That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  For all Lord Ynyr’s smile and amiable manner, his heart lurched with disappointment and envy of Émile for knowing his own mind where he himself had dithered for weeks, unsure whether he cared enough for Sophie to set aside family tradition, unable to choose between the rival charms of Sophie and Morwenna.

  Now Sophie was suddenly unobtainable, her allure was so bright that he felt her loss as keenly as though he had never debated which girl he should choose.

  “So, mate,” Georges jeered as he finished work on Émile’s hair, “Have you forgotten about this Bat Nonsense now you have mended matters with Mademoiselle Sophie?”

  Émile sighed. “Instead of asking Mademoiselle Sophie to marry me, I should take myself away from civilisation, before I become the menace to the neighbourhood the Kenrick ménage already are. You must hear more of the local talk about them than I do.” He held out his hand and showed Georges his nails. “Like you my talons? They grow apace, for all I cut them this morning. I have just bribed the cook to stop putting garlic and herbs in my food.”

  “There is nothing in that, when you were ill for days.”

  “So, if you will not join with an honest half bat in acting against the Kenrick ménage then I must act alone and soon, too.”

  Georges was at the mirror, rubbing his special solution into his curly black hair. “You ain’t in any state to fight anyone at the moment.”

  Katarina brought in a large steaming cup of the cure.

  Émile groaned. “Believe me, I wish that it was a part of my delirium, Georges, and when I smell this repellent brew, I wish it still more. Must I drink this, ma petite?”

  She nodded solemnly. “It is the last Monsieur must have for a while.”

  Georges laughed. “You both are deluded. I have to be on my way, Monsieur Bat, for I am going to the village of Llandyrnog with Agnes and she is going to sneak out her baby for me to meet. I am in danger of becoming domesticated, too. It is sad. What became of the pair of careless rogues as we were?”

  Émile shuddered as he began to sip the drink. “They were beaten into submission by women and children, Georges. What can be in this, Katarina? It tastes more disgusting than ever.”

  Katarina frowned. “It is the same mixture of herbs, Monsieur, save that now we must have nettle added.”

  Émile groaned and shuddered as he downed the herbal drink while Katarina stood over him, arms crossed. Chortling, Georges went to the mirror to make a smug couple of alternations to his outfit. “I leave you to enjoy that brew.” He went out to the dressing room, whistling.

  Émile broke out into a sweat as he finished the drink and shook himself all over like an animal. Katarina watched him narrowly as he drew out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

  “Katarina, we will move house. I am going to wed Miss Sophie and you must be parlour maid proper. But I want you to work only part of the time, because I think you to be a clever girl who should have some learning, and I will arrange it. Agnes comes too. Shall you like that?”

  She leaped up and down on the spot. “Above anything, Monsieur! I love Miss Sophie!”

  “You are not the only one…But tell me, Katarina, something of Kenrick’s routine. It is well that I should know these things.”

  “Why, Monsieur Émile? Besides, they are away now, I know.”

  “Because I do, my girl! Stop being obdurate and tell Émile.”

  She bit her lip. “No, Monsieur Émile, for I think that as soon as they return, you will try and destroy him, but I fear instead they will destroy you. You haven’t back your strength. Kenrick is as strong as three men, having been a Man Vampire for years. Mistress Kenrick is as strong as any human male, though she looks so much a woman, and she has special knowledge of trances. Such comes with the vampire state, but most can put their victim in the trance for a little while only. All of us servants feared her gaze more than his. Then there is Arthur Williams, the footman, who was kind to me when he was a man, but now he is become one of them too; Captain Mackenzie is often there besides; she lately made him into a Man Vampire and he is enslaved by her, as is Arthur –” She broke off, gulping.

  “Trances –” Émile shook his head suddenly. “Now, Katarina, do not weep, for what is one rogue more or less? But it will not come to that, I promise you. Why is it, girl, you never have a handkerchief? Take mine.”

  She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and defended herself “I do! I gave you one of mine when you spewed upon the floor.”

  “So you did, I remember me now.” He gave her a quick pat on the top of the head. “Stop that weeping now, and tell me what I want to know, for I must go, with or without your help – Georges, forgot you something?”

