He stared at her, bewildered. “Is that true?” Then he looked down and shook his head. “No, of course it’s true. You would not lie—you are almost incapable of it. Your disposition would not allow such a thing. But I never meant to harm her. . . .”
“What do you mean, my disposition would not allow?” What had he meant by that? The phrasing struck her as peculiar.
Hyde put his hands in the pockets of his white coat and looked down at the floor. “I only mean that . . .” He was almost mumbling to himself.
“What?” said Mary. But did she want to know? She remembered what Dr. Freud had said about her—that she was as unusual, in her own way, as Diana.
Hyde looked at her with a troubled expression. “Ernestine wanted so much to have a child. When we married, we hoped—and several times she thought she might be pregnant, but it would turn out to be indigestion . . . or once, a bad tin of lobsters. And so we waited and waited. The lady’s maid she had brought from Yorkshire, who married my butler Poole, had a baby—little Honoria that was—and Ernestine would take her for walks in the park or play dress-up and have tea parties as though the child were her own. Finally we consulted specialists, who told her that in all likelihood, she would never have a child. They advised her to take up charitable work! It broke my heart to see her longing for something she could not have. So I buried myself in science, and in the business of the Alchemical Society. Raymond, Lanyon, Hennessey, and I formed a sort of inner circle—and Carew as well, for we were friends in those days. How invigorated we felt! Darwin’s theories seemed to open up new avenues of inquiry. We did not agree with him in all things, of course—we held with Lamarck, although the world might call us heretics. But we were happy to be so. We should return, we told ourselves, to the problem of biological transmutation. Raymond had been working on that problem, and had suffered setbacks. An experimental subject had proven—problematic, shall we say? Do not let that daunt you, we told him. Look at how the world treats all its visionaries! Inspired by the theories of Spencer and Galton—their errors as much as the areas in which they were correct—we redoubled our efforts.”
“Carew! Wasn’t that the man you killed?” asked Mary, astonished.
“What? Oh yes. We quarreled—he did not like the direction my efforts were taking. You see, at first I thought, why not attempt to raise humanity higher? Man could, and should, be made more rational than he was at present. Moreau had been working on the same problem—before he was hounded out of England by a bunch of sanctimonious antivivisectionists! His work focused on the biological, but I thought a chemical solution might be found to alter the balance of a man’s personality, so that his angel was strengthened while his demon was lulled to sleep. But its effects would be psychological, not observable empirically. How could I know they had occurred? Clearly, I must ingest the chemical myself! I created a potion that would make me a better man, and so I was—for a time. I also wanted Ernestine to be happy, to have what she most wished for in the world. She was past the age when most women bear children, but with my growing knowledge of chemistry, I created a drug and secretly administered it to her—”
“You drugged my mother without her permission?” said Mary.
“For goodness’ sake, I simply put it into her tea! I thought it would give her what she most wanted. And it did—you were born, Mary. You were her delight, what she most loved and cherished. She had given up on the possibility of having a child. To her, you were a miracle. I could not take that away from her by telling her you were the result of my science.”
“And yet, you were trying to be moral—”
“Rational, Mary. Ethical. What I did was for the greater good. I made a decision that would be best for her, and for me. And I accepted the consequences of that decision.”
“You ‘accepted the consequences’? But . . . I was the consequence!”
“And a welcome one, I assure you! Your mother was happy, and you—well, you were the perfect child. You almost never cried. Once, I remember, you were walking in the park with Honoria, who had become your nursemaid, and you skinned your knee. She brought you home—she was sobbing, but you merely showed me the wound and said, ‘Look, Papa, isn’t that interesting? It’s going to turn a pretty color.’ You were the offspring of the man I was then. But I—well, I wanted to see what would happen if I went in the other direction. If I indulged my lower, baser instincts. It seemed to me there might be something worthwhile in the animal part of man after all, Moreau’s theories notwithstanding. He thought humanity should be forced to evolve, to rise above our animal nature. I wanted to experience the animal. And so I began my slow descent into Hyde. Carew objected in stronger and stronger terms—finally, he proposed that I be expelled from the society. One night I met him in the street, coming home from—well, some sort of entertainment. There is no need for you to know what sort. He remonstrated with me one more time, calling me vile names, telling me in no uncertain terms how far I had fallen. I could not help it, Mary. It was as though I had been possessed by a great rage, a monstrous demonic rage that I could not control. Surely you cannot blame me for an action so automatic and instinctual?”
“Of course I can,” said Mary. “You chose to become who you are. You chose to create—” She did not like that word. But what other word could she use? “You chose to create me. And what of Diana? And Diana’s mother? She died in poverty because of you.”
He seemed taken aback. “I really am very sorry about that. I cared for Colleen a great deal. But I could not stay. I was known for a murderer, hunted throughout England. What was I supposed to do, allow myself to be hanged?”
“Do you know what I think, Father?” Mary had not meant to call him that, but it was too late to take back the word now. “I think you are the most selfish man I have ever met. You stand here, justifying every single one of your actions, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the anguish you have caused others.”
Bang! And then another bang! She recognized them instantly as pistol shots.
