The Vampire Sextette

by Edited by Marvin Kaye

  He looked at her in amazement. "How the devil—?"

  "It is your nature," Madelaine said swiftly. "It is intrinsic to your soul. You have decided that if you love me, you are weakened. I don't know how to make you see that loving is strength, not weakness—that it takes courage to love because love's risk is so great."

  Sherman shook his head, scowling down at her. "If I were not married, what you tell me might be true, for there truly are risks in loving. But as I have a wife, and you, my dear, are not she, I must look upon this as an indulgence."

  "But you don't," she said softly, "look upon this as an indulgence."

  The light in his eyes warmed and gentled, and he drew her tightly against him. "No, I don't."

  This time their kiss was deep, passionate, and long; it was the strangest thing. Madelaine thought in a remote part of her mind, but it was as if Sherman wanted to absorb her into himself, to pull her into him with all the intensity of appetence. Then she let all thought go and gave herself over to the desire he ignited in her.

  When they broke apart, Sherman had to steady himself against the table, laughing a little with shy embarrassment. "Sorry. That was clumsy of me. I was… You made me dizzy."

  "You weren't paying attention," said Madelaine as she ran her hands under the lapels of his jacket and peeled it off him.

  He did not protest this, but set to unfastening his waistcoat and the shirt beneath it, working so precipitously that he got the shirt tangled in his suspenders and had to let Madelaine disengage them for him, which she did merrily. "It isn't funny," he grumbled.

  "If you say not," she told him with a smile that pierced his heart.

  He caressed her hair as she continued to unfasten his clothing, and said dreamily. "If I were truly a brave man, I would take you and my children, and we would sail away to the Sandwich Islands together, and live there, the world well lost. But I'm not that brave."

  She interrupted her task and said somberly, "You would come to hate me within a year or two, for making you forsake your honor."

  "But you don't ask that," he said, holding her face in his hands and scrutinizing her features.

  "In time you would persuade yourself I had," she said with grim certainty. "And I am not brave enough to sustain your loathing."

  "How could I do that?" He asked her, marveling at the forthrightness she displayed in the face of his examination.

  "You would," she said, and moved back to let him step out of his trousers. "I will fill the tub for you; the water is nearly warm enough." She could see the first wisps of steam rising from the large pots. "Then you will bathe and we will have time together." She reached for the pot holders and lifted the first of the vessels from the stove. As she emptied it into the bathtub, a warm cloud rose, made tangy by bath salts.

  Sherman was down to his underwear and shoes; he started to protest her labors, but stopped and offered, "Shall I help you out of your clothes, as well?"

  Madelaine emptied the second pot. "No. I will do that once you are in the bath," she assured him.

  "Where I can watch," he ventured.

  "Of course." By the time she had poured the contents of the third pot into the tub, Sherman was naked and shivering. "Hurry. Get in," she said, gathering up his clothes and setting them out on the butcher's block to dry.

  "It feels so good it hurts," Sherman sighed as he sank into the water, taking the sponge and soap from the stand beside the tub.

  "Then enjoy it," said Madelaine, reaching to release the fastenings of her bodice as she went toward the bathtub.

  San Francisco, 8 September, 1855

  I am almost finished with my chapter on the Utes, which pleases me tremendously. I tell myself I have captured the spirit of their legends and other teachings clearly enough so that the most opinionated of university-bound scholars cannot misinterpret what I have said. But I know such lucidity is impossible, so I must be content to accept my satisfaction as sufficient to the task.

  Tecumseh has been with me for five nights out of the last ten, and he alternates between anguish at his laxness and joy for our passion. When he is not berating himself, he tells me he has never been so moved before, that I have revealed pleasures and gratification that he thought did not exist except between the covers of novels. But this rapture is always accompanied by the warning that he will not shame his wife any more than he has done already, and that he will never leave his children. He refuses to be convinced that I do not wish him to run off with me, and nothing I have said to the contrary has made any lasting impression on him.