  Georges was glowering in the doorway. “You ain’t doing anything without me, Gilles Long Legs.”

  Émile grinned. “Would I attempt such a thing? Yet I think I must, Georges, for I cannot let you risk your silly neck, comprehending not the dangers.”

  Georges’ dark eyes glittered. “I suppose I must humour your madness, Gilles Long Legs. I will do what you say. I want to help you teach some civility to this lunatic and his toadies.”

  Émile smiled. “Good. Now, hold your peace, Georges, while we rave. Keep that handkerchief, Katarina…I gather, then, they – or it may be, we – who aren’t Undead, sleep in beds, eat, and act quite normally compared to the full vampire?”

  “Do not joke, Monsieur. The first Mistress Kenrick – she was so nice, and he was different then – laughed at Kenrick at first. He caused her death, though she was the only one he ever loved.”

  “He killed her?”

  Katarina nodded. “We thought it an accident. She must have been running away.”

  Georges said solemnly, “A man as kills a woman is no better than a dog.”

  “Truly, Georges…How many of us happy walking dinners become Man or Woman vampires?”

  Katarina flinched. “I heard if the vampire took more than a few mouthfuls then without the cure, it is certain.”

  Georges stirred uneasily, while Émile rolled his eyes. “This seems not happy, ma petite. How many does the cure save from joining the Noble Order of Bats?”

  She fiddled with her apron strings. “Perhaps one in two –” She rushed over to take his hands. “But Monsieur must remember the other cures we shall use later!”

  When Katarina and Georges had gone, Émile put on his greatcoat and went through the grounds to the carpenter’s workshop, the bitter wind buffeting him. When the carpenter opened the door of the workroom, the heat from the small fire made a startling contrast to the cold outside.

  The man’s young son was planing down a piece of wood.

  Émile chatted amiably with them a while. The man took a low view of all foreigners save the Dowager Countess, and was surprised at Émile’s friendly interest in woodwork.

  Émile showed him a sketch. “I will need these – stakes.”

  “Do you wish the ends to be very sharp?” The man, having heard of Émile’s fearlessness, was startled to see him flinch and pale before saying after a seeming internal struggle, “As sharp as you can make ‘em.”

  “Now, bachgen, what wood would be best to make these stakes for the gentleman? Sir, are you ill?”

  “It is nothing; I am still getting the better of that wearisome fever.”

  “I heard of your illness, Sir. My boy too, he missed the Christmas party, poor lad, though Miss Sophie brought him over his present and some treats.” The carpenter chattered on, discussing with his son the best way to fashion the stakes. Meanwhile Émile shifted as uncomfortably as he had when tormented by Sophie’s singing.

  Finally, the matter was sorted out to their satisfaction. Émile tipped them extravagantly and went back out into the piercing wind with a cheerful wave.

  “You don’t think he wants to cut anyone’s head off with those things, do you, Tad? After all, he is a Ffrancwr.”

  “No, bachgen, is his Mam and Tad had their heads cut off by rabble too fierce to wear breeches*. Always w
ell dressed is Mr Émile.”

  At the sight of Sophie’s radiant face, Agnes’ put by her fears. “Didn’t I always say, Miss? My Tarot cards said the fair man from overseas would ask for you.”

  They fell into each other’s arms and danced in a circle. “You did, Agnes, and I wouldn’t believe you! Oh, I am so happy! Her Ladyship says if you wish you may come with me. Agnes, I hope you do? Do you want Eiluned to live with us?”

  At Eiluned’s name, Agnes’ face became as inscrutable as ever was Émile’s. She hugged Sophie again. “Ah, Miss Sophie! Not at present. Recollect you people hereabouts are not supposed to know her mine, though there has always been talk.”

  “Oh dear, perhaps too, you are reluctant to move her to a house where Monsieur Émile is in danger of becoming –” Sophie couldn’t say the words.

  “We do not know that yet, Miss Sophie, and vampire or no, I am sure he would not bite a baby, but there are other reasons why it is best not. – I wonder what Lord Ynyr and Miss Morwenna will make of this? She had her eye on both, and didn’t want to let either go. This will make her mind up for her.”

