Immortal With a Kiss (5 page)
Suddington shifted his gaze to me, somewhat surprised. I remained sanguine. After all, I was quite used to dealing with her sort of woman.
My serenity drove the couple off, the wife in something of a huff. “Heavens, what a witch,” Suddington muttered, his eyes following her retreat. And then his mouth moved, and I believe he whispered something. I did not hear it, but I would wager it was not pleasant. That he would take umbrage on my behalf raised a giddy swell of pleasure inside my breast that was girlish and quite unlike me.
“Come, we must not allow such a spiteful creature to ruin our dinner,” I said. “She is hardly worth our notice.” I indicated the long stone wall and the widemouthed hearth. “I have been meaning to ask you all evening if you know where Mrs. Danby’s mother is tonight? She is conspicuously absent from her chair. Is she well?”
“Lord save us,” Suddington grumbled. “If only we should find such good fortune as to find Old Madge barred from the room. Her mind is uncertain and she can go off on some, well, rather disturbing rants. But what a kind sort you are to care about her.” He punctuated this remark with a regard of such warm appreciation that I felt myself blush. It was getting to be a common occurrence when I was with him—me blushing; me who never did such coquettish things.
“You do surprise me,” he said, his voice lowering. “A person of your intelligence paired with compassion such as you possess is a rare thing.”
I lifted my chin and raised my eyebrows, the picture—I hoped—of skepticism. “You are being quite flattering tonight, and I think it is a game with you.”
He smiled thoughtfully. His tongue ran slowly across his upper lip in a journey I found fascinating. “Game? Mrs. Andrews, I assure you that while I adore gaming, I am sincere with you.”
Janet appeared with our dessert, a cobbler for me and the single glass of claret for Suddington. We enjoyed our indulgence in companionable silence. I was filled with a contentment I knew I would not have again for a while. Meals at Blackbriar would no doubt be less fine, both from a culinary and a social standpoint.
Suddington seemed to be thinking the same. “I must not be deprived for long of our delightful dinners. Promise you will dine with me here at the inn again soon. Do not allow that wretched Sloane-Smith to bully you into giving all your time to the school. You must have your freedoms. And if she should prove disagreeable, you will let me know. My family is old here and I am not without influence.”
“Miss Sloane-Smith is stern, it is true, but she is nothing as terrible as she is made out to be.”
His smile slid wider, sultry and mesmerizing. “How charming you are, always so positive and hopeful. It is inspiring, such an attitude. But I do not wish you to be naïve.” He leaned forward, and I felt a wave of lightheadedness come over me. I noticed the male scent coming off him, reaching out like a delicate finger to stroke my sense of smell. It made me shiver with pleasure. “There is cruelty up on the fells, make no mistake. And so have a care, Mrs. Andrews. I would not like it if anything happened to you. I am already anticipating our next encounter.”
I smiled at the compliment, but it was a shaky smile. Was he warning me? I could not fathom his meaning, or if perhaps this was simply another way of flirting with me. If so, it was decidedly strange, and I did not see what sort of danger he was cautioning me against.
After he’d taken his leave, I was about to climb the stairs to my chamber—my last night at the inn, as I would be moving on to the staff quarters at the school in the morning—when my gaze espied the hearth blanket used yesterday evening by Mrs. Danby’s mother, lying in a heap on the floor next to her empty chair. I took a moment to go and fold it neatly.
As I placed it carefully on the seat, my eye caught something irregular in the wall. The mortared stones were all of a size, more or less, except one to the right of the hearth opening. That particular stone was elongated, about as high as my ankle to my hip, and about as wide as my arm was long. It was flatter, its surface unnaturally smooth.
It nearly looked—and I was sure my imagination was running to the macabre these days—to be the exact size and shape of a gravestone, except the arched end was at the bottom and the straight end was at the top. Peering closer, I saw that there was something written on it.
I crouched so that I could study the runnels cut into the stone. I made out an N, an I, then something I could not read, then an inverted D. On the other side, a strangely wrought M and another I. I peered closer, puzzled, for the letters made no sense. Then, in a flash of insight, I realized the stone was upside down. The M was a W and the word, or name, rather, was
Winifred
.
“Are you needing anything before you retire, Mrs. Andrews?” Mrs. Danby said, coming up behind me.
I whirled, a bit startled. “Nothing, thank you. That was a lovely meal, Mrs. Danby. Is your mother well?”
