The Vampire Sextette

by Marvin Kaye

  not look in on me; she may go directly to her apartment and retire. My man-of-allwork is dining with his cousin's family." She smiled at him.

  He did not return the smile. "You mean they left you alone?" he demanded.

  "What kind of servants do you have, Madame, that they leave you by yourself?"

  "I have servants who do as I instruct them." Now Madelaine grew impatient.

  "What nonsense you talk, Tecumseh," she said with asperity. "You would think I

  am a hothouse flower, incapable of fending for myself, when you should realize I

  have managed on my own for decades."

  "Visiting Indians," he said, determined to make his point.

  "Among others," she responded, refusing to be dragged into yet another

  dispute with him.

  "Oh, yes; those travels in Egypt," he grumbled. "Hard going, no doubt."

  "They were," she said. "Some of the time. The expedition was a small one, and

  we were four hundred miles up the Nile." She recalled the endless heat and sand;

  she remembered the Nile at flood, and the profusion of insects and vermin that

  came with the water; she saw the faces of Falke and Trowbridge and the Coptic

  monk Erai Gurzin, and the death of Professor Baudilet.

  "What is it?" Sherman asked, reading something of her memories in her face.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing," she said. "It's all in the past, all behind me." She shook off the hold

  of the memories and made herself pay closer attention to him. "Your hand is like

  ice," she said. "You're wet to the skin. You may not want any food, but you need

  to get warm and clean once again."

  "It's not important," he claimed.

  "It is if you are taken ill because of it," she said briskly, and slipped her hand

  from under his, but only to seize it and lead him through the gloom of her house to

  the curtained alcove off the kitchen where her bathtub was kept. "I will start

  heating water right now," she declared as she went to the stove, opened the

  tinderbox, and stirred the embers to life. She pulled two split logs of wood from

  the box near the stove and put them, one on top of the other, on the glowing

  coals. "This will be hot shortly, the kitchen will be warm, and your bath will be

  ready in a half hour." She paused to hold out her hand to him again. "Do this for

  me, Tecumseh."

  Sherman regarded her tenderly. "A bath. I wish I could stay for it," he said in a

  rueful voice, his fingers lacing through hers.

  "Do you tell me you will not?" she asked.

  "I fear I must," he said by way of apology.

  She closed the stove grate and put her hands on her hips. "And why can't you?

  And no farragoes, please, about my reputation. No one saw you come, and only I

  know you are here."

  He looked somber. "My children are—"

  "Your nurse is more than competent to care for them," said Madelaine, who

  had met the woman several times and had been impressed with her reliability.

  "And don't tell me you have never got home later than expected."

  "But—" he began, only to be cut short.

  "You need to get warm and dry before venturing out into that weather; I will

  supply you with an oilskin against it. You would tell me the same if I had paid you

  a visit, and well you know it, you need not bother to say otherwise." She stared at

  him, waiting for his answer.

  "What would be the point?" Sherman said. "You wouldn't believe me if I did.

  And neither would I."

  "Good; at least you admit that much: we make progress," said Madelaine as

  she lifted the side of the curtain and took the first of four large pots from the shelf

  next to the bathtub. She carried this to the pump at the sink and began to work the

  handle to fill the pot.

  "You're never going to be able to lift that," said Sherman, reaching out to heft it

  for her. "Let me."

  It was tempting to let him take the pot, but Madelaine kept her hold on the two

  handles and hoisted the eight-gallon pot from the sink to the stove without effort.

  "Unnecessary; I can do it, thank you. I told you those of my blood acquire extra

  strength; this pot is a minor thing," she said, unwilling to permit him to claim

  otherwise, even if there were no reason for it other than good manners.

  "But it isn't fitting," Sherman protested as Madelaine reached for the second

  pot. "No, Madelaine. No, I can't allow it. You should not have to do such menial

  work, not while I am here to help you."

  "Why not?" Madelaine asked, setting the pot in the deep sink and starting to

  work the pump handle once again. "What is the vice in menial work that you think

  I should disdain it? Why should anyone feel shame, doing necessary work? Don't

  tell me you never filled a pot, or carried one, before now?"

  "Of course I've done both," he blustered. "That's different."

