Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  “Winter is at the door,” it said in the silence with a soft singsong lilt that raised a fine prickle of gooseflesh on my arms. I jolted awake to spy a thin old lady bundled in rugs, seated in a wooden chair on the other end of the hearth. I had not noticed her before, for she was enveloped in shadows. She was not addressing me directly, but staring into the flames, and the light cast her ancient features into a ghoulish picture.

  For a moment, I thought she wasn’t really there. There are times when I’ve seen and heard things others do not. When I looked at the old woman, I believed I was looking at one dead, for her face was no more than a skull cast in shades of gray and ash, and her body, even swathed in blankets, seemed too thin to support life.

  However, I felt the energy of a long-lived will reaching to me. In a second, I knew my sense—the one that came from the blood of my mother—had teased awake something I could not have otherwise understood. She was not a vampire or ghoul, merely an old woman. But she was close to death. Very close.

  “Hello,” I said. I admit my voice was tentative, for I was still the tiniest bit unsure she was not a shade.

  “Winter,” she repeated, nodding. “And the Cyprian Queen has come.”

  “Pardon me?” I asked politely.

  She spoke with confidence, not in the airy, uncertain terms of the old when their minds have been lost to dementia. I stayed in my seat, for my legs seemed to have gone numb somehow and I could not rise, although I did have to lean forward and strain my ears to hear better what she was saying.

  She whispered, “She stands here at the gate.” Her head rolled, as if she were in pain. “She tempts with the glories of passion . . . yes, but her kiss is cold.”

  “Mama!” Mrs. Danby exclaimed, appearing in the common room. She carried a tray upon which sat my tea, a cream jug and sugar tin, and a stack of shortbread biscuits on a plate, all clattering together as she rushed toward us.

  The old woman shot her a glance, her eyes keen and clear of confusion. Mrs. Danby scowled back at her.

  “Do not mind my mother,” Mrs. Danby said. For the first time, her smile was strained. “I’m so sorry, dear, leaving you with her. I forget she’s here. She’s so quiet for the most part. I hope she did not say anything to upset you.”

  “No,” I replied quickly. “She was merely musing. I trust my presence did not overset her.”

  Mrs. Danby humphed and poured my tea. “ ’Tis kindness itself, you are. You have your tea, then, missus. I’ll have Janet—”

  The outer door opened to reveal the outline of a cloaked man in the frame of the ancient, stooped portal. I felt a gust of chilled wind whip its way around the room, teasing the flames in the hearth into a spitting flare as the man stepped inside. He paused and clapped his gloved hands together smartly as if to brush off the cold. The door swung closed behind him and sealed us all together in the close warmth of the room.

  Mrs. Danby’s smile was radiant the moment she saw him. “Well, Lord Suddington, good eve to you. I feared you would not be in this evening.” Her tone made her disappointment, should this have been the case, very clear.

  The gentleman lifted a hand in recognition of the innkeeper’s gracious reception. His steps were long, sure, bringing him out of shadow and close to a table just off to my left. “Good eve, Mrs. Danby.” He smiled, his white teeth gleaming as he executed a shallow bow to his hostess. “I was caught up in a pleasant ride today, venturing all the way to Binsby Tarn. It set my schedule back.”

  His features and bearing were fitting for a Roman statue, with fair hair pulled away from his forehead to a knot at his nape. He was dressed elegantly in beautifully made clothes, a touch of intriguing whimsy in the small flower he wore pinned to his coat. In with him came an air of charged expectation, and of a shivering awareness, a shift in the way air flowed about the room. The fire dimmed, I thought, as if it were bowing in deference to his arrival.

  Mrs. Danby’s matronly smile blossomed into a blush. She giggled, a delighted sound coming from her ample bosom. “It is rabbit stew tonight. Sit and I’ll have Janet bring you wine.”

  The man’s gaze met mine for an instant. He was polite enough not to do more than smile ever so slightly, which was the proper thing to do. After all, we hadn’t been introduced. To speak to me without the benefit of a formal presentation would be tantamount to treating me no better than a streetwalker.

