She remembered blue specks of radium glowing in darkness, tiny flashes of light hitting a screen as her father patiently counted them. She imagined those minute particles raining into his eyes, his body. Is it radiation that’s ruined his health – or grief?
She took his hand. He frowned a little in his sleep. How dry and loose the skin felt, but the hand beneath was still strong. The hand of a man who had years of life and brilliant thought left in him. He wasn’t much older than Josef. But his face was grey, appearing closer to eighty than sixty. The wheeze of every shallow, drowning breath hurt her ears.
“Father,” she said, but he didn’t hear.
She thought of another sick-bed she had attended; that of Josef’s sister, Lisl. At Josef’s request she had relieved Lisl’s suffering, gently sucking her blood until the end came. I could do that again…
Or… could I take him beyond death forever? I could find Stefan and a third vampire to transform him, quickly, now, before it’s too late.
Her head dropped. She knew she wouldn’t do it. Becoming a vampire was the last thing her father would want; how grotesque even to think of it! And if the process failed and he died – how hideous, far worse than dying with natural dignity. She could never bear the blame, the guilt.
No. She would do neither of those things. She would simply sit with him, the dutiful daughter.
Then, a small revelation. Anne let me come in here alone! In her heart she does trust me, after all.
“Father,” she said again. “It’s Charlotte. I’m so sorry I hurt you. You don’t have to forgive me. I only want you to know that I still…”
His eyes opened. He blinked at her. Light gathered in his face, and he smiled and grasped her hand. “Oh, you came back!” he said.
Her heart sprang with relief. “Yes, dear, I’m here.”
“It seems a lifetime since I saw you, my darling. I’m so glad. I knew if I waited –” He broke into a spasm of coughing. She supported him, mopped his mouth with a handkerchief. Blood soaked the white cotton. The vivid colour and ripe scent seemed to invade her physically. She threw the handkerchief aside and gave him a drink of water.
“I knew you’d come back,” he said.
He looked so joyful. He held her hand between both of his, and she thought with a rush of happiness, He’s forgiven me! Not that it matters, all that matters is that he doesn’t die thinking I hate him. “I’ll stay with you now, for as long as you want.”
“Yes, stay with me,” he said. “Dearest Annette.”
Annette was her mother’s name.
She sat down in the nurse’s chair as if pinned by a lead spear, still holding his hand. He thought she was not his daughter but his wife, twenty-five years dead.
Charlotte was numb. Tears burned and overflowed her eyelids.
Now it made sense. He must have been asking Anne for Annette, not for me.
He never got over losing Mother, she thought. He always saw her in me; now he believes I am her, and if it makes him happy, let him think it.
She leaned over to kiss his forehead and his cheek, tasted a lingering trace of blood. He smiled. “I won’t leave you,” she said softly. “Dearest George.”
“Madeleine grew into a fine young woman, you know,” he said. “But where are Fleur and Charlotte? Will you bring them in to me?”
He’d forgotten that Fleur was dead, and that Charlotte had left him.
“Later, dearest,” she whispered. “When you’re stronger.”
“Later. I am rather tired.” His eyelids fluttered down, but his grasp on her hands did not weaken. “It’s so good to have you with me.” He went on talking, rambling about old times, confusing past and present. His words made little sense, but he required nothing of her except her presence. Finally she lay down on the bed beside him, one arm over his wasted body, her head on his shoulder. No blood thirst plagued her. His shallow breathing and the tap of his heart hypnotized her. She was human again, a child curled around him.
“You know, Annette, I feel a little better today,” he said suddenly, almost in his normal tone. “I could quite fancy some eggs. Yes, eggs and toast.”
Those were the last words he spoke. She felt his heart stop. She heard the last breath gurgle out of his lungs. And when it was over, she went on lying there so he wouldn’t be alone. What hurry was there to tell anyone? She stayed there, eyes wide open in the gloom, because if she moved she would break down.
