Listening at the door, I heard no sound. When I went around the side, his horse was there and whinnied a greeting. I was pleased that she was becoming familiar with me. The curtains had been drawn shut again, so I could not see in. Rapping on the window failed to bring any result.
Wandering around the back, I discovered a kitchen door. It was unlocked and I let myself in.
“Lieutenant Hammersmith?” I called. “It’s me, Ingrid.”
Slowly I went deeper into the room and found Walter asleep in his chair. He’d thrown off half of the blanket that had been drawn over him, revealing his legs, or rather a leg and a half. His right leg had been amputated just below the knee. It was heavily bandaged and the wrappings were bloodstained.
Horrified, I backed out of the cottage as I had entered. How my heart ached for him! I could not begin to imagine what agony he’d undergone to have such an operation. What pain it must be causing him still!
Unwilling to wake him, I ran back to the castle. Hurrying up the winding staircase, I came straight to the room where my father stored his notebooks. It was the one place I knew I could be alone. Once there, I sat and cried until my eyes ran dry of tears. I fell asleep right there on the floor.
I dreamed I was back in Italy with Count Volta and Anthony. They were very excited about something, and I felt as though they had been waiting for me to arrive. They wanted to bring me to meet Luigi Galvani, to see his latest experiment. We went into a room and Walter was there with Galvani. He wore a hospital gown and seemed happy. In a second I saw that his legs had been replaced with human-sized frog legs. Galvani had him hooked to a battery and the wire that attached him to it crackled with electricity. Walter sprang high into the air on his new legs, laughing with delight. I had never seen him so filled with joy.
“You can make this happen if you have the key, Ingrid,” Anthony said.
“What key?” I asked.
He pulled a large, ornate key from the pocket of his coat.
I awoke with a start, filled with inspiration. I was the daughter of Victor Frankenstein. Fate had brought me here to this isolated island for a reason. I, and I alone, would make a new man of Lieutenant Walter Hammersmith.
In my heart, I felt it was so. Yet was this key real or only metaphorical?
I have no way of knowing.
FROM THE DIARY OF
BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN
July 1 (continued)
I napped for several hours and awoke feeling stronger, though the tickle in my throat persisted. I dressed and went down the stairs to find Ingrid and Baron Frankenstein. Ingrid was draped across a couch Mrs. Flett had purchased for us from one of her cousins, a furniture maker, reading one of the anatomy books Anthony had lent her. Baron Frankenstein was sitting at a desk, apparently writing a letter.
“How are you feeling?” he asked when he noticed me.
“Much better, thank you,” I said. “When you post your letter, can you take a batch of my party invitations with you?”
“Certainly,” he agreed.
Ingrid looked up from her book and fixed me in a curious gaze.
“What?” I inquired.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to throw this elaborate gala you have in mind?”
“Absolutely. This will be the most wonderful party,” I replied. “These first invitations are only to people we know from home, in case they might be traveling or wish to make the long trip. I still have many more to write, and I’ll need you to make a list of who you would like to invite. It doesn’t matter if you know them or not; we will say we have extended the invitation because we so esteem their scientific achievement.”
“Doubtless many will know of your late father,” Baron Frankenstein added, “and they will be eager to meet his daughters.”
“Do you really think so?” Ingrid asked, brightening at the prospect.
“Indeed,” Baron Frankenstein affirmed.
“I long to speak with his colleagues,” Ingrid said. “I have so many questions, and it is difficult to study by one’s self.”
“Might I ask you what you hope to gain in your pursuit of a medical education?” our uncle asked. “You know you will never be allowed to practice as a physician because of your gender.”
“I don’t want to be a doctor, Uncle Ernest,” Ingrid answered. “Rather, I thirst for answers. How does life begin? What are its building blocks? Why are we alive at all? It’s the unknown that intrigues me. Didn’t Aristotle say that the unexamined life was not worth living?”
“It is certainly simpler,” our uncle countered.
“Don’t worry about me,” Ingrid assured him. “I’ll be fine.”
Baron Frankenstein answered with a sigh.
“And what about you, Giselle?” Ingrid asked. “Are you also fine?”
“Perfectly well,” I replied, and it was true. The only thing I wanted to think about was this party and how wonderfully elegant it would be. It would be the official start of our new lives.
Ingrid stood, clutching her science book to her chest. “If you’ll excuse me, I really want to concentrate on these books from Anthony.”
“Certainly,” Baron Frankenstein said. When Ingrid was gone, he turned to me. “She went for a walk upon arriving at the castle, and returned looking quite agitated. When I inquired of her well-being, she said nothing was wrong, though I am certain I have not misjudged her emotional state.”
I was going to say that Lieutenant Hammersmith must have upset her, but I didn’t think she would want our uncle knowing she went over there from time to time. He might not think it suitable, and I know she would despise any obstacle that might impede her visits. Why she could not bring herself to feel affection for her Anthony, who is so clearly suited to her — perfect, in fact — is beyond my understanding.
“It’s been a long journey for all of us,” I said. “I will speak with her later.”
