Vampires Don't Cry: The Collection

by Ian Hall

  All the while, mother became easily indoctrinated into the role of merchant’s wife. Her days consisted of tea and finger sandwiches with ladies of like means, evenings of parlor games and prancing in circles to robust music. It seemed in leaving behind a life of toil and worry, she’d left behind the one remaining artifact from that life, as well – her daughter.

  Not that William shirked the worth of a solid day’s work. He spent most of the daylight hours in some business meeting or other. He often took a carriage to Edinburgh, just ten miles to the west to hawk his wares, and many times he’d return home with lime on his clothes from the kilns high on the hills. With money from many avenues, he jealously stood guard over every penny in the till. Rumors buzzed round the district that William Roxburgh dealt roughly with clerks caught pinching his purse.

  With mother and her husband away each day, this left me alone in the house with my new stepsisters. The pair lived like fat, lazy cats, forever sunning themselves at the windowsill and grooming their shiny coats. Useless as they were vain, these two had no concept of life outside their privileged existence. Every second in their company irked me beyond reason.

  After some months of fetching and hopping to Mildred and Maigret’s every whim, my bones grew tired and my mind weary of the endless slog. Then one Monday morning, as the sun streamed through my open window, I awoke to the sound of a crashing at my door.

  I’d overslept and my stepsisters had awoken to cold pots and empty stomachs. The first blow of the skillet hit my bowed shoulder, the second squarely on the back, winding me. As Mildred assaulted me with the pan, Maigret kicked the bedframe, shaking it and me until my head knocked into the metal of the headboard.

  “Out o’ bed, girl!” One of them bellowed as the bed got again shaken.

  “Enough!” I screamed in response, slowly turning myself over and rising to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Is it not enough that I wait on you hand an’ foot? Can I not take some rest as I see fit? Leave my room at once or—”

  The tip of Mildred’s long nose touched the end of mine in an instant, “Or what? You’ll tell your mumsy? Know this, Arabella Roxburgh, you’re alive only for the graciousness o’ my father an’ if he no longer sees fit to keep you around, nobody – not especially that absurd mother o’ yours – can save you.”

  I felt the moisture hit my neck as she spat at me, dropping the skillet hard on the floor, missing my foot by an inch. Maigret also baptized me in the same manner, hers landing far more accurately upon my forehead. Forgetting my inadequate body, my mind prepared to fight. I made as if to rise and defend my honor but got easily smacked down by that back of Maigret’s hand. The two giggled in unison at my expense.

  “Don’t test your worth to this family; you would be not be pleased wi’ the result. All it takes in one little word to Daddy an’ you’ll be purged from all memory, Arabella. Even your mother would not grieve you. One shiny little bobble to hang about her neck an’ she’d forgive her husband any transgression.”

  The notion of my mother, so easily bought off, stuck me in the side. Since her marriage to Roxburgh, I’d hardly recognized the woman. I’d attributed her lack of concern for this mistreatment of me to be a newly wedded woman’s fog of bliss obstructing her vision. Perhaps I’d given my mother more credit than she deserved. Perhaps she’d had more clarity than I assumed.

  My stepsister bent, retrieved the skillet, and thrust in into my chest. I took it obediently.

  “You’ve had your rest, Arabella. Now back to work.”

  Maigret retreated a step, just enough space for me to stand. I shuffled past each of them on my way through to the kitchen but Mildred grabbed me by my withered arm.

  “Have you no manners at all to speak o’?” she demanded. “When you’ve wronged someone as thoroughly as you’ve done us…do you feel no need to seek atonement, Arabella?”

  I could feel the pressure around my arm as her grip tightened. The blood boiled in my face at her haughty, deliberately cruel expression. The skillet grew heavy in my hand, suddenly feeling more a cudgel than a cooking implement. I forced that impulse down and lowered my gaze.

  “I do apologize,” I said, nodding my head at each of my stepsisters in turn, “for keeping you waiting for your breakfast. It won’t happen again.”

  At last, Mildred released me and my drudgery began anew.