“Oh, she is in a state. I am so sorry about last night. I kept her to her bed today.”
I wanted to ask more, but could not find a way to do so without seeming to pry. Mrs. Danby was clearly embarrassed.
“I shall retire now. I am almost sad to leave tomorrow, although I am very excited to begin my new position,” I said. “I have enjoyed your excellent cooking and felt quite at home here.”
Mrs. Danby beamed. “Oh, my dear, I am so glad. We will miss you, but goodness, you aren’t going far. Now, go on and get a good night’s rest. I’ve turned down your bed. Oh, and I’ve had Janet repack your trunk. I told her to leave out the things you’ll need tonight and in the morning, so you’re all set.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. I had the urge to embrace her, but I refrained. It was a silly impulse; I was always touched when someone fussed over me. It always felt as if I could never get enough of it, having had so little of it in my life.
I went upstairs and found that Janet had done an excellent job tidying my trunk. I decided I would close it up now and leave the few belongings left over to be packed in a separate valise. I was buckling the straps to the compartments when I noticed a tear in the leather straps that bound the edge of the interior wood frame. I silently cursed. No doubt the handiwork of Mr. Danby’s rough handling. That disagreeable old goat must have dropped it right on the corner, which I could see had been patched before.
I told myself not to worry over it; the tear could be repaired again. But this was my mother’s portmanteau. My father had given it to her for their wedding trip to France. Her name was written in gold letters on the front, worn away now but with the impressions of the embossing still evident. I liked how large it was, how it opened like a double-hung wardrobe on two sets of hinges to best display all that was packed inside, how I could cram quite an astounding amount in it. The leather was cracked, the brass hinges green with age, but it was infinitely precious to me.
My fingers smoothed the tear, as if rubbing would mend it, and I noticed something written on the underside of the hide covering. Prying it up, I found words printed in faded India ink, written in a jagged, spidery scrawl.
Darkling I listen: And for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.
My heart did a queer flip and bump. My mother’s hand? I did not know, for I had never seen anything written by her, not even her name on the inside cover of a book. But it had to be hers. My hand shook. It was as if she had reached across time, across space, to speak to me. I struggled for a moment against a surge of emotion, sadness warring with the thrill of hearing something from the woman I had longed to know all of my life.
But, oh God, what words these were.
Half in love with easeful Death . . .
I recognized the line. It was from Keats. His
Ode to a Nightingale
was one of his best-known works, a moody treatise to the night bird, a harbinger of death. He had written it while mortally stricken with tuberculosis. In a grim period in my early adolescence, I had reveled in the lines, finding a match for my pubescent suffering and my unfortunate preoccupation with death. Those had been the hardest years, with Judith at her most domineering. I had found kinship with the suffering poet, who longed for the release of eternal sleep.
I closed my eyes tight against my raging emotions. Laura, my mother, could not die, though she, too, longed for death—real death, that is. Deliverance from the fate which I only recently learned had been her misfortune to bear. I vowed again—this must have been the hundredth, perhaps thousandth time—to find her, release her, do what I was born to do. To kill her. No. I mustn’t think of it that way. To bring her the gift of death.
Of easeful death.
The hour was late. I tucked the flap of hide back into place. Dashing the wetness from my eyes, I undressed and climbed into bed.
With her so much on my mind, I expected to dream of my mother. I was wrong.
My sleep was ravaged by something else, something unexpected and raw, even wicked. It reared into my dreams, dreams that whipped through my mind like a tempest. Erotic charges, like a heat storm playing over my flesh, darted and flashed through my nerve endings. Images of lust were cast in my mind in shades of gold and shadow, sequenced with shocking clarity: of me making love with a man.
I saw myself upon a bed with silken sheets and gauzy bed curtains tangling around me, their movements as sinewy and sensual as my own, touching my naked skin like a caress. Hands—a man’s hands—touched me, trailing in the wake of the silk. I reached for him, my unseen lover, my limbs languid and heavy with desire. His naked torso emerged from the undulating fabric, gleaming in light cast from an unseen fire, and masculine arms reached for me, locked me in an embrace, and held me against warm flesh as hard as Italian marble. Living flame behind alabaster, bringing me both pain and pleasure.
