by Syrie James
“Let me hear how she died.”
A look of sudden horror crossed his face, and he answered: “No! No! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that terrible story!”
A grave, terrible feeling came over me. Clearly there was more to the story of Lucy’s death than had yet been revealed. “If I am to be of any help to you, Doctor, in our effort to find this vile Count, then I should know everything you can tell me—don’t you agree? Dr. Van Helsing has already shared the events leading up to Lucy’s death. I know that she was deprived of blood time and again by that foul being, and that despite all your efforts, she perished. I am only asking to hear the details as you experienced them; for Lucy was very, very dear to me.”
His face was by then a positively deathly pallor, and he stammered: “What happened at the end—the very end—it is too horrifying to tell, Mrs. Harker. I would not wish you to hear my account of it. No! I will leave that to Dr. Van Helsing, when he returns.” I noticed that his hand had begun to shake.
My glance now fell on a great batch of typewriting on the table, which was very familiar to me. “I see that you have the transcripts I made of my and my husband’s diaries, which I gave to Dr. Van Helsing.”
“Yes. I am most anxious to look at them, but I have not had the opportunity. The professor only gave them to me before he left.”
“Did he tell you anything of our experiences, or of the discussion we had three days ago?”
“No, nothing.” With a tentative little smile, he added: “Other than the fact that you both have a great personal interest in this matter and that you are a ‘pearl among women.’”
“There is little basis for his high opinion of me, I fear; it seems to be based solely on the fact that I am a very neat typist.” With a sigh, I added: “I see you do not know me, Doctor. When you have read those papers, you will know me better.” I glanced out the window; it was late afternoon but still light out. “I have been sitting most of the day. If you will permit me, I think I will take a long walk, and then a nap. That should give you sufficient time to read through those documents; and then, perhaps, you will trust me enough to take me into your confidence.”
He bowed his head in assent. “I have called for dinner at eight, Mrs. Harker, but it can be delayed if necessary. Come down whenever you wake from your nap.”
I thanked him again, then retrieved my hat and shawl from my room. I left the house in a disquieted state of mind, with one object only—to get some fresh air and exercise—having no inkling of the person I was about to encounter, or the adventure which lay before me.
TEN
AS I VENTURED DOWN THE LONG, GRAVEL DRIVE THAT LED from the asylum’s front entrance to the lane, I breathed in deeply of the scents of pine, oak, and elm from the wooded grounds around me. The deciduous trees were on the crest of their colour change, beginning their annual shift from green to dramatic reds and golds. The afternoon sun was low in a hazy sky, and the air was a pleasant temperature, alive with the sounds of birds and distantly bleating sheep. For a few minutes, I allowed myself to forget the reason I had come here and to simply enjoy the pleasure of being in the country-side again.
In reaching the lane, I remembered that Dr. Seward’s property was immediately adjacent to the estate which now belonged to Count Dracula. Dr. Seward had pointed the place out to me from the carriage when we passed by earlier upon my arrival.
My pulse began to race excitedly. Did I dare investigate? The doctor had said that no one had moved in next door; but what if he was wrong? So filled with curiosity was I to see the place that I pushed back my fears and hastened down the lane to study the great stone wall which appeared to entirely enclose the neighbouring property. The wall, at least ten feet high, was fronted by a set of very old and rusted iron gates, which were securely chained and locked. Disappointed, I saw that any further exploration would be impossible.
I peered through the iron bars of the gates. The place was just as Jonathan had described it. A long driveway choked with weeds led through spacious grounds, which were dense with trees. Through the foliage, I could make out a dark pond to one side and the great house beyond. It was four storeys high, very large and old, and seemed to have been added on to in different architectural styles at various periods of its history. One part, dating perhaps to late medieval times, was of immensely thick stone with heavily barred windows.
The entire place looked neglected and deserted. The surrounding woods were eerily silent. If indeed the Count had taken up residence, there was no sign of it.
Despite this, as I stood looking in through the front gates, I had the strangest feeling of being watched—a feeling I had not had since that morning nearly two months past, after the great storm at Whitby. My heart lurched as my gaze was drawn to a window in the upper floor of the ancient building. Was that a shadow, or was someone standing within? A quiver ran through my body; then I could not help but laugh at my own folly. Surely it was nothing but the late-afternoon sun glinting weakly against the grimy glass.
Leaving the old residence, I walked down the wooded byroad, which took me to the main road. Another fifteen minutes’ walk took me back into the heart of Purfleet. As Dr. Seward and I had gone straight to his house from the train station, I had gotten no more than a glimpse of the pretty little village on the Thames, with the chalk hills in the distance. I saw now that it was a very picturesque place, with a few scattered rows of houses, several small shops, and a Royal Hotel, which advertised its “World Famous Fish Dinners.” There was, however, nothing of great interest there to occupy me for any length of time.
