Frankenstein's Bride

by Hilary Bailey

  “You had better say what it is, Hugo,” I told him.

  He glanced at Mrs. Frazer, sitting at the table alertly, eyebrows raised, and at Cordelia, standing near his wife.

  “I have been made aware of something amiss at Cheyne Walk,” Cordelia then said. Mrs. Frazer's eyebrows went further up at this.

  It was Lucy who turned her head from the fire and said to her. “We have left that house.”

  “In haste, I assume,” said I.

  She stood up again and took a position by the fire, her eyes bright and her whole body rigid with anger. Showing none of Hugo's compunction about what ought or ought not to be discussed before ladies, she exclaimed passionately. “That woman—that actress—Clementi—arrived at midnight last night. You were right, Jonathan, to accuse Victor of continuing to court that woman when he should have been mourning his poor wife. But what none of us could have known, believed—ah—it's disgraceful—Elizabeth hardly in her grave—monstrous—I told Hugo I could not stay.” And again Cordelia urged her to sit down and calm herself.

  With Lucy seated once more Hugo continued the story. “Let me explain why we could stay no longer at Cheyne Walk. She—the woman Clementi—arrived as Lucy says late last night in a carriage, still in her gold stage dress, her face brightly painted, the very model of a—well, I will spare us all the word. Lucy and I had just gone to our room, but came down again when the bell rang, for it was very late and I had been alarmed Jonathan, by what you said the previous day. She burst in, dressed as I have described, and straight away fell to sobbing in the hall. Victor, who had come from his study, went into something like a frenzy, clasped her to him, told her (for she could say nothing, of course) that some coarse man must have pressed his attentions on her and frightened her, threatened murder, called fire and brimstone on the head of her supposed abuser—all the while she clung to him, giving no assent or denial to his suppositions about what had brought her to the house. There in the hall in front of Lucy and myself he embraced her, she entwined about him, he told her he loved her, swore he would marry her. And all the while she clung to him, with her painted face turned up to his, allowing him to woo her. Even as we watched, unable to think what to do, he drew her tenderly into the study and closed the door. We heard him turn the key in the lock.”

  “He slammed the door, rather, in our faces, without a word,” Lucy exclaimed. “We would have left then, but it was late, dark and cold. We were forced to sleep there, as much as we could, rose early, packed and left. There was no sign of Victor or the woman.”

  “The study door was open as we left,” Hugo reported. “There was no one in the room. I felt we could not leave London without coming to you, Jonathan, and telling you of this new state of affairs. I was disturbed by your argument yesterday with Victor—and bewildered. But after what we have just seen I ask myself—what am I, what is anybody, to think of Victor Frankenstein? I am sorry, Mrs. Downey, to bring this unpleasantness to your house.”

  “You are well out of that horrible place,” said Cordelia. “Jonathan was on his way to lay information against the deformed man of whom he spoke to you yesterday. What you do not know is that when he left you, he saw the fellow climbing over the wall of Mr. Frankenstein's house, then bravely followed him to his lair and questioned him.”

  “That's more than I would have done,” said Hugo. “What did he say?”

  “The fellow is feeble-witted and hard to understand,” I said, “but he knows the name of Frankenstein and, my impression was, resents him bitterly. Like you, I do not know what to think.”

  As I spoke, there came another jangle at the doorbell and Mrs. Frazer, who had sat in amazement as this conversation continued, jumped up to answer it herself, no doubt expecting more alarms—as was the case, for she was almost pushed back into the room by a determined Mrs. Jacoby who came through the door like a tornado. Behind her was Gabriel Mortimer, less cock-ofthe- walk now, and looking grim.

  “Maria—have you seen her?” Mrs. Jacoby demanded of me.

  “What?” cried Cordelia standing up. “Who are you? Why do you come here?”

  “This is Mrs. Jacoby, Miss Clementi's companion, and Mr. Mortimer, her impresario,” I explained. “Mr. Mortimer, Mrs. Jacoby, this lady rightly asks why you come here, uninvited, at this hour. Do you suppose I have Miss Clementi hidden somewhere in the house?” At that point I confess I was anxious to dispel any impression Cordelia might have that they had any reason to suppose this might be the case.

