Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  I narrated a highly expurgated version of the truth, adding in as much humorous comment as I could, wishing to lighten what had been a most serious situation. "He was in quite a state, and it would be hard to say which of us was the more shaken, him seeing me again or me rushing to catch him before he fainted."

  "He fainted?" This alarmed her.

  "Not quite, but he was dozy for a moment or two from the shock. Poor fellow thought me to be a ghost for awhile, but a little brandy and pinching on my arm put him right again soon enough."

  "Good. How I wish I could have been there. Arthur's a strong man, but lately I've been worried for his health. He's not been the same since . . . since last summer."

  "No one of us has been. It was a terrible ordeal."

  "I didn't know Lucy all that well, but she struck me as being a very sweet, loving girl."

  "She was that and more."

  "Just what did take her away? Arthur never said anything specific."

  I hesitated, not knowing how much to relate. "Jack Seward said it was some kind of pernicious anemia. He dressed it up in a lot of medical words, but I think it had something to do with her blood not being right. You'll have to get him to explain it properly."

  "I will. You never told me the circumstances of how he and Dr. Seward came to think you were dead in the first place."

  The waiter brought our ales just then and offered her and then me a curious stare before hastening away.

  "We were on a hunting trip—"

  "Where?"

  "Transylvania."

  "Where on earth is that?"

  "Eastern side of Europe; it's pretty out of the way."

  "Sounds it. What were you hunting?"

  "Wolves."

  "Did you shoot any?"

  "We took one big fellow before being attacked by some local bandits."

  "What? Arthur in the middle of a fight?"

  Damn, perhaps I should have expurgated this story as well, even if it was made up. "We were all in the middle of it, but the size of our party told in our favor and the bandits soon retreated. I fear I got caught up in the excitement and gave chase when I should have stayed with the rest. We became so far separated that I lost my way. Then—and I hate to admit it as I regard myself as a good rider—my horse threw me."

  "Heavens."

  "That's what I think happened. I'm sure I struck my head when I landed, my memory is very thin on that part. I woke at night, stiff and cold and surrounded by wolves."

  Her eyes went wide. "You're joking! Wolves?"

  "The very pack we were hunting. They had a mind to return the favor upon my person, but I managed to fight them off, then this old hermit came to my rescue . . ."

  From that point my story was the same as the one I'd given her brother, but without the vampire element. Bertrice was hard pressed to believe any of it, which said a lot to me about her sharpness of perception. I wouldn't have easily believed me, either, but the truth was much too fantastical.

  "Well, Art and Jack found my horse running loose, but not me. They spent more than a month scouring the area for sign of me or my body, and had I been there to be found I might be telling you a different story now. But the hermit's lodgings were some miles distance, and I'd gotten feverish, so we none of us ever hooked up. Assuming the bandits or the wolves had killed me they went home—for which I don't blame them one bit, as I'd have done the same. It was the worst of the winter by then and they were close to perishing themselves from the cold. By the time I got back to civilization I was surprised to discover I'd been declared dead by my friends. I didn't know if I should be horrified or laugh my head off."

  "One is allowed to do both."

  "I reckon I did. I stayed in Paris awhile straightening out the mess, then finally ended up in London, in need of some music hall amusement spoken in English. You know the rest."

  Her food had come during the telling of my tale, but she'd hardly touched it. She was spellbound, and it felt mighty good to have captured her attention so well.

  "That's quite amazing," she said. "You should write it up and post it to a magazine catering to adventure stories."

  "Oh, it's not good enough for that. Besides, I'd have to dress it more fancy and put in a villain and a chest of treasure for everyone to find."

  "Don't forget to include a lost princess to rescue and restore to her throne and at least one duel to the death atop the castle turret."

  "Of course." I smiled, basking in the spark that now lighted her eyes. She seemed to be relaxed with me again, the other night's incident forgotten.

  "What was Arthur's reaction to all this?" she asked.

  "He held a view similar to yours, but tempered by his memories of the experience. We spent most of the night yarning about the whole thing. I will say that I agree with you about him looking poorly, as I almost didn't know him. He's gotten so thin and pale. Has Jack not noticed the change?"

  "I don't know. He's never there when I chance to drop in."

  "I shall have words with him, then. Maybe we can persuade Art to come out of his lair now. He seemed much improved in spirits when I left."

  "Thank God for that. I'm glad you've returned." She made a move as though to put her hand on mine, but instead drew back and picked up her forgotten fork. "I'd best eat this before it's too cold to enjoy. Tell me about Paris. It's been some years since my last visit. Do they still have that awful tower up in the Champ-de-Mars?"

  "They do, and they may be keeping it. Seems people like the view from it, even if they don't care to look at the tower itself."

  "It is such a pretentious thing and quite ugly, all that bare metal, like a skeleton."

  "Kinda grows on you though. I didn't know it until I went there, but that Eiffel fellow also did the frame for our own Liberty Statue in New York, so I suppose his tower can't be all bad."

  "So speaks an American." She gave me a mock toast with her glass of ale.

  "And a Texan. We were a separate country before hitching up with the United States, you know. There's some say we should have passed the honor and just kept to ourselves."