  "Because you did it?" Madelaine guessed, and shook her head. "Where did

  you learn such intolerance?"

  He glared. "It is what everyone expects of well-bred men and women."

  "Isn't that a bit… extreme?" Madelaine asked. "To require well-bred men and

  women to become dependent puppets requiring the labor of servants to make their

  way in the world?"

  He did not answer her question, and stood, with an expression of distant

  blankness, staring at the two windows at the rear of the kitchen. The anemic light

  filtering into the room banished most of the colors, turning the figures of both

  Sherman and Madelaine a ghostly, washed-out shade of sepia with pale beige

  faces. As if to be rid of this perception, Sherman shook himself and found the

  nearest kitchen lamp and a box of lucifers to go with it. As the flame rose, the

  kitchen seemed to warm with the return of color. "There. That should make your

  task easier."

  Madelaine did not point out that the increasing dusk made little difference to

  her; she saw in darkness almost as well as she saw in moderate light. Instead, she

  nodded her thanks and carried the second pot to the stove while Sherman took the

  third from the shelf and set it in the sink under the pump, and started to ply the

  handle with vigor. "The wood is catching; that will make everything more

  comfortable," she remarked as she glanced at the tinderbox of the stove.

  Sherman continued to fill the third pot of water, then carried it to the stove,

  setting it in place with care. "Since you are determined to do this, I suppose I

  ought to lend my assistance."

  "If you like," said Madelaine, handing him the fourth pot and saying, "Just fill it

  with water." She then tugged the curtain aside so that the bath alcove was

  completely open, revealing the large enameled-copper tub and a wall of shelves

  where the various requirements for bathing were placed. "I have set out bath salts,

  if you want them. And I have a razor and shaving supplies, if you need them."

  "You are always prepared," he said, intending it as a complaint, but making it

  into a compliment. "Yes, I will rid myself of this stubble," he said, and went on

  slyly, "or I might have to explain where all the scratches on your body came from.

  Since you insist on doing this, I shall do it properly. Perhaps I should grow a

  beard again."

  Madelaine could not stop herself from smiling, knowing now that he would

  remain with her for
several hours, if not all night. The weight of his absence lifted

  from her and she said playfully, "In fact, given the circumstances, shaving would

  be a prudent thing to do."

  "Prudent," he repeated ironically. "What a word to use for anything pertaining

  to you and me, Madelaine."

  "All the more reason it is necessary," she said, satisfying herself that the tub

  would be ready when the water was hot. She set out two large sponges and a

  rough washing cloth on the rack next to the tub, and then pulled out a brass towel

  rack. "I'll get a robe for you from the linen closet."

  He extended his arms to block her progress and pulled her to him, bending to

  kiss her as his embrace enfolded her.

  She shifted against his arm, then gave herself over to his caresses as if she had

  never before experienced them. Finally when she could speak at all, she said softly

  to him, "Tecumseh, I have no wish to compel you to do anything that displeases

  you."

  "I know that," he said indulgently as he stroked her breasts through her

  clothes.

  "You're distracting me," she objected without any determination to stop him.

  "Good," he approved. "I intend to." His kiss was light and long, full of

  suggestions that left both of them breathless. "Why don't you let me help you out

  of that rig you've got on?"

  "Tecumseh," she said again, making a last-ditch effort to keep from giving in to

  him completely. "You will not be angry, will you? For my turning you from your

  purpose?"

  "Why should I be angry?" He kissed the corner of her mouth. "And what

  purpose do you mean? I only wanted to apologize for failing you."

  "You mean you had not resolved to break off with me?" she asked.

  He stared at her, a hint of defiance in his answer. "After what I have done, I am

  shocked that you are not angry with me." He reached up and pulled the long pins

  from the neat bun at the back of her neck. "That's better," he said as he loosened

  her hair with his fingers.

  "I could not be angry with you, not when I have tasted your blood," she said.

  "That again," he muttered; he became patiently courteous, all but bowing to

  her. "And why is that, Madame Vampire?"

  "Because I know you, and I know what you are." She looked up at him, and

  read vexation in his eyes. "I know that you despise weakness, especially in

  yourself, and you often regard your feelings for me as weakness."

  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

&nb
sp; 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."