by Syrie James
Dracula, My Love
The Secret Journals of Mina Harker
A Novel
Syrie James
For my son Ryan Michael James, who piqued my interest in vampires, and who is a wizard in his own right.
And in memory of my brilliant, beloved father, Morton Michael Astrahan, who used to thrill me with his bedtime stories, which always ended with a cliffhanger…and who encouraged me to follow my dreams.
Contents
Maps
Prologue
IT HAS BEEN SEVEN LONG YEARS SINCE THE FIRST NIGHT…
One
WHEN I FIRST STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT WHITBY ON…
Two
I AWOKE WITH A START, MY HEART POUNDING, TO HEAR…
Three
LUCY AND I WERE SO TIRED FROM OUR LONG WALK…
Four
THAT NIGHT, ALTHOUGH LUCY INSISTED SHE WAS FAR TOO knackered…
Five
SHORTLY AFTER BREAKFAST, I WENT OUT ON MY OWN TO…
Six
WHEN JONATHAN AND I ARRIVED AT EXETER ON THE 14TH…
Seven
IT ALL HAPPENED SO SUDDENLY. SHORTLY BEFORE DINNER, Mr. Hawkins said…
Eight
IT WAS SLOW GOING AT FIRST, AS MY SHORTHAND WAS…
Nine
JONATHAN MET DR. VAN HELSING AT HIS HOTEL EARLY THE next…
Ten
AS I VENTURED DOWN THE LONG, GRAVEL DRIVE THAT LED…
Eleven
IN THE CAB BACK TO THE TRAIN STATION, I TOLD…
Twelve
I FOUND JONATHAN DOWN-STAIRS IN THE DINING-ROOM, DEEP in conversation…
Thirteen
I LEAPT FROM MY BED AND SHRANK BACK AGAINST THE…
Fourteen
I FELT A SUDDEN BLAST OF ICY WIND, ACCOMPANIED BY…
Fifteen
I AWAKENED VERY LATE THE NEXT MORNING, THE SUNLIGHT making…
Sixteen
I PUT MY HANDS OVER MY FACE, LAY ON THE…
Seventeen
I HAD NO TIME TO SCREAM; NO WAY TO EVADE…
Eighteen
HYPNOTISE YOU?” JONATHAN REPEATED WITH CONCERN.
Nineteen
THAT NIGHT, AFTER DRACULA TOOK ME BACK TO THE asylum,…
Twenty
AS THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN CREPT OVER THE HORIZON,…
Twenty-One
AS THERE WAS NO NIGHT TRAIN AVAILABLE WHICH COULD take…
Twenty-Two
I LEAPT TO MY FEET, DEEPLY WORRIED, FIGHTING BACK A…
Twenty-Three
I SCREAMED AGAIN IN TERROR AND BEWILDERMENT. NICOLAE had said…
Twenty-Four
IN A WHIRL OF SOUND AND WIND AND MIDNIGHT AIR,…
Epilogue
IT IS NOW THE SUMMER OF 1897, NEARLY SEVEN YEARS…
A+ Author Insights, Extras & More…
Acknowledgments
Praise
Other Books by Syrie James
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Maps
Europe 1890
Dracula’s Transylvania
Mina Harker’s England
PROLOGUE
1897
IT HAS BEEN SEVEN LONG YEARS SINCE THE FIRST NIGHT HE came to my chamber, seven long years since the string of haunting, incredible, and perilous events occurred—events which I am certain no one else will believe, even though we took care to make a written record of it. It is those transcripts of our journals—mine, and the other’s—which I look at from time to time, to remind myself that it all really happened and that I did not merely dream it.
Now and then, when I spy a white mist gathering in the garden below, when a shadow crosses a wall at night, or when I see dust motes swirling in a beam of moonlight, I still find myself jumping in expectation and alarm. Jonathan will press my hand and catch my eye with a silent, reassuring look, as if to let me know that he understands, that we are safe. But when he turns back to his reading by the fire, my heart continues to hammer in my chest, and I am overcome not only by the sense of apprehension that Jonathan knows I feel, but by something else as well…by longing.
Yes, longing.
The record I kept—the journal I so carefully wrote in shorthand, and then typed for the others to read—was not the entire truth; not my truth. Some thoughts and experiences are too intimate for others’ eyes; some desires are too shocking to admit, even to one’s self. Were I to reveal all to Jonathan, I know I would lose him for ever, as surely as I would lose for ever the good opinion of all society.
I know what my husband wants—what all men want. For a woman—single or married—to be loved and respected, she must be innocent: entirely pure of mind, body, and soul. And so I once was, until he came into my life. At times, I feared him. At other times, I despised him. And yet, even knowing what he was and what he wanted, I could not help but love him.
I will never forget the magic of being held in his embrace, the compelling magnetism of his eyes as he gazed at me, or how it felt to whirl about the dance floor in his arms. I still shiver with delight when I recall the dizzying sensation of travelling with him at the speed of light, and the way his slightest touch could make me gasp with unimagined pleasure and desire. But the most wondrous times were the hours upon hours of conversation, stolen moments in which we revealed our most private selves to each other, and discovered all that we held in common.