  Tomorrow I go to an afternoon party given by Mr. Folsom to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the marriage of Captain and Mrs. Kent—or so reads the invitation that was delivered to me last week. Baron deStoeckl has offered to be my escort, and I suppose I will accept…

  Fanny Kent was radiant in a flounced gown of peach-colored tarlatan over petticoats à la Duchesse; her eardrops were baroque pearls surmounted by rubies, and she wore an extravagant and hideous necklace of diamonds and rubies, the gift her husband had given her for this occasion. She took advantage of every opportunity to show off these splendid presents, coquetting prettily for all those who were willing to compliment her.

  Beside her, Captain Kent was in a claw-tail coat of dark-blue superfine over a waistcoat of embroidered white satin. He was beaming with pride as he lifted his champagne glass to his wife and thanked her for "the ten happiest years of my life." He was delighted by the applause that followed.

  "I won't bother to bring you wine," the Russian Baron whispered to Madelaine after they had greeted their host. "But excuse me if I get some for myself."

  "Please do," said Madelaine, returning the wave Fanny Kent gave her. "You do not have to wait upon me, Baron."

  "You are gracious, as always," said deStoeckl, and went off to have some of the champagne.

  Madelaine had no desire to go sit with the widows and dowagers in the kiosk, nor did she want to join the younger wives, all of whom seemed to spend their time talking about the unreliability of servants, the precocity of their children, and the ambitions they had for their husbands. She would have nothing to contribute to their conversation, so instead, she went to where a new bed of flowers had been planted; she occupied her time identifying the plants, her thoughts faintly distracted by the realization that she would have to make more of the compounds Saint-Germain had taught her to concoct nearly a century ago; she did not hear Fanny Kent's light, tripping step behind her.

  "Oh, Madame de Montalia," she enthused, prettily half turning so that the tiers of her skirt fluttered becomingly around her. "I was so happy to see you arrive with Baron deStoeckl."

  "Why is that?" Madelaine asked, adding. "My felicitations on your anniversary. May all those to come be as happy."

  "Thank you," said Fanny, a smug hint of a smile showing her delight in this occasion. "I am a fortunate woman; my husband is devoted to me."

  "Yes, you are fortunate," said Madelaine. "The more so that you are fond of him."

  Fanny clasped her hand to her throat, touching her new necklace. "Dear me, yes. I have seen marriages—well, we all have—where the partners do not suit, and one is forever trapped trying to win the other, with flattery and gifts and other signs of affection that gain nothing but aggravation. The greater the effort, the greater the failure in those sad cases. Fortunately, I am not of their number."

  "Which must please all your friends," said Madelaine, thinking that festive small talk had not changed appreciably in the one hundred thirty years she had been alive. "I see the Captain has given you a wonderful remembrance."

  "So he has," she preened. "How good of you to notice." She looked around, then moved a step nearer to Madelaine. "I mentioned Baron deStoeckl just now, in the hope that there might be… an interesting announcement from him?"

  Madelaine realized at once what Fanny sought to know; she chuckled. "Do not let his affianced bride hear you say that, or she will never lend me his escort again."

&n
bsp; Fanny's face wilted. "Oh. An affianced bride, you say?"

  "So he has informed me," said Madelaine, her good humor unaltered. "Dear Mrs. Kent, you must know that even with your best efforts, few of us can become as happy as you are with your Captain. Although I appreciate your wish to see me thus." She regarded Fanny, trying not to lose patience with her.

  "Yes," said Fanny naively. "It is true that happiness like ours is rare. But I think it is necessary for a woman to have a husband in this world. Life is quite impossible without one." Impulsively she put her hand on Madeline's arm. "And I hate to see you so alone."

  "I deal well enough with my single condition," said Madelaine, knowing that Fanny intended the best for her, but offended by the intrusion in spite of her intuition.

  "But the future; think of the future, Madame." Her pretty face was now puckered with distress. "What will become of you? I cannot bear to think of it, not when I know you to be a prize any man would be glad to win."