  His wine was brought by Mrs. Danby herself. She did not forget me, either, stopping to inquire whether I was enjoying my tea and informing me that my dinner would not be long in coming.

  Other patrons began to arrive within a few moments. I observed them covertly, my gaze touching on faces and wondering about their simple lives. Smiles were in abundance as they caught my curiosity. Although we were strangers, there was a feeling of intimacy here, for we shared company in this den. I suppose that had something to do with Mrs. Danby’s cheerful presence. She was very much in evidence, managing to be attentive to all, but chiefly dividing her time between Suddington and myself. He was clearly a favorite of hers, and I was a traveler to be made as comfortable as possible.

  After some time I returned my attention to the old woman, who had fallen silent at Mrs. Danby’s chiding and not spoken since. She was still in her chair by the great hearth, staring at nothing, sitting quietly but not, I noticed, completely motionless. She was shaking, despite the blankets tucked tightly about her.

  Surely, that close to the fire, she would not be cold. Thinking she might be in distress, I stood and approached her. “May I help you?”

  She did not respond to me. I saw then that she was weeping.

  “Mrs. Danby!” I called, beginning to move away to fetch my hostess, but the old woman muttered something. I leaned in close, for she spoke barely above a whisper, as if she were imparting intelligence of the most dire nature. “They think she is love. You see, don’t you, girl? You see . . . You must tell them.”

  “I am sorry,” I told her urgently. “I do not understand.” Half-turning, I prepared to call for Mrs. Danby again.

  A claw emerged from under the blanket, fastening itself around my wrist. Her fingers were brittle, the skin like a mere film over vein and bone, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Let me go summon your daughter,” I said with compassion, resisting the urge to pull away.

  Her old face crumpled, and she openly wept. “She is a lie, the Cyprian Queen . . . She is not love, child. She is death.”

  Chapter Three

  My heart was beating wildly for some reason I could not specify. I was afraid of this woman. The desire to push her clutching hand away was overwhelming.

  Mrs. Danby came into the dining room just then, a savory puff of steam trailing behind her like a friendly dragon. Her pleasant demeanor changed to crossness when she spied me with her mother and she rushed towards us. “Oh, Mrs. Andrews, please forgive me. Has she been troubling you?” She immediately asserted herself between me and the old woman, her back to me. “Come now, you are too tired to sit out,” she told her mother. “Into your bed with you now.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Do forgive her, Mrs. Andrews. She is very old.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” I assured her. Instinct told me Mrs. Danby would not appreciate my offering to help, so I resumed my seat.

  When I looked up, Lord Suddington was watching me. Upon the connection of our gazes, he rose. I was surprised at how flustered I became when I saw he was headed toward me.

  “I am about to be abominably rude, for we have not been introduced.” He executed a very low bow. “Allow me to remedy that. I have it from Mrs. Danby’s address that you are Mrs. Andrews.”

  When I was a girl, my stepmother, Judith, had despaired of my manners, for I sometimes abandoned convention when I did not see the sense in it. That was what I did now. It was not done, a woman speaking to a strange man like this, but the truth was I wished to make his acquaintance and Mrs. Danby was busy with her mother and could not do the honors. “And from
the same source, I can assume you are Lord Suddington?” I replied.

  His smile widened. He was surprised; he’d expected to be rebuked. “Yes. Lord Robert Suddington, madam. Your servant.” He clicked a smart bow and, upon straightening, his handsome face adopted a mischievous aspect. “I hope you are not disturbed by Old Madge, the poor creature.”

  “Not at all.” I thought of the type of creatures who had “disturbed” me of late. An old woman was hardly threatening. And yet, she had given me some disquiet, and he saw this.

  “May I press my fortune and beg a seat?” He indicated the chair on the other side of the table from mine. “You seem like you may have had a start from the old woman, and could use some company.”

  I thought about this for a moment, and could see no rational reason to refuse him. “As we are in a public place, I cannot see the harm.”

