Frankenstein's Bride

by Hilary Bailey

  “Wortley knows his juries,” said I. “He tells me they can behave most unpredictably, especially when, as in this case, there are no other witnesses to the man's guilt.”

  “If they ever find him,” Mrs. Frazer said tartly.

  “If they do,” said I. “Nevertheless,” Cordelia said, “if Mr. Wheeler could assist Miss Clementi to speak, what might she not be able to tell of the attacker?”

  “I imagined I heard you say earlier we should have no more to do with the affair,” I said, pretending confusion.

  “And that I most sincerely believe,” Cordelia responded. “Yet a lady may think two things at the same time and go unchallenged. Poor Mr. Frankenstein needs any help we can give up before we leave for Nottingham.”

  “Then I will speak to Mr. Wortley tomorrow,” I said. “He may consider any attempt to get evidence against the assassin worthwhile. But then comes the matter of persuading Miss Clementi to accept the treatment. I suppose there will be no trouble with Wheeler. He will welcome the notoriety such an attempt would bring. But to persuade Maria Clementi without the stabilizing influence of Mrs. Jacoby—” And there was another sentence left unfinished.

  I saw Wortley next day and, though initially startled by the proposition that testimony might be got from Maria by the intervention of a mesmerist, he agreed that information from any source was better than none at all. He added that it was after all my affair and Miss Clementi's if we chose to seek the help of Mr. Wheeler.

  That afternoon Cordelia and I set off for Cheyne Walk and, on our arrival, were somewhat astonished to hear that Miss Clementi was again upstairs with Mr. Frankenstein. Had not the doctor given explicit instructions that Miss Clementi be not allowed in the sick-room, I demanded of the manservant? He looked at me helplessly, but did not reply.

  “She has got round the nurse,” Cordelia declared in an undertone as we set off up the stairs. “I believe she must be one of the cleverest women in England.”

  Her prediction was all too true. When we reached Victor's chamber door the nurse was seated outside. Recalling the dreadful fear on Victor's face I had seen last time Maria was with him, I lost my temper with the woman and asked her harshly had she not heard the doctor say Miss Clementi was not to be allowed into the sick-room? What now possessed her to run against the doctor's orders? The nurse, evidently seduced by Maria's fame and charm of person, responded with some rambling tale about never having seen before such sweet and selfless devotion, she had heard the sick man calling for her and much rubbish of that kind.

  “Go in and ask her to come out,” I ordered.

  But she would not. Happily at that moment the doctor arrived, visited Victor in his room and came out with a compliant and sweetly smiling Maria. The nurse was discharged and Cordelia went to get a good woman of whom she knew.

  “This is a most difficult situation,” the doctor told me. “There is no one here to take charge. Mr. Frankenstein's condition is very grave.”

  “I have sent for Mr. Frankenstein's parents,” I told him and then turned to Maria, still standing by, and asked if I might have a private word with her.

  She had evidently organized the household to her liking, for she led me to the little parlor which had once been Mrs. Frankenstein's and there I found a good fire burning and, over the fireplace, a portrait of Maria herself, satined and bejewelled, as Aeneas' jilted lover, Dido, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. This shocked me, though I said nothing. Instead, I explained to her, as clearly as I could, that it might be that Mr. Augustus Wheeler, by mesmerizing her, could restore her lost powers of speech. She appeared to understand completely, knew the name of Wheeler and charmingly mimicked his work by closing her eyes and laying her pretty head sideways on her hands. I added it was felt she might be able to help with the investigation into Victor's assailant, should she be able to speak. Again she smiled nodded and showed every willingness to help. Would she, I asked, permit me to talk to Mr. Wheeler about the matter and see if he agreed with our plan? To this she agreed, indicating to me by gestures she would not be found at Cheyne Walk but (point-ing) at Russell Square henceforth. Plainly, she had decided to abandon Cheyne Walk and return to her own home (picture as well, I suppose).