  "Please, Mrs. Kent," Madelaine said, her manner less conciliating than before, "do not think that you must make arrangements for me. I have no wish to be any man's prize. I am capable of caring for myself; I value your interest as I ought, but I must ask you not to pursue the matter."

  Fanny dabbed a tear from her eye with her lace handkerchief. "If you insist, I will refrain, but why I should, I cannot grasp. Surely you must know that we all wish you well. Nothing would please us more than to see you well situated." She lowered her eyes to the flower beds. "This will be so splendid next spring. Don't you look forward to seeing it?"

  "Yes," Madelaine answered, "and I regret that I will no longer be in San Francisco when they bloom."

  Fanny's expression changed to shock. "What are you saying, Madame?"

  "Only that my purpose for being in your country will take me away from here before much more time goes by; I will be leaving soon, ahead of winter setting in, for I do not like hazardous travel," said Madelaine, trying to make these statements calmly so that Fanny would not be too inquisitive about her plans.

  "Gracious," said Fanny, nonplussed to the point of brief silence. "What purpose is that, Madame de Montalia?"

  "I am making a study of America; the United States are part of my subjects." It was not a lie, Madelaine reminded herself, though it was also not quite the truth.

  "But why would you want to do that?" Fanny marveled. "Why should a well-born woman like you undertake so arduous a task?"

  "Curiosity," said Madelaine. "Women are supposed to be more curious than men, aren't we?"

  "Well, I suppose so," said Fanny dubiously, then turned as she heard her name called. She waved in response, then looked guiltily at Madelaine. "Oh, dear. You must excuse me, Madame. My husband needs me."

  "By all means," said Madelaine, and went back to her perusal of the flower beds. But she could not bring herself to concentrate on what she saw now, for Fanny Kent's well-meaning interference niggled at the back of her thoughts, and she remembered how Saint-Germain had cautioned her against making herself too noticeable in society. At the time, she had thought the advice too protective, but now she could perceive the reason for his warning, and she tried to think how best to undo the damage she had done.

  A short while later, Baron deStoeckl found her once more. He carried a glass of champagne, and he smiled broadly, his whole manner amiable, his eyes shrewd. As usual, he addressed her in French. "How are you faring, Madame?"

  "Well enough," she said, taking care not to appear too interested in him. "Fanny Kent was hoping she could make a match of us."

  Baron deStoeckl chuckled. "And did you tell her of my promised bride at home?"

  "Yes," said Madelaine. "I think she was more disappointed than shocked."

  He strolled along beside her, content to say little as they went. Finally, as he reached the foot of the garden, he remarked, "I hope you will not allow yourself to worry about what she said to you."

  "It is not my intention," said Madelaine, trying to sound unconcerned, and went on impulsively, "but it galls me to think I have been foolish enough to expose myself to her…"

  "Scrutiny?" suggested deStoeckl when Madelaine did not go on.

  "Something of the sort," she admitted. "Though that may be too strong a word."

  They started back to where most of the guests were gathered. DeStoeckl gestured to indicate the expansive garden. "You know, at the rate this city is growing, holdings of this size will soon vanish. Ask William what it was like when he was in California the first time. It was nothing like the place you see now. Once the Rush was on, San Francisco mushroomed. And it is mushrooming still." He grinned impishly. "William learned a great deal then, and it has stood him in good stead now. He claims that at the time, he had other things on his mind. Ask him why they called Monterey Bay 'Sherman's Punch Bowl,' six years ago."

  "You may be right about the city," she said with verve, not wanting to be pulled into talking about Sherman. "Though it would be a pity to lose this garden."

  "The price of land is rising steadily," deStoeckl reminded her. "And buildings are going up everywhere. I venture to guess that one day the city will stretch from the Bay to the Pacific itself." He saw the mayor signal to him. "I will return later," he said as he went to answer the summons.

  It was too early to leave the party, but Madelaine wanted some relief from it. She went into the house and looked about for the library; the chance to read would diminish her growing anxiety.