As I approached the train station, I passed a young woman walking hand in hand with a little girl. It was clear from their conversation that they were mother and daughter, and were very close. They presented such a charming and affectionate picture that I felt a pang of envy. My mind drifted to the letter I had received that morning from my own mother—Anna—a letter I had already read so many times, I knew much of it by heart: “I loved your father. His name was Cuthbert. I believe he truly loved me for a time. I met him while serving as a chambermaid in Marlborough Gardens, Belgravia. The two years I spent at that house were the happiest of my life…”
A sharp whistle sounded from an approaching train. I saw that it was heading in the direction of London. It was not a long journey. It was several hours yet until dinner. I could, I realised, get to town and back before any one would miss me. I could try to find Marlborough Gardens, Belgravia—the street where my mother had lived and worked when she had fallen in love with my father and had created me.
Without further thought, I hurried to the ticket window, purchased my ticket, and breathlessly jumped on board the train. I found an empty compartment and took a seat by the window. A few minutes later, I heard the hissing steam escaping from below me as the train bumped and lurched into motion. A uniformed man took my ticket and withdrew. I was sitting lost in thought, gazing out at the passing country-side, when I heard the compartment door slide open again.
I glanced at the new arrival, who was standing in the doorway—and my heart nearly stopped beating.
It was Mr. Wagner.
I FELT FOR A MOMENT AS IF I COULD NOT BREATHE.
Mr. Wagner took two steps into the compartment and paused, staring at me as if in disbelief. I had thought of him so often since last we met, recalling in infinite detail his handsome face and figure, each time wondering if I was remembering him to be more perfect than he was. Now, I saw that my memory had not done him justice. Oh! How wonderful it was to see that dear face again! He was dressed as always in a black frock coat, with the addition of a magnificent, long, black cloak draped lazily over his broad shoulders.
“From my window, I thought I saw you board the train.” His dark blue eyes glowed with astonished happiness as he looked at me. “I could not believe it.”
“Mr. Wagner,” was all that I could manage. My heart was pounding in such a frenzy, I could scarcely think.
“It has bee
n a long time.”
“Six weeks.”
“You have been counting.”
A blush spread across my cheeks. He smiled and said:
“May I join you?”
“Please.” I gestured towards the empty seat across from me, feeling as if I were wrapped in some kind of dream.
He sat, his eyes fixed upon me intensely. For some moments, the only sounds in the compartment were the clicking of the wheels below us and the rhythmic puffing of the engine. “Are you well?”
“I am. And you, sir?”
“Quite well.”
I had held so many imaginary conversations with him in my mind; yet now, in his presence, I struggled for words. “I thought you might have long since returned to Austria.”
“No. I have often thought of you since that last morning in Whitby. Did you make it to Buda-Pesth?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find your man?”
“Very ill. He had been in hospital for quite some time, suffering from a terrible shock.”
“A shock?”
“Yes. I helped to nurse him, and—and we were married—and returned home to Exeter.”
If he was surprised or disappointed to find me married, he hid it well. “Then it is Miss Murray no longer?”
“It is Mrs. Harker.” I blushed despite myself, as I lowered my gaze.
“Congratulations. I hope you are happy?”
“Yes, very.”
“I am pleased to hear it. Pray, tell me: to what do I owe this extraordinary coincidence? How is it that you happen to be here to-day, Mrs. Harker, on this very train?”
I hesitated. “My husband had business in town, and I thought to join him. We are staying with a friend in Purfleet. Jonathan is away at Whitby until to-morrow, on—on an errand.”
“At Whitby?”
“Yes. It is ironic, I suppose,” I added with a smile. “The last time I saw you, I was at Whitby and Jonathan was away; and now it is the reverse.”
He returned my smile. “Indeed. And it is wonderful that we should find each other again so unexpectedly. I am most grateful for it.”
“How is it that you come to be here, sir?”
“I have been to see some property in West Essex. I am on my way back to London now. Are you also bound for town?”
“Yes.”
“Not for business or shopping, though, I think? It is a bit late in the day for that. You are visiting a friend, perhaps?”
“No.” I paused. He continued to look at me so questioningly, that I felt compelled to explain. “If I tell you why I am going, you will think me foolish.”
“I doubt that.”
With a sigh, I said: “I had a sudden impulse to see the house where my mother lived and worked.”
“Your mother?” he replied, surprised. “Have you heard from her, then?”
“She left me a letter many years ago, before she died. I only just received it to-day. I now know her name was Anna, and that my father’s surname was Cuthbert. She said she worked for several years at a house in Belgravia.”
“Was she indeed a chambermaid? The story you overhead as a child, was it true?”
“It seems that it was.” I was flattered that he recalled the details of my little personal history, of which I had spoken so anxiously the day we went boating. From my bag, I took the envelope containing my mother’s precious letter and showed it to him. “She said she loved me, sir, and wanted to keep me. It meant a great deal to hear that.”
“I imagine it would,” he said kindly. “And now, you are on your way to Belgravia to—what?”
“I do not know exactly. To try to find the street where she lived, I suppose. Just to see what it looks like.”
“An honourable quest, and not foolish at all. I understand and commend it. Do you have the address?”