  “Very well,” said I to her, “I will find you there when I have spoken to Wheeler,” and I began to take leave of her. She was all happiness, with the gaiety of a child and charm a woman in one. She came up to me, put her little hands on my shoulders and lifted her face for a kiss. I kissed her brow, then stepped back quickly, for the urge to take her in my arms was almost irresistible. I found myself beginning to mistrust the account of her given by Mrs. Jacoby, though I knew I would not confide my doubts to Cordelia.

  I returned to Gray's Inn Road where my bride-to-be awaited me. There we sat down to talk, hand in hand. Cordelia smiled at me a little wearily. “How I yearn for all this to be over and done with and you and I married and living peacefully together, I keeping your house, you taking care of your land and completing the work on your dictionary.”

  I felt a terrible tiredness wash over me like a wave and could scarcely answer her.

  Meanwhile, whether Mrs. Frazer had engagements or no, we were unable to leave London. It froze hard, snowed, then froze for over a week. There was no question of making the journey of one hundred miles to Nottingham in such conditions. A man on horseback would have had a very hard time of it and to journey in a carriage containing two ladies and a child would have been madness. Beggars froze to death in their doorways, birds froze on their branches. It was a hard year when we felt spring would never come.

  I used the time to write to Augustus Wheeler at his theatre, telling him what I was sure he must know, of the mysterious muteness of Maria Clementi and asking if he would contemplate making a last attempt to restore her powers of speech. I added he might be aware she had been present at the time of the maniacal attack on Mr. Victor Frankenstein, and therefore might have some information to give as to the identity of the criminal. The undertaking, I said forcibly, must be entirely private and not used to enlarge his name.

  The very next day an answer came from Mr. Wheeler, thanking me for my confidence, stating that he would be very happy to attempt to restore Miss Clementi's voice by mesmerism and assuring me he would observe the utmost confidentiality over the experiment. He made some references to the power of mesmerism and added that if I or Miss Clementi would care to attend what he called “a demonstration in mesmerism” at the theatre one night he would be pleased to present us with tickets. His writing, I observed, was flowery and ornate; the ink he used the palest blue. I guessed from this flamboyance he must be only part scientist, the rest showman.

  That settled, I sent a message to Gabriel Mortimer at Russell Square, telling him I would call on him on a matter of importance the following afternoon, unless I heard from him earlier that he would be away from home.

  Next day I went there and I was shown into a sitting-room on the first floor of the house, which overlooked the icy branches, laden with snow, of the trees in the square outside. A bright fire burned in the room, which was charming, decorated with pictures, delicate furniture and bright carpets. I observed the portrait of Maria as Dido on the wall opposite the fireplace. She and her painted representation had evidently re-established themselves at Russell Square. The lady who was seated, sewing, when I entered, put her work away and got up to greet me, both hands outstretched. Mortimer remained in his chair, legs extended to the fire, as Maria put both soft hands in mine.

  I could not convict her. I was not even sure I should. Was I to reject her on Mrs. Jacoby's words alone? Had there not been, perhaps, a grievance between the two, resulting in Mrs. Jacoby's dismissal and her subsequent bitterness? Even the look of fear on Victor's face as Maria sat by him—might that not be caused by pain or terror of death, rather than by the woman sitting near him?

  Nonetheless, I reflected that Gabriel Mortimer seemed more at home in this house than perhaps he ought, Maria being without the chaperon
age of Mrs. Jacoby. Yet this need not mean the pair were lovers; these were after all stage folk, made intimate in special ways by long and arduous journeys together and all the alarms and excitements of their trade. I was not a censorious old woman—Maria Clementi might merely be unwise not depraved. These were my thoughts at the time—I told myself what I wished to believe.

  I briefly gave my message, that Augustus Wheeler would be happy to mesmerize Miss Clementi in the hope of restoring her powers of speech. Gabriel Mortimer, in spite of his foppish appearance—on this day he sported green velveteen trousers and a butter-colored waistcoat, over which spread a watch-chain thick and heavy enough to rival the Lord Mayor of London's chain of office—took my point. He stood up, went to Maria and, looking down on her, asked her earnestly if it was true she wished to try the experiment with Wheeler. She nodded eagerly. He questioned her again, urgently, did she understand what he could do, put her to sleep, tell her to speak, did she understand she would have no control over herself while she was in his power, that, in the end, sadly, the attempt could fail?