  I spent more endless days, all the same as the one before, languishing in a slow, tedious stupor. Never again did I allow myself the freedoms of decision or dispute. I became a shadow that moved among them, unnoticed except for what did not get done to the liking of my stepsisters. Only at those moments would Will Roxburgh acknowledge me – strictly in the form of punishment. My mother, however, paid me even less acknowledgment than that.

  In the spring of the next year, word spread through town that Maxwell Clooney, the odd boy whom I’d last seen at my mother’s wedding, had inherited a small estate nearby Flemingston, but in the next county. Some uncle had died, leaving him the sole heir and Laird to the land.

  Soon news circulated of a masquerade ball to be thrown at the Clooney estate; an event intended to allow Maxwell opportunity to select a suitable bride. All the virgin maids of Flemingston and the surrounding dales swooned for an invitation, including my own stepsisters, Mildred and Maigret. Apparently, wealth had bought Maxwell Clooney the acceptance and prestige his odd manner never could.

  I cried that night, not in resentment, but sheer joy that someone held in the village’s contempt could rise above and find happiness. The next day, as I gathered my shawl around my shoulders and shuffled out to the woodpile, a strong pair of hands intercepted mine, lifting the wood easily.

  “I can get that, Arabella.”

  I looked up into the smiling face of Maxwell Clooney. My body responded in the same bizarre fashion as the night of my mother’s wedding to William Roxburgh. My hand flashed to my face to cover my left side, and I dipped my chin so as not to show the embarrassment that flushed my cheeks.

  “Maxwell…” I righted myself, “Mr. Clooney?”

  His smile only broadened for my clumsy attempt at propriety. “Hello, Arabella. How have you faired since last we saw one another?”

  Not only had Maxwell’s countenance become elevated, but also the vernacular with which he spoke. I’m sure many girls of the town would have found his newly acquired charm enchanting, but I felt nothing but disdain for his assumed sophistication. I dare say I longed for the company of the uncomfortable boy I’d once known.

  “What brings you back to this squalid town, Ma- Mr. Clooney? Shouldn’t you be off in Edinburgh doing…whatever rich people do?”

  He shrugged. I’ll admit there seemed a certain appeal in the simple, ineloquent gesture; a glimpse of the old Maxwell under the new veneer.

  “I suppose I haven’t figured out how rich people spend their time yet.”

  In that simple admission I felt reacquainted with the outsider I’d come to know – at least in passing – over the years. Despite his stiffly starched collar and high-polished shoes, Maxwell Clooney appeared little more than a round-faced, confused boy. No matter how confident he looked, behind the façade he would be forever wandering lost in the forest of the gentry. In that instant, my heart, something I might have thought died on my mother’s wedding day, suddenly skipped to life and went out to him.

  “What brings you here?” I asked, feeling a smile creep over my features.

  He spread his arms and shrugged for the second time. “I come to the village nearly every week, Arabella. Unfortunately, I have not seen much o’ you these days.”

  I bent my face to hide the anger. “My responsibilities keep me well occupied around the house, I’m afraid. It’s rare my feet even get to explore the cobble path that leads outside William Roxburgh’s gate, let alone wander clear out to the square.”

  I felt the warm thrill of Maxwell Clooney’s fingers lifting my chin. Soon our eyes were level with one another.

  “But surely ther
e are four women in the household. You should have time set aside for yourself.”

  Again, anger burned far below. “I am the only one who actually works.” I could have set loose a torrent, but I held my tongue, clipping my deluge.

  “I am very displeased to hear that,” he declared, his face set in a stone masque of anger, “you of all people, Arabella, should not be locked away an’ made a servant in your own home.”

  Reflexively, I flinched away from both his pity and the obvious rage he displayed on my behalf. Having spent most my life a vision of misfortune, I’d seen far too much of those sentiments in the faces of strangers.

  “I meant,” I continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “what are you doing here – on William Roxburgh’s property?”

  He straightened, caught off guard by my defensive tone. “I came today to extend personal invitations to my masquerade ball, seven days hence.” He tapped the breast of his jacket. “I bring five invitations, an’ I intend to see five Roxburgh’s at my function.”

  His return to formalities made me smile despite myself.