“Diana!” she said. “She has my pistol.”
What had she been meaning to tell this man who was her father, and with whom she was so very angry, while he stood there looking chagrined, but not particularly ashamed or repentant? There was no time now. She turned and ran down the hallway. She paused for a moment at the door of Adam’s room. Justine was still there, kneeling by the bed. Why was she kneeling? And why was she holding Adam’s hands? She looked at Mary, startled and concerned. “What was that noise?”
“Shots,” said Mary. “Either Diana’s been shot, or she’s shot someone, or both!”
Justine rose. “I’m coming. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Justine!” came the anguished cry from Adam. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me to die alone!”
Justine looked down at him for a moment. “God have mercy on your soul,” she said. Then she ran after Mary, who could hear her boots clattering behind.
The hallway ran into another, perpendicular to it, like the top of a T.
“Right?” said Justine.
“Left, I think,” said Mary. And yes, she had made the correct decision, because there were the stairs. They ran up, Justine taking the lead, two steps at a time. At the top of the stairs, Mary had to pause for a moment and put her hand to her side. She had a terrible cramp!
“Diana!” Justine was already at the door to their room. Mary ran to catch up and entered right on her heels.
They were greeted by a fearful sight. Diana was standing in front of the bed with Mary’s pistol in her hand. Lucinda was still lying on the bed, as insensible as she had been that morning. János Ferenc was sitting on the floor, blood seeping through his trouser leg and spreading over the flagstones.
“It’s not my fault!” said Diana. “I told him not to touch Lucinda. I even fired a warning shot. I meant to shoot him in the foot, but I’m not as good a shot as Mary.”
DIANA: I did not say that.
“János! Jézus Mária, mi
történt?” It was Ágnes at the door. Behind her was Hyde. She ran to her brother and knelt beside him, then took off her apron and tried to staunch the bleeding. The apron quickly became red. “You are a bad, bad girl!” she shouted at Diana. There were tears running down her face.
“My powders can stop the bleeding,” said Hyde. “But we need to get him down to the laboratory. I can’t carry him—someone will need to support him on the other side.”
Justine moved forward, but Ágnes said, “No, not you! Not any of you! You will not touch him—I will do myself.”
As Hyde and Ágnes lifted János, he gave a cry of pain, but he seemed able to walk well enough. Between the two of them, they supported him as he hobbled from the room, looking pale and frightened.
Mary held out her hand. “Give me the pistol.”
“Fine!” Diana put it into her hand, none too gently. “You should be thanking me, you know. You wouldn’t have your pistol back if it weren’t for me, and I protected Lucinda. I think a thank you is in order.”
“What’s that?” Justine was looking about her, confused. Then Mary noticed it—a tapping sound, an insistent tap tap tap. Where was it coming from? The window!
There, at the window, was a face—the face of a woman. Her hand was raised, and she was tapping, tap tap tap. For a moment, Mary thought she must be hallucinating—not because there was a woman at the window, which could be explained logically in a number of ways, but because she was the exact replica of the woman in the portrait above the fireplace—of Mircalla Karnstein.
Tap tap tap. The woman made a motion—she was miming turning the latch.
Justine looked at Mary. “What should we do?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Diana. She walked over to the window, turned the latch, and opened one of the casements. “What do you want? We’re a little busy at the moment.”
“My name is Carmilla,” said the woman. “I’ve come from Mina, in Budapest. I think it’s time you were rescued from this place. Don’t you think?”
CHAPTER XVIII
Escape from the Castle
Mary made the mistake of looking down while she was still considerably above the castle courtyard. The world swam around her: the dirt and gravel below, on which she might fall—Diana’s face looking up expectantly—the rope by which she hung suspended against the wall—blue sky above. And there, in the window, Justine’s face, looking anxious. Resolutely, she focused on the rope—Just think of the rope!—and started climbing down again, hand over hand, keeping the rope tightly between her boots, although her skirt and petticoat kept getting in the way.
When she reached the bottom, Diana said, “See? Easy peasy.”
Mary looked up again. Now Justine was beginning her descent. Once Justine stood beside her, the woman who called herself Carmilla appeared at the window. First she pulled up the rope and disappeared inside. Then a large bundle appeared at the aperture. It looked like a week’s worth of laundry tied up in a linen sheet, knotted at the top and tied to the rope. Except, incongruously, there was a foot sticking out, right at the top. . . . Slowly, she lowered the bundle. When it reached the ground and was sitting on the gravel, Diana made a cut on the top with her knife. She tore open the linen sheet. Inside was Lucinda, curled into a ball, still in her nightgown, still unconscious. Justine picked her up, cradling her as though she were a child, with Lucinda’s head on her shoulder.
The rope fell to the ground. But how would the woman—Carmilla—climb down without it?
Mary was astonished to see her climb out the window, then crawl like a lizard, face-down, her fingers and toes finding purchase in the crevices between the stones. Now she understood why the woman had been barefoot when she had climbed into the room—she must have come up the same way! Mary also noticed her suit, which was unlike any she had seen before—resembling a man’s suit, but tailored to a woman’s body. It fit her like a glove. As she climbed down the wall, her long braid of dark hair swung down and preceded her. Halfway down, she stopped for a moment and looked at them, as though making sure they were still there and all together. How could she cling to the wall like that? Diana gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Blimey. Even I can’t do that.”