I tossed restlessly, trying to fend off these images, these feelings. My vision leaned in, pressing heavily down upon me. I saw him more clearly, his dusky skin, smooth, hairless, molded by the muscle and sinew that lay underneath. I lifted my mouth for a kiss and in my dream, my eyes slitted open to see the fair head that bent to me, seducing my mouth with lips red and lush and dark eyes as soft as lakes of mist.
With a muffled cry, I ripped myself from his arms and came awake. A thin sheen of perspiration dampened my night rail. For a moment, I thought someone had really been in bed with me. I crawled out of the bed like one heaving herself out of a sucking tide. The wooden floor was cold, my toes curling in protest, but the slight shock helped awaken me.
I held my arms tightly clasped about my chest. My head ached brutally and a burning lump lodged so tightly in my throat I could not swallow.
The man in my dream had been Suddington. This confused me, even sickened me a little, for I felt disgusted with myself. Was I so fickle that I had already forgotten the feelings Valerian Fox had evoked only months earlier? I had thought I loved him, even told myself I understood why he had abandoned me.
While I did not love Lord Suddington, I realized his effect on me was heady and exciting. I did not want his laughter nor his strength, did not want to know the depths of thought and feeling that hid deep in his heart. These were things I had once yearned for from Mr. Fox. But with Suddington, my attraction was physical. With a shock—for I had never before been subject to such carnal yearnings—I realized that I had a very disturbing desire for him to touch me.
I wanted, I admitted to myself, for my dream to come true.
I
arrived at the Blackbriar School for Young Ladies the following morning in time for breakfast. The meal proved informal, as the girls came and went from the dining room, which this morning was flooded with a moody purple light. There would be rain later; it was good I had set out as early as I had.
My belongings were being taken to the modest rooms I was to use, and though I was not hungry—Mrs. Danby having risen early to serve me a hearty breakfast of deviled kidneys, bacon, and eggs before I left the inn—I took a seat at the table by the corner with several members of the staff. I recognized the dance instructor, who beamed a welcoming smile as I headed her way.
“Are you not eating?” Mrs. Boniface asked as I sat next to her. “You must try the shaved potatoes. They are excellent this morning. Very crisp.” She speared one and placed it in her mouth, savoring it. Her round face beamed.
She was once again dressed in black. It somehow suited her, made her dignified, not somber. I saw she had once been quite fetching in her youth, and her face still wore the kind of prettiness that remained pink and fresh as she aged. “Did you meet the sketching teacher, Miss Grisholm?” she inquired as she ate more of the potatoes. She turned to the woman on her left. “Trudy, this is Emma Andrews, who is to teach literature.”
The other teacher sniffed and twisted her mouth in a smile that did not reach her lips. “You mean try. Victoria had the worst time of it. These girls are ignorant.”
“Oh, I do not know about that. The third-form girls are coming along beautifully with the Viennese waltz.”
The deflection was agile, and made without so much as a blink from Mrs. Boniface. I had a sense it was a longtime habit of hers to contend with the sour-faced Trudy. The other woman sitting at the table with us was shy, nodding and smiling sweetly when Mrs. Boniface introduced her as Susannah Graves, the first and second form grammar instructor.
We were joined by Miss Thompson, who I saw at once was much changed from yesterday. Then, she had made the presentation of a most robust woman. Today, she seemed pale, tired, and subdued.
Mrs. Boniface must have agreed with my assessment. “What is wrong with you, Agatha?” she asked. “Did you not sleep well again?”
Miss Thompson frowned but did not reply. The uncomfortable moment was skillfully avoided by Mrs. Boniface, who turned to engage me in conversation. She insisted I address her as Eloise. “Mrs. Boniface makes me feel ancient! Really, Emma, we are to be friends.”
“Thank you, Eloise.” I paused, both getting used to the more casual form of address and wondering if it were too soon to ask her about what had been much on my mind since meeting her yesterday. Her friendliness emboldened me. “When you mentioned how long you have been teaching here at Blackbriar, I wondered if it were possible you remembered my mother. She attended the school . . . oh, twenty-five years ago or perhaps a little more; I do not know exactly. Her name was Laura Newly.”
Hearing it put out there, I realized how thin the possibility existed that Eloise would remember one student over a span of so much time. I felt immediately sheepish, a condition not aided by the scathingly incredulous stare I received from Trudy Grisholm.
