being seemed to protest against it. I knew the English sometimes had difficulty pronouncing it correctly, but that was no need to alter anything else. In all his letters to me back in Hattyúpatak, my grandfather had addressed me with the Magyar form of my name. What was the difference now?
I ate in relative silence, only speaking when spoken to by the other guests. I was relieved when they seemed to associate my meekness with getting used to the high social situations, which wasn’t far from the truth. But beneath my composed exterior, I could feel a curious rage working in me, stoked whenever I caught a glimpse of the card. While we were waiting for the main course to be served, I turned it around so I wouldn’t have to look at the strange name.
After dinner, I joined the other women in the music room to sing carols, while the gentlemen engrossed themselves with tobacco and games of cards. Then we all came together for a small dance. Benjamin took my hand and guided me into the centre of the floor, helping me through the slow steps of a simple waltz. I gave him a timid smile; a gesture which he returned, albeit much more pompously.
Time seemed to blur, and the entire room and its guests disappeared around me. I barely even felt Benjamin’s hands anymore. In a split-second, I thought back on all that had happened to me since I had stepped aboard the schooner. The ribs of the corset compressing against me suddenly seemed like a mould: confining me into a shape defined by perfect speech and appearances. Tossing feed to the clucking chickens, or helping distribute freshly chopped wood to the neighbours, seemed like an entire world away from me now, and that bit at me tediously.
I was very aware of my luck and privilege at making a new life here, but I couldn’t help but feel as though everybody around me was trying to turn me into someone else. There had even been a woman employed to watch me, and ensure I didn’t step out of line. They wished for me to be a conforming young lady, pulling me into a high society to which I felt I barely belonged.
In all that fuss, there was only room for Miss Calvin. Éva was a nuisance in the face of whatever plans this new land had in store for me.
Shortly after the dance, I bid goodbye to the other guests and our hosts, before I collected my wrap from the footman. Norman, Margaret, Miss Lockwood and I stepped back into the winter night, and I gave a sudden shiver at the decreased temperature. The sharp smell of frost was lingering on the air, combining with the warm remnants of our feast. To escape the cold, we hurried inside the carriage, and set off.
I rested my temple against the wall, closing my eyes, which had started to pulse uncomfortably. The scar on my neck itched, so I pulled off one of my gloves and wedged a finger around the beads to give it a gentle scratch.
“How did you find your first party, Eva?” asked Norman merrily, his cheeks flushed from port.
I glanced at him, aware of how tired I looked. “Most entertaining, Grandfather.”
A frown passed across his brow. “What’s the matter, dear? You look awfully drawn; are you ill?”
“My eyes are hurting a little,” I admitted. “I think I have perhaps taken a little too much light.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Norman sincerely. “Put a cold compress on your face when we get home. That should help ease it, shouldn’t it, darling?” he added, to Margaret.
“More than likely,” she replied, before shooting me a snide gaze. “It would probably serve as a good thing anyway. She will be less inclined to go out in the sun. And nobody wants a girl who is too tanned.”
I gla
nced at her before turning away, one hand still resting over the scar.
CHAPTER VIII
New Year came and went, and we moved ever closer to spring. Thin snows fell over the city, and the river waters iced and thawed in a constant repetitive circle. Slowly, buds started to appear on hedgerows; shoots of daffodils and snowdrops bloomed in the garden. We entered into February, and the days grew longer, some warmth and colour finally beginning to return to the sun.
I sat in the parlour with Margaret, both of us clutching an embroidery hoop in our hands. That afternoon, she had led me in a dull lesson at the piano, attempting to drill into me the chords for Beethoven’s Für Elise. I awkwardly managed the first section of it, before Margaret let me away from the infuriating instrument.
Christine served the two of us tea, bringing with her a small basket of mail. I sorted through the envelopes and was thrilled to find one crossed with Zíta’s handwriting. Tearing it open, I unfolded the paper and held it in my lap.
