by Clare Daly
Evelyn felt eyes scrutinising them. She was glad at least that Michael’s scar was now concealed under a growth of beard. They looked like any other hopefuls in the room. Her eyes combed the prospective employers. One of them, a man in his fifties was arguing with one of the clerks. Though both American, their accents varied drastically. The older man spoke with refined pronunciation, while the other had a twang and rhythm to his voice, that she tried her best to follow.
‘Look, you know the situation here. No refunds and no returns. You gotta look after these people or they will die on you every time. Jeez some of you treat animals better.’
‘Now, see here,’ the older man said, poking a finger at the other’s chest, ‘Mr. Dermatov treats all his staff well and they didn’t die, they absconded…. with most of his silver.’
‘That’s a matter for the police, Mr. Baker.’
‘I see, well I have spoken to them and they better find them before the master does. There’ll be hell to pay. But you need to find me workers not petty thieves.’
‘I have you on my list here today,’ said the clerk. ‘I’ll find you someone good.’
‘I need two,’ said Mr. Baker his eyes scanning the room as the man flicked through the sheets of paper in his hands.
‘Alright let me see what we got.’
The older man caught Evelyn’s eye, holding her gaze for a moment before he turned back to the clerk.
‘Make sure they speak English,’ he said.
Michael had been watching too and he pushed through the line of people, dragging her behind him.
‘Sir, we will work hard for you. Me and my sister.’
Mr. Baker glanced at Michael and then back to the official. ‘I don’t want Irish. The last ones were Irish.’
‘Please Sir, we are honest hard-working people. We just need a chance.’
The man looked slowly around the room and pointed to another couple. ‘What about them?’
The clerk checked his list. ‘They’ve come off the Zoektocht, a Dutch vessel. They don’t speak…’
‘Alright, alright,’ he said impatiently. ‘I don’t have all morning. Show me their papers,’ he said pointing to Michael and Evelyn. He took his time reading through the information, as if expecting to find some shocking revelation that would instantly dismiss them from contention. But there were none.
‘Fine, I’ll take them,’ he said to the clerk, his mouth twisted into a pinch as he took out his pocketbook from his coat. He handed over a large bunch of notes to the official who didn’t bother to count them. He knew better.
‘Sign here,’ he said holding out a copy of their servitude agreement to them. ‘You are now in the employ of one Mr. Vladimir Dermatov.’ He paused before saying wearily, ‘Welcome to America...land of the free.’
Mr. Baker shot him a bemused look and ushered them outside to his waiting carriage.
‘You have no luggage?’ he said. ‘You travel very light.’
‘We lived very light,’ Michael said.
‘Well, you are now house servants of Mr. Dermatov, one of the wealthiest men in Manhattan. You will be treated well and in return you will treat your employer with respect. Mr. Dermatov doesn’t tolerate fools or thieves. I hope you’re neither.’
The streets around them smelled of old fish and sulphur and Mr. Baker took a neatly folded silk handkerchief from his pocket, flushed it open with one hand and carefully covered his nose and mouth. His gaze turned from the two young immigrants, to the world outside. Almost immediately a stench rose, like the innards of a hundred ships – the familiar smell of overcrowded living. The carriage rolled through the streets of tightly packed tenement buildings, some no more than wooden shacks leaning into the falling down bricks, like an infant clasping their father’s leg. The voices of children carried on the air as they played, their Irish accents unmistakeable. Evelyn looked at the interior of the carriage, its dark leather upholstery, its cushioned head rests in the deepest plum velvet.
‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful Sir, really I don’t, but why would a man of Mr. Dermatov’s wealth hire people like us? There must be thousands of good workers in this city.’
She could feel Michael’s eyes boring into her. Mr. Baker smiled. Evelyn was sure it was a rare occurrence for it didn’t sit naturally on his face.
‘Mr. Dermatov came here just like you to make his fortune many years ago. He likes to give something back to the city and those hoping to change their path in life.’
Evelyn wasn’t convinced. There was something about Mr. Baker that made her doubt every word he spoke.