She was still there when the nurse came back, ten minutes later. Then she got up calmly and said, “He’s gone.” And she didn’t cry after all, although a strange force was trying to lift her heart out of her chest.
The nurse was quiet and methodical as she attended to the body and pulled the sheet over his face. She uttered words of sympathy, but Charlotte barely heard her; ghost-like, she wandered across the landing to the top of the stairs. Then she saw Anne with David and her Aunt Elizabeth in the hall. They’d just come home and they didn’t know…
So it was Charlotte’s responsibility to break the news. But she was numb, and couldn’t find any gentle way to tell them.
“He’s dead.”
Their faces swivelled towards her, aghast. She started down the stairs. “A few minutes ago. I was with him. At least someone was with him…”
And now, she thought bitterly, they are going to think I killed him.
Elizabeth hurried upstairs, passing her with barely a glance. She was muttering in anguished rage, “Oh, I knew we shouldn’t have gone out! I knew this would happen if we left him. He might have waited!” – as if her brother had been simply inconsiderate.
David’s face kind, strong face lost its colour. He came straight to Charlotte. She braced herself mentally, thinking, Please don’t let him be angry now. If he blames me for everything, I can’t bear it.
To her complete amazement, her brother threw his arms around her. He almost lifted her off her feet.
“Charlotte,” he said into her neck, muffled. Then he wept.
* * *
While the doctor came and went, and the family and servants comforted one another, Charlotte waited alone in the darkened study. How desolate it seemed, never again to be animated by her father’s intellect. In the past she had often sat at that desk, in a pool of lamplight, typing out his papers and theses… Never again.
She had told the others how he died: happy, because he thought Annette was with him. And they believed her, but she saw sorrow and confusion in their eyes. They must be wondering, Is she a vampire or is she still Charlotte? How odd that he died while she was with him and we were not… our fault or hers?
She couldn’t blame them, but their suspicion flayed her. So she had left them to it. Now she sat in darkness, too shocked to grieve, aware of the years carrying her away from them.
She had been at the typewriter one rainy night when she realised, with a heart-stopping thrill, that Karl was in the room with her. He had been sitting on this leather couch, where she now sat alone. When he invited her to join him, against her better judgement, she couldn’t resist.
She visualised Karl beside her now; lean, shadowy, enticing beyond reason, with tantalising glints of red light in his hair and eyes. She could almost hear the rush of rain. That evening, under a guise of kindness, he began to seduce her. So deep had she fallen under his enchantment that he could easily have taken full advantage of her there and then. He might have feasted on her blood – he’d told her, long afterwards, that he was sorely tempted – yet he held back, out of compassion. Love.
How young, how naive and full of hope she’d been. No one knew he was a vampire, of course, and by the time she found out, it was too late. Ironically, it was his kindness that had kept her fatally in love with him. If he’d proved to be merely a charming monster, her infatuation would have died and then perhaps her family would not have been torn apart, and her father and Fleur would still be alive…
Her human life had not been so bad, she reflected. Yes, I felt oppressed and trapped – but as m
uch by my own choice as by Father’s demands. It was a shelter as well as a prison, a cocoon woven around me by my family. So divinely sinful to have a forbidden affair with Karl under their very noses!
Falling for him had been a time of innocence and thrilling discovery… at least at the beginning. Never had she dreamed it would lead to alienation, to living on human blood, heartlessly seducing and attacking people to steal that blood… even killing them.
God, I’ve even done that. I was a guileless, wide-eyed girl… and now I’m a murderer. How did it happen?
The sheltering cocoon had been ripped apart. The idyll hadn’t ended the day she discovered the truth about Karl, nor even when Ilona tore out Fleur’s throat, and David struck Karl’s head from his body. No, it had ended when Charlotte became a vampire, and she’d come back to say goodbye; hoping for forgiveness, finding only hostility and pain.
Karl, by the magic of Kristian’s dark skill, had been restored to life, but Fleur lay in the cold ground for eternity. And Charlotte now treated her murderer, Ilona, like a sister. That was the ugly reality beneath the romance.