Baron Frankenstein put aside his letter and smiled at me. “You have not really looked at the castle since we returned,” he noted. “There are some changes that I think you will like.” He stood and led me to the right side of the main entrance. When I saw the large room there, the one I had been trying to renovate into a ballroom, I clapped my hands together in utter delight: The work that had been accomplished in our absence was truly amazing.
“Remarkable! Is it not?” Baron Frankenstein said with delight.
“They have been working very hard,” Mrs. Flett commented as she joined us with a tray of tea for my uncle and me.
“Oh, it is wonderful! Wonderful!” I cried. The stone had been scrubbed until it sparkled. Velvet drapes, mirrors, and paintings I had never seen before were hung.
“I took the liberty, miss, of hanging the paintings I found in one of the lower rooms,” Mrs. Flett said, sounding nervous about how I would react to this initiative on her part. Gazing around, I saw that they were all landscape paintings done in oil paints. They seemed to depict the Orkneys — not only Gairsay but other of the islands with their mystical, ancient stone formations as well.
“They’re lovely,” I said with sincerity. “Don’t you think so, Uncle?”
When he didn’t answer, I turned to search for him and saw that he was transfixed by the oil portrait hanging over the heavy mantel of the six-foot fireplace.
“I didn’t see this when I first came in here,” he said to Mrs. Flett.
“I’ve just now had the men hang it,” she told him. “As you can see, it is very large and quite heavy, so I needed several of the men to lift it.”
The portrait showed a tall, handsome man dressed in breeches, boots, a tailed coat, and a ruffed shirt. Thick brown hair was brushed off his angular face and fell nearly to his shoulders. The most striking aspect of the painting was the intense dark eyes that blazed from beneath an intelligent, furrowed brow.
Baron Frankenstein did not speak to me immediately but remained transfixed by the painting, as was I. In truth, he did not have to say a word for me to know the
identity of the man, for the resemblance alone was enough to tell me who it was.
“Giselle, meet your father,” my uncle said at last. “Meet Victor Frankenstein.”
“My father. At last,” I murmured, riveted.
Tears misted my eyes as I gazed upon the father who had always been such a mystery, the man who had abandoned two daughters.
He had come for us, at last.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN
July 1, 1815
After hours of intensive reading, I needed a rest and made my way downstairs. I encountered Giselle as she was coming from her bedroom.
“Have you seen the portrait of our father yet?” she asked. When I told her I hadn’t, she grabbed my hand. “Come, quickly. You must see it right away.”
I have to tell you, it was a powerful moment for me. There he was — handsome, fiery, proud.
“It made me cry when I first saw it,” Giselle admitted. “Uncle Ernest tells me he looks to be in his twenties — it must have been painted when he resided here.”
I nodded but found I didn’t have the impulse to weep. I was overwhelmed, just the same. Here was the face of the man whose journals were filling my days and nights. He was suddenly more real to me than he had ever been in my entire life.
“Who could have been stalking him all those years?” I wondered aloud, still gazing up at the dramatic figure in the painting.
“Someone he owed a debt to?” Giselle guessed. We hadn’t discussed it much, ever since I had recounted my conversation with our uncle to her.
“Possibly,” I agreed. “But what kind of debt could cause a person to hound another in such a way? This person went so far as to murder the ones our father loved. What kind of fiend could be so resolute in his desire for revenge?”
“Or her desire,” Giselle added.
“I suppose so. Even in this painting, he seems as if he is being pursued,” I observed. “I wonder who painted it.”
Giselle moved closer to the portrait and stood on tiptoes to read the artist’s signature aloud. “John Singleton Copley.” Her eyes went wide. “He is a famous American painter, Ingrid. He painted American presidents!”
“Was Victor Frankenstein that famous?” I questioned.
“Perhaps Copley was not yet so well known when he painted this,” Giselle suggested.
“Do you think he could tell us anything about our father? He must have known him.”
“If the man is still alive, I will invite him to our party,” Giselle said. She handed me a sheet of paper on which she’d listed the people she wanted to invite. “Joseph Turner?” I asked. “Another famous painter? Do we dare invite all these celebrated people?”
“Why not?” Giselle challenged.
“Will these people be staying with us?”
“Of course! There are so many rooms in this house that have yet to be opened; we only have to dust them out and revive their furniture. We certainly have the space. Wouldn’t it be fun to have the place filled with fascinating people?”
“The chemist Humphry Davy?” I questioned excitedly as I continued to read. Anthony had lent me Davy’s book from 1806, On Some Chemical Agencies of Electricity, and I was even now reading it. It was utterly fascinating! “Do you think he would come?”
“I read in the paper that he is on an eighteen-month European tour with his assistant and his wife. Why not come to a grand party with notable thinkers?”
“You don’t think it a little presumptuous to invite famous people we don’t know?”
“Ingrid, we are from a well-known family. I am a baroness, as are you. We live in a castle!”
“Which is looking lovely, by the way,” I remarked.
“Yes, isn’t it? They’ve done a remarkable job. We live in a lovely castle, which anyone would like to see.”
“Do you think Berzelius will come from Stockholm?” I asked hopefully.
From the doorway, someone grumbled, and we both turned toward the sound. It was that arrogant fool, Riff. His gaze ran over us with that same insulting lechery as before.