‘Well then, I’m sure we are the luckiest two immigrants in this great land,’ Michael said, giving her a swift nudge of his elbow.
They didn’t speak the rest of the journey. The carriage weaved out of the maze, poverty receding like the tide as dirty streets became tree lined avenues. They turned onto Washington Square with its pretty park before making their way up Fifth Avenue. Mr. Baker wasn’t lying. If this was where Mr. Dermatov lived, he was in very wealthy company. Evelyn was in awe at the splendour of the mansions set back from the road. On their own they were magnificent, but to feature on the same street was exceptional, each trying to compete with the other in size and style, from Italian to French, Greek to Roman. It was only as they progressed northwards, that the last remnants of country life could be seen. Farmland stretched out before them, the buildings growing sparse and there perched on the corner of East 38th Street, stood their new home.
The driver pulled the horses to a stop. Mr. Baker got out, offering his hand to Evelyn. She took it, his grasp limp, that strange smile returning to his face.
‘Ms. Rosev the housekeeper will see you settled in the servants’ quarters. Make sure you do as she tells you. She’s very particular. It’s the way the master likes things done. Please her and you will him. He’s away this week on business, so please do try and learn the ropes before he returns. It will ensure a smoother transition.’
Where Melmoth Hall’s design was one of overindulged decadence, the Dermatov mansion was a picture of classical splendour. From its windows buried beneath the pavement to the three stories above it, it bore all the marks of wealth with a reserved eye for understated elegance. Whoever this Mr. Dermatov was, he had done well for an immigrant. Perhaps America would be their making too.
16
The week passed as they settled into their new home. Ms. Rosev was a taskmaster. If she was pleased with their efforts she didn’t show it, only telling them that she would be reporting to the master and if she wasn’t happy, contract or no contract, they would both find themselves on the street. As Evelyn lay in her bed that morning, she could hear her heels clicking on the stairs above. She pulled the blanket up over her head. Please could she enjoy five more minutes in bed, before those heels stormed in with the day’s commands?
She wriggled her feet against the warm sheets. The novelty of having a proper bed would never wear off. That first night when she’d been shown her basement room, she had just starred at it and when left alone, she kicked off her boots and snuggled under the blanket. Every bone in her body receded into the soft mattress and though the pillow was battered and old, when she lay her head down, it was heavenly. She’d allowed herself to float for a moment, lost in its luxury until the familiar pangs of guilt brought it to an end. Memories of all that was lost and that which had been sacrificed.
She pushed the blanket back, as the footsteps approached. Ms. Rosev didn’t even knock. She barged on in, ready to roust the sleeping girl. She was not impressed to find her awake.
‘Well don’t just lie there, girl,’ she said. ‘Get up and be about your chores.’
‘Yes, Madam,’ she said sitting up.
‘The master returns today. Everything must be in order.’
She seemed slightly more frazzled than usual. Perhaps she had caught the best of Ms.
Rosev while the master was away. This morning, the bun in her silver hair was a little higher and tighter, not a strand out of place. She turned on her heel with a tut, and left her to dress.
Evelyn put her uniform on, a black long-sleeved tunic dress, over which she tied a white apron. She suspected it had been worn by the last parlour maid, (perhaps the one who had left with the silver), who was a considerably larger girl. When she’d first tried it on, Ms. Rosev had almost hyperventilated at the shambles of a maid that stood before her, hanging as it did off her body. Thankfully she’d been permitted to alter it and now it fit her perfectly. On her feet, she had new leather shoes, which made the endless trips up and down the four flights of stairs more bearable. Black stockings completed the ensemble and Evelyn too wore her hair tied neatly in a bun, crowned by a white headpiece.
The staff assembled as the cook, Mrs Osborne prepared breakfast. Michael was there, chomping into a piece of bread with a cup of hot tea. He poured her one as Ms. Rosev gathered herself to address them all. For a large house, they were a relatively small staff of five, six if you counted Mr. Baker, the master’s steward. He operated outside of them, for he kept his own hours in accordance to the master’s needs. Outside of him and Ms. Rosev, there was the butler Mr. Watson, under whom Michael worked as valet, and of course the amazing Mrs. Osborne who could turn any meal into a feast. All of them had worked a long time for Mr. Dermatov. Ms. Rosev had explained that though the house was very large, the master lived alone and rarely had visitors, so he preferred to keep his staff small and pay them well.
