by Huw Thomas
By the time he was done, Caroline was very glad he had made her sit down.
“I am all amazement,” she declared. “No, none of it is even possible. You cannot expect me to believe that mere knowledge of these vampyres is enough to make us vulnerable to them.”
“That is the truth, and it is most important that you do believe it,” Mr Hurst said.
“I would sooner conclude that you are all playing some fantastical joke on me.”
“It is no joke,” Mr Darcy assured her. “I only wish it were.”
“But how are we to live in so disagreeable a manner, and with such secrecy? What of our relations and friends, of future friends and acquaintances?”
“We shall do as we must do,” Mr Hurst said. “It is only this one particular thing that we must keep secret; and in all honesty would any of us deign to mention the existence of vampyres in polite conversation?”
Caroline shook her head and Mr Hurst went on:
“Even so, we must be careful. It will be necessary to live apart from the world, to some extent at least. I have been doing so for several years now.” He looked around the group. “It has recently become less lonely than previously.”
“Apart from the world? What of society, of gatherings and dinner parties?” Caroline demanded. “What of balls and assemblies?”
“Miss Bingley’s questions are reasonable ones,” Mr Darcy observed.
“I understand Miss Bingley’s questions perfectly. Dinner parties, balls and assemblies are certainly permitted. Indeed, these and many other distractions are a vital refuge from what we must sometimes endure. But consider this: if one of us should meet someone — some well-bred lady or gentleman with whom we have much in common and should like to become friends — then we risk imparting to that person a most perilous knowledge. We have only today seen how little it takes to pique the natural curiosity that is invariably present in a healthy mind, and how dangerous such curiosity can become.”
“That is all well and good,” Mr Darcy said, “and it is perhaps different for us gentlemen, Mr Hurst. Particularly one such as yourself, who is just recently engaged to be married.”
“Of course,” Mr Hurst said. “We must live as normally as possible but we must also stay as safe as possible. And so the first order of business must be to discover what led to tonight’s attack, since it is plain that we were being watched. For while Caroline’s sudden induction into the world of vampyres may have precipitated events, it could hardly have caused those events. No, they were already in motion, and that troubles me.”
“I may be able to shed some light on this, and perhaps even to trouble you further,” Mr Darcy said. “It was only for an instant that I saw him and I cannot be certain of what I beheld. Yet I can scarcely believe that my eyes would have deceived me, for it seemed to me that I saw a person whom I have known all my life.”
“Do you mean to say that you are acquainted with the man who attacked me?” Caroline asked.
“Sadly, no. I was referring to the scoundrel who was lurking outside, the one who fled after setting his dog on your poor sister.”
“That coward was known to you?” Charles demanded. “Then I pray you tell us who it was, without delay.”
“I caught only a glimpse before he hid his face with his cape,” Mr Darcy said, “but he bore a strong resemblance to my father’s protégé, Mr George Wickham. You may recall that he was taken seriously ill while returning into Derbyshire, and placed under the care of Doctor Harrison — and so you never met him.”
“That was a matter of regret to me at the time,” Charles said, “for had he been anything like his father or his sister, I believed I would have enjoyed his society.”
“He is not like his father or his sister,” Darcy replied.
“Well, then, did he recover from his illness?”
“After some days the doctor pronounced Mr Wickham well — yet even when fully recovered, he seemed … different to me. I put it down to grief at first, for the disappearance of his sister and for the loss of his own father as well as mine, whom I believe he once held in high esteem. He soon left for I know not where, and now I wonder if he truly felt anything at all.” Mr Darcy was silent for a moment. “As young boys we were inseparable; and later, for my father’s sake, I continued to treat him with consideration even as I saw that his character was altering in ways which I could not approve.”
“This was before the recent disturbances?” Mr Hurst asked.
“Yes, he has been changing for some time, but never more than after his illness. He left Pemberley almost as soon as he was recovered, but some weeks later I received a letter from him in which he revealed that his ambitions and desires had changed in every particular from what they had been before.”
“If you thought you saw this Mr George Wickham,” Mr Hurst said, “then I dare say that you did. We must all keep our eyes and ears open for any mention of that name, whether by rumour or otherwise. I shall pay particular attention to the notices in The Times and The Gazette, since I regularly consult those periodicals for news of events that require my professional attention. Sadly, I glimpsed Mr Wickham only for a moment before Doctor Harrison insisted on taking over his care, and these others have never seen him at all. What can you tell us of his appearance and habits?”
“Prized among my late father’s possessions was a miniature with Mr Wickham’s likeness, which I trust you will all have the opportunity to inspect before long, since I hope for the honour of receiving you at Pemberley whenever you choose to come. But for now, I shall describe him.”
Mr Darcy proceeded to do so, and Caroline gathered that their suspect was about twenty years of age, dark of hair and a little taller than usual, and so she formed the impression of a fine figure of a man (though this aspect only grudgingly allowed by Mr Darcy). Formerly he had taken an interest in the church, though Mr Darcy had long believed that his erstwhile friend lacked any of the pious qualities that would have suited him to such a role.