  Mrs. Jacoby replied to my question, saying passionately, “Of course I don't think she's here. But I believe she may be at Frankenstein's. You are his friend.”

  “What has that to do with it, Mrs. Jacoby?” Cordelia asked.

  “The lady is most certainly at Frankenstein's—or was, last night,” Hugo intervened.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Jacoby said angrily. “It is just as I thought—just as I told you, Gabriel.” She turned to me, “Will you go to him and persuade him to release her?” she asked.

  Hugo, however, said, “She went there of her own free will. I and my wife were reluctant witnesses to the scene. She arrived late last night still in her stage dress in a state of great agitation and appeared to be asking for shelter. Which,” he said grimly, “was granted.”

  “That villain!” exclaimed Mortimer. “What does he want with her?”

  “But what do you want with her?” came the clear voice of Cordelia Downey. “What do either of you want with her?”

  There was a silence, broken by Mrs. Jacoby, “You appear to me to be a sensible and respectable woman, and I feel ashamed that the upset of Maria's going has caused Mr. Mortimer and I to intrude on you so early.”

  “Thank you for your tribute to my character,” Mrs. Downey said. “It does not explain your presence.”

  “I must tell you—none of you knows Maria Clementi as I do,” Mrs. Jacoby cried out passionately. “She is the most wicked, immoral creature who ever trod the earth. Come, Gabriel—this is not the place for us. Maria has gone to Frankenstein—did I not tell you that witch was not abducted? Mr. Goodall cannot help us. We must go to Cheyne Walk and have it out.” And apologizing hastily for their intrusion, the couple left as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving Hugo and Lucy, Cordelia and Mrs. Frazer looking at each other in bewilderment.

  “There is nothing we can do,” Hugo announced stoutly, “The woman went to Frankenstein, Frankenstein received her, what more is there to say? We must go, Lucy, now. Mrs. Downey, I fear you have had a bad start to your day. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Well, my dear,” Cordelia said to Lucy Feltham. “Mr. Feltham may be prepared to whisk you breakfast-less from the house before you have had a chance to arrange yourself, but I will defy him on your behalf. You must have an egg, hot water, a little cologne and some small chance to restore your equanimity. While all that is taking place my servant can put up some food for your journey and these gentlemen can step round together to the magistrate's to put in hand the matter of the arrest of the imbecile.” She could not resist adding, to me, “As for the character of Miss Clementi—you now have it from the lips of her own, paid companion.”

  We were swept from the house as by a broom leaving the ladies to deal with their arrangements. Mrs. Frazer, naturally enough, was bursting with curiosity as to what all the events of the morning might mean. As we walked to Mr. Wortley's house Hugo said, “A woman of some character, your Mrs. Downey. You could go further and fare worse—” but I did not reply.

  At Mr. Wortley's I reported I had reason to suspect that a man who lived on a wharf at Chelsea might have information bearing on the death of Mrs. Frankenstein and her child, might indeed be the perpetrator of the crime. Hugo supported this statement and Wortley dispatched men to lay hands on him. I heard from him later that the fellow had decamped during the night. When his workmates arrived in the morning they found him and his very few possessions gone from the hut.

  How happy I was during the next weeks. How little I de
sired gloom, mystery, dreads and doubts. And, though few would have believed it, I was able to banish such thoughts for some weeks as all my tenderness for Cordelia Downey increased and, so she said, did hers for me. Such times are rare and precious for all of us.

  Since I was now an admitted lover, it appeared unsuitable for Cordelia, scion of a freedom-loving family though she might have been, to stay alone in the house with her prospective husband. Either I must remove myself or Mrs. Frazer stay on as chaperone, and Mrs. Frazer having no pressing reason to return home, it was decided she should remain. So, in the light of love offered and returned, small wonder it was possible for me to put darkness from my mind. We planned a visit to my family in Nottingham. I began to forget the frightening and complicated affairs of Victor Frankenstein (who, during this period, did not approach me in friendship, nor I him). When I thought of the affair, I hoped it was over. Alas, this was not to be. Dreadful news arrived all too soon.