The house was dead, life and laughter extinguished. A frigid black wind blew in through the windows… that was how Charlotte felt. So cold. Slowly unravelling.
Father, she cried silently. Father.
After a couple of hours, Anne came in. She closed the door, switched on the desk lamp, and stared at Charlotte. She looked red-eyed, exhausted. Then she sat down beside her.
“Well, it’s over,” said Anne.
“How is everyone?”
“As you’d expect. Upset. Drinking tea and pretending to cope. I don’t think David can forgive himself for not being there at the end.”
“David never was good at forgiving himself for things that were not his fault.”
Anne gave her a sharp glance. “It’s strange, isn’t it, that Dr Neville went so quickly after you’d gone in to him?”
White-hot anger consumed Charlotte. She sat forward a little, her eyes burning.
“How can you say that?” She managed to keep her voice low. “How could you even think it? My own father! What do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” Anne flinched, putting up a hand as if to ward Charlotte away. “That’s just it, I don’t know!”
“He was waiting for Mother, that’s all. When she arrived, he could sleep. If you think so ill of me, why did you invite me here?”
Anne’s head dropped. “You’re still his daughter. Right or wrong, I decided to trust you. I could have made a dreadful mistake.”
“You thought that if you put anyone in danger, you’d be to blame? Well, you haven’t.” Charlotte’s anger cooled to sorrow. She’d sometimes dreamed of meeting Anne in a gilded scene of reconciliation, but reality was jagged and difficult. “I’m still myself, I still have feelings. If anything, our feelings are more intense, like knives. If you think it meant nothing to me to see Father, you couldn’t be more wrong. It means everything.”
Tears overcame her suddenly. Anne looked shocked, at a loss. “I’m sorry.”
They could have embraced each other then, but Charlotte saw rejection in every line of Anne’s body. If she held Anne in her arms, she would be all too aware of her blood pulsing like sap through a succulent and infinitely precious fruit…
“I’d better go,” said Charlotte.
She began to rise, but Anne said, “Wait, please. I want to speak to you, but it’s difficult.”
“Just talk to me as you used to. I told you, I’m still the same.”
“But you’re not. That’s the trouble. Look at yourself in the mirror – if you can. You haven’t aged a day, and your eyes… I didn’t realise I’d find it this hard.”
“Neither did I.” She touched Anne’s wrist; Anne flinched, so she withdrew her hand. “How did you find me, anyway?”
Anne went to the desk and opened a drawer. Returning, she placed a newspaper on Charlotte’s knee, turned to an inside page. A photograph showed a group of passengers at a ship’s rail, smiling and waving. In the middle was Violette, with the corps de ballet girls alongside. Just behind her, clearly recognisable despite the smudgy grey print, were Karl and Charlotte. Charlotte was smiling, a sweet-natured, carefree girl; Karl was inclining his head towards her, as if whispering in her ear. Her hand was on Violette’s shoulder. LENOIR SAILS TO CONQUER U.S.A. said the headline.
Charlotte gasped. This had been inevitable. Her real shock came from realising that she had never seen a photograph of Karl before.
“How do you think I felt when I saw that?” Anne said angrily. “How do you think David felt? We managed to hide it from your father.”
“It’s just a photograph, Anne. We sponsor the ballet. Help with the business side.”
Anne looked stunned, as if unable to believe that vampires could do anything so human. “Does Miss Lenoir know what you are?”
Charlotte verged on laughter. “Oh yes, she knows.”
“What on Earth have you been doing?” The question exploded out of her.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“I can’t imagine seeing Karl again. The whole thing was a bad dream.” Anne looked obliquely at Charlotte. “I don’t understand why talking to you makes me feel as if I’m losing my mind.”
Charlotte dropped her gaze. “For heaven’s sake, don’t be afraid of me. I’ve so wanted to talk to you. I know you’re the one I upset most, apart from Father. Elizabeth understood my reasons but didn’t care; David and Maddy cared, but didn’t understand. But you did, and you want to forgive me, but you can’t. And I’m sorry.”