According to Mr Darcy, following Mr Wickham’s illness his intentions could not be made out at all. The man had written a letter concerning a bequest from his late godfather, and received a final settlement sent to his temporary lodgings, and after that Mr Darcy had heard nothing more.
Caroline listened with great interest, though she immediately saw it would be of little help in discovering Mr Wickham, as London was very well supplied with young gentlemen seeking their fortune, whether handsome or dissolute or both. It was a shame, she thought, that the miniature with Mr Wickham’s portrait was far away in Derbyshire.
Mr Darcy now turned to the subject of his young sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy. “I had thought her secure at Pemberley, but after tonight’s events I am uneasy about her safety.”
“When we last spoke of Miss Darcy,” Mr Hurst said, “you told me that she had no suspicions regarding — forgive me — the cause of your father’s death. Is that still so?”
“To the best of my knowledge, yes.”
“Then our enemies will not be drawn into her world.”
“Yet I must nevertheless consider the possibility that Mr Wickham is in league with them, or has perhaps become one of the monsters himself. He has known my sister since childhood.”
“No vampyre would have exposed himself so rashly, or fled from a confrontation in so cowardly a fashion. No, Mr Wickham and his confederate were cat’s paws, as Monsieur La Fontaine would have it.”
Darcy nodded. “Cat’s paws controlled by—?”
“Plainly there is still a vampyre at large, and a vengeful one at that — you were mistaken in thinking you had slain them all, I fear. Monsters or no, they have a strong regard for their kin and so they hate those of us who would do them harm.”
“And now it seems that Mr Wickham hates us too.”
Mr Hurst nodded. “Mr Wickham certainly appears to have fallen under this vampyre’s spell. He may have become its slave but in essence he remains a man … for now. I agree, however, that Miss Darcy
should not be left unprotected. You might recall that I once suggested she should be sent away to school.”
“I do remember it,” Darcy replied. “My sister’s future education has long been planned in any case; my father’s dearest wish was for her to continue her studies in some suitable establishment, and then to finish under the care of a certain respectable widow who came highly recommended.”
“Was Mr Wickham familiar with this recommendation?”
“His father was. As for the son, he took no interest in anything to do with the running of the estate, or indeed in any business of my family. I am confident that he remains perfectly ignorant of my father’s intentions.”
“Still, what if by some evil chance he were to find your sister?” Charles asked.
“A young lady placed in a reputable school is hardly unprotected,” Mr Hurst said. “Nor is she free to wander about outdoors, as I think Miss Darcy must be at Pemberley. And there can be no better way to conceal a girl who is of an age to be in school, than to place her in a school that is kept secret from all others — for there she will become not so much a needle in a hayloft, but rather a veritable wisp of hay. We have ample proof of this principle for ourselves, in the difficulty we face in tracing Mr Wickham among London’s teeming streets.”
“Nobody can remain anonymously at school forever,” Caroline said.
“You are quite right, Miss Bingley. However, secrecy will only be needed for as long as it takes us to put an end to this vampyre’s enmity.”
“How is that to be done?” she asked.
“Why, we must find it and slay it, of course.”
Mr Darcy nodded. “I stand ready to render any assistance you consider needful, in pursuing that aim.”
“As do I,” Charles added.
“As for me,” Caroline said, “before engaging in any vampyre-hunting I should like to make the acquaintance of Miss Darcy.”
“And so you shall,” Mr Darcy replied. “For she will not always be at school, and I trust you will often be at Pemberley in the coming months and years.”
IX
Mr George Wickham had followed the pale Lady for long enough to recognise she was angry but it did not matter: her anger was beautiful to him. He could not tear his gaze away as his Mistress went to her altar and set down the crystal chalice. The vessel was brimmed with blood and already wreathed in vapours.
It was natural that there should be a price for the failure to take Miss Caroline Bingley. Thankfully, it was Burke who had been shot and whose failure had thus been the greater.
With gentle malevolence the pale Lady crooked one long finger toward that injured unfortunate, and he came to her. She twisted her hand just so and Burke sank to his knees, tilting his head back to present his throat.
The pale Lady spoke. “Despite your blundering, I will be avenged on all those who had a hand in the taking of my kin.”
Wickham was grateful that no reply was required of him.
“Caroline Bingley will now be closely protected by Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Then … why not deal with this Darcy first?” Burke asked.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy took a wound from my own mighty sire, and yet recovered all his vigour without a single drop of our blood. He is not now easily to be ‘dealt with’.”
“Then we shall defeat him by other means,” Wickham declared.
“Yes,” the pale Lady said. “As his power was gained by destroying my kin, so shall it be lost through the destruction of his own. Balance will be restored and his ability to resist us will be gone.” She traced her finger along the side of Burke’s neck. “Is there some other, weaker Darcy waiting to be drawn into my embrace?”
Any sense of loyalty that Wickham may once have held was long gone; now he considered only how to survive, and perhaps to prosper.
“Mr Darcy has a sister, Mistress. Her name is Georgiana. I would expect to find her at Pemberley, if you wish me to try again.”