I loved him. I loved him passionately, profoundly, from the very depths of my being, and with every beating of my heart. There was a time when I might have gladly given up this human life to be with him for ever.
And yet…
All these years, the truth of what happened has weighed heavily on my mind, taking the pleasure out of ordinary things, stealing my appetite, and banishing sleep. I find I cannot carry the guilty burden within me any longer. I must put it all down on paper, never to be seen by others’ eyes, but certain that only in the writing will I at last be free to let it go.
ONE
WHEN I FIRST STEPPED OFF THE TRAIN AT WHITBY ON that bright July afternoon in 1890, I had no inkling that my life, and the lives of everyone I knew and loved, would soon be subjected to the gravest of dangers from which we—those of us who survived—would emerge for ever altered. When my foot touched the station platform that day, I was not overcome by a sudden chill, nor did I have an uncanny premonition of the unthinkable events to come. There was, in fact, nothing to indicate that this holiday at the sea-side would be any different from all those pleasant sojourns that had come before it.
I was two-and-twenty years old. I had, after four happy years, just quit my position as a school-teacher in preparation for my upcoming marriage. Although I was deeply concerned about my fiancé, Jonathan Harker, who had not yet returned from a business trip to Transylvania, I was filled with delight at the prospect of spending the next month or two in a beautiful place with my best friend in the world, where we could talk together freely and build our castles in the air.
I caught sight of Lucy standing on the platform, looking lovelier than ever in her white lawn frock, her dark curls peeking out demurely from beneath her stylish, flowered hat, as she searched for me through the crowd. Our eyes met, and her face lit up.
“Mina!” Lucy cried, and we raced into each other’s arms.
“How I have missed you!” I replied, hugging her. “It seems as if a year has passed since we last saw each other, instead of months. So much has happened in the meantime.”
“I feel the same. Last spring, we were both single women. And now—”
“—we are both engaged!” We smil
ed happily and embraced again.
Lucy Westenra and I had been best friends ever since the day we met at Upton Hall School when I was fourteen years old and she was twelve. Despite the fact that we came from very different backgrounds—Lucy had loving, wealthy parents who doted on her, while I had never known my parents and was only receiving a quality education courtesy of a grant—we became inseparable. We were a study in contrasts: I was a rosy-cheeked, green-eyed blonde of medium height who others seemed to consider attractive; whereas Lucy was an astonishing beauty, with a perfect, petite figure, bright blue eyes, an ivory complexion, and a crown of stunning dark brown curls. Lucy loved to ride and play ball and tennis, whereas I had always been far happier with my nose in a book; yet we found common ground in other things.
All through our school years, we slept together, played together, studied together, took long walks together, laughed and cried together, and told all our secrets to each other. As I had had no real home to return to when school was out of session, I had often—and gratefully—spent many holidays with Lucy’s family, either at their home in London or in the country, or at whatever fashionable sea-side resort had taken Mrs. Westenra’s fancy at the time. When I later became a teacher at the same school, our friendship continued unabated; when Lucy graduated and returned to London with her widowed mother, we kept in constant touch through letters and regular visits.
“Where is your mother?” I asked now, glancing about for Mrs. Westenra.
“She is back at our rooms, resting. What do you think of my new walking dress and hat? Mamma insists that this is the latest thing to wear at the sea-side, but she has made such a fuss that I have become quite bored with it.”
I assured Lucy that her dress was lovely, and that the only reason she found fashion tiresome was that she had never gone in want of it. “If you had only four frocks and two suits to your name as I do, Lucy, you might find yourself suddenly coveting the very garments that you now disdain.”
“What you may lack in quantity, Mina dear, you make up for in quality, for you always look very sweet and becoming. I love your summer frock! Shall we go? I have a cab waiting. Tell the porter to bring your luggage out front. Wait until you see this place. Whitby is a wonder!”
Indeed, as we drove away from the station, I marvelled at the lovely view out the open window of the carriage. A gentle breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, and squawking seagulls circled overhead. Immediately below us, the River Esk cut a path between two sloping green valleys, flowing past a busy harbour on its way to the sea. A vivid blue sky and puffy white clouds made a lovely contrast to the red-roofed houses of the old town, which were all packed in, one on top of the other, along the steep hill-side. “What a charming town!”
“Isn’t it? I was so pleased that Mamma decided to go some place new this summer. I had grown quite fed up with Brighton and Sidmouth.”
“It was so kind of you to invite me to join you again.” I took one of Lucy’s gloved hands in my own and squeezed it affectionately. “Now that I have left teaching and given up my room at the school for good, I do not know where else I would have gone this summer.”
“I would not dream of spending this holiday with any one else, Mina dear. We will have such fun! They say there are lovely walks all about, and you can hire boats and go out on the river.”
“Oh! I have always loved to go rowing.”