  E L E V E N

  ONE MORNING IN FEBRUARY the magistrate Mr. Wortley arrived, calling me from work on my dictionary to impart some most dreadful news.

  Victor Frankenstein lay gravely ill, near death. He had been found, the day before, in the early morning, stabbed as if by a lunatic, in his own drawing-room—that same long, gloomy salon overlooking the garden from which I had observed the lurker, now missing. The window of this room had been broken, exactly as on the night Elizabeth Frankenstein was killed. On the otherwise unbroken snow of the lawn huge, erratic footprints, as if made by a limping man of great stature had been discovered.

  Wortley added the dreadful fact that a gardeners' hut near the house bore traces of occupation. Inside was discovered a pile of bedding, some of which had been taken from Victor's house. There was a ragged, black coat, crusts of food lay about, even a plate from the house. Plainly someone had been living in the hut and stealing supplies from Victor's household. Mr. Wortley did not doubt that this man was he who had broken in and almost killed Victor, nor that the madman was the very monster I had reported to him.

  “While men had been searching everywhere for the culprit,” Wortley said bitterly, “he was in the last place anyone might have expected to find him—hiding close to his prey. Far from escaping, he had come closer to the man he wished to kill.”

  I expressed the utmost horror at this story. I would, I said, go to Victor immediately.

  “There is another thing,” Wortley said, a little uncomfortably. “When the servants raised the alarm they found your friend, bleeding, and a lady with him, a lady who is dumb, cradling him in her arms. I think you will discover she is still there.”

  It made a dreadful picture. Victor mortally wounded in that bleak drawing-room at Cheyne Walk, under a broken window, the footprints of his murderer leading away across the white expanse of lawn while Maria, unable to speak or cry out for help, stayed with him as he lay there, near death.

  Wortley continued, “It is unfortunate she cannot speak, for when we catch Mr. Frankenstein's attacker—who may, alas, by then be his murderer, for he is between life and death even now—we will need a witness to what happened. But she cannot tell us what she saw. Do you know her? Is there any way she can be got to speak?”

  I told him that, to the best of my knowledge, there was not.

  I then went to see Victor, accompanied by Cordelia, who offered to give any help she might.

  It was very cold but bright as we clopped over hard-packed frozen snow to Cheyne Walk. The sun glinted from the ice of the Thames which was solidly frozen. A ship, sails furled, was trapped in mid-channel; little boys were sliding and whooping on the ice. On the pier where Victor's assassin had once lived and worked, the men had lit a big fire of driftwood round which they stood to warm themselves, though there would be little work for them until the river unfroze.

  Victor's butler, a man with an expression of deep doubt and anxiety on his face, opened the door to us, and said he would conduct us to Victor's room. The house was cold, for which he apologized, saying that morning all the maids and the other manservant had left, out of fear. We began to mount the huge, cold staircase to Victor's bedroom, but as we ascended I looked down and through the open door to that large and desolate drawing-room where I observed two burly men sitting on chairs, playing cards. They had been hired, no doubt, to protect the house and Victor from further attack. However, when I commented on this the butler shook his head. “Would that they had been here last night. I have locked the stable door after the horse has bolted. Alas, the doctor's opinion is that Mr. Frankenstein may not have long to live.”

  As we reached the landing at the top of the stairs, I was surprised to see seated outside Victor's sick-room the heavily mantled figure of Mrs. Jacoby. She stood up as Cordelia and I approached. Her face was very lined; she looked ten years older. She spoke to me with some urgency: “Mr. Goodall, Maria is within, sitting with Mr. Frankenstein. But I must speak to you privately—alone.”

  “Yes—perhaps,” I said, “but first let me see poor Victor.” My hand was on the handle of the door.

  She grasped me by the arm. “Make her leave that room,” she urged. “Mr. Goodall—make her leave.”

  I entered the vast room where a great fire burned. Victor lay in a four-poster bed, his face turned away from me, looking at Maria, who sat beside him. All the hair was gone from the back of his skull, cut away so as not to clog his wounds. There were two great slashes which had been stitched in black in the form of a cross at the back of his head. His arms lay outside the bedclothes, both heavily bandaged. Mr. Wortley had said the weapon used had been a heavy knife, such as cooks employ for large joints of meat. Thirty separate wounds had been made, Wortley said, but of these the most serious would probably be those less visible which had penetrated his chest and stomach.