  There was no library, only two small shelves of books in the withdrawing room. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the limited fare, and taking a copy of Bleak House from the top shelf, sat down to read, deciding she would discover at last what it was Sherman so admired in Dickens.

  "I wondered what had become of you," said a voice from the door; a young importer stood there, smiling fatuously at Madelaine. "No fair, you running off the way you did."

  "It is too bright in the garden; I fear I do poorly in such bright sun," she said, noticing the fellow looked a bit flushed. "So do you, it would seem."

  "The sun doesn't bother me," he boasted and held up his glass in a toast to her. "But not looking at you does. You're better than the sun any day of the week."

  This flattery was more alarming than complimenting; Madelaine began to wonder if the high color in the young man's face did not result from too much champagne rather than too much sun; there was a certain glaze to his eyes that suggested it. A quiver of consternation went through her as she recalled other unwelcome encounters: Alain Baudilet in Omats' garden, Gerard le Mat on the road to her estate in Provence, Ralph Whitestone in her box after The Duchess of Malfi. "Thank you for the pretty words," she said automatically, continuing with great deliberation. "I think, perhaps, it is time to rejoin the others."

  The young man gave her a lupine grin. "Not so fast. I thought we could have a little… talk on our own."

  "Did you?" Madelaine closed the novel and put it back into its place on the shelf. "I fear you were mistaken." She rose and started toward the door, not so quickly that she would seem to confront the young man. With all the composure she could muster, she said, "Will you let me by?"

  He extended his arm to block the door. "I don't think so. Not yet."

  "Mr…" She could not bring his name to mind; it was something simple, uncomplicated, but not as obvious as Smith. She maintained her outward equanimity. "There is no reason to do this."

  "There's plenty of reason," said the intruder, enjoying his position of advantage. "And a Frenchwoman should not need to be told what it is."

  Madelaine frowned. She could always scream, but that would defeat the whole purpose of her withdrawal from the garden—to remove herself from observation and the occasion for gossip. "I don't think you want to do this," she began reasonably. "Please stand aside." She thought she sounded like a schoolmistress with a recalcitrant pupil.

  "Not on your life," the young man said, swaying toward her. "Not while I have this chance." He drank the last of the champagne i
n his glass, tossed it away without paying any notice to its shattering, then reached out for her.

  Madelaine sought to get around him and was about to reach for something she could use as a weapon when Sherman abruptly forced his way into the withdrawing room, grabbing the young man by the front of his shirt to back him up against the wall, leaning hard on him, pinning him to the wain-scoring. "You didn't hear the lady, sir. She asked you to step aside."

  The young man blanched and sweat broke out on his forehead. "I… I…"

  "And you will do it, won't you?" Sherman demanded through clenched teeth.

  "I…" Though bulkier than Sherman, the young man was terrified, and he squirmed in an attempt to escape; Sherman leaned harder. "Oh, God."

  The relief and gratitude that had filled Madelaine a moment before vanished in a wash of exasperation. "Mr. Sherman," she said crisply, "I think he has taken your meaning."

  Sherman kept his relentless grip on the young man. "You will apologize to the lady, sir," he ordered.

  "I… Sorry. I… didn't mean…" He stopped as Sherman released his hold and moved back. "I… just a mistake. Never meant anything… untoward. Upon my word, Madame." He was shaking and kept glancing quickly at Sherman, then at the windows, anything to avoid looking directly at Madelaine for fear of the red-haired banker's wrath.

  "And because it was a mistake, you will say nothing to anyone, will you?" Sherman pursued, giving the fellow no chance to capitalize on his gaffe through boasting or smugness.

  "No. No. I won't. Ever." With that, he bolted from the room. His hasty, uneven footsteps were loud.

  The withdrawing room was still, neither Madelaine nor Sherman being willing to speak first. She relented before he did. "Mr. Sherman. I didn't know you were here."

  "I arrived not long after you did," he said, keeping his distance.

  She had nothing to say to that. "How did you happen to follow that young man in here?"