  “So, the rumors are true then, Maxwell Clooney? You intend to buy yourself a comely bride?” By his grimace, I knew my barb scratched deeply. And so, despite my warming feelings to him, I cut again. “It befuddles the mind, however – why a masquerade? If your goal is prize at your arm, wouldn’t you wish to gaze upon her visage so that you may be certain she carries no disfigurements?”

  Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. Neither shame nor amusement showed in them.

  “The rumors are partially true, Arabella. After too long a life o’ abject solitude, it is my heart’s intentions to find a bride…a woman who will live beside me for the eternity yet to come.” He caught and held my eyes. “It is my hope not to find the loveliest face, but the purest soul, one that will bind to mine as if one. I have come to learn that people are that much easier to see when wearing a masque.”

  Before I could utter a response, Maxwell lifted my shriveled arm, bringing my hand to his lips.

  “It is my sincerest wish that you, Arabella Roxburgh, will attend. I am here today to ensure your stepfather understands I expect to see you there.”

  In silent astonishment, I watched as Maxwell Clooney turned his back to me and stalked off round the house, obviously with the purpose of knocking at the front door.

  I forgot all trace of needing wood from the woodpile and dashed inside as quickly as my withered leg would allow. I opened the scullery door a crack, and watched down the hallway to the inside of the front door.

  Despite my years, I felt like an adolescent, breathing shallow, panting breaths. I heard Mildred stir from her chaise longue in the sitting room. She appeared at the door, and opened it wide.

  “Miss Roxburgh, how nice it is to see you again.”

  I could hear her blush from my place of concealment, twenty feet away. “Why, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Laird would be the proper title,” he persisted. “I come to visit your father an’ pay my respects. I have invitations for the Chorley House Masquerade Ball.”

  She flapped her arms from the elbows like a chicken trying to gain flight. “Oh, how sweet, let me get father.”

  When William arrived, Maigret led Maxwell into the sitting room, and the door got firmly closed behind him.

  Of course, after he had left, no one told me a word of what had transpired.

  I approached mother that night to enquire as to what I would wear, but her withdrawn demeanor warned of me of bad news.

  “Alas, William has announced that we only have enough money laid aside for the making of three dresses.” Her face remained cold and unmoving as her tone.

  “But, Mother!” I screamed. She tried to shush me with her hands, glancing fearfully at the door. “I have a right to attend! Maxwell has requested me in person!”

  I didn’t hear the door open.

  In truth, I still screamed at Mother when I felt the hand on my shoulder, spinning me around.

  His first slap caught me unawares, crashing so hard into my unprotected cheek, I’m sure I heard bones breaking in my jaw.

  His second hit me just above the eye. No slap this time; his fists were balled, and his knuckles hurt beyond belief. The blow threw me to the ground, and I sprawled near mother’s feet.

  Holding her hands over her mouth, Mother remained completely silent.

  I made to rise, but got met halfway by William’s face, puffing into mine.

  “As if you weren’t ugly enough,” my stepfather spat, “now you can’t go to the ball, not with a face like you’ll have tomorrow.”

  I felt blood flowing freely into my mouth. “It’s a masquerade ball,” I said stupidly.

  I didn’t actually see him raise his foot, but I saw the shadow as it fell squarely on my arm. Half-braced on the floor, it snapped like a twig, sending me crashing to the ground again.

  Mother screamed, and as the pains shot through my body, I remembered nothing more.

  I awoke to darkness. As my eyes gained the moonlight coming in my window, I gasped in pain. My face felt like it had grown to double its size and had been dipped in fire. My forearm felt stiff, tied to my side and throbbing deeply.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, I made out a silhouette against the dark sky outside.

  “Maxwell?” I hissed softly. Just saying the name caused all kinds of pain, shooting in a myriad of directions across my face and inwards.

  He pulled himself up to my sill. “Arabella, are you well?”

  Ashamed of my stepfather’s actions, I nodded against the pillow. “I fell.”

  “You’ve no need for deflection o’ blame, Arabella. I know a beating when I see it.” His voice gained venom and timbre as he spoke; as if he’d instantly aged ten years.