31st January, 1895
Dearest Éva,
I hope that you and your grandparents have enjoyed a prosperous festive season and that spring is coming to you. All is well here. I have great news to share: on his journey back from taking you to Fiume, Erik sought overnight lodgings with the Molnár family in the village of Győrtelek. There, he became on very good terms with their daughter Anette, who is almost exactly three years’ his junior. The two of them have met frequently since Erik returned home, and upon him asking for her father’s blessing, they are now engaged to be married.
I cannot express my pride and happiness for them in any kind of earthly words. Éva, how I wish you were here to meet her and attend the wedding! I have never seen my brother so happy in his life, and it is an absolute joy to behold. He has even set his hopes skyward, and confided to me only last week that he is perhaps planning to relocate. He wishes to leave behind his woodcutting profession to the younger apprentices, and take Anette to Buda-Pesth once they are wed, to make their fortune in which to build a new life and family.
But, my sweet girl, do not think for a moment that I am disheartened by this: quite the opposite. I have become on much better terms with József now, and he has learned to accept my advice and knowledge when I presume to offer it. Rest assured that there have been no further incidents of violence here, or anywhere nearby. All is as it should be, and while the entire village has spoken to me of how much they miss you, they are all pleased for you, and wish me to pass on their good thoughts.
I sincerely hope that you are well, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours, with deepest love and blessings,
Zíta.
“What are you smiling about?” Margaret asked suddenly.
I peered up at her, not bothering to pull my grin under control. “My cousin is to be married.”
Margaret gave a small grunt in response. “Give our compliments.”
“I will,” I said, “but I’ll probably leave writing a reply until tomorrow.”
I bit back telling her the reason why: that my fingers were aching from being splayed across the ivories for so long.
I put the letter inside the envelope again and placed it on the side table, before returning to my needlework. I carefully fed the silken threads through the linen, watching it take the shape of a string of violets.
Typical silence fell between Margaret and me. I looked at her every now and then, half-hoping that I might catch her eye and give her a friendly smile, but she kept her attention firmly on her embroidery. I wasn’t sure if that felt colder than the spiteful glances she would throw me otherwise.
Deciding to leave her to it, I instead listened to the distant rattling of Mrs Dean, toiling in the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. I could smell the succulent roasting meat even from here, along with an assortment of vegetables. I had never been inside the kitchen since my initial tour of the house, but I did feel sorry for Christine, who had to keep the room spotless in Cook’s wake.
There were only the four of us at home. Miss Lockwood had taken a day off since there were no plans that involved my leaving the house, and Norman went to visit his gentleman’s club with George in tow. It was a staple of his afternoons, and he would always return smelling even more strongly of fresh tobacco.
I struggled to adapt to this new life always indoors. In Hattyúpatak, barely a day would go by without me spending at least an hour out in the fresh air, no matter the weather or season. The stuffy and cluttered parlour drove me to distraction; the fumes of the gas lamps gave me awful headaches.
Norman arrived home in time to take dinner with us, and repeated his usual ritual of eagerly asking how my day had been. I didn’t hesitate in telling of Zíta’s letter and Erik’s good news. Norman congratulated me, his warm eyes twinkling, and I smiled broadly at him.
For as much as I had initially rebelled against the idea of joining his family, I couldn’t deny the connection that had forged between us. He truly did mean well, and never allowed me to doubt for a moment that I was not welcome and appreciated in his house.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine. I bid Norman and Margaret goodnight, and gave George a friendly nod as I passed him on the landing. He beamed in response, inclining his head in my direction, before I slipped through the door into my bedchamber.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to hold in a yawn. My chest swelled against the corset and I groaned in pain, quickly stripping down my dress to untangle the tight lacing behind my back. When I was finally free, I pushed the infernal thing away, laying it on the mattress before bending my torso in all directions. Aching spasms shot through my spine, and I placed a hand on the bedpost to steady myself. Sighing with relief, I changed into my nightgown and let my hair loose. It hung to my hips, made curly from being woven into tight plaits all day, so I brushed it straight, toying with the ends idly. Then I went to the window and checked the catch was secure, before drawing the curtains.