  He sat with the same flourish that embellished all his movements, like a dancer aware that his every movement is being scrutinized by a sharp-eyed audience. His eyes locked onto my face. I saw him touch the flower he wore on the lapel of his coat, an absent gesture as he settled into his seat. “I applaud you for your courage. That ancient creature rattles everyone.” He laughed, a carefree sound that was very masculine, very sensual. “Even me.”

  But I thought of how he had remained in his seat. “You must be used to her. I take it you frequent the inn?”

  “Yes. And I see her often. A rather strong drawback to the attractions available in this hall, and if not for Mrs. Danby’s exceptional cooking, it would be enough to drive me away. It is nothing personal to the woman. I find age . . . well, it reeks of death.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “That is quite a statement.”

  He smiled. “Are you going to faint, Mrs. Andrews?”

  I realized then he was flirting with me! “I do not believe I shall,” I replied primly to cover my bemusement. I applied myself to my tea, which was stone-cold now. I gulped it anyway.

  “That is good,” Lord Suddington responded without a hint that he had taken note of my discomfiture. “I would not want you to miss Mrs. Danby’s rabbit stew.”

  As if upon a cue, Janet appeared with a tray upon which rested two steaming bowls and two towel-wrapped bundles, which I judged, from the aroma emanating from them as she set them on the table, to be Mrs. Danby’s famed bread. She appeared confused for a moment to find Lord Suddington and myself at the same table but recovered quickly, though I thought I saw something flashing and sharp in her eye, a curl upon her lip. Jealousy? I nearly laughed at my fancy—she was but a girl!

  “Thank you, Janet,” Suddington murmured. He never looked at her, but her gaze lingered on him, and I saw I had been right. There was a naked longing on her young face. She was sixteen—old enough to feel the effects of the man’s attractiveness, though he was too far above her station to notice her.

  We ate the excellent stew. Steam billowed from the bread as I ripped into the crust. Lord Suddington smiled when I smeared it liberally with freshly churned butter and bit into it, my eyelids drifting to half-mast.

  “I do not know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more,” I said as my bowl emptied.

  He laced his fingers together in front of his chin. “I am pleased you enjoy the Rood and Cup. It is a good sign you will stay for a while.”

  I smiled back at him, feeling suddenly very fine. Being sated with good food and the recipient of a very charming man’s attention had a heady effect. I was deplorably sensible as a rule, a dull balance to my sister Alyssa’s dreamy nature. But I felt somewhat enchanted under the almost intoxicating regard of Lord Suddington.

  He asked polite questions, and I replied in kind, our conversation taking on a comfortable rhythm that lulled me further into complacence. I began to notice how mobile and expressive his mouth was, how elegantly his long fingers moved with a restless energy.

  We remained at our table as people began to bundle up against the weather and take their leave. I happened to notice a boy slip in, a youth who appeared to be perhaps seventeen years of age. He was handsome and seemed to know it, judging from the sly way his gaze swept the room. I took in the masculine prettiness of his face, the long silky lashes framing glittering blue eyes as brilliant as sapphires. I had little doubt the local maids would find him irresistible, for there was a palpable sexual pride that crackled around him like a compact storm.

  Seeing me looking at him, he returned my regard with unapologetic smugness I found somehow insulting. I sensed Lord Suddington stiffen, and I feared for a moment he was going to rise and address himself to the lad.

  “Out with you!” Mrs. Danby exclaimed, suddenly appearing, with a pitcher of ale for one of the other tables. “Get on, Colin O’Hara. I told you about using this door before.”

  “Danby said you wanted me to go up the school tomorrow,” the youth said with the lilt of an Irishman.

  “I’ll speak to you in the yard. You are filthy. Get.”

  He rolled his eyes. To my utter dismay, Mrs. Danby did not lay her hand on that arrogant cheek. In fact, her tone gentled. “Now, get out of my dining room and come round to the kitchen. I’ve your supper.”

  The lad laughed. He exited back through the front door, though not before casting a look my way, his lingering smile full of confidence that I would share his amusement at his having bedeviled the older woman.

  I thought of the Irish boy Miss Markam had mentioned in her journal. This must be him. I could see how the swaggering brat had upset her. He was clearly brash and disrespectful.