From the opposite side of the table, Michael winked at her and she knew he too was enjoying their new home. They both worked long hours, their limbs sore and hands raw, but they knew again the warmth of a good meal and they were already showing signs of better health. Ms. Rosev cleared her throat loudly, her face stern.
‘Good morning,’ she said, ‘So with Mr. Dermatov returning, there are additional tasks to be set today…’
She went through a long list, mostly comprised of chores for Michael and Evelyn that involved preparation of the master’s study and sleeping quarters. The study was locked when he was away and Ms. Rosev carried the key proudly on her apron string. She brought them to the heavy door and unlocked it, squinting at them as if she doubted their trustworthiness. But a fire needed to be lit and settings laid out for lunch and so she allowed them to enter. She explained that he would eat breakfast and lunch there every day, sometimes dinner too.
‘The master is a man with many interests,’ she said as she swept back the heavy velvet curtains. ‘When he is working he is not to be disturbed. Mr. Watson takes his meals to him and no other. You and your sister should be seen and not heard. Do you understand? You do not address him, unless he speaks to you.’
Evelyn couldn’t help but be intrigued. As the study door opened, the air filled with the fragrant aroma of burnt incense, the sweet woody notes, still hanging in the air.
‘You can empty that too,’ she said pointing to a gilded censer on the mantelpiece. ‘Remove the ashes and when the fire is lit, place a hot coal in the base. The master will burn fresh incense on his return. And be careful with it. It’s very old.’
Evelyn admired its beautiful workmanship, but Michael’s eye was drawn below the mantelpiece to the long sword and scabbard mounted above the hearth.
‘Mr. Dermatov is a collector of antiques from around the world,’ Ms. Rosev said. ‘It’s from Japan. That’s very far away. Don’t touch it.’
Unlike the censer, it didn’t look too old or if it was, it had been carefully maintained. Its blade looked sharp and the golden dragon on its hilt gleamed in the morning sun. Michael’s face was like that of a child on his birthday and Evelyn knew how badly he wanted to reach for it and swipe it gloriously through the air.
‘Can I trust you two alone in the master’s study?’ Ms. Rosev asked.
‘Yes Madam,’ they said stepping back. She left the room, casting a backwards glance at them.
The room was a large rectangle, lined on two sides by bookcases, the shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. In the farthest corner, a spiral staircase disappeared into the room above – her Master’s quarters she presumed, given the geography of the house. Along the wall behind the door, were rows of glass display cabinets. She couldn’t help but take a quick look. There were old books, their yellowing pages of text opened for display, several religious relics and crucifixes, some plain and rusted by age, others ornate and bejewelled. The next case was devoted to weaponry. A bow and arrow lay beside daggers reposed on satin pillows, as if to rest them after a long bloody war.
As Michael set the fire, Mr. Watson’s head came around the door. His eyes scanned the room looking for any sign of displacement. Did nobody in this house trust them?
‘Hurry now,’ he said gruffly. ‘The master will be here soon.’
By midday, they stood in a row on the chequered floor of the hall, like pawns on a chess board, ready to welcome their king. Ms. Rosev straightened her apron looking down the line at Evelyn and Michael. She hissed at her, pointing to a stray hair hanging down and Evelyn quickly tucked it into her headpiece. Michael winked at her excitedly, as the carriage drew up outside. Ms. Rosev was almost knocked to the ground as the door flung open. In strode the master, with Mr. Baker following close behind.
