Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  I did not know firsthand if my mother was clumsy, but as I had no gift for gliding across a parquet floor in a ball gown, I assumed it was true. I was amazed Eloise would recollect such a thing, or anything at all about a single student from the past. “I am embarrassed to have asked you. It seems so absurd to expect you to remember her, and yet you do.”

  “Well, not much, I am afraid. I do seem to think she was more a poet than one who liked soirees and such. As I said, she had no gift for dance.” Eloise nodded as she frowned in thought. “A dreamer. She had a book with her at all times. Perhaps that is why she did not take to dancing, it meant she had to put down her Tennyson, or Spenser, or some other poet. And always writing in her books. Yes, now I recall. Writing, writing, always. But for all of her flighty ways, she was a good girl, bright and pleasant, as far as I can recall.”

  I breathed in slowly, deeply, filling myself with this rare connection. My father’s best friend, Peter Ivanescu, whom I had known all my life as Uncle Peter, had given me the basics in understanding, at least from his vantage point, what had happened to Laura. Other than furtive whispers about her descent into “madness” I had managed to overhear from the house staff as I was growing up, I had no knowledge of my mother.

  A dreamer. A writer, and always reading poetry—like me. This small tidbit from Eloise Boniface was a jewel, and I hugged it close.

  “Thank you,” I said. Trudy made a sound, a kind of a snort, but I did not so much as glance in her direction.

  Eloise patted my hand, and her eyes crinkled warmly. But then her expression changed suddenly. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. I felt more than saw Agatha Thompson stiffen beside me, and I turned to find Margaret and Vanessa entering the dining room.

  Eloise recovered first and picked up her fork. “Agatha? Your eggs are growing cold.”

  “I am afraid I have no appetite this morning,” the other woman replied. Her voice was strained, and I saw her complexion had taken an ashen tone.

  Trudy and Susannah had their backs to the door and seemed oblivious to the subtle tension that rippled around the table. Although Eloise and Agatha were clearly unsettled, I knew I was the only one who saw the oily darkness trailing in the girls’ wake.

  What was happening to these girls? Back in Avebury, Henrietta had been enthralled by a master vampire, a creature capable of a type of awful mesmerism. But she had demonstrated fear and secrecy. I myself had sampled the touch of that same master vampire; the infusion of an alien mind inside my own was as repulsive as live insects burrowing under the flesh. These girls looked pleased, even smug. They seemed to suffer not at all from their strange anointing. Nor did they appear to be suffering at all from the “wasting disease” a victim of a vampire displayed upon being bled. No, their only oddity was their cohesiveness as a group, their exclusivity, which Victoria Markam had noted.

  Looking back to Agatha Thompson, I caught her staring at the girls. Could she see it, too—that oily smudge in the air? Or did she, like Miss Markam, mistrust the students’ cliquishness? I was sure that she knew something.

  She rose suddenly, sucking in a great gulp of air that conveyed a certain determination. “Excuse me, please.”

  Mrs. Boniface swung back toward her, away from the girls. “But you haven’t eaten. Really, Agatha—”

  But Miss Thompson had gone, moving swiftly across the room. Eloise Boniface sighed and addressed herself to her breakfast, but with noticeably less enthusiasm. To my right, the first fat raindrops pelted the window, sounding like an insistent finger tapping on the glass as if a ghoul were begging entrance.

  Vanessa and Margaret brought the shadow with them to my class, as did two others, whose names I later learned were Lilliana Milford and Therese Beckwith. I felt as if a tiny storm had invaded the classroom, and the once-bright space seemed smoke-filled and gloomy.

  I had given no thought to how I would begin my day. This was stupid. I had been caught up in dreams of Suddington, selfishly mulling about the latest revelations of my mother, and fretting over vampires, and, in doing so, I had completely forgotten that I had a class to teach.

