That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  They walked through the bitter gusts of whirling snowflakes by way of a shrubbery to the courtyard at the side of the house. They felt eyes on them as they tried an unpretentious side door. It was not locked, and opened easily. They gazed suspiciously about the flagged, bright passageway.

  Émile made to go in, and then froze on the threshold. He shook his head, avoiding Georges’ eyes.

  Georges spoke softly. “Is it so bad a fate, mon ami, to lose the threat of the worm and the grave?”

  The weedy boy from the pub came down the passage, his eyes darting nervously about. “Come in, Sir.” He beckoned, hand shaking.

  “Thank you, boy. Now get you gone.” The boy rushed past them out of the house.

  Georges followed Émile into a passageway scarcely warmer than outside.

  The water from the snowflakes melting on their heads ran down their faces as they moved up the corridor, coming out into the main hallway. Émile pointed with his drawn knife to a passage leading off opposite. As they moved towards it, the shadowy figure of a man in naval uniform lunged at them, cutlass drawn. They jumped to confront it but it vanished, leaving them staring about, wide eyed.

  “The Captain himself, as the boy said.” Émile muttered.

  Georges swore under his breath. They went towards the door which Kenrick had indicated was his study. It too was invitingly unlocked. Émile flung it open and stood with his back to it, scanning the room for the enemy, while Georges sprang in.

  The room seemed deserted. All was icy and orderly. There were book lined walls, locked chests, bureaux, and a great mahogany desk. The blind was half open, swaying in the draught from the wind howling in the bleak shrubbery outside.

  A leather book was open on the desk, and on it laid a sealed envelope weighted with a small magnifying glass. A great mirror was propped against the desk, so as to show the ceiling, and two candles stood ready. Between them was a letter, addressed to, ‘Monsieur Dubois or Gilles’.

  Shutting the door, they went over to the desk. Émile sliced through the letter’s seal with his blade.

  ‘Monsieur,

  I expect an Unceremonious Call from a Ruffian such as yourself. I make no complaints of your Conduct; for sure you are in no position to make any. However, I think it probable you will set out to destroy me, and would be reluctant to do the same by you in Self-Defence when much could be gained through our Collaboration. Cast aside Human Prejudices must become irrelevant to you; credulous peasants place their faith in weeds and religious artefacts; you are not so deficient. You are fated to become as I and My Little Wife.

  I refer you to the contents of this Book. While I hazard you were not compos mentis when she made sport with it, yet I think the Procedure will be Familiar to you. Light the candles, use the glass, and wait upon events.

  I shall be away a while, Conferring with a Fellow Inventor, but expect the man to prove a Charlatan, though possessed of some insights. On my return, we must speak again.

  Mistress Kenrick calls, thus I sign off. She will be the Belle of every assembly, as she was of the Lewis’ delightful Twelfth Night Ball which we both so enjoyed.

  I remain Monsieur, Yours Faithfully,

  Goronwy Kenrick.’

  Georges gave up trying to read the note over Émile’s shoulder. “What does he mean by it? Seems plain he needs teaching manners more than I thought.”

  Émile was staring down at the book’s thick, cloth like pages, upon which were the blurred outlines of half visible pictures. “He recommends me to try this. Shall I do so here and now, Georges? I wouldn’t do anything that might endanger Sophie and the others at home.”

  Georges frowned. “If that book has to do with this time travelling, it may be a trap to suck you away for good.”

  “True enough and all the better for ma pauvre Sophie. I need to light the candles. I note the fire has been laid.” He took up the flints by the grate and set to work.

  The fire was soon burning brightly. Émile’s soaked greatcoat steamed as he came over with a taper and lit the candles on the desk. “Stand you over by the window, mon ami, and do not interfere as you have ere this.”

  Georges lounged over to stand by the long windows against which the wind hurled gusts of snow. Despite that, it seemed safer and warmer outside, though inside the fire crackled and sparked.

  The door swung open. They rushed over to it, but heard only a sighing of the wind somewhere higher up in the building.

  Émile shut the door and lit the candles with a taper. He moved the glass over the barely visible outlines of the pictures. “Keep away, Georges.” The room seemed to darken in contrast to the swirling light illuminating the ceiling. The shapes were playing over the ceiling, moving down.