  Sophie had to smile. “Agnes, you are wicked! Lord Ynyr is perfect for her, being so good natured. Now, the weather is so foul you must take my fur lined cloak for your trip to your mother’s with Georges. For myself, I must search again for that book on vampire lore. It is infuriating! I have been through the library and half of the books in that ante room.”

  After another hour’s fruitless search amongst the books, it was time for Sophie to put aside her worries and make herself look as pretty as she could in her favourite blue dress for dinner.

  She hoped it improved her charms. Anyway, Émile’s eyes dilated at the sight of her as she shyly entered the room, while at the sight of him, magnificently turned out if much leaner, she glowed.

  Meanwhile, Lord Ynyr came with his normal easy manners to wish her joy. She stole glances at his face now and then in between studying the pattern of the carpet. She was glad that her efforts to do what Harriet called ‘Drawing Him In’ had failed, so now, instead of falling to his knees with a howl of anguish, he smiled congratulations.

  Miss Morwenna, magnificent in rose pink with gold about her throat and ears, came over in perfumed glory to take her hands. Her smile appeared so friendly that Sophie could almost believe she imagined the resentment lurking at the back of her eyes. “Félicitations, Miss Sophie! I have just been berating Monsieur for being so secretive. It is too bad of him, but we cannot be hard on him when he is convalescent, though on top of all else he insists on a marriage within days.”

  “Thank you, Miss Morwenna. I hope that you will do us the honour of being bridesmaid?”

  “I would be delighted.” Sophie’s fears that Miss Morwenna might have a Disappointed Heart disappeared as those sharp hazel eyes turned inwards to calculate how long it would take to have a gown made up.

  The Dowager Countess roused herself to kiss Sophie warmly, meanwhile casting admonitory glances at her embroidery, as though daring it to put itself into another Sad Tangle.

  “With this happy news, I clean forgot!” the Count said brightly, just before they went in to dinner. “Here is that foolish book the future Madame Dubois wished to see. I found it on the shelves in the morning room. ‘The Legend of the Vampyre.’ I trust for all your rational beliefs you will make no objection to my lending it to your betrothed, Cousin?”

  “By no means, Ynyr. I will attempt not to be too controlling.”* Émile’s smile was so normal Sophie was sure in his case she must have been mistaken about that momentary flicker of hostility at the back of the eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chester

  Harriet de Courcy was puzzling over breakfast how to cut down on the use of candles in the servants’ rooms while John de Courcy opened the post. Suddenly, he exclaimed with joy.

  “This is a piece of news! Harriet, my dear, guess who is asking for our little sister Sophie?”

  “The local curate?”

  “No, he is a married man. Take another guess; scruple not about aiming too high.”

  His wife clapped her hands. “Surely not Count Ruthin?”

  “Near as good. None other than Monsieur Émile Dubois!” he smiled. “He writes to invite me to give the bride away, saying that though he is sure His Lordship the Count of Ruthin will be happy to have us guests, he hopes to take his own house in the area this week. We must about arranging for our trip, as the wedding will take place by special licence during the time of our proposed visit. This has all fallen out most conveniently!”

  “Excellent, John! Yet, the man is such a scoundrel. He has a dreadful reputation. If one quarter of the things spoken of him are true, then he will make an appalling husband for the poor little girl.”

  “Why, they may even pull well together. If not, then they can live separately after she has given him a couple of heirs.”

  “But how did she ever draw him in?”

  “Yes, Harriet, she has done well. She is pretty, of course, but not outstanding, so I never expected her to make such a brilliant match. I was hoping that she would make something of her connection with our great relatives. I had written reminding her of her duty, but I never expected such news.”

  He went back to the letter. “I must write at once giving my consent. What a thing, Harriet, eh? Well, the sooner the villain marries her the better, before he changes his mind. He is probably suffering from a fit of conscience brought on by his excesses. These rakes tend to have such now and then, I collect. Perhaps he wants to ensure an heir, too, having lost his family. Dear, there will be no occasion for me to mention that it took some years for our mother to present me to the world.”

