by Syrie James
IT WAS A PERFECT DAY FOR A PICNIC. LUCY AND I WALKED BY the cliff-path to Mulgrave Woods, where Mrs. Westenra (who drove by the road) met us at the gate with our lunch basket. We spread a blanket on the soft grass beneath a huge tree and enjoyed the repast that our landlady had prepared for us.
As Lucy and her mother chatted amiably about wedding plans, my own thoughts drifted: at first, to the nagging fear that still haunted me about the figure from my dream—the figure that I had spied the night before in the churchyard. Had it been real—or was my mind simply playing tricks on me? If it was a man, why was he leaning over Lucy in that strange manner? Where had he disappeared to? I could not help recalling the stories I had read in the newspaper only two years before, about Jack the Ripper. He had preyed on young women in London in the dark of night. Was Jack the Ripper—or someone like him—on the loose in Whitby? The notion sent a shudder of terror spilling through me.
Perhaps, I thought, I should go to the authorities; but then I remembered my vow to Lucy, to say nothing of the event to any one. There was no point, I decided, in mentioning a circumstance so mortifying, and part of which might have been imagined, particularly when no harm had come to Lucy. However, in the future, I would have to make absolutely certain that Lucy could never get out of our room at night.
I shook off these silent musings, determined to enjoy the beauty of the day and the company of my companions. I joined in their spirited conversation, arguing amiably about the ideal colour for Lucy’s bridesmaids’ dresses, and the best food and beverages to serve at her reception. In a sense of fun, Lucy and I made a variety of outrageously inappropriate suggestions, which prompted a burst of hilarity all around.
After some time thus pleasantly engaged, I thought of Jonathan, and how much I missed him. I pictured Jonathan’s handsome face in my mind: the carefully groomed brown hair, the high forehead, full cheeks, dark brown eyes, and well-proportioned nose and mouth, all set with that dear, resolute expression that I had come to know so well. The image made me sigh, for I could not help but think how absolutely happy I would have been at that moment if he had been there with me.
All at once, the face in my mind was replaced by the image of a different person entirely: that of the tall, handsome gentleman I had met three days earlier in the churchyard. With the face, came the same thought: how happy I would have been had he been there with me. The idea made me blush with guilt. Mina! I chided myself. Why do you think of him? You do not even know him—and you are promised to Jonathan! Yet at the same time, I could not help but wish that I might see him at least one more time.
MY WISH CAME TRUE THAT VERY EVENING.
AFTER DINNER, LUCY AND I STROLLED OUT TO THE WEST CLIFF Pavilion, where a large crowd of happy summer visitors gathered nightly to enjoy the promenade concerts and dancing. I wore my evening dress of midnight blue silk, and Lucy looked radiant in her beaded, rose-coloured satin gown, with her curly hair framing her face, and that lovely black velvet band against her ivory throat.
We had ventured to the pavilion on three previous evenings, and each time had been delighted by the music and the swirl of the dancers, which we had viewed from a vantage point outside the brightly lit pavilion.
On this occasion, darkness had just fallen as we took up our customary position on the terrace, standing near one of the pavilion’s many tall, open doors. I had often thought it very inconsistent that in our rigid society, which did not allow men and women to so much as touch in public, dancing was deemed to be entirely acceptable. In fact, it had long since been a courtship ritual. Even the waltz, which allowed partners to hold each other closely, was now extremely popular. I was grateful for this trend, as dancing was one of my favourite pursuits; but I had resigned myself to being an observer this season.
I smiled, listening, as the music spilled out into the warm night air. Lucy, on the other hand, was restless. She kept tapping her toe and moving ever closer to the door, until we were soon standing just inside.
“Lucy,” I admonished, trying to draw her back, “come away.”
“No.” Lucy pulled her hand from mine. “I am tired of always standing outside. Oh! The dancers look so beautiful, do they not?”