  The Château des Oliviers appeared. Lord Ynyr sat rolling marbles in the sunny courtyard. Émile opposite distracted him with jokes, Bernard squatting between. The bright Provencal sun played over them.

  The picture changed. Émile and Georges heard sounds of crackling even before the swirling forms coalesced, showing the night of the fire. Through the smoke they made out the blurred forms of Georges leading Charlotte, hunched with coughing, along the corridor. Bernard stumbled ahead. Émile appeared, dragging along the stout nurse and carrying Marguerite, while the ancient tapestries caught and fell in lashing flames.

  The vision disappeared. The ceiling was blank, the room lit only by the candles burning on the desk and the fitful light from outside. Georges and Émile were holding each other, wild eyed and panting.

  For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Georges muttered, “The bastard!”

  Émile said softly, “Remind me to kill him for that, Georges.”

  “Émile, to ride out in such weather!” Sophie rushed at Émile as he and Georges came snow-covered into the hallway. She began helping him off with his greatcoat, so that Guto stood back. “You too, Georges, soaked through!”

  Émile smiled down at Sophie, gently restraining her from undoing his greatcoat. “Are we likely then to melt? Don’t fuss, chérie. I think I will manage this myself.” He pulled it off himself and handed it to Georges.

  Sophie saw there was something conspiratorial about them as Georges smiled on her too. She knew Émile well enough now to sense something had disturbed him, for all his act of normality.

  “Some mulled wine will put us to rights, Mistress Sophie. Monsieur takes his highly spiced.” Georges went sloshing upstairs with the greatcoats.

  “Guto, please see to it.” Sophie said with dignity. She wondered if she would ever get used to having a whole staff at her command. At Plas Uchaf she had always felt that she only enjoyed their services by default; now she found it difficult not to do things for herself.

  As they went upstairs she took Émile’s hand, which was surprisingly warm to the touch, and squeezed it. His nails were sharp in her palm, but she was getting used to that. “I feared for you, Émile.”

  “This fussing would be absurd were a chill my greatest danger. I thought you became accustomed to my riding in all weathers at Plas Uchaf.” On the bend of the stairs, he took her in his arms, wet as he was. “It is I must keep you safe, my lovely girl…Now, I think you guess how I would like to warm myself.”

  Through all the lovemaking that followed – while the snow pattered against the windows and the donkey bawled in the stable until Katarina ran out, cloak over head, to give him some carrots – Sophie sensed something changing in Émile had further altered.

  His otherness was more marked. His touch was still caressing and gentle, yet his nails more resembled talons, and when shivers ran up and down her spine, they were not solely of pleasure.

  And yet, this otherness, this element of fear, added to her excitement. Now he seemed to be particularly interested in kissing her throat. Once he even nipped it gently and then seemed to pull back. Even more alarming was the thrill of delight which shot through her.

  If – though now it seemed more a ‘when’ – he did want to take her blood, then she was going t
o have to struggle against herself as well as him. She hadn’t foreseen that.

  Sophie thought she could use her lips like an expert already. He did what he called ‘Paying My Respects to Your Most Wondrous Part” in turn, kissing it deeply and lingeringly. “How I adore this delightful blond tail.” She sighed and wriggled.

  But a memory flashed through her of their first night together, when after seeing her virginal blood, he had been solicitous, kissing the offended part tenderly. Yet he had kissed it lingeringly. It was so hard to say where his body lusting ended and his blood lusting began. Probably Émile himself didn’t know. She wondered how he would react, when her monthly time came? This was a topic she certainly wouldn’t find in any book, though the wives of Man Vampires must always have known.

  Now the pleasure was too great to give any attention to that or anything else.

  Afterwards, she wondered what happened to all the people who must have been bitten by vampires over the years. She had tried to question Katarina discreetly, but the girl retained only childish memories. Some of these people she recalled as human later, and immune from the vampire bite. But others she thought may have suddenly disappeared.