  I stood before them, having lined their desks in front of the windows in one long row, with them seated side by side. I belatedly realized this was a mistake, for it made me feel as if I were facing a panel of Inquisition judges.

  “Dante,” I said with a ringing air of authority I hoped would impress, “was inspired by love.”

  Their heads came up; nothing interested girls of fifteen or sixteen years of age more than talk of love. “He felt so strongly that it was the most important thing in the universe,” I told them, heartily glad that my voice was not wavering although I had clasped my hands behind my back so no one would see them shaking, “that he wrote the poem—this entire epic masterpiece—on the balance of his belief in the healing power of love. Do any of you know the name of the object of Dante’s love?”

  No one replied. Then a girl who looked a bit younger than the rest tentatively raised her hand, braving the scowls from the others.

  “Your name?” I asked.

  “Eustacia Murray, ma’am,” she replied politely. “Her name was Beatrice.”

  Margaret gave the girl a snide glance. Vanessa, wearing a stiff mien that was ill-seeming on her graceful form, pressed her lips together, and their friends exchanged glances. I knew at once what was afoot. The game was to freeze me out today, and Eustacia had broken ranks. Bless her.

  I began to pace. The faces of the other seven or so students in the classroom were wary. They were not with the little coven, but they would wait and see who would prevail before choosing a side.

  “Correct,” I said. “She died when both she and the author were still young, and Dante never recovered from his grief. In The Inferno, he tells the story of himself as he descends into hell with his guide, the poet Virgil, who was sent to him through Beatrice’s intervention with God. So great was her love for him that she was able to persuade the Lord to grant him this extraordinary experience to save him from the despair and despondency he was feeling. Here—”

  I unlocked my hands and picked up my copy of the poem, grateful that my shaking fingers were steady. “ ‘Midway upon the journey of our life,’ ” I read, “ ‘I found myself in a dark wilderness, for I had wandered from the straight and true.’ ”

  I began to pace up and down in front of the long table. “So, then,” I paused, picking out one of the girls not in Vanessa’s group. “Is it possible to be saved by love?”

  The girl went crimson, her eyes wide with panic. I sighed, smiling to let her know I forgave her for her silence, and moved on.

  “If Beatrice loved Dante,” I said, facing down the wary faces of my students, determined not to give up, “why did she want Virgil to show him the various levels of hell?”

  I got no response. I had to be patient, I knew. The girls were still assessing me, and none, save Eustacia, seemed inclined to participate. Flipping the pages of my copy of The Inferno, I led with a different question. “Can anyone tell me what is written over the gates of Hell?”

  Margaret surprised me, raising her hand but not waiting for me to call upon her before she spoke. “ ‘Abandon hope all who enter here.’ ”

  It was a small thing, but I corrected her. “Not exactly. ‘Abandon every hope, ye who enter here’ are the exact words in the final line. But what does the inscription say in its entirety?”

  Another girl’s hand went up, a pert little blonde named Sarah, who read with shy excitement: “ ‘I am the way into the city of woe—’ ”

  “The part about its creator,” I urged her.

  She paused, found the spot, and continued. “ ‘Divine omnipotence created, the highest wisdom, and the . . .’ ” She looked up. “ ‘. . . The primal love,’ ” she finished.

  “Yes. Think of it. Hell was created from God’s love,” I explained.

  Eustacia was clearly thunderstruck, her eyes as round as saucers, her mouth making a little O of surprise.
“But I don’t understand.”

  “If you look at the line above, Dante explains that hell is the place where the Lord delivers justice. Can you find that line?”

  Eustacia did so quickly. “ ‘Justice inspired my creator.’ ”

  Margaret was becoming agitated, I noticed, but I ignored her as I forged ahead with the discussion. “He is saying that hell is part of God’s love. After all, it is not very loving for the Holy Father to allow evil to go unpunished. A rather moral view, to be sure, but this was written at a time when the Catholic Church wielded much influence. Dante was a devout man, and as such—”

  “This is outrageous!” Margaret exclaimed.