A pair of young gentlemen, noticing our entrance, broke from their party and immediately strode up to us. They both had eyes only for Lucy.
“I believe you are new here, miss,” the first young gentleman said, smiling eagerly at Lucy.
“Would you care to dance?” the second gentleman asked quickly, to the dismay of the first.
Lucy beamed. Sensing that she was about to reply in the affirmative, I interjected: “Thank you kindly sir, but I am afraid my friend must decline, as she is engaged to be married. We both are.”
The pair of youths frowned and bowed, excusing themselves as they quickly departed.
“Oh!” Lucy cried with a vexed and regretful sigh, as she watched her would-be suitors stride away. “Did you have to say that?”
“Of course I did.”
“But why? Dancing is a perfectly respectable activity! You and I have danced our feet off every summer at every sea-side resort we have ever visited!”
“Yes, but that was in the past. If I did not tell them, Lucy, it would be like a little lie; it would raise certain unfair expectations. Before you know it, those young men would be asking you to walk out with them.”
“Well, I could tell them then. You will think me a horrid flirt, Mina; but this is my last chance! After this summer, I will be old and married and settled down for life. I will never again be able to dance with a score of beaus at a summer pavilion. And oh, how I would love to dance! The music is so splendid, it is all I can do to keep my feet still.”
“Arthur is the only man you should be dancing with now—and I should dance with no one but Jonathan.”
“But Arthur and Jonathan are not here! Oh! I do love Arthur. I do not know what I have ever done to deserve him. But it is so unfair! How dreadfully dull it is to be engaged when your lover is not present. I might as well be living in a convent. Sometimes I wish I were free again!”
I was about to offer a recrimination to Lucy’s sentiment when a sudden, shocking feeling came over me. I realised that I agreed with her. Even if Jonathan had been present, in truth he was a bit shy when it came to dancing, always claiming that he had two left feet. How nice it would be, I thought—sometimes—to be free again; to be allowed, if only for an hour or two, to converse with—and dance with—any man I liked. My cheeks flamed at this heresy. It was so unworthy of me! Yet I could not deny that there was truth to it.
At that moment, my eye was drawn to a figure across the crowded room. I gave a little gasp. It was the tall, handsome gentleman I had met in the churchyard! He was standing at the edge of the dancers, dressed as before in his finely tailored black frock coat—and he was staring fixedly—at me. Even from this distance away, I felt the heat of his penetrating gaze boring into mine, as if I were the only other person in the room.
He began heading at once in my direction. My heart began to pound. I had not as yet spoken a word about him to Lucy; but now I had no choice.
“Lucy,” I said quickly, “I met a gentleman the other day.”
“What?”
“I met a man when I was walking on the cliff a few days ago—a very nice man.”
“You met a man? Why did you not tell me? Who is he? What is his name?”
“I do not know, but he appears to be crossing the room just now, to speak to us.”
Lucy followed my gaze. “Is that him? The handsome, black-haired gentleman?” she murmured in breathless wonder.
I nodded silently. It had been three days since I had last seen him, and he was—if possible—even more handsome than I had remembered.
An odd look suddenly crossed Lucy’s face, and she went quiet for a moment, staring at him as he moved purposefully towards us through the crowd. “I wonder if I have seen him around town? He—” Then she shook her head with a puzzled giggle, and said
under her breath: “No; I could never forget such a face. He is absolutely gorgeous!”
The gentleman stopped before us, removed his hat, and bowed, his eyes never leaving my face. “Good evening, ladies.”
At the sound of the man’s deep, gently accented foreign voice, Lucy started and stared at him again, as if taken aback. I darted a curious glance in her direction. What did her reaction mean? The gentleman, on the other hand, seemed barely aware of Lucy’s presence, so focused was his attention on me.
“Good evening, sir,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice even, despite the loud pounding in my chest. “It is nice to see you again.”
“It is a great pleasure to see you again, Miss Murray. You look very beautiful this evening. That is a lovely gown.”