“And look across the river: do you see that long trail of steps curving upwards? Apparently it leads all the way up to the church and that ruined abbey on the hill top. I am simply dying to explore, but ever since we arrived yesterday, Mamma has been too tired to leave the lodging-house, and she did not want to attempt to climb the hill. Now that you are here, we can take long strolls together and see everything.”
“Is your mother ill?”
“No. At least, I do not think so. She just seems to fatigue easily of late, and steep climbs leave her short of breath. I am hoping the sea air will do her good. Now,” Lucy added excitedly, “what do you think of my engagement ring?” She removed a glove and thrust her hand at me.
I caught my breath as I studied the delicate gold band set with pearls that adorned her slender finger. “It is beautiful, Lucy.”
“Let me see yours.”
“I do not yet have an engagement ring,” I admitted. “But just before Jonathan left on his trip overseas, he learned that his examinations were successful. He is a clerk no longer, but a full-blown solicitor! He promised to buy me a ring as soon as he returns.”
“Did you at least exchange locks of hair?”
“Of course! We keep the locks in little envelopes for now.”
“Arthur and I keep ours in matching gold lockets; his hangs from his watch-chain. I do not wear my locket often, however, ever since he gave me this.” With a happy smile, Lucy fingered the black velvet ribbon around her throat, which was ornamented with a diamond buckle.
“I have been admiring your neckband ever since I got off the train. It is truly exquisite.”
“The diamond buckle was Arthur’s mother’s. I love it so much, I hardly ever take it off, except when I sleep.”
We drove up to a nice, rambling old house in the Royal Crescent, run by the widow of a sea captain, where Lucy and her mother had taken rooms. I had my luggage delivered upstairs to the chamber that Lucy and I were to share. As Mrs. Westenra was still napping, and it was too early for dinner, the two of us grabbed our hats and parasols and set out to explore Whitby.
“What news do you have of Jonathan?” Lucy asked, as we strolled out along the North Terrace, enjoying the sea-view and the pleasant summer breeze. “Have you received another letter?”
I heaved a perturbed sigh. “I have not heard from him for a whole month. I am very worried, actually.”
“A month is not such a long time between letters.”
“It is for Jonathan.”
For the past five years, Jonathan had been apprenticed as a solicitor’s clerk in Exeter to a dear friend of his family, Mr. Peter Hawkins, the same man who had financed his education. In late April, Mr. Hawkins had sent Jonathan as his representative to the Eastern European country of Transylvania, to meet with a nobleman named Count Dracula, on whose behalf they had conducted a real-estate transaction. Jonathan had been excited to go, as he had yearned to travel, but had never had the means to leave the country before.
“All these years, Jonathan and I have written to each other with great regularity, sometimes as often as twice a week. When he first set out on this trip, I received great newsy letters about his crossing, about all the sights he was seeing, the people he was meeting, and the new foods he was tasting. Suddenly, all communication ceased. I had no idea if he had reached Transylvania, and thought some evil might have befallen him. I obtained Count Dracula’s address from Mr. Hawkins, and wrote to Jonathan there. At last, I received a note—but it was brief and hurried, not like Jonathan at all, with no mention of the letter I had sent—just a few lines, saying that his work there was nearly done and that he would be starting for home in a few days. I wrote back immediately, informing him of my travel plans, so that he could write to me here at Whitby. But now another month has gone by without a reply. What could have happened to him?”
“Perhaps he stayed longer in Transylvania than expected, or decided to see the sights on his way home.”
“If so, why has he not written? Why did he not answer my last letter?”
“Mail often goes astray, Mina, and it can take ages to arrive when it comes from another country. Believe me: Jonathan is fine. You will hear from him any day now. He would not want you to worry. He would want you to enjoy your holiday.”
I sighed again. “I suppose you are right.”
We descended a steep flight of steps leading down to the pier, and proceeded on past the fish-market, where fishermen and their wives were stationed at the bows of their anchored boats, hawking the last of the day’s catch to a few plainly dressed bargain-hunters. The air was filled with
the sounds of squealing seabirds, lapping water, and sails whipping in the breeze; and it was so alive with the salty tang of the sea and the smells of fresh fish and musty hemp that I could almost taste them.
“How I love the sea-side,” I exclaimed, reinvigorated by the happy cacophony of sights, sounds, and scents about us. “Now: you must tell me everything, Lucy. How is your Mr. Holmwood? Or should I say: the future Lord Godalming?”
“Oh! Arthur is such a dear. He promised to come to Whitby soon for a visit. I do miss him so when we are apart.”
“Have you set your wedding date yet?”
“No, but Mamma is pressing for us to be married very soon, perhaps as early as September. I must admit—I hope I can admit this to you, Mina—September seems awfully soon. It is only two months since I accepted Arthur’s proposal. I am still not used to the idea that I am actually going to be married.”
I glanced at Lucy in surprise. “In your letters, you said you were head-over-heels in love with Arthur, and thrilled about your engagement.”
