Lord Ynyr burst out, “Silence! How dare you ramble this insolent nonsense to me of my Cousin?”
“I am not an ignorant peasant, Your Lordship. But I have seen enough. What they say is true.”
“If you truly believe this catalogue of absurdities, then the happiest thing you can do is leave my Cousin’s employ, and seek treatment from a doctor. I fail to see why you call upon me.”
“Am I to remain silent as Monsieur Émile and his man spread this terror about? The girl Éloise wears a kerchief about her neck on a sudden, though she slapped my face when I asked to see her throat. Besides all this, Monsieur Émile – who is as pleasant a young master as I have met, so that his staff love him, as well Your Lordship knows – does fearful things in his study. I believe he is now in league with Kenrick.”
“Not another word! You are overwrought, Lucien, and I would take a more serious view of these slanders were they less laughable.”
Lucien stood up, squaring his shoulders. “Then I must look elsewhere for assistance. I have heard the illness which has struck down Miss Morwenna is like to that of the girl Mair Jones, who now has retracted gums and walks out at night–”
The Count’s normally calm eyes flashed in a way worthy of a Man Vampire. “Get out, you are raving!”
Lucien turned away; then his sense of drama brought him up at the door. “May I remind Your Lordship the sweet former Miss Sophie is in the household, in danger from this horror, while Monsieur’s most trusted staff are no better than a group of brigands.”
Lord Ynyr winced. A voice sounded in his head: ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’!* He spoke calmly again. “Please do try and recollect we are not in a Gothic novel now, Lucien.”
“That is hard to realise, Your Lordship, down at Plas Planwydden.” The man looked triumphant as he bowed his leave.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sophie sat up for her hot chocolate, pushing her hair out of her eyes and realising, as often before, she had neglected to put her nightdress back on. Émile exuded heat, there was nothing Undead about him in that.
Agnes drew the curtains. “Katarina has the amulets ready, Mistress Sophie.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Not before time. Georges is become a nuisance, and not just to me. At breakfast he was fingering his teeth, all unaware, staring at Éloise. Then followed me out he did, sniggering nastily, but that fool Monsieur Lucien came after and so Georges must needs content himself with a wild cackle before going to see about Monsieur’s coffee.”
“Oh, dear, Agnes! What news of Mr Kit?”
Émile had refused to allow Sophie to help nurse his ally: ‘No, there is help enough with the maids. I would not allow another man to enjoy the kindness you showed to me when I was in a fever save he were in danger of his life.’
“He is still abed, badly beaten as he is, and Mrs Kit abusing us Welsh so unfair.”
“Monsieur says that they will leave, and it makes me sad, for all I have felt – I hope wrongly – what with Monsieur not wishing us to go out without Mr Kit and Georges as guards that I am hedged about, almost as when Monsieur Émile surrounds me at chess.”
Agnes met Sophie’s eyes. “You were not wrong, Mistress Sophie.”
Sophie saw that denial was foolish. “You are a brave girl, Agnes.”
“No, I am stubborn. Now did you say last night you wanted a bath before breakfast?”
“Fetch out my cloths, Agnes, for my time is due.” Sophie spoke cheerfully as she stepped into her bath, doing her best to hide her anxiety.
Agnes did some calculations. Unlike Sophie, she could do sums in her head rapidly. “Your time is overdue by seven days, Ma’am.” She dimpled. “I was beginning to think it was past time, but what with one thing and another I lost count.”
Sophie, startled, did the calculations herself, much more slowly. Agnes was right; for the first time ever, she was late, and her cycle was always exactly twenty-eight days. She blushed under her friend’s thoughtful gaze. “Very likely it means nothing. I have had shocks enough to upset things, goodness knows!”
Agnes would have none of this. “My own came on the dot as always. Well, Georges was good at Being Careful, I will say that for him.”
Sophie blushed even more, remembering a maid in Chester she’d overheard talking crudely about ‘withdrawal’. “Goodness, Agnes! It cannot be. I have heard my sister Harriet say –” she was going to add, ‘That you feel strange.’ But she wasn’t sure, now she came to think of it, that she didn’t feel strange. With all the distractions, she hadn’t spared much thought for her internal sensations.