Bless Eloise Boniface, for after a moment’s ponder she exclaimed, “Why I do remember her! Yes. Laura Newly. She was a lovely girl. I’d only been teaching a few years and she was one of those you tended to notice. Pretty enough, but very quiet. Nice girl, I recall. I also remember I had thought she’d be an excellent dancer because she had the figure to be light on her feet. But . . . oh, dear, she had no grace whatsoever.”
I did not know firsthand if my mother was clumsy, but as I had no gift for gliding across a parquet floor in a ball gown, I assumed it was true. I was amazed Eloise would recollect such a thing, or anything at all about a single student from the past. “I am embarrassed to have asked you. It seems so absurd to expect you to remember her, and yet you do.”
“Well, not much, I am afraid. I do seem to think she was more a poet than one who liked soirees and such. As I said, she had no gift for dance.” Eloise nodded as she frowned in thought. “A dreamer. She had a book with her at all times. Perhaps that is why she did not take to dancing, it meant she had to put down her Tennyson, or Spenser, or some other poet. And always writing in her books. Yes, now I recall. Writing, writing, always. But for all of her flighty ways, she was a good girl, bright and pleasant, as far as I can recall.”
I breathed in slowly, deeply, filling myself with this rare connection. My father’s best friend, Peter Ivanescu, whom I had known all my life as Uncle Peter, had given me the basics in understanding, at least from his vantage point, what had happened to Laura. Other than furtive whispers about her descent into “madness” I had managed to overhear from the house staff as I was growing up, I had no knowledge of my mother.
A dreamer. A writer, and always reading poetry—like me. This small tidbit from Eloise Boniface was a jewel, and I hugged it close.
“Thank you,” I said. Trudy made a sound, a kind of a snort, but I did not so much as glance in her direction.
Eloise patted my hand, and her eyes crinkled warmly. But then her expression changed suddenly. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. I felt more than saw Agatha Thompson stiffen beside me, and I turned to find Margaret and Vanessa entering the dining room.
Eloise recovered first and picked up her fork. “Agatha? Your eggs are growing cold.”
“I am afraid I have no appetite this morning,” the other woman replied. Her voice was strained, and I saw her complexion had taken an ashen tone.
Trudy and Susannah had their backs to the door and seemed oblivious to the subtle tension that rippled around the table. Although Eloise and Agatha were clearly unsettled, I knew I was the only one who saw the oily darkness trailing in the girls’ wake.
What was happening to these girls? Back in Avebury, Henrietta had been enthralled by a master vampire, a creature capable of a type of awful mesmerism. But she had demonstrated fear and secrecy. I myself had sampled the touch of that same master vampire; the infusion of an alien mind inside my own was as repulsive as live insects burrowing under the flesh. These girls looked pleased, even smug. They seemed to suffer not at all from their strange anointing. Nor did they appear to be suffering at all from the “wasting disease” a victim of a vampire displayed upon being bled. No, their only oddity was their cohesiveness as a group, their exclusivity, which Victoria Markam had noted.
Looking back to Agatha Thompson, I caught her staring at the girls. Could she see it, too—that oily smudge in the air? Or did she, like Miss Markam, mistrust the students’ cliquishness? I was sure that she knew something.
She rose suddenly, sucking in a great gulp of air that conveyed a certain determination. “Excuse me, please.”
Mrs. Boniface swung back toward her, away from the girls. “But you haven’t eaten. Really, Agatha—”
But Miss Thompson had gone, moving swiftly across the room. Eloise Boniface sighed and addressed herself to her breakfast, but with noticeably less enthusiasm. To my right, the first fat raindrops pelted the window, sounding like an insistent finger tapping on the glass as if a ghoul were begging entrance.
V
anessa and Margaret brought the shadow with them to my class, as did two others, whose names I later learned were Lilliana Milford and Therese Beckwith. I felt as if a tiny storm had invaded the classroom, and the once-bright space seemed smoke-filled and gloomy.
I had given no thought to how I would begin my day. This was stupid. I had been caught up in dreams of Suddington, selfishly mulling about the latest revelations of my mother, and fretting over vampires, and, in doing so, I had completely forgotten that I had a class to teach.
I stood before them, having lined their desks in front of the windows in one long row, with them seated side by side. I belatedly realized this was a mistake, for it made me feel as if I were facing a panel of Inquisition judges.
“Dante,” I said with a ringing air of authority I hoped would impress, “was inspired by love.”