  She turned to look at Émile. He was gazing bleakly at the ceiling. At her movement, he smiled on her. “I would like to stay here with you, but must make myself presentable for dinner. You missed your tea, my lovely girl. That will not do, we must have Agnes bring you some.” Though his look was tender, she could see preoccupation at the back of his eyes.

  She was almost as nervous about their first big dinner as she’d been about the ball which Émile held in her honour last week.

  This had been as successful as she hoped. Émile asked her to wear the blue and silver dress she wore for the Lewis’ Twelfth Night ball. She had never thought to be so happy in it.

  When Agnes was undressing her after the Lewis’ ball, as the dress rustled to her feet, Sophie had sniffed while Agnes patted her, saying, ‘There, now, Miss Sophie, it will all work out.’

  At their own ball, Émile had gazed on Sophie as though she was the belle, though she was sure everyone else awarded the prize to Morwenna, who glowed in gold. It was wonderful Émile should see things differently. Sophie had shivered with happiness as she stood receiving the guests with him, delighting in his dashing appearance and easy manners.

  Now as then, she wanted to do credit to him so nobody could say: ‘The Poor Relation Monsieur Dubois’ has taken to wife is at a loss in society, my dear.’ It would have been so much easier, though, to be relaxed and charming at social events without the terrors gnawing at the back of her mind.

  She ran a hand down his chest to his belly. “I hope I have warmed you sufficiently, Sir.”

  “You have, Madame, poor Georges is welcome to his mulled wine.” He kissed her nose and jumped up to pull on his robe.

  “How does he take Agnes’ rejection?”

  “Ill, though he only grunts.” Émile bent to throw a couple of logs on the fire. “I would blame the wench did I like her less, for I have never known him to brood over a girl who did not want him.”

  He rang for Agnes, and strode through into his dressing room.

  There, Guto answered his next ring. “Georges is gone out again, Monsieur Émile.”

  “In such weather? Has he taken leave of his senses? Never mind, see to my bath like a good fellow. I must needs undergo the hardship of dressing myself.”

  Newly bathed and dressed for dinner, Émile was starting for Sophie’s rooms again when he stopped short, staring at the great book from Kenrick’s study that Georges had left on the bureau. He swore and groaned.

  Picking it up, he went downstairs to his study, where a cheerful fire crackled. He locked the book in a drawer in his desk, and paced about. Then, he picked up the other book from Plas Cyfeillgar, ‘On the Use of Imitative Representation’. Snatching up his pen, he began to write down a series of figures. The wind moaned outside, chuckled down the chimney, and rattled at the windows. The light was poor at his desk, across the room from the fire, but he didn’t light a candle.

  Some time later, Émile was roused by tapping at the door. It was Guto, candle in hand. “His Lordship the Count of Ruthin, Sir.”

  Émile jumped up. “What? Is it so late? Show him in at once, Guto. Ynyr, forgive me, I was carried away in my reading.”

  Lord Ynyr seized Émile’s hands. “Émile, you are hard at work on something for sure. However do you see, it is so dark in here?”

  “I ever had fair night vision.” Émile took a taper over to the fire, and lit a couple of candles. “Ynyr, it is good to see you. How are you all at the Manor? Does it snow again? Come and warm yourself.” He began to stoke the fire, which was now low.

  Lord Ynyr leaned against the desk, chatting. He picked up one of the books on the desk. “Forgive my curiosity, Cousin. We always nosed in each other’s books. ‘On the Use of Imitative Representation’? Whatever may that be?”

  “That, Ynyr, is something that I couldn’t tell you as yet.” Émile’s expression was veiled. As the Count glanced through the book, Émile stirred and asked him about the horses Lord Ynyr had given him.

  Lord Ynyr answered absently. “Whatever you think best, Émile, you are more the expert.” He went on leafing through the book.

  “Come Ynyr, let me show you about the house, there was no time when you dined here before.”

  “I will enjoy that, Émile. This is a bizarre work indeed. How did you come by it?”

  “I don’t recollect.” Émile moved about restlessly.

  “It says something here about ‘Thought Forms’, on which point it might find agreement from our friend Kenrick.” Lord Ynyr stopped laughing as he caught his Cousin’s gaze. “Surely this cannot be the matter on which you worked so eagerly you forget to ring for lights?”