  “For sure not, dear, and it is lucky that his parents being dead, will raise no objection to the match.”

  He frowned. She poured him a cup of tea.

  “The de Courcy’s are as well bred as any Llewelyn or Dubois, Harriet. We have merely fallen upon temporary misfortune. Still, the future is bright! When this revolutionary nonsense is over in France, my future Dubois nieces and nephews will be able to take their places at Versailles…”

  Plas Uchaf

  Famau Mountain

  Émile and Sophie were in the open top of the tower-like folly, his secret hide-out at Plas Uchaf as a boy. The day was bright, an icy east wind buffeting about. Sophie was warm in her fur lined cloak as she sat on the bench watching him carve on the wall with his fearsome knife, ‘Émile Gilles Gaston Dubois loves Sophie Marie Loiuse de Courcy for always.’

  “Can I hold you to that, Émile, though I become stout and tell tedious stories?”

  He grinned. “I would rather you resisted such urges, but I think I must love you anyway.”

  She dimpled, having just asked him to resist an urge himself two minutes before. They had been having one of their kissing sessions; caressing her large bottom that he so admired, he murmured, “Such a lovely derrière as you have! What a pity it is we must wait for this foolish ceremony, which means nothing to me, for as you have sworn yourself to me, I regard you as my wife already.” He kissed her some more. “I don’t suppose, ma chère?”

  “Really, Émile!”

  So, he’d gone over to carve his promise.

  High up as they were here, the view down over the foothills to the Clwyd Valley stretched out beneath was even more magnificent than the usual ones from Plas Uchaf. Sophie kept her head turned away from the roofs of Plas Cyfeillgar and noted a farm cart trundling along the level track leading from there past the home farm.

  Such an ordinary sight made the more grotesque the threat hanging over them so luridly recounted in ‘The Legend of the Vampyre’, by ‘A Traveller’.

  Sophie had opened it in her room, hands shaking so she could hardly take in the words as she turned over pages brown with age.

  ‘The tragedy of the Vampire proper is to be Undead until released by the One who Loves Him Sufficiently to expedite the Terrible Ritual of Driving the Stake through the
Heart and Severance of the Head…The greatest care of the Loved Ones of those who have survived the Vampyre Bite must be to prevent the Victim from becoming another Predator, the Demi, the Man or Woman Vampyre, who on Death must become a Full Vampyre in turn unless these Gruesome Rituals are perpetrated upon the Corpse.

  ‘This apparently Human Creature has an Inhuman Nature, though he Respireth, Sleepeth of a Night and Dineth at table…

  “The most inhuman characteristic of the Condition, the Thirst for Blood develops typically within a month, the Passionate Man succumbing more readily than the Continent…

  ‘There is Unease in the presence of Religious Rituals or Artefacts. The Transformations of Shape followeth, although Transformations to Bat and Wolf cometh later…

  ‘Cure is Traditionally Attempted Through the use of Healing Plants, and should these Fail, the Cure of the Charged Wine. These I shall expound in greater detail subsequently…’ Sophie’s trembling fingers tore a page as she rushed to: ‘…Equal portions of Rosemary, Sage, Fennel, Thyme and Mint to which must be added one twentieth of chopped Garlic, given for Three Days, to which the Nettle is subsequently added. For those Poisoned by Prolonged Exposure to the Fangs, this must be taken some couple of hours to prove efficacious…a Harrowing Wait obtaineth, while the Victim Inevitably, whether or not the cure is Proving, Demonstrates the above Symptoms… If these have not abated within some Couple of Weeks, then arrangements must be made to commence the Cure of the Blessed Wine…”

  Appropriately, the candle had guttered.

  Shuddering, Sophie then skimmed over the details of this bathing of the patient in wine left in a church overnight. She was sure with the sceptical Émile, any form of healing by faith could only fail.

  Now she jumped up and stooped to kiss the top of his hair, carefully, for she knew he disliked it disarranged. “Monsieur – I mean – Émile, I shall always think of this your promise still here, as the seasons turn into years. After this, I hate to speak of something so miserable as our fears, though I think we must.”