“She just said Marlborough Gardens.”
“That should not be difficult to find. May I have the honour of accompanying you on this mission, Mrs. Harker? It is not the best idea for a woman to traverse the streets of London on her own at this hour, even in Belgravia. My evening is quite free, and perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wagner,” I replied instantly and with a smile, grateful for an excuse to spend more time with him. “I would be glad of your company.”
We chatted all the way into town. At first, we reminisced about the times we had shared in Whitby. He asked if I had done any more dancing since then. I replied with regret that I had not. Mr. Wagner explained that he had travelled a great deal since we last met and was very fond of trains.
“Your English trains are wonderful, so efficient, and they run so frequently. You can go anyplace you like on a whim—halfway across the country if you wish—spend a few delightful hours, and return just as swiftly.” He was equally praiseworthy about the underground railway system. “There is nothing like it anywhere in the world. Such an enormous and progressive undertaking! Such a feat of engineering! I have followed its development in the newspapers with great interest ever since they first began building it.”
“Perhaps not since they first began,” I said with a laugh. “The first section, I believe, opened seven-and-twenty years ago. You would have been a very little boy.”
“I took an interest at a very early age.”
When we reached town, he hailed a hansom cab to take us to Belgravia. As he sat down beside me within the confines of the cab, his nearness caused a heat to course through me, and my heart continued to pound in the same erratic rhythm that had begun the moment I first saw him. “Have you been in London long?” I asked.
“Some weeks now. I have visited all the great sights you mentioned when last we met, and many more. I find it a far more modern and cosmopolitan city than any capital I have seen in Europe.”
“You do not prefer Paris?”
“Not at all.” In a deep, thrilling tone, he added: “Paris is old-world. London is everything new: the great, teeming hub of the world.”
It was early evening when our hansom cab arrived at Marlborough Gardens, and it had grown quite dark. I suddenly felt very foolish for having dashed off to London on my own on the cusp of night, and was grateful to have Mr. Wagner as my escort.
“How lovely,” I murmured, as we began walking down the narrow, tree-lined street, with long rows of tall, white, aristocratic-looking town-houses on either side. All the houses looked exactly alike: five storeys high, with many balconied windows framed by intricately carved cornice work and noble-looking columns.
“Just think,” I said in wonder, “my own mother walked up this street hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. She lived inside one of these beautiful houses. She might have swept that very doorstep every day for years. Oh! How I wish I had known her.”
“Perhaps you can learn something of her.”
“How?”
“You know her name, and your father’s surname. We could make a few enquiries and find out if any one remembers them.”
“Oh, no! I would not think of disturbing any one. It would be most unlikely that any one could help me. My father could have been any one, from a groom to the postman, and my mother was only a maid. She lived here but a few short years, and it was more than two-and-twenty years ago.”
“Yes, but considering the circumstances under which she left—”
My cheeks grew warm. “The scandal, you mean?”
“I do not consider it as such, Mrs. Harker; however, I think people in general do tend to remember such things and enjoy talking about them.”
“What would I say?” I replied with a mortified laugh. “That I am looking for a maid called Anna—possibly Anna Murray—who left her employment because she was with child?”
“Precisely.”
“I should die of shame!” I turned and began walking rapidly back in the direction from which we had come. “Thank you for helping me find the street, sir. I am happy to have seen it. I am very satisfied. Now let us depart.”
“
Wait! All your life, you have wondered about your mother,” Mr. Wagner said as he kept pace with me, his handsome face bathed in the moonlight. “You have come all this way. Here is your chance to satisfy that curiosity. It would be a shame to leave without at least making an attempt.”
I slowed my steps, still filled with embarrassment; but some inner voice told me that he was right.
“What are you afraid of?” he persisted.
“I am afraid,” I blurted quietly, “that if any one should remember my mother, he will look down on me for being her daughter.”
Mr. Wagner touched my arm and stopped me—a contact which sent a tingle up my spine. “If any one does, that is his own problem, not yours. Your mother loved you and did what she thought best for you. You should be proud of that. In any case, you need not say that you are her daughter, if you prefer; only that you are seeking information about her.”
I suddenly felt ashamed of my weakness and discomfiture. “You once told me not to care so much about what other people think. You said, ‘throw caution to the wind.’ But that is more easily said than done.”
“Nothing truly worth doing is ever easily done.”
I smiled at that, and then took a deep breath, gathering my courage. “Where should we start?”
It was like a little game at first. We stopped at the house directly in front of us and knocked at the door. The maid who answered was even younger than myself, and knew nothing about any servants who had been employed in the vicinity more than two decades before. It was the same at the other houses; even the middle-aged servants and housekeepers, who were old enough to recall the comings and goings in the neighbourhood, had no memory of a maid called Anna or a man called Mr. Cuthbert. We were treated to several other tales, however, about girls who had “got themselves in the family way while in service” over the years, and who had gone off and were never heard from again.
I was ready to give up when Mr. Wagner insisted we try once more place. Once again, the cheerful maid who answered was too young to be of any assistance.