“Thank you, sir.” I felt my cheeks grow warm under his admiring scrutiny, the kind of look that I was accustomed to seeing directed at Lucy rather than myself.
“The dresses you ladies wear in the evening here—I far prefer them to that new fashion you wear by day, all buttoned up—” (he made a face, and motioned to his throat) “—with the collars up to here.”
I laughed. “The fashion is not all that new, sir. But I agree: at times it can be suffocating—particularly in the heat of summer.”
He now glanced at Lucy as if for the first time, and then darted an enquiring look in my direction. I added: “You find me at a disadvantage, sir. I would like to introduce you to my friend, but I am unacquainted with your name.”
“Can that be so? Please forgive me. I have been remiss. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Maximilian Wagner, of Salzburg.” He bowed again and held out his hand to me.
The touch of his hand sent a tingle up my spine; as before, his fingers felt strangely cool through my thin kid glove. “How do you do, Mr. Wagner? May I present my dearest friend, Miss Westenra?”
“Miss Westenra: Miss Murray has spoken of you. I am very pleased to meet you.”
Lucy, who had been staring at him all this time, seemed to give herself a little mental shake; she now returned his smile and placed her gloved hand in his. “The pleasure is mine, sir.” Turning so that Mr. Wagner could not see, Lucy directed a very comical face at me, urgently conveying her silent astonishment and satisfaction with the man’s handsome manners and appearance. It was all I could do not to laugh in response.
The music came to a brief halt, and some of the dancing couples disbanded. A good-looking swain rushed up to Lucy and said, “May I have the next dance, miss?”
Lucy instantly put her hand in his and said, “I would be delighted, sir.” Glancing back at me with a parting wink, she added, “I will see you later, Mina.”
The musicians began to play the first strains of one of my favourite waltzes, Strauss’s Tales from the Vienna Woods. Mr. Wagner held out his arm to me. “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me, Miss Murray?”
I knew I ought to reply, I should not, sir; but with his intense, deep blue eyes holding mine, and my heart hammering in my ears, I could not pronounce the words, any more than I could prevent myself from silently taking the arm he offered. Mr. Wagner led me onto the dance floor. As if in a trance, I faced him, and we moved into waltz position. He drew me gently to him, until my body was only inches from his. The touch of his right hand against my shoulder blade, the feel of his hard shoulder muscle beneath my left hand, and the firm grip of his other hand in mine made my blood course hot and thick through my veins.
The music began in earnest, and we began to dance. He moved with remarkable fluidity and grace, but with a slightly different style than that to which I was accustomed; an older form, I thought, or a Viennese custom perhaps. It took me a few moments to adjust and accommodate—or perhaps he adjusted to accommodate me—I could not be certain. In no time, however, we were whirling about the room, his movements in such perfect harmony with my own that I felt as if I had never, until that moment, truly comprehended what it meant to waltz. A rush of pleasure rippled through me; my thoughts scattered; the soaring, rhythmic melody carried me away; I felt as if I were floating. For a long while I simply gave myself up to the enjoyment of the wonderful music and the feeling of being in his arms, never wanting it to end.
His deep voice broke into my reverie. “You are a wonderful dancer, Miss Murray.”
“Thank you, but I am only as good as the partner who leads me—and you are most accomplished, sir.”
“I have had many years of practice. I would venture to guess that you have, as well.”
“I taught dance and music at school.”
“Are those required courses for young English girls?”
“They are—along with deportment and all the usual subjects.”
“Reading, writing, and arithmetic?”
“And sometimes French or Italian.”
“Ah? Parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?”
“Oui, monsieur; un peu.1 I am afraid I speak no German, however.”
“Das ist doch kein Problem, Fräulein—this is no great loss. We do not need German to converse. I far prefer your language, in any case.” We shared a smile as he spun me around in time to the music, adding: “Is it true, what I read? That the waltz was considered somewhat disreputable in this country for many years?”