“Has your bosom begun to tingle?” The uninhibited girl ran her eyes over Sophie’s breasts, which were always a little swollen as her time of month came up. Sophie couldn’t believe she had conceived already. This was a dreadful time in which to become pregnant! A semi vampire baby was an unbearable thought. Katarina’s not remembering such babies provided little reassurance.
“Well, I shall see. It would be unfortunate now, Agnes.” She winced. “That is a ludicrous understatement! I am tormented by the fear nothing may cure him and now I may have yet nearer cause to worry!”
Agnes brought the towel over as Sophie stood up, and wrapped her comfortingly in it and patted her reassuringly. “You mustn’t worry, Mistress Sophie, I believe all will be well yet.”
“Agnes, is that based on a reading of your Tarot cards?” Sophie tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
“No, they give me clouded readings still. Is annoying when we have need of guidance from them. No doubt it will pass.” Agnes began combing out Sophie’s damp hair. “Is lucky you are to be so fair.”
Sophie, having silently longed for illicit reassurance from those usually intrusive – and quite silent – cards of Agnes’, bit her lip. Still, she refused to believe she could be pregnant so soon, anyway. She was almost sure that she could feel a slight cramping, as if her flow was soon to begin.
Katarina came in a little later with the amulets. “They must be as near to the skin as possible. If not, then under the pillow or in the clothing. I will try one in Georges’ coat.”
Émile was already at the table when Sophie joined him. As he smiled at her and bowed with his usual punctilio, she felt he somehow knew what she had plotted; that he discounted it as a threat, even finding her hopeless struggles amusing.
Perhaps it was only her uneasy conscience that made her think so. For sure, she and her fellow conspirators were careful to speak only in whispers.
Émile’s mood was distant again. He didn’t dismiss the footman. They breakfasted in grand, formal style, sitting opposite each other at the great table, surrounded by wooden faced attendants. Just so must his parents have taken their meals at the Château in Provence. Sophie had little appetite and some form of indigestion – a burning in her chest. She nibbled pound cake while he ate his ham, eggs and rolls with his usual appetite.
After the meal, he came to kiss her hand, murmuring, “I hope we will see each other over lunch. I have much to attend to. You must to your own tasks, one of which will be to dissuade Mrs Kit from leaving us. You ladies know how to do such things.”
A confusion of feelings and thoughts churned in Sophie. Most prominent amongst these was pure indignation. Since her talk with Agnes, she had to admit that Émile – knowingly or otherwise – kept her virtually a prisoner, surrounded by his henchman and not allowed outside the grounds.
Yet she knew that were she foolish enough to accuse him he would seem outraged. He would point out how, as she insisted on remaining human, he was protecting her in having her accompanied by men he knew he could trust.
He would also say – no doubt in a tone of strained patience at her feminine lack of logic – how only yesterday, he suggested that she go and stay elsewhere as an alternative to his going to Plas Cyfeillgar. How then could she accuse him of keeping her as a captive?
At that point, he would certainly laugh condescendingly, while his mocking eyes tol
d the truth.
Of course, they both knew all along she would never leave him in such circumstances; he had been manipulating her throughout. But that was only something they both knew. He had logic on his side.
Now, she was supposed to try and persuade one of her guards not to leave. It was, as her brother John would say, ‘slightly too rich’.
Yet, it was not simple either, for she still didn’t know how far this altered Émile was aware of his own motives. As for Georges and Mr and Mrs Kit, she didn’t suppose they went in for introspection. Mr and Mrs Kit were after all – as Agnes would say – ‘Nice Rascals’. She had come to like them, coarseness and all, just as she now liked the impossible Georges.
She bit her lip, thinking of the wine in the church and the amulets. What if neither of those worked either? The idea was unbearable. “I will try, Émile.”
“There’s my good girl.” He did some patronizing chin chucking.
“Émile, do take care what you are about, should you go again to Kenrick’s.”