When Carmilla reached the bottom, she put her hands on the ground, then turned herself upright and brushed her hands against her trousers, leaving streaks of dust. “Could you hand me my boots? They’re behind Diana. You are Diana, aren’t you? Mina described you all quite clearly.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, she sounded amused. Her voice was low and musical, with just the trace of an accent—Mary was not sure what sort, but then she was not very good at accents. Perhaps Justine would be able to identify it.
Wordlessly, Diana handed her a pair of tall riding boots that had been standing by the wall. Carmilla sat on the ground, pulled socks out of them, then pulled on the socks and boots.
“Who are you, and how do you know Mina?” asked Mary. Perhaps she should have asked that question upstairs, before this woman she did not know had climbed in through the window. But it seemed imperative to get Lucinda, and themselves, out of the castle as quickly as possible, before her father—Hyde, that is—returned. Even here, they remained in danger. One of the Ferencs, father or son, could spot—and then stop—them at any time. But what sort of woman crawled down a wall head-first?
“My carriage is down the road, around the bend where it can’t be seen from the castle. I promise that I’ll explain everything, but I suggest we depart before your father realizes we’re gone. At the moment we outnumber him, but I always think it’s better to avoid an unnecessary fuss. Here, I’ll carry Lucinda.”
Well, that would have to do as an explanation for now! Mary glanced at Justine, who handed Lucinda over, carefully—but Carmilla carried her just as easily as Justine had. She must be very strong? Lucinda was not large, but Mary could certainly not have carried her alone. She looked at Justine and raised her hands as though to say, What do you think? Justine shrugged and shook her head, as though to indicate that she didn’t know what was going on either.
“Come, it’s time we were gone.” Carmilla turned and started crossing the courtyard, Lucinda in her arms.
“Lord!” said Diana. “She can climb like me—better than me, even. And she’s as strong as Justine. Did you notice she looks just like—”
“Yes, I noticed,” said Mary. She was worried, very worried. But the woman had said she came from Mina. . . . “Come on. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, maybe not, but it’s certainly something. And we do need to get out of here.”
As they neared the stables, Carmilla called out, “Laura, is everything all right?”
“Right as rain,” came the response. The stable door was open, and inside Mary could see another woman, more properly attired in a walking suit, holding a rifle as though she was entirely familiar with its use. “They’ve been very good, haven’t you, gentlemen?” She stepped aside, gracefully sweeping her skirt back with one hand while holding the rifle in the other. Behind her were Herr Ferenc and Dénes, sitting on the ground with their wrists and ankles tied, their mouths covered with red kerchiefs—probably their own. Above them, one of the horses looked out of its stall as though wondering what all the excitement was about.
“Excellent,” said Carmilla. “Then I suggest we go before Hyde realizes we’re here. Miklós Ferenc will tell him soon enough who it was that took his prisoners, and then we’ll have him following us, which will be a great bother, or refusing to pay his rent, which will be a great bore. Come on.”
As they followed her out of the courtyard, Lucinda still in her arms, the woman she had called Laura joined them, walking beside Mary, who was in the rear of the procession. As they walked, she held out one hand, the one not holding the rifle. “You’re Mary Jekyll, aren’t you? I’m Laura Jennings.”
Mary shook her hand, awkwardly because it was the left one, and also because she was trying to walk at the same time.
“It’s so nice t
o meet a countrywoman of mine! You see, I’m English too, although I’ve never been to England. My father was an Englishman, but he spent his life in the diplomatic service, and my mother was Styrian. He and I always spoke English at home, and it’s one of the great wishes of my life to see England for myself. London, the most important city in the world!—and the Lake District!—and the Cliffs of Dover!”
Mary looked at her curiously. She was older than her companion, and more conventionally dressed, although even as they made their way along the road winding down the hill, Mary noticed that her walking suit was exceptionally well tailored. It would have cost several guineas in London! She did indeed look thoroughly English, with the soft, rounded features and rosy complexion for which Englishwomen are famous, although her hair was braided in a crown around her head—not a particularly English hairstyle, and Mary would have liked to know how it was done. She looked practical and friendly, rather like a governess. Was she perhaps Carmilla’s governess? But what sort of governess carried a rifle?
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mary. “I don’t suppose you could explain—”
“We will, I promise,” said Laura, smiling. “I don’t know how much Carmilla’s told you already, although knowing her, I suspect the answer is nothing at all. That’s one of the problems in dealing with these old aristocrats. They tell you to do things and expect you to do them without question. I assure you, the Count is worse. But here’s the carriage.”
And there it was—a particularly fine one, painted black with a crest on the door. Mary immediately recognized it: the dragon she had seen on the book!
The coachman—no, it was a woman, a very tall woman in a coachman’s uniform—was standing by the horses.
“Magda!” said Carmilla. “Mennünk kell—as quickly as possible!”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 42