“It was indeed, sir. It might be still, had not young Victoria asked the future Prince Albert to dance a waltz with her before they were married.”
“In that case, I find myself most indebted to your Queen.”
I laughed. We continued dancing in silence, an activity which neither of us seemed to wish to give up, as one song blended into the next and the next. I was surprised to note that, despite the heat in the crowded room, and the level of our exertion, not a drop of perspiration ever marked Mr. Wagner’s brow, and he never grew out of breath; whereas after an hour on the dance floor, I was very warm, winded, and in desperate need of refreshment.
Apparently noticing my discomfort, at the next break in the music, Mr. Wagner said, “Would you like to step outside on the terrace for a few minutes, Miss Murray? And may I get you something to drink?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” As we moved towards the door, I searched the room for Lucy. I found her to be the centre of attention of a sizeable group of men, with whom she was laughing and chatting happily. I smiled at this, as Mr. Wagner brought me a cup of punch. “Are you not having any?” I asked.
“I am not fond of punch. Shall we?”
We ventured out to the terrace, where we took seats beside each other on a low stone wall overlooking the sea, and I gratefully sipped my beverage. The fresh sea-breeze felt invigorating, yet the magical spell of the past hour still warmed my blood. Below us, the dark waves crashed and rolled up onto the beach; above us, bright stars twinkled in an inky sky; and all around us filtered the lively music from the pavilion.
“May I say again, Miss Murray, what a delightful dancer you are. I cannot recall when I have ever passed a more enjoyable hour on a dance floor.”
“Nor I, sir. You said you have had many years of practice. Where did you learn to dance?”
“In school, as you did,” he replied smoothly. “The waltz has a long history in Austria, starting from the days of the Court in Vienna in the late seventeenth century. For the last two hundred years, people from the country-side to the city have all gone ‘dancing mad,’ as they say.”
“I can see why. Some of the most beautiful music in the world has originated in Austria. Tales from the Vienna Woods is my favourite, and I also love The Blue Danube.”
“I, too, am fond of the music by Strauss, both Junior and Senior.”
“Do you like Joseph Haydn?” I enquired.
“Haydn was a very accomplished composer and an interesting man. He taught Beethoven, and was good friends with Mozart; he could tell a fine joke and put away a great quantity of ale.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “I was referring to Haydn’s music. You speak as if you knew him.”
He laughed in return.
“I have—read a great deal about him. And enjoyed hearing his music, of course.” He changed the subject, adding quickly: “Your friend, I believe she called you Mina. Is that short for something?”
“Wilhelmina.”
“A good Dutch or German name; and yet Murray, I think, is Scottish. Did your parents hail from that country?”
I felt my cheeks grow warm, and I averted my gaze—embarrassed, as always, whenever the subject of my parentage came up. “I do not know where my parents came from exactly. I never knew them. I think—I believe they came from London.”
“I see.”
“What about your parents, sir? Do they reside in Austria?”
“No. They both passed on many years ago.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not be sorry. Death is a part of life. It is nothing to regret and nothing to fear.”
“You say that so calmly and matter-of-factly: as if you were discussing the weather. Do you truly not fear death?”
“Not at all.”
“You are religious, then? A man of the church?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well, I wish I could feel as you do. But—I do not like to think about death. Let us talk of something else. Such as: what brings you to Whitby, Mr. Wagner? Business or pleasure?”
“Both, in fact.”
“What business are you engaged in?”
“I am a landowner in my own country. I am considering the acquisition of some property in England.”
“Where? In Whitby?”
“I am keeping an open mind. I enjoy the peace and quiet of the country, and small towns such as this—but in general, I prefer the hustle and bustle, I think you call it, of a great city like London.”
“So do I. London is so alive! There is so much to see and do. I love to walk up Piccadilly. Have you climbed up the dome of St. Paul’s, and seen Westminster Abbey and Parliament?”