  Tears welled in my eyes as he spoke. The tenderness in his voice bespoke a volume of love letters, and I swear at that instant, I fell for him.

  Maxwell, the awkward Laird.

  “Don’t worry, your time will come.”

  “I fear not,” I croaked. “It seems that I am destined to a life o’ drudgery.” My words morphed with the swelling of my lips, and I wasn’t sure if he’d understand.

  “You have a greater destiny than you think.”

  I heard him rummage outside, then he leant to the open ledge and waved a small bottle at me.

  “I have an elixir which will help.”

  I swung my legs over the bed, and painfully crossed to the open window. The night beyond Maxwell’s face lay black and silent.

  “You must drink it all.”

  Despite my reservations against such an act, I took the bottle from him. My body contained so much pain that I felt sure William Roxburgh had withheld any laudanum the doctor had offered. I twisted the long, thin cork free, and swilled the thick liquid. It contained whiskey. That much I knew. Whiskey and something else; an ingredient warm and forbidden. I shuddered ominously. It went straight to my head. I swayed, dizzily.

  “Go to sleep and wait ‘til morning,” he breathed in my face. “Take off the splints then.”

  I became puzzled, I mean, a body doesn’t heal that quickly. But the mixture befuddled me, and I fell back on the bed and pulled myself onto it.

  I fell into darkness almost immediately, thanking Maxwell for the elixir which had already dumbed the pain completely.

  By morning I felt quite as whole as Maxwell had predicted. First, I tried my arm, bending it warily; it moved without complaint. My fingers searched the bones of my face, finding them intact. Even the swelling of my lips and cheek had gone.

  “That Maxwell Clooney is some kind o’ magician,” I said aloud to the room.

  “Nothing quite that innocent,” a disembodied voice answered me.

  I sat upright, blankets falling to reveal my linen nightdress. There, in the corner of my room, he sat – perched straight and stiff as if he’d been carved from marble.

  “You spent the night here – in my bedroom?”

  Maxwell
afforded me a generous smile. “I could not take the chance o’ your stepfather stealing into your room an’ undoing the benefits o’ my elixir.”

  Coming to my senses, I pulled the sheet up to my chin, “You haven’t slept the entire night then?”

  He lifted lithely from the chair and placed himself at the side of the bed. “I sleep very little.”

  Without further explanation, Maxwell lifted the once-broken limb and inspected it with terrific interest. He moved his examination to my face, delicately tracing the outlines of every curve until satisfied I’d properly mended.

  Then, with every bit the awkwardness of the boy I’d known, he dropped his hands into his lap, folding them neatly, and sat regarding me with a timid grin.

  “Are you well pleased wi’ the result, Mr. Clooney?”

  “If the result would be that you an’ I should remain on first-name basis – I should be very pleased indeed, Miss Roxburgh.”

  My temper instantly soured. “Do not assign that foul beast’s name to me.”

  Maxwell leant forward and scooped up my hand, holding me with his eyes. “Never, Arabella. In fact, I have great ambitions that someday your last name might be the same as mine.”

  I felt the air catch sharply in my lungs. Once I recovered decorum, I goaded him with a sinister smile.

  “Were I to agree to such an arrangement, that would certainly spoil the mood o’ all the hopeful maidens at your masquerade, Mr. Clooney. I should hate to be the cause o’ so much rumbling.”

  “Truth be told, sweet Arabella,” he said longingly, bringing my hand to his chest, “the ball was merely a ruse to lure you to my holdings that I might sway your favor…”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Ah. Then you are but a spider, spinning a web to catch the now-suspecting fly, Mr. Clooney.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Maxwell said penitently.

  We smiled together as two gushing fools.

  I extended my shriveled arm, the fingers curled in a permanent club, “You may wish to think twice before you spin me into your cocoon, dear Max. Remember what I am.”

  He brought our joined hands to his chest.

  “I know exactly what you are, Arabella,” Maxwell said fervently. “An’ were you a lesser woman, I might give you no choice. But, I want you to come to me o’ your own free will. So, before you make that decision – you must know what I am…”