“That will not do. Fitzwilliam Darcy is often at Pemberley. We must find another way.” Her manner became vague. “Were you telling me something of the family of Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“I was telling you of his sister, Mistress.”
“Then do so quickly before I forget again, for you know I cannot hold such a girl in my mind until she has embraced me.”
“I do recall some debate between my father and Miss Darcy’s, concerning her future, but I was not privy to the details of their discussion.”
“Their discussion of what?”
“Of Miss Georgiana Darcy’s future education. She is Mr Darcy’s sister.”
“Your father has further information on this subject, then.”
“Mistress, my father is dead.”
“As am I,” she replied.
Burke was still kneeling before her, his head tipped back in a gesture of self-offering. She brought her right hand close to his exposed throat. On her forefinger she wore a filigreed silver claw, fitted so closely that it seemed an extension of her nail; with this she pierced the great vein of his throat and presently that was the end of Burke.
The blood in the chalice seemed to boil. A cloud of reddish vapour issued forth, billowing across the altar and cascading downward. One smoky tendril rolled over Burke’s body and then crept across the floor, probing along the cracks between the flagstones where the blood pooled most deeply. The pale Lady watched these strands of living mist as her tongue flicked out to caress the precious claw, cleansing it of besmirching blood.
“Thus is your father’s spirit summoned and compelled to answer.” The pale Lady regarded Wickham. “You must discover what is needful. You must make and execute the plan to draw the next candidate into my embrace.”
Wickham looked around to see if his dead parent would appear from the mist, but nothing changed. The prospect of conversing with a spirit, even one closely related to him, made him distinctly uneasy, but despite this he began to wonder if he might not temper obedience with cunning and thus find some chance of profit for himself.
He addressed himself to the air. “Sir, I seek to know what was settled for the education of Miss Darcy. To which establishment is she to be sent?”
From the mist, his father’s voice came forth, shocking in its familiarity. The accent and timbre were unmistakable, though the sound was so faint that Wickham had the impression that the old man must be speaking across some unimaginable distance — or indeed, from another world.
“The school was never settled to my knowledge,” came the reply, “but wherever she is sent, she is later to finish in the care of an old friend, a widow whom you may remember from happier times.”
“Who is she?” Wickham demanded.
“Mrs Younge, the governess is called, and she dwells in Bloomsbury. But my dear George, you must not—”
Wickham never discovered what action his father’s spirit would forbid, because the pale Lady raised her hand and the voice was silenced.
“Have you gained the information you need to cast Fitzwilliam Darcy down from his high position?”
Wickham’s mind raced over possibilities. He saw himself in a few years, seducing the nubile Miss Darcy and leaving her with no choice but to marry him. He gave not a fig for spectacle or for the expectations of society. He did care about the many slights and deprivations he had suffered in his life. Perhaps he would revenge himself on the proud Darcys by holding the wedding in the little Derbyshire church they had planned for his living.
He saw himself in that church, waiting for Miss Darcy as she processed down the aisle on the arm of her defeated brother.
He imagined how it would feel to have control of his young wife’s fortune, the prize that would enable him to live the gentlemanly life for which he had been made.
He pictured himself content with this conquest for a time, then tragically widowed, then free.
Each of these revelations was so clear that he could not be sure if they came from his own imaginings, or if the Lady had somehow called them up f
rom the vapours that still coiled through the chamber’s unmoving air.
“Mistress, I believe I do,” he said, “though it will be some years before Miss Darcy becomes available to us.”
“Have I never mentioned to you that immortality allows time for patience?”
Wickham nodded. “Then, Mistress, I have the information to achieve your ends in due course, but perhaps not the skill.” He hesitated, for as much as he hated to admit any shortcoming or flaw, he dared not misrepresent himself. “Though I confess that I am no great seducer when it comes to well-bred ladies, and Mr Darcy’s sister hardly looks kindly on me.”
“You already have a most pleasing bearing and handsome looks,” the pale Lady said. “And you are not without manners or charm. The rest is nothing more than a glamour, and that I shall give to you.” She pricked her left forefinger, creating a ruby droplet which she offered to Wickham.
Hunger — or was it lust? — rushed through him at the sight and scent of her blood, and he leaned forward and accepted the gift onto his tongue.
“Now you have all you need, and more,” she said, “and I shall have no use for you for a time. You are to go out into the world and use my gift to accomplish what I desire. When the time comes, you will be ready to do all that must be done.”
*
For many years, Mr Wickham had felt that he was trapped in a most painful way between two worlds. In furnishing him with a first-class education, and indeed in supplying every positive example that could be bestowed by inclusion in his own social circle, old Mr Darcy had doubtless believed he was doing his godson a great kindness.
Unfortunately, the manners and education of a gentleman counted for little in the absence of property and income sufficient to support that station — and here, the patriarch’s generosity had fallen short. There had been a very inadequate financial legacy, and the promise of an insignificant Derbyshire parish where Wickham was to eke out a living reciting sermons.
He had not the slightest interest in such a vocation. From his earliest years, he had been exposed to every fine thing that wealth and leisure could command; as he grew older he also developed an appreciation of certain other things — costly pleasures that had to be kept secret from his father and godfather.