“Bien sûr, ma petite.” He smiled approvingly at her docility and kissed her hand again before leaving the slow way – by the door.
That was considerate of him.
“You wanted me, Ma’am.” Dolly sucked her underlip.
“Mrs Kit, I am so sorry for what has happened. I understand Mr Kit is a little better today? That dreadful attack must have been shocking for you.” Sophie realised the absurdity of trying to Keep Up Appearances Before the Servants. “Some of Monsieur’s actions must have aroused hostility amongst the locals.”
Mrs Kit breathed heavily. “With good reason, Mistress Sophie. The nasty things, to set on my poor Kit so! He ain’t one of these Man Vampire things. And Georges jumping out at Agnes! Speaking frankly, I don’t know how you have escaped Monsieur Gilles’ teeth so long. Them two was as nice a pair of Gentlemen of the Road* – beg pardon, I mean gentlemen – as you could meet ere this. Just now I came on them plotting something, laughing together, and the sound were fair bestial. It sent shivers down my spine. See as what’s happened only through this house full of human bats and Monsieur getting funny notions into his head about time travel.”
Sophie sighed. “I am sorry for it all. We must remember Monsieur Émile and Georges are not themselves, Mrs Kit. They show the symptoms of this terrible scourge.”
She didn’t expect her words to have any effect on Mrs Kit. She was merely going through the motions of asking her to stay so as to keep her promise to Émile. She was accordingly startled to see Mrs Kit’s eyes soften. “Mistress Sophie, there is something in what you say. I will think on it.” She made her curtsey, exuding magnanimity.
“Now, please tell me, Mrs Kit, if there anything more that we can do to make Mr Kit more comfortable.”
“Shocked, Appalled, Desecration of the Dead, Barbaric Rites Intolerable in a Christian Country…” The Reverend Smythe-Jones eyes were popping, his face suffused.
Émile, by contrast, was pale; he breathed hard. The Vicar became confidential. “I have not, of course, revealed the full details for what has been done to the corpse to my wife. Such things are unfit for the female ear.”
“And mine.” Émile muttered, and then shook himself. “For sure it is a sorry business. I must detain you no longer, Monsieur, as no doubt you are busy with your parish duties.”
“By no means, Monsieur Dubois, else why would I have a Curate?” The Vicar, remembering that Miss Morwenna Llewelyn remained between life and death, hastened to offer some phrases of spiritual comfort to her relative.
Émile fidgeted. Suddenly, his horse, which the last couple of days was unusually restless, turned its head and tried to bite him. He struck it and had to fight it as it bucked and then reared. “Au revoir, Reverend! I must give him his head.”
The Vicar had withdrawn his own head into his carriage. “My compliments to your wife!” This last was shouted as horse and rider galloped away up the lane to the Famau Mountain.
Fighting with his horse, laughing wildly now and again at the memory of the Reverend’s face, Émile came to the stables of Plas Uchaf. Throwing the reins to the groom, he warned, “Careful, boy, he is skittish of late. Leave him go if need be.”
The horse allowed the groom to lead him away, looking back over his shoulder at Émile and whinnying with apparent disgust.
“Monsieur Émile.” Roberts even managed a smile for Émile as he came behind the footman who opened the door and waved the man away.
“Roberts, how does Miss Morwenna?”
“Things remain the same with poor Miss. There’s His Lordship now.”
Lord Ynyr was coming up too from the back of the great hall. “Cousin, come in.”
Émile stepped in. “Ynyr, I won’t trouble you long. I only called to enquire for Morwenna.” He squeezed the Count’s shoulders, while his Cousin winced at the iron grip. “Would you permit me to see her a moment?”
“If it will ease you, Émile. You must take some refreshment, for it is a fair ride from Plas Planwydden. Roberts, please see to it.”
Morwenna’s old nurse barred the sickroom doorway, glaring at Émile.
Émile smiled on her. “Don’t you remember me, Ynyr’s Cousin Émile? I remember you well from when we were children and her parents alive.”
She gave his teeth a second glance. “That French boy. A menace, but that is boys.” She unbent a little. “You mustn’t disturb her long.”