He seemed like a giant to Evelyn. On his large frame hung an expensive woollen coat, its collar of black fur stretching across his shoulders and down his lapels. He wore it like the conquest of a hunting expedition and with his mop of unruly hair and speckled grey beard, he was not unlike an animal himself. His eyes ran down the line, narrowing on the two new additions and then he was gone, straight to his study, calling Ms. Rosev behind him with a wave of his hand. She scurried after him as Mr. Watson and Michael went to the carriage to take in the masters’ luggage, carefully overseen by Mr. Baker.
‘Careful with that. Its contents are most fragile,’ he said.
Ms. Rosev appeared a short time later, the Master’s coat hanging over her arms. She handed it to Evelyn, the soft fur brushing her face and she pitied the poor creature it had come from.
17
The vampire stood in the deserted alleyway, listening for signs of life. He could hear the rats as they devoured the night’s garbage, their tiny nails scraping the ground, the grind of their jaws as they ate. He could even hear the rapid tempo of their beating hearts. To humans, they had no value, but to a vampire they were a tasty substitute to human blood, even if it was only a short burst in a case of emergency. He would certainly never go hungry in New York. It was raining and he let the cool drops run down his face as he contemplated the door in front of him. He hated to admit it, but for the first time in years, he was nervous. An image came to mind of the mirrored ring in the ice and he felt his throat tighten, his mouth dry. He placed his fingers on the door, as if touching it would give a sense of what was within, when a small metal slot flew back and a pair of green eyes appeared.
‘I need to see him,’ the vampire said.
The green eyes narrowed. ‘See who?’
He didn’t know his true name. He was a shadow man, they all were – mystical figures, beholden of many different names. He spoke none for fear of being mistaken.
‘I need to speak with him,’ he said.
‘The roof,’ the green eyes growled, severing their exchange as the slot snapped shut.
The vampire looked up at the dilapidated building, with its broken windows and crumbling bricks. The city had many decadent dwellings, intimidating in their grandeur, but he chose this place – run down and insignificant. Perhaps that was the trick, to have his enemies underestimate him and the power he wielded.
Come, said a voice. This was his last chance. He could walk away, decide once and for all to let the past go, but it wasn’t an option. He flew up to the rooftop, his feet landing softly. Strangely it was dry up there, the
rain falling like a curtain around it on all sides, into the alleyways below.
‘I was never fond of rain.’
A man stood with his back against the chimney stack, one foot on the bricks. He didn’t know what he had expected. For one thing, he was just a man. He took human form – was that his choice or thrust upon him? He was younger than he’d imagined or maybe it was that look in his eyes, the energy he exuded. His dark hair was slicked back at the roots and underneath his morning coat, he was bare chested, his body pale and lithe. Black trousers hung low on his hips, the ends buried in heavy infantry boots. The kind that looked like they had just stumbled off the battlefield for they were caked in mud or was that blood? Yes, he could smell it as he moved closer.
The man was looking at him oddly, sizing him up, an agenda of his own and the vampire was glad he’d come, for he knew that to go against his wishes would have been very foolish indeed. He had heard the stories about what happened if you dined unannounced in his territory. You had to ask permission, put yourself in the very position he was in now. If you didn’t, you would be struck down or so the stories went; passed on from one vampire to another, about the places where humans gathered in great numbers. London, Paris, New York, Constantinople, all the great cities, each protected by fallen angels – those who fell out of favour with their creator – sent to earth with no chance of redemption. Only a promise to fall further, if they didn’t safeguard his greatest endeavour, humanity. Not from themselves, for what is in human nature cannot be altered, but from that which exists around it, seething in the wings. Only they could keep order – have those with the impulse to dominate on earth, annihilated.
‘I like to come up here at night and behold my city,’ he said.
‘It’s impressive. I’ve never seen such a place as this.’
‘She is the greatest city in the world, is she not?’ he said with pride. ‘You see there,’ he pointed down into the catacomb of tiny streets, as the rainfall parted. ‘Such poverty. They fight for survival, every minute they breathe. It’s fraught with injustice, cruel and wicked how they behave to one another, but that is their kind – how they were made. There are many here to sustain your appetite – if I let you. But there is only one you want. I can see it in your eyes. Someone to whom you cannot bear to allow breathe any longer. Tell me.’