  I blinked, probably too innocently to fool her, and said, “Did you have another opinion, Margaret?”

  “No one believes in hell anymore. That was merely the way the Old Church controlled us, threatening us with damnation if we broke their rules. They wanted obedience so they could have power over the masses.”

  I was taken aback, both by this line of reasoning, which was quite sophisticated, and her vehemence. “That is a very modern view, Margaret.”

  Her eyes narrowed at me. “Sin is always in the world, it is normal. It is not evil. I do not even believe evil exists.” She glanced at her friends, who watched her with rapt attention. “All sinning is, is not following the Church’s rules. Dante uses pretty language, but he is a child reciting a child’s catechism.”

  I might not have liked Margaret, but the intellectual in me recognized an equal. Too passionate and perhaps not fully developed, but interesting nonetheless. But these ideas were far too advanced for a teenager. I felt certain she was parroting someone else.

  I wanted to coax more from her. “Many scholars who have studied the Scriptures would disagree with you. Dante himself based his writing on extensive study of the Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

  Margaret went absolutely purple. “This book is an utter waste of time,” she said in a tone so dismissive it set my teeth on edge. “Such stories are for those who cannot think for themselves. I am not one of those. I am different. We all are.” She looked to Vanessa, who smiled serenely back at her. I heard snickers from Lilliana and Therese. I knew exactly whom she meant by “we” and so did every other girl in the room.

  That was when I noticed Eustacia. She alone appeared frightened. Not wary or excited like the others, but truly terrified. Perhaps I had gone too far, I suddenly thought. I ought to tread carefully. It was my first day, for goodness sake. “As much as I would like to pursue this line of debate, we must move on,” I said breezily, seeming to dismiss the topic with a flick of my wrist. “I thought the best way for me to get to know you all would be to have you write me a theme on your favorite subject.”

  There were shocked faces, and then groans. From Margaret, a glare that made me grateful that looks could not indeed kill. But I ignored all of this, donning an expression of sublime equanimity I did not feel as I sat at my desk.

  I had to collect myself, concentrate on processing the strange interchange with Margaret. While the class worked, I pretended to be writing, but kept glancing covertly at the five girls. How likely was it that this vampire—whatever its dealing with these particular girls—was the same one that had taken my mother?

  But this did not make any sense. Laura had not been made strigoii vii while a student at Blackbriar. It was years later, after she’d married my father, a year or so before I was born.

  As I had learned in my long hours of research in Denmark, vampires favored certain hunting grounds, and lived a nomadic existence traveling among them. Most of the local people never realized what it was that had come to their quiet worlds. They believed in pestilence, or plague. Some blamed innocents in accusations of witchcraft. If awareness of the monsters did arise, it died out in subsequent generations, becoming scarce-believed legends and superstitions.

  But the vampire would return, safe under the cloak of faded memory and rationality. Therefore, it was entirely possible that the vampire whose reeking presence I could sense on these girls had been here back when my mother was a student. I resolved to find some local histories to see if I could unearth an accounting of past tragedies.

  Yet, I was bothered by my theory. I knew the timing was not right, none of it. Even if my mother had been touched somehow as these girls were, why would her symptoms not emerge until more than five years after she had left Blackbriar? And would a vampire return within living memory of the locals? I had thought that was never done.

  After the girls had handed in their themes, I ate a quick lunch and went for a walk. It always helped me to stride briskly when I was working out a particular problem. It was cold, however, much more so than I’d thought, and I soon became chilled. I refused to go back inside. I am afraid I was in something of a state, confused, and a little lonely. I would have given anything to have had Sebastian with me.

  And Valerian. I walked faster, my breath coming in puffs of clean, white steam. Was he hunting Marius across the continent, into the jungles of Africa, or the sweeping Persian desert? Or was he sitting in a London parlor, sipping tea and flipping the pages of a book? I longed for his friendship, and the particular feeling his companionship gave to me. My little infatuation with Lord Robert Suddington had not altered that.