  She smiled, stood up, twirled round gracefully, a delighted child looking forward to a treat. She smiled at me radiantly. Poor creature, I thought, how hard her life must have been, from her beginnings as a mute, exploited girl in Ireland to her present existence of continual travel and performance. I compared the lot of my sisters, sheltered and protected from all harm, with Maria's. How hard it must have been, leading such a life, to be unable to speak, to express herself, or to communicate with others. Her existence, though filled with applause and heaps of golden guineas, lacked gentleness and solace. No wonder she now danced, I thought, with her skirts sailing round her, her motions light and feathery, her smile full of innocent pleasure.

  Seconds later she was at my chair, gazing down at me, still smiling, her great eyes with those enormously dilated pupils fixed on mine. I felt, I confess, a surge of passion for her which I simultaneously wished to deny. It was an urge to succumb to her to which I knew I must not yield. I greatly feared that small, light creature, frail but strong. And I knew she knew all I was feeling—and rejoiced.

  I took a hasty leave of her and Mortimer, wondering if they laughed at me once I was down in the street. I walked home, cursing myself for a fool, resolving never to see her again nor have anything to do with her. It would not take much for her to ruin me, as she had ruined poor Victor. That innocence was false, she had deceived me, Maria Clementi was a serpent. As I walked I began to wonder ruefully if Wheeler would succeed in mesmerizing her or would she, with those great eyes, mesmerize him?

  Once home I discovered Cordelia and Mrs. Frazer were off visiting, attended by the faithful Gilmore—and was pleased for once to find them away from the house, for I was thoroughly shaken and ashamed of myself and needed time to recover from that great wave of sick desire and the equally strong impulse of resistance. Time, and past the time to be gone from London, I thought I had done what I could and now it was for Mortimer and Wheeler to put their heads together and decide how the matter of the mesmerism should go on.

  Then mercifully the thaw came and by the end of February sun and wind had cleared the thaw, or most of it, and the roads were open again. Our decision was made—we would take Mrs. Frazer's coach North. Cordelia, myself and little Flora would at last get to Nottingham, Mrs. Frazer would spend a few days with us and then, with Gilmore as ever, proceed home to Scotland.

  Late in the evening before our departure the hall was full of corded boxes, young Flora was up and down from her bed crying out she was unable to sleep, and Cordelia busy giving instructions to her maid and cook, who were to stay behind to mind the house. Just then a servant brought me a message from Mr. Wheeler. I opened this missive, addressed in his flourishing blue ink.

  “Sir,” the letter began.

  “I have had a first encounter with Miss Clementi and am satisfied she can speak! This is most wonderful and surprising to me. But I am afraid to go further with our meetings as I am most alarmed. Will you meet me urgently for I must discuss this matter with you. Mr. Mortimer is all for going on with the experiments, but I am doubtful and, alas, cannot think of anyone other than yourself to consult. May I therefore take the liberty of calling tomorrow at noon? Please let me know if this is not convenient to you. At all events I beg for an early interview.”

  Yet we were eagerly expected at Kittering Hall by my father and sisters and my sister's intended husband, and this was the occasion on which I was to introduce Cordelia as my wife-to-be. Having been already detained by bad weather, I could not allow an occasion so important to all of us to be postponed again.

  I knew, too, that I must resist the temptation to have any more to do with Maria. If I did, I could lose all. Worse, I could lose all, and not care what I lost.

  Accordingly I left a note with Cordelia's servant telling Wheeler we had left for a journey and he might write to me if he chose at Kittering. Thus we departed Gray's Inn Road next morning early, leaving behind the glooms, the frights—and perhaps, just as importantly, the temptations—of London.

  F O U R T E E N

  WE MADE STEADY SPEED, with Gilmore at the reins, though the carriage was heavily laden. Flora, who had done little traveling in her life, was full of excitement and I was pleased to see that the journey put my dear Cordelia in good heart, in spite, perhaps, of her being a little nervous of her reception by her new family.

  As we moved North in cold but sparkling weather, my restlessness and anxiety began to abate.