Lord Ynyr drew her away by the elbow, talking about the draughts, to where Mrs Brown sat dozing in the chair in the dressing room.
Émile winced at Morwenna’s ghastly pallor, as he had on his first visit. He bent over the bed, reaching for her hand, only to start back, wrinkling his nose. As he wheeled about, spluttering and choking, his streaming eyes met the dilated ones of Morwenna’s nurse.
Lord Ynyr stared as Émile staggered over to the doorway, weak kneed and overcome. As the Count went over to him, he heard the nurse exclaim: “The poor young man! He is a fine fellow, too. A shame he has such pointed teeth.”
As he mopped his eyes, Émile focused on the Dowager Countess who stood at the dressing room door, watching him. He made a shaky bow. “Madame. Sophie bid me ask you if there is aught that she can do to help and if you will not change your mind about letting her into the sickroom?”
The Dowager Countess looked sadder. “No, I forbid it. I am sure she prays for Morwenna.”
“You may surely rely upon her to do that, Madame.” Émile let out a wild laugh.
Mrs Brown’s eyes were as round as marbles, while his Aunt drew back, frowning. “Alors, Émile!”
Émile struggled to stop laughing. “Forgive me, Madame, Cousin. I believe I am out of sorts.” Muttering apologies, he went backwards from the room, while his Aunt and Cousin moved after him anxiously.
“Émile, come and have that mulled wine.” Lord Ynyr urged. “You have ridden out in bitter weather.”
“I was passing this way.”
Suddenly, Lord Ynyr guessed who Émile was calling upon and spoke coldly. “I heard Kenrick was back.”
Émile only stayed to swallow the spiced wine. He squeezed his Aunt’s hand as he took it to kiss it, and she squealed. With more apologies, and a last tormented glance at Lord Ynyr, he left.
“His nerves are disordered. He has bruised my hand. His nails did look so odd.” The Dowager Countess rubbed her hand as they stood by the bow windows in the morning room, watching the lanky mounted figure battling his horse down the track towards the red roofs of Plas Cyfeillgar. “I believe he is going to Plas Cyfeillgar. I thought he detested Kenrick.”
“It seems that he is doing odd experiments on the same lines.” Lord Ynyr was tormenting his moustache.
“If he is engaging in such Mischievous Experiments then he has brought his nervous state upon himself.”
Lord Ynyr scarcely heard her. He was battling himself against an opponent far stronger than Émile’s horse. Nightmare ideas crashed up in surges against his reason, and he drea
ded that they must soon topple it.
Sophie saw nothing of Émile until dinner. He was in his study for part of the morning. She fought the urge to go and knock so that she could spy in at the door vulgarly. Besides, there was no point; he would make sure that nothing important could be seen.
She knew he rode out somewhere later. He left word he would be out for lunch. Agnes told her Georges had gone out too.
“Is up to no good he is for sure, from the smug smile on his face. I have put that amulet under his pillow. Here’s one for Monsieur, for while he spends most nights in your bed we must have one in his.”
At dinner Sophie’s throat closed at how Émile’s meat spurted blood at the touch. She’d had little appetite all day, and felt out of sorts. As at breakfast, Émile didn’t dismiss the servants and greeted her with his usual gallantry. As then, he was uncommunicative after telling her that Morwenna’s state was unaltered. He was newly bathed. She sensed again, too, that he was somehow sated; but now he felt so alien to her that she wasn’t sure.
His inscrutable look suddenly exasperated Sophie. “Called you at Plas Cyfeillgar, Émile?”
His glittering eyes met hers. “It is an excellent thing to be sociable.”
“It is indeed, if one is permitted to go out to be so.”
Far from looking annoyed, he seemed to like that, smiling wolfishly. “I regret that Mr Kit’s misfortune has prevented my Good Girl from going abroad to do her Charitable Works.”
“I am sure he regrets his misfortune yet more, Émile, and it didn’t stop me from working upon the Poor Box. We begin to run short of thread; I think they stock it in the village shop. I suppose I must needs send Agnes with Georges as escort, but he is out.”
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 32