  “Young people,” Suddington murmured, eyeing the youth’s retreat with malice, “should be taught better. Although the irony of my making such a statement does not escape me as I was unable to resist introducing myself to you against all dictates of propriety. I hope you are glad I did.”

  I was very glad to have met him, and to have spent the evening in his company. But I felt he was teasing me, leading me to agree with him, and it is just my nature to resist. “Certainly,” I replied tightly.

  “Your husband, may I be so bold to say, is a fortunate man. Will he be joining you here in Blackbriar?”

  I smiled at his obvious ploy. “I am a widow,” I told him.

  He managed to appear sad and pleased at the same time. “My condolences. I was a cad to mention it. Forgive me.”

  “Do not regret it, Lord Suddington. You did not distress me.”

  “Ah.” When he smiled, his blue eyes glittered like hypnotic jewels. “Mrs. Andrews, you are most generous.”

  Janet interrupted us just then and I was surprised to feel a sense of relief. I felt like I’d been allowed to come up for air. As Janet cleared away our dishes and placed a glass of wine before my companion, I noticed how closely she pressed to Suddington. It was a subtle thing, and perhaps unintended, but her breast brushed against his shoulder. He did not register the contact, but lifted his glass up to the light to admire the deep red of the claret before he drank, savoring the liquid like a connoisseur. “Ah. Excellent.”

  His eyes leveled on me, and I felt a charge leap across the table, as if something very hot and alive snaked between us two. I realized with some amazement I was in the powerful grip of womanly excitement, and I felt the heat of a blush creep up my neck to burn in my cheeks. I feared very much that Suddington sensed my state, for he had the look of a man who was used to having this effect on women, and enjoyed it.

  I, I discovered with something of a start, was enjoying it as well.

  I made an effort to pull myself together, and I am sure my manner grew cool. We continued to talk, and he took his leave close to ten o’ the clock, extending his good wishes for my success tomorrow in procuring the teaching position and expressing his wish that we might see one another again soon.

  As soon as he was gone, my fatigue returned and so I asked to be shown to my room. I was taken upstairs to find a very nicely appointed bedroom. The bed was already turned down and my mother’s portmanteau lay open, unpacked enough for me to quickly acce
ss a light blue night rail and my hair brushes.

  I had waited to finish reading the last entries of Victoria Markam’s journal, wanting to be close to the origin of action when I came to the heart of what had driven her off. However, as I settled under the fluffy featherbed, my expectation that Miss Markam’s account would build to a crescendo was sadly deflated. I plodded through repetitive writings. The mutinous attitudes of the girls grew, along with her despair. She was nearly obsessed with proving them guilty and vindicating herself.

  The last entry was not dated, but it seemed to come a good deal of time after the others. The handwriting had deteriorated substantially. I could barely make out the wild scrawl.

  They think I am mad, although they will not say it. Elizabeth watches me all the time. She hates me, for I have disgraced her. No one wants a raving sister to set the gossips’ tongues wagging. London is so far away from the Penines, and still I do not feel safe. I close my eyes and see the bodies. No one believes me. God, I still see them. The small hand of the baby, lying limp with its fingers spread like a tiny star. The blood, brown and old and dried, like rusted necklaces. They’d been cast off like rubbish. The girls had to know they were there. Did they kill them? Is that what they were forever whispering about among themselves? Whispering, whispering. Dear saints, the sound of their hushed voices fills my ears even now. The boy knows. The Irish boy. Maybe he killed those people, and the girls are innocent. Does that mean one of the girls will be next? Who? Not Vanessa. Let it be Margaret. I must stop thinking of it. I cannot help them. I tried. No one listened. I had to flee. I would help them if I could, but they despise me, ridicule me. I tried and

  That was the end; there were no more pages. I felt let down as I folded the excerpts and tucked them in the nightstand drawer, then pinched out the candle. The particular mention of blood on the victim’s necks was inarguably evidence of a vampire, but it was disappointing that there was no more firm proof than this. Still, the question remained, buzzing in my veins with a low hum of excited conjecture: Was this the same vampire that had touched the life of a young Laura Newly, my mother?