Anne pushed back her hair, folded her arms. “You’re not the centre of the universe, Charli. David and I are happy at Parkland, and when we’ve mourned the Prof’s death, we will be again.”
“And Maddy’s happy too,” Charlotte said, to deflect her sharp words.
“Is that what she told you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“She married Tristan for his money, that’s why. She lavishes his wealth on charity work to ease the guilt she feels for her privileged upbringing. And meanwhile she dotes on someone else. She’s so besotted with this other man that she has him living with her and her husband.”
“What? And her husband puts up with it?”
“Yes, because he worships her. She gets away with anything. She couldn’t marry this other man because he’s a semi-invalid, mentally unstable. He couldn’t have provided for her. She simply looks after him, out of love.”
“Oh God,” Charlotte whispered. “Edward.”
“Yes, Edward. Remember him? David’s dearest friend, who nearly died and was fit only for a mental asylum after Karl attacked him? He’s lucky to have Maddy and us, but he’ll never be really well. And you wonder that I’m upset, when David sees Karl’s face in the paper, and you with him, laughing!”
Charlotte shrank under the pressure of Anne’s distress. How can I defend myself, when she’s right? The Anne of her daydreams was the friend she used to know; lively, confiding, forgiving. They kissed like sisters, and exchanged a sip of blood as a bond… Of course Charlotte knew the dream could not come true, but nothing had prepared her for this mature, angry, harassed woman.
“It should have stayed a dream,” Charlotte murmured, “coming to see you.”
“Why? Do vampires feel guilt? Karl’s gone, but the things he did stay with us. They almost wrecked our lives. You knew, yet you went with him anyway!”
The words struck like fangs.
“I was selfish, I know. But I loved Karl to the point of madness and I still do.”
“Damn it,” said Anne. “I swore to myself, no recriminations. Not at a time like this.”
“But if it wasn’t a time like this, I wouldn’t be here.” Charlotte’s tone was gentle, cool. She was drawing away. All she wanted was to be alone with memories of her father. “I’m grateful you asked me here. So glad I was with Father. I only wish…”
“Don’t we all. But wishing
won’t bring him back.” Another hard glance. “And it won’t bring you back either, will it?”
“No. I can’t become human again.”
“Would you want to? That’s the question.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. “Would you mind – would the others mind – if I came to the funeral?”
Anne’s stark expression revealed that this was an appalling prospect. Charlotte knew Anne would never accept what she’d become. Yes, she might use vampiric influence to change her friend’s mind – but it wouldn’t be real. Charlotte couldn’t do it. She waited.
“You don’t need my permission,” Anne said after a moment, her tone not exactly kind, but resigned. “It’s your right.”
* * *
Dressed in black, heavily veiled, Charlotte arrived late at the chapel and sat alone at the back. She knew her presence would disturb her family, and she didn’t want to worsen their grief.
She’d spent the intervening few days in Cambridge, exploring the city she loved so dearly, avoiding anyone who might know her. She telephoned Karl every day; all was quiet in Salzburg. She longed to see him, but it seemed important not to leave until her father was buried. A mourning ritual, of a sort.
The chapel was full of eminent people; fellows from Trinity, her father’s colleagues from the Cavendish, many of his former students. Seeing how well loved and respected he was moved her to tears. She wept silently behind the veil. The eulogies were unbearable.
I wish Karl were here, she thought. He would hold me steady against this terrible greyness.
As they walked to the cemetery afterwards, she recalled another burial: that of Janacek, whom she’d killed in order to free Violette. She had felt detached then, completely in command of herself. Now she felt vulnerable, as if made of glass: not of the same flesh as her family, but hard and fragile.
Earth fell on the coffin. David and Anne cried, leaning together. Elizabeth held Madeleine. Henry was there too; her father’s assistant, virtually a son to him – and once, for a brief time, Charlotte’s husband.
She didn’t look at him, nor he at her.
The Dark Blood of Poppies Page 41