  Émile’s tone was casual, though his eyes were fixed on the book. “I believe we were precipitate in dismissing such notions.”

  Lord Ynyr froze. “It would seem to amount to a form of magic.”

  “Say rather the control of certain inexplicable forces.”

  “Émile, you perturb me. You sound almost like to Kenrick. Do not tell me that you are gone over to his notions?”

  Émile came over to squeeze the Count’s shoulders while Lord Ynyr flinched at his steely grip. “Bien sûr, Ynyr, we should not allow our dislike of the fellow to prevent our objective assessment of his ideas.” He almost snatched the book from Lord Ynyr’s slackened grasp, putting it by, Lord Ynyr thought, with a look of relief. “Now, Cousin, trouble yourself no more about these matters, but let me show about the house as we had so little time when last you came.”

  Meanwhile, Sophie smiled as she put to rights some of the Dowager Countess’ embroidery, while Her Ladyship apologised. “This is kind in you, ma chère Sophie, when you must be fully occupied already, but Mrs Brown is become clumsy with her needle.”

  Morwenna – who now treated Sophie warmly enough almost to convince her that she surely had been mistaken in thinking Morwenna’s former attitude scornful – smiled at her. “Sadly, I am little better. Sophie, we are all delighted to see how you have tamed Émile.”

  “I love to see you in that pink dress now you are mine. That first time I saw you in it I suffered agonies, ma chère.” Émile murmured to Sophie in the passageway later. She was wearing the ruby necklace from Charlotte he had given her, and while he looked his approval, he said nothing.

  She covered his face with kisses in her sympathy. Then, seeing Mrs Kit moving stolidly towards them, she hid behind him. He greeted Mrs Kit casually.

  “When do these titled folk come? I ain’t seen a Lord before, nor a Dowager Countess neither.”

  “They are here already, Doll. Recollect you, Guto showed them in?”

  “What, that boyish fellow a Lord? But he ain’t got any presence! My Kit’s got two times his. But then, I was surprised when I heard as you were gentry yourself. I say, ‘What, that long, freckled fellow, what can skin r
abbits as well as any of us, a Lord’s cousin? Never!’”

  Sophie spluttered, groping for her handkerchief. Émile grinned. “Never mind, Dolly, perhaps the Dowager Countess will meet with your approval.”

  It was a successful dinner, with Émile now as lively as always. Lord Ynyr and Miss Morwenna were glowing, and Sophie, having seen them at her ball, knew why.

  If Miss Lydia Lewis, the girl who fainted and cut her neck at the Lewis’ ball, had turned down the invitation on the grounds of unspecified poor health, her younger brother entertained them by making it clear he was replacing his former hopeless passion for Sophie with a new one for Morwenna. He gazed on her awestruck, as though he had never seen her before.

  Lord Ynyr kept on looking at Morwenna like that, too.

  Nobody spoke of the Absurd Stories going about. There was some war talk, and a couple of the male guests looked covertly at Émile as they remarked how the Recruiting Sergeant and his team suddenly disappeared.

  Lucien sent up excellent dishes, and there was enough pigeon pie even to satisfy the Reverend Smythe-Jones.

  Morwenna told a story against herself in the manner of Émile. “I tried one of these centrepieces which are Madame Dubois speciality. I prided myself on how nicely balanced was the intricate middle. Imagine my mortification when halfway through dinner, some of the dried grasses toppled into the fowl.”

  Even the Dowager Countess laughed. Sophie felt as dull as an old shoe in comparison. Luckily, Émile didn’t see it; his eyes kept straying over to gloat on her. Her lips turned up of their own accord, and as he smiled back, she saw his teeth were sharper. It was a slight difference, invisible to a stranger. As she clenched her hands, she noticed something else.

  He had always liked rare meat, laughing at how the British burnt it, but tonight his beef was so rare she wondered he bothered to have it cooked at all. She made her invariable prayer: Oh, let the cure work!

  In the drawing room Sophie invited Morwenna to play. While Mr Lewis listened spellbound, Sophie asked Lord Ynyr about the herbal cure he used for the girl bitten near Seren Farm.