  "Just how big is Texas for it to have been a whole country?"

  That stumped me and I said as much. "Might as well ask how big is the sky. You could drop a hundred cities the size of London into Texas and lose 'em faster than a penny at a sideshow for all the space we've got to spread 'em around in."

  "My! I've heard Arthur speak of our holdings there, but I had no idea."

  "There is plenty of room for a man to stretch and not find his limit, but it's not for everyone. We've a story of how the devil came to Texas to live but gave up and moved back to hell a few days later because the heat got to be too much for him."

  "Our cold English climate must be a trial for you, then."

  "The winters are a caution, but for all the places I've traveled, it comes up pretty even with the rest of the world. Maybe you get more rain than an Indian monsoon, but it sure makes for a green and pleasant land."

  "You're most kind, Mr. Quincey."

  I felt like a ring-tailed fool. I was sitting across from this wonderful, beautiful woman with a laugh sweet as a nightingale's song, and here we were talking about the damned weather. She was back to my first name again, though, which was good, but I wanted to get that spark in her green eyes to burn even brighter. "When I was in Paris I was able to see some of their theatricals . . ."

  That helped, touching on one of her enthusiasms. "Yes, what are they doing there, these days?"

  "Some of it was a bit above me. They seem to like the brooding, philosophical stuff with people looking at each other and not saying much. My preferences are for a lot of yelling, fighting, and laughing. I like to see an actor work for his applause and enjoy the work."

  "The Shakespeare is definitely to your taste. He has something for everyone."

  "Indeed, though I've not seen all that much of what you would call proper theater, but I do like watching actors who know their business."

 
; "What a pity you cannot come to our matinee and see the whole play. Is there not some way you can forgo your business for a few hours?"

  "It's impossible. I very much regret that it must be so."

  "As do I." She sounded like she really meant it. "My company will eventually secure an evening performance. I'm sure of it."

  "I certainly hope so."

  "By then it might be a different play. What think you of an all-female version of MacBeth?"

  "It is beyond my poor imagination, but I'm sure you'll do just as fine a job on it as you're doing on this one."

  "We try. You have a most liberal attitude. Most who hear of us treat the company as though we were a gaggle of giddy schoolgirls out on a lark, not serious actresses. Some accuse us of being `adventuresses,' a fine word that has fallen in its meaning. It once stood for a brave woman out to make her way alone in the world, not unlike the male hero of many a fairy tale. Now it would seem all adventuresses are women of questionable repute if not low morals."

  "I would never think that, Miss Bertrice. Anyone with eyes can see you are a lady through and through."

  "But that is my point. It should not matter if a woman is a `lady,' for the strict standards of such are those burdened onto her by a highly judgmental society. She must adhere to each of them or be an outcast. But standards are more lax and forgiving in regards to a `gentleman.' So long as he pays his gambling debts and doesn't beat his wife in public he may plunge himself into all manner of iniquity and be admired for it."

  I had to laugh. "You've hit the nail on that. Why don't you write it up for The Times?"

  "I have until they're weary of hearing from me. I'd join with the suffragettes, but apparently actresses and artists are rather too shady for them. Hence, they are themselves still carrying the burden of societal judgment, when they should cast away such trifles and unite with all their sisters in the quest for freedom."

  "You'd make a rare speech writer."

  "Or barrister. I have a mind to play Portia someday, which is as close as I'll get to it. Between the acting and my painting I'm busy from morning to midnight so I've no time to study for the bar. Which reminds me—" She consulted a small watch pinned like a brooch to the lapel of her velvet jacket. "Heavens. I'd no idea how late it was. You've not even touched your ale."

  "I must not be thirsty. It's gone flat anyway. No matter. May I escort you home?"

  "Yes," she said, gathering up her cape and umbrella. "You may."

  * * *

  This time I was quick enough to pay for the cab fare.

  Her studio, as she referred to it, also served as her lodgings, and frequently a rehearsal hall for the Ring Players. The neighborhood was on the seedy side, not wholly decrepit, but neither did it appear to be especially safe for an unescorted lady at night. Bertrice must have read my expression, for she smiled as we walked the few steps to her door.

  "I'm perfectly able to defend myself, Mr. Quincey. Those fencing moves I do on stage are based on real training. Hours of it, as it is a passion of mine."

  "All well and good, if you have a sword."

  "But I do." She did something to the handle of her furled umbrella and drew forth a long, wicked-sharp blade that threw out gleams caught from the distant gaslights.

  "But what if your opponent has a pistol?"

  "Then I am prepared for that as well." She neatly sheathed the sword blade and from her jacket pocket produced a very handy little two-shot derringer. "There. As you see I am well able to defend myself against most calamities. And should the odds be very ill against me I have my most effective line of defense to employ at the first sign of danger."

  "Which is—?"

  "I run like the devil and scream `fire' at the top of my lungs. Few people will respond to a call for help, but everyone pays attention to an alarm for fire."

  She was a devil herself, and I liked her for it. "Well, I'm most glad to see you taking such good care of yourself." I took her hand, bowing low to kiss it, but she stayed me, lightly touching my face, before drawing her hand away as though surprised by the gesture.