  We decided to put up at an inn half-way and it was here, as Gilmore and I occupied ourselves with the horses in the stables, that he turned to me and asked for more news of Frankenstein. He had heard of the attack, of course, as had all London. I told him what I could. He said only, “I truly believe that the poor creature which the doctor kept locked up on Orkney was a man, however degraded his condition, and that the fellow has come back for him.”

  I responded I thought he might be right and we should all thank God we were away from London. To this he assented heartily.

  When we arrived at Kittering my father, Arabella and Anna were there to give us a warm welcome. Also at the house was the good Dudley Hight, who would marry Arabella in May. Mrs. Frazer stayed on with us for a few days, so we were a large and merry party. Little Flora rejoiced in the freedom of having a large house and a whole estate to roam in, rapidly becoming a favorite of my father's estate manager, who found a pony from somewhere and was soon taking her round with him, he in front on his big bay, she plugging on behind on Tansy, as her pony was called. On one memorable night, not long after our arrival, they went out to watch badgers play under the moon.

  I cannot speak too highly of the warmth of the greeting given Cordelia by my father and sisters. I knew—who could not have?—that my father had hopes of a better match for me, in worldly terms, than a solicitor's poor widow, with a growing girl of her own. Yet he welcomed her cordially and full-heartedly, taking an instant liking to her, as did my sisters. It was no disadvantage that my father soon discovered what neither Cordelia nor I had found out ourselves—that he had been at Trinity with her father, John Jessop. We laughed much over dinner to hear of the capers they had had in their university days. We found the college had rechristened Cordelia's father Radical Jack in his youth because of the nature of his views. It would seem that Jack had kept a couple of wolfhounds in his room and a pair of hawks, which had not delighted either his fellow students or the college authorities. There had been all kinds of roistering, gaming and running up of debts in the circles in which father and Jack Jessop had moved, enough to make me rueful, when I recalled the many admonitory letters I had received from my watchful parent during my college days.

  So there was laughter, there were visits from neighbors and kinsfolk in the locality and comings and goings from one house to another. Among the ladies, of course, was much exchange of patterns, discussions of the latest style and countless demonstrations of stitchings, launderings, tuckings, r
uchings and gopher-ings—all matters mysterious to men and giving some answer to the mystery of why ladies have, mercifully, so little energy left over from their interests to devote to deep study and philosophical speculation. So there were four days of pleasure and gaiety until some five days after our arrival, when, like a cloud coming over a perfect day, another disturbing letter arrived from Augustus Wheeler.

  That morning we were to go hunting, the hunt due to assemble at Kittering Hall. All was excitement and flurry, Flora had been up since daybreak, having been given leave to follow the hunt on her pony from a safe distance. Dressed for riding we broke our fast from laden tables, with whatever neighbors had arrived betimes. Meanwhile outside the house was confusion as grooms brought up our saddled horses or held the mounts of the early-comers. It was a bright morning and we all looked keenly forward to the day. In the midst of all, a boy came up from the village with letters.

  Even as servants cleared the tables and others carried round hot punch to the mounted riders outside, even as I heard the baying of the hounds being brought up the drive to the house, I opened Wheeler's letter, suddenly gloomy, suspecting the happy days at Kittering had been only a respite from the affairs of Victor Frankenstein, not an ending of them.

  Whatever the message, though, I declared to myself, I would not leave Kittering. The letter read:

  “My dear Mr. Goodall, “I much regret having missed you in London and now consider it most necessary to communicate to you the strange and alarming results of my first encounter with Miss Clementi, whom you asked me to visit. I am sorry to disturb you in this way but you must, and I think would wish, to hear of this, since you were good enough to suggest I might be able to help her.

  “First I should say that in the past I have been asked to bring my powers to bear on certain mystifying cases where there is no seeming cause for the patient's affliction. In attempting to relieve these conditions, much like any Physician, I have had my cures, my failures and those apparent successes which do not endure because, after a brief remission, the sufferer lapses back into his previous condition. But I have never experienced anything like what I met with on my visit to Miss Clementi, not because it was a failure—indeed, the encounter contained promise of future success. But it was very alarming, so much so that I am anxious about continuing my treatment.