  But I was alone. That was the heart of it. I should have been used to it, for I had a long acquaintance with the solitary state. Alone, even as a child. Motherless, odd, suspicious lest I manifest the madness of my mother. I, Emma, seemed destined ever to be alone.

  Chapter Six

  A guilty conscience is the heaviest burden to bear. My father used to say that, an admonition I did not need for it was my usual impulse to maintain scrupulous honesty—or at least it used to be, before all this business with vampires started. I used to speak frankly as a habit, and disliked deceit of any kind.

  Thus when the headmistress called me to her office unexpectedly a few days later, all the lies I had told to get myself this position sprung instantly to mind, and I had but one, urgent thought: Caught!

  She kept me waiting, and I used the time to contemplate the thorough humiliation I was sure awaited me. After a half hour, Miss Sloane-Smith glided in with an imperial air, and I stood, ready to take the storm on full force, for it was no less than I deserved.

  However, what followed was not accusation and dismissal. She made her way to the desk and said: “You are faring well in your new post, Mrs. Andrews.”

  She spoke it as if this displeased her, although I could not imagine why it would. I murmured a modest thanks.

  “And how do you find your students?” she asked.

  “Interesting,” I said. She said nothing more, so I filled the silence with, “I enjoy our discussions immensely.”

  “Really.” Her tone was flat as she lifted her gaze to mine. “I am so glad you are enjoying yourself.”

  I smiled, pretending I missed her sarcasm. “I doubt The Inferno is any young girl’s idea of pleasure reading, but they do engage in the discussion and practice their conversation skills. It is a good exercise.”

  She sniffed. “There is no indication of anyone with intellectual leanings, I trust.”

  I knew the correct answer was no. The girls were being trained to be appropriate foils for men to wax prosaic, an audience merely, never the orator. “We speak in terms of morality, at least how Dante envisioned it.”

  “Very good. And what of Miss Kingston? It is up to you to see she does not prove impertinent.”

  She meant Margaret. “Indeed, she is challenging each and every day. But I can manage her.”

  She sniffed, her eyebrows twitching to indicate a grudging approval. “The girl is incorrigible. Her family is new money, you know. Crude people, made their fortune in trade.” Her look of distaste turned sly. “But they are very wealthy.”

  The conversation lapsed, and I assumed it was over. “Very well, then,” I murmured and made to step past her to exit the room.

 
She held up her hand. “There is another matter,” she said with a twitch of her pointed nose, and I knew that whatever it was, it was the true reason why she had summoned me. I also saw she was deeply displeased and doing a poor job of covering it. “I have received an invitation to a dinner party being given at Holt Manor. I was not aware you had made the acquaintance of Lord Suddington.”

  At the sound of his name, my heart gave an unexpected and slightly thrilling little leap. “We dined together at the Rood and Cup several times while I was staying there.”

  “Indeed.” The single word could have frozen seawater. “It seems he regards you two to have struck up something of a friendship. He and I have known each other for some time, of course. We are distantly related, cousins, and our families have been involved with the Blackbriar School for generations. His father was a member of the board of trustees at the time I was appointed headmistress and Lord Suddington has been an enthusiastic member of the board since he returned to the area.”

  “I did not realize.”

  She preened. “Did you not realize he is an important man in the county? Well, he most certainly is, and as such he is very attentive to his social duties as a leader of the community. His guest lists are unfailingly comprised of local luminaries. And yet, for some reason, he has seen fit to invite you to his upcoming dinner party.”

  My surprise was too great to hide. “How kind of him.”

  “Well, it is not done, you see, the staff socializing freely with the local gentry. Now we have quite a situation, as you have seen fit to flout convention. I do not wish to be rude, but it needs being said: he is quite above your station. But as Lord Suddington made this especial request, I am prepared to make an exception and give you permission to attend.”