Their heads came up; nothing interested girls of fifteen or sixteen years of age more than talk of love. “He felt so strongly that it was the most important thing in the universe,” I told them, heartily glad that my voice was not wavering although I had clasped my hands behind my back so no one would see them shaking, “that he wrote the poem—this entire epic masterpiece—on the balance of his belief in the healing power of love. Do any of you know the name of the object of Dante’s love?”
No one replied. Then a girl who looked a bit younger than the rest tentatively raised her hand, braving the scowls from the others.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Eustacia Murray, ma’am,” she replied politely. “Her name was Beatrice.”
Margaret gave the girl a snide glance. Vanessa, wearing a stiff mien that was ill-seeming on her graceful form, pressed her lips together, and their friends exchanged glances. I knew at once what was afoot. The game was to freeze me out today, and Eustacia had broken ranks. Bless her.
I began to pace. The faces of the other seven or so students in the classroom were wary. They were not with the little coven, but they would wait and see who would prevail before choosing a side.
“Correct,” I said. “She died when both she and the author were still young, and Dante never recovered from his grief. In
The Inferno
, he tells the story of himself as he descends into hell with his guide, the poet Virgil, who was sent to him through Beatrice’s intervention with God. So great was her love for him that she was able to persuade the Lord to grant him this extraordinary experience to save him from the despair and despondency he was feeling. Here—”
I unlocked my hands and picked up my copy of the poem, grateful that my shaking fingers were steady. “ ‘Midway upon the journey of our life,’ ” I read, “ ‘I found myself in a dark wilderness, for I had wandered from the straight and true.’ ”
I began to pace up and down in front of the long table. “So, then,” I paused, picking out one of the girls not in Vanessa’s group. “Is it possible to be saved by love?”
The girl went crimson, her eyes wide with panic. I sighed, smiling to let her know I forgave her for her silence, and moved on.
“If Beatrice loved Dante,” I said, facing down the wary faces of my students, determined not to give up, “why did she want Virgil to show him the various levels of hell?”
I got no response. I had to be patient, I knew. The girls were still assessing me, and none, save Eustacia, seemed inclined to participate. Flipping the pages of my copy of
The Inferno
, I led with a different question. “Can anyone tell me what is written over the gates of Hell?”
Margaret surprised me, raising her hand but not waiting for me to call upon her before she spoke. “ ‘Abandon hope all who enter here.’ ”
It was a small thing, but I corrected her. “Not exactly. ‘Abandon every hope, ye who enter here’ are the exact words in the final line. But what does the inscription say in its entirety?”
Another girl’s hand went up, a pert little blonde named Sarah, who read with shy excitement: “ ‘I am the way into the city of woe—’ ”
“The part about its creator,” I urged her.
She paused, found the spot, and continued. “ ‘Divine omnipotence created, the highest wisdom, and the . . .’ ” She looked up. “ ‘. . . The primal love,’ ” she finished.
“Yes. Think of it. Hell was created from God’s love,” I explained.
Eustacia was clearly thunderstruck, her eyes as round as saucers, her mouth making a little O of surprise. “But I don’t understand.”
“If you look at the line above, Dante explains that hell is the place where the Lord delivers justice. Can you find that line?”
Eustacia did so quickly. “ ‘Justice inspired my creator.’ ”
Margaret was becoming agitated, I noticed, but I ignored her as I forged ahead with the discussion. “He is saying that hell is part of God’s love. After all, it is not very loving for the Holy Father to allow evil to go unpunished. A rather moral view, to be sure, but this was written at a time when the Catholic Church wielded much influence. Dante was a devout man, and as such—”
“This is outrageous!” Margaret exclaimed.
I blinked, probably too innocently to fool her, and said, “Did you have another opinion, Margaret?”
“No one believes in hell anymore. That was merely the way the Old Church controlled us, threatening us with damnation if we broke their rules. They wanted obedience so they could have power over the masses.”
I was taken aback, both by this line of reasoning, which was quite sophisticated, and her vehemence. “That is a very modern view, Margaret.”
Her eyes narrowed at me. “Sin is always in the world, it is normal. It is not evil. I do not even believe evil exists.” She glanced at her friends, who watched her with rapt attention. “All sinning is, is not following the Church’s rules. Dante uses pretty language, but he is a child reciting a child’s catechism.”
I might not have liked Margaret, but the intellectual in me recognized an equal. Too passionate and perhaps not fully developed, but interesting nonetheless. But these ideas were far too advanced for a teenager. I felt certain she was parroting someone else.