  Maria sat on a chair by the window, clad in a pretty grey dress with a lace fichu at her shoulders. Her hair was arranged in curls on top of her head. She smiled as I approached the bed. She was holding Victor's hand.

  I said, “Victor—Victor—I am desolated to find you like this. What can I do for you?” But Maria, with a little wave of her small hand, attracted my attention and, wearing a small, rueful smile, pointed at Victor, then at her own mouth, shaking her head. I did not take her meaning at first, so she went through the pantomime again. This time I understood. “He cannot speak?” I questioned. She shook her head again.

  I went round the bed to the side where she sat, to show him my concern, even if it was impossible to speak to him. I gazed down at that grey, wasted face and was appalled by what I saw.

  Maria had his hand in hers, his eyes were upon her face—and on his face was an expression of absolute horror. He gazed into that pretty face as if he were looking into the pits of hell. She continued to smile gently at him, then bent gracefully to kiss him on the brow. A puff of smoke caused by some back draught came from the fireplace into the room. For a moment I saw, as if in a dream, smoke curling round Maria, and the prone figure of Frankenstein.

  I thought of Mrs. Jacoby's appeal to me to make Maria leave the sick-room. I dropped to my knees beside the bed (which inevitably meant that Maria had to let go of Victor's hand) and put my face to his, saying, “My dear fellow—my very dear fellow—are you afraid, what is the matter?”

  His eyes met mine in fear and underneath I thought I saw an appeal. I glanced at Maria, who shook her head, smiled and indicated by her expression that what I saw was not to be taken seriously. I gazed deep into her inexpressive, lovely eyes and felt I was drowning. I wrenched my own eyes away and they fell on Victor's fearful face.

  “Victor,” I appealed. “Can you tell me what ails you?” But he could not, though he seemed to be pleading with me. Then, as if he had been mesmerized, his gaze, frightened, yet in some way obedient like a beaten child's, went back to Maria.

  “Miss Clementi,” I said. “I know you mean well, but it appears to me that your presence in this sick-room is disturbing Victor in some way. Would it not be better to end yo
ur visit and return at a later time?” She smiled directly into my eyes—a pang, most shameful in these circumstances, went through me. I thought, I am mad. I must be mad. Then she bent her pitying look on the invalid, whose hand she took again in her own, and at that his face seemed to become more ashen, more lined, if that were possible. I was forced to say again, “I truly think your presence agitates him. A man as ill as Victor must be indulged, or his recovery will be slowed.” Or never take place at all was what I meant, though I did not say so. “Why do you not leave him now,” I continued, “and return tomorrow, when perhaps he will be a little stronger.”

  But she only smiled and shook her head and held the hand of the terrified man. She would not leave.

  I flung myself from the room, finding Mrs. Jacoby in sympathetic conversation with Cordelia, as if the unpleasant early morning interview at Gray's Inn Road had never taken place, I exclaimed, “Mrs. Jacoby, she makes love to him even as he lies there dying, but his eyes are full of fear when he looks at her! She terrifies him. He pleads wordlessly with me to make her go but she will not—will not. He has conceived some irrational fear of her. She must leave him.”

  “That was why I asked you to try to get her from the room,” Mrs. Jacoby said. “She has been with him now for a day and a half, ever since he was attacked.”

  “Can you not influence the doctor to force her out and install some determined nurse to stay with Mr. Frankenstein all the time?” Cordelia asked. “One must pander to the fancies of a man so ill.”

  “Fancies?—These are no fancies,” replied Mrs. Jacoby, grimly. “I told the doctor yesterday of this, but he was taken in, no doubt by Maria's pretty face. Mr. Goodall—he comes in an hour. Will you speak to him?”

  “I will,” I said. “But should not Victor's parents be here to direct matters now he is so ill?”

  “Mrs. Jacoby tells me he will not have them called,” Cordelia told me.