Christine had already been in and stoked the fire, so I didn’t bother lighting a candle to see me to bed. It had taken me a while to get used to the softness, but now the peculiar weightless feeling was pushed aside by sheer love of such comfort. It was a far cry from the restrictive clothes I had to wear while the sun was up.
I fell asleep almost instantly, but even though my slumber was deep, I could still feel my body moving agitatedly, as though weighted, somewhere below where I hung. In the strange timeless mirage of dreams, my eyes roved through the streets of a sprawling city. I could tell it wasn’t Liverpool, because there was a large castle standing on a hill in the west, fronted by a suspension bridge spanning the river.
Then I realised where it was supposed to be. It was Buda-Pesth, the capital of Hungary. I’d never been there, but József had, and he spoke to me about the landmarks when I mentioned my mother’s body was entombed in one of its cemeteries.
I vaguely wondered whereabouts Erik would make his new home, before I was flying down narrow alleyways, over the top of a spiked iron gate. In the misty distance, I could just make out the shape of a sculpted angel; its wings spread wide, small feathers drifting before me. I could almost feel the chilly wind, sending thin wisps of hair across my neck.
I became semi-conscious. The fire had burned low in the room; the coals reduced to smouldering embers in the grate. Weird half-silhouettes blanketed everything. The curtains fluttered, and I drew my blankets tighter around my chin as another blast of cold air swept over me.
I indistinctly heard the window panes tap against each other.
One of the shadows began moving across the ceiling. I watched it drowsily, my body trying to pull me back into sleep. I often imagined things like this when I was tired. I smiled to myself, remembering how I used to claim the sprites from the chopped trees used to fly around my head after a long day’s work.
I rolled over, fluffing my pillow with one hand. I sighed contently, and pulled Mirriam closer to me, tucking her stuffed body against mine.
I sensed something freezing curl around my wrist and pull my arm straight. The lace sleeve was whisked up to expose my flesh.
Then I realised what I could feel. Fingers.
My eyes flew open. There was a dark figure hunched over me, coming closer, lips peeled back.
Memories of the Izcacus exploded inside my head. I shrieked, wrenching free and propelling myself backwards. The intruder leapt away in shock. The entire room suddenly flashed red, throwing a hellish light onto his face, and I drew in a terrified breath of recognition.
It was James: the policeman who had greeted me on the night of my arrival. And in his mouth, I could see a pair of unmistakably long canines.
“Nem!” I yelled. “Démon! Vampír!”
James snarled and jumped off the end of my bed; then dived through the window in a single fluid movement. It slammed shut behind him, as though pulled by some invisible hand.
I carried on shouting, glancing around the room hysterically in case any more of them were lurking in the corners. The awful unnatural light was still lingering over the walls, turning everything the colour of blood. It was too strong to be coming from the fireplace. I knelt up so I could look past the bedpost, and caught sight of my reflection in the dressing table mirror.
My eyes were completely scarlet.
My scream heightened with pure panic. My hands flew to my face; then swept down over my arm, trying to brush away the recollection of the icy touch. It suddenly felt as though the entire room had compressed on me; strange whispers of fright bounced inside my ears. The patterned baroque wallpaper became lidless stares, boring into me.
I heard heavy footsteps outside and glanced up, terrified that I would be seen like this. But then I realised the red glow was gone, and my attention shot to the mirror again. My irises were back to normal: the same blue that I’d known all my life.
I let out a whimper of fear as the door flew open, and Norman burst in, followed closely by George and Christine. All of them were still in their nightclothes, with caps on their heads, and George was clutching a candelabrum in one hand. He shone its light in all directions, searching for danger, while Christine hurriedly turned on the gas lamp.