  "Oh, I hope you won't leave just yet," she said, her voice softening.

  That took me aback. "Well, I . . ."

  "I am so enjoying our conversation, and I thought you'd like a quick look at some of my paintings."

  "I would, indeed, but for you to have a visitor at so late an hour—"

  "Is entirely my business and none of my neighbors'. Do come in, I won't bite."

  Nonplused by the irregularity, but pleased at the opportunity to spend more time with her, I signed for the hansom driver to go on.

  The front door opened to a tiny, bare entry that was very dark. She kept a candle on a little table there and lighted it, then led the way in. The next room was of considerable size and length, bigger than the music hall stage, with rows of high windows along the outer wall.

  "My congratulations on finding a place with such conveniently placed lighting," I said, for the windows all faced north.

  "I was very fortunate, though it gets miserably cold here in winter. I've had a coal heater put in, but it's not always up to the task, especially when I forget to stoke it."

  She'd had gas laid in as well and went from sconce to sconce with the candle until the room glowed.

  She had several easels set up, all with paintings in progress, or finished and drying; some were shrouded with drop cloths. The smells of linseed oil and turpentine were in the chill air, but not so heavy as to be sick-making. Two of the windows were cracked open an inch or so for ventilation, and I could see her breath hang in the air.

  "Lately I've had some success with portraiture," she said, indicating one of the uncovered canvases. "I'm not up to National Gallery level, but I flatter myself that I may provide some competition to James Whistler. Here's a nice one, I'm rather proud of most of it."

  The portrait was of a young woman in a garden surrounded by flowers. Her pensive face had been captured in such a way that I was sure I would know her if I passed her on the street. "This is marvelous. You've a most remarkable talent."

  She gave me a long look, as though to ascertain that I was not spouting empty flattery, and seemed pleased. "Thank you. I think I worked too hard on her hands, though, I may have to cover them with a bouquet to conceal my mistake. You do not think the background is overdone, do you?"

  "Not at all, she stands out from it, and it complements, but does not overwhelm."

  "You've an understanding of composition and balance." That pleased her, too.

  "I've learned a few things in my travels."

  She turned toward the painting, her eye critical. "Backgrounds can be very difficult. I paint the background first, then the figure. There are whole schools that vehemently argue for and against it. I've tried both ways. It's a terrible disappointment to put so much work in on the figure, only to botch the background. Once I had to burn the final result lest someone see it and think me terribly incompetent."

  "Every artist must find what best works for him or her, there is no right way for all."

  "You are most perceptive."

  "Well, I did spend a lot of time in Paris. You can't help but pick up ideas talking to people. Artists with strong opinions are thick on the ground over there."

  "As are art critics. The French are very particular in their tastes."

  "And the English?"

  "I wasn't aware we had any taste at all. The Queen's preferences can be most mundane."

  "I hope that observation does not border on treason," I joked.

  "It does in some circles, but not the ones in which I orbit. Of course, they have their own strict standards, which shift and change in a most whimsical way, so I pay them no attention. I paint what I like and to the devil with what they think."

  "You apply that philosophy to the rest of your life, Miss Bertrice. You have my admiration for it."

  She paused, favoring me with the sun of her smile, warming me. "What a sweet thing to say. Thank you. But I'm
a poor hostess; I must offer you a brandy against this cold."

  "Oh, I'm fine. What are these chalk marks on the floor?" I pointed toward a large area clear of furnishings except for two mismatched chairs set next to each other. I was becoming quite adept at distracting her.

  "That's our stage." She strode over, her arms out as though to conjure up curtains and footlights. "Here are the thrones for Claudius and Gertrude. The chalk lines mark the bounds of the music hall stage area. It is somewhat smaller than this room, so we must make certain the action for the duel stays well within them. Elsewise I or Laertes might tumble into the orchestra."

  "That would be inconvenient."

  "It's been known to happen. Well, if you are not cold, then I am. I've a sitting room within. Let me build up the fire while you have a study of my other paintings. I'd show you 'round, but it's best not to have the artist peering over your shoulder."

  So saying, she excused herself and went through an arched doorway, taking her candle along. It surprised me that she did not have any servants, or perhaps they resided off the premises. I listened most carefully and could hear no other stirrings within the building. Certainly it bespoke strongly for her sense of independence that she looked after her own needs, especially since she was raised from the cradle to take privilege for granted. The other ladies of her class would not even know how to make a fire for themselves, much less see to the practicalities of earning their living. I hoped that at some point, when she would not think me too forward to inquire, Bertrice would tell me of how she came to be a successful "adventuress" in her own right.

  For the present, I amused myself looking at the rest of the uncovered paintings, and found my esteem for her growing by the minute. She was a rare actress, but outshone herself as an artist. She had some dandy landscapes and still lifes, but it was the portraits that truly mesmerized. She had some trick of capturing the most fleeting expression in such a way as to expose the very soul. One in particular was almost disturbing, that of a very delicately featured young woman. She was beautiful, nearly ethereal, but seemed to bear the weight of a thousand years in her dark eyes, yet they were warm with compassion for all they saw.