“Hasn’t my uncle dismissed you yet?” Giselle snapped coldly.
“He told my aunt to do it,” Riff answered nonchalantly. “Auntie Agnes would never fire her own nephew, though.”
“It’s not up to her to decide,” Giselle insisted. “My sister and I are your employers — and we want you gone! You may collect whatever money is owed to you this Friday when everyone else is paid.”
“Don’t be a nasty girl,” he taunted. “You are much too pretty for that. I only came by to say I found this.” He held up a large ornate key. “I thought you might like to have it.”
At once I was at his side, eager to get the key from him. He held it away from me, above my head. He was taller than I, and it exceeded my reach.
“Give it to her!” Giselle commanded angrily.
“Do I still have my job?” Riff bargained.
“No!” Giselle told him.
“Then no key,” he said.
Giselle colored red with fury. “We’ll have you arrested. The police will take that key from you.”
“Not if I bury it. I’ll deny ever having seen it. Besides, the police on this island are all related to me.”
“Let him stay on, Giselle,” I pleaded. It looked so much like the key in my dream. I just had to have it, to see.
“Very well,” Giselle huffed, turning her back to us.
Riff handed me the key with a grin. “See you around, shoddy science sister.”
How I loath the conceited idiot!
Now I had the key. But what was it for? What might it unlock for me? I gazed up at the portrait of Victor Frankenstein, feeling he must know the answer to that question. If only he could speak to me. Gazing at the key nestled in my palm, I had the uncanny idea that maybe he was speaking to me.
But what was he saying?
FROM THE DIARY OF
BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN
July 2, 1815
Diary, I cannot tell you how busy I have been, planning this party. I scarcely have time to think! I intend to send out fifty invitations, which is utter madness, but I would like nothing better than for all fifty to answer in the affirmative. What a gala it will be!
The party itself must match or even better the luster of the guest list. Ingrid is aghast at the audacity of my inviting these famous personages of the arts, literature, politics, and philosophy. While in mainland Scotland, I picked up copies of two newspapers, The Edinburgh Review and The Quarterly Review, from which to cull the names of any person of note mentioned in the paper. To this I will add noted scientific minds from a list Ingrid made for me on the trip back from Edinburgh. Finding their addresses will be a challenge but well worth the effort, I am certain.
It was while I was sitting in the room facing the ocean, perusing The Quarterly Review to once more check that I had not overlooked anyone of note, that Baron Frankenstein inquired as to why the infuriating Riff remained on the premises. I told him what had transpired.
“Why was Ingrid so avid to possess that key?” he inquired.
I threw my arms wide in exasperation. “She said she’d dreamed of it.”
“Dreamed of it?”
“Yes — saw it in a dream.”
“Was it a large, decorative key?”
When I confirmed that it was, he shook his head. “That poor foolish girl! She didn’t see the key in a dream. More likely she noticed it hanging on a hook in the walk-in cool room. It opens the root cellar behind it.”
“Perhaps she noticed it without realizing, and then dreamed of it,” I speculated. “Dreams often work that way.”
“I agree, they do,” Baron Frankenstein said. “The fellow was toying with you. I will go talk to Mrs. Flett, and, if need be, I will dismiss the young ruffian myself.”
“It will be a relief to have him gone,” I said. Baron Frankenstein went off to find Mrs. Flett, and I stared out the window at the vivid blue of the sk
y. We were so far above the ocean that the sky was all that was visible from the first floor, though the crash of waves and calls of seabirds filled the room through the open window. My mind drifted to the first day I had seen Riff, and how flattered I’d felt by his long appreciative gaze, even though I knew it was not a proper way to feel about such unabashed lechery. It was too bad that he’d turned out to be so boorish. I had learned my lesson about boors.
July 3
Today I awoke the moment Ingrid appeared in the doorway, looking feverish with excitement.
“Come with me, Giselle! I think I know what door this key opens.”
“I do too,” I revealed gently. “Our uncle told me it unlocks a door in the root cellar behind the kitchen pantry.”
An expression of unbelieving confusion spread across her face as my words hit her. “It can’t be. I was so sure,” she objected.
Rising from my bed, I quickly dressed and took her hand in order to lead her toward the kitchen. “Let’s see for ourselves,” I suggested, thinking it would be better if I were with her to help her with her disappointment. As we went, I told her all that Baron Frankenstein had said to me about how the dreadful Riff had fooled us by implying that the key had more importance than it really did. When we got there, the kitchen was empty, and I lit an oil lantern as Ingrid led me to the door for the pantry.
“Look! Here is the key Uncle Ernest meant!” she cried triumphantly, pointing at a nearly identical key hanging on a nail just outside the door. Taking down the key, I placed it in Ingrid’s hand beside the one she’d gotten from Riff. The only difference was a nick chipped into the metal of the key from Riff.
We gazed at each other uncertainly and then cautiously descended the steps into the blackness of the pantry. Holding hands, we tried to stay within the halo of the light from the lantern, which tossed eerie forms on the wall. We shivered as our own shadows formed giant ghostly images.
“Go all the way to the back wall,” Ingrid instructed me, her voice tense with excitement.
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