by Suzanne Weyn
On the large table in the kitchen, I found a plate of still-warm sausage-and-potato pie awaiting me. There was no sign of Mrs. Flett, so I assumed she had retired to her room for the evening. The one thing she hadn’t left for me was something to drink, and so I began to search the kitchen. I recalled seeing Mrs. Flett come back from the market with a jug of apple cider and hoped I could find it among the pantry items.
After rummaging without success through the cabinets, I opened a closet door and peered into darkness before I realized that it was some sort of basement. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw the glint of jar lids and decided it must be a root cellar and that Mrs. Flett had already laid in some supplies. Perhaps she’d put the cider down there to keep cool.
Before descending the steps, I retrieved the lantern Mrs. Flett had left burning on the table. By its glow, I cautiously made my way down the narrow stone stairway. Just as I had thought, there were jars of pickled foods, barrels of potatoes, bags of flour, crates of nuts, and various other items Mrs. Flett must have purchased for our meals over the last several weeks.
The sound of scampering feet made me freeze, and I swept my lantern toward the scratching. Fortunately it was not a rat but a field mouse that faced me. I saw that he’d eaten clear through a burlap sack of flour. In the next second, he scurried off and I watched as he disappeared into the far wall. But a second look told me that it was not a wall but rather a door that the tiny rodent had squeezed under.
Hurrying to it, I tried the heavy iron bolt. It wouldn’t budge, even though I threw all my weight into it. Further inspection revealed that a piece of metal blocked the movement of the bolt’s bar. A key was required to open it.
What could be in there? Eager to know, I turned and let out a startled cry as I found myself facing Mrs. Flett.
“Sorry to scare you,” I believe she said in her heavy dialect.
“Do you have the key to this door?” I asked.
She shook her head, glancing down at the heavy ring of keys she carried attached to the leather belt of her apron. “I was going to ask the same of you. No key I’ve been given opens this door.”
Placing my hand on the door, I realized it was quite cool. “I will ask Uncle Ernest when he returns,” I assured her as we walked out of the dark basement pantry together.
When we had climbed the stairs and were once again in the kitchen, Mrs. Flett warmed my meal further and, at my request, found the cider. “Mrs. Flett, do you know anything about our neighbor, Walter Hammersmith?” I asked as I ate. I meant to ask this casually, as idle conversation. In truth I was hoping she would have something to tell me. Since meeting him, I found he was constantly on my mind. I couldn’t stop picturing his riveting gaze or hearing the low deep tone of his voice.
Mrs. Flett fixed me with a searching look. My attempt to conceal the keenness of my interest hadn’t fooled her. “I know he rides that white horse of his at night,” she said.
“But he can’t walk,” I told her.
“He walks well enough to get onto that mare,” Mrs. Flett insisted. “I’ve seen him on it.”
“Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. The woman who shops and cleans for him says he’s surly.”
“I’m sure his condition makes him very unhappy,” I speculated.
Mrs. Flett grunted dismissively, as though she were disinclined to grant Walter that much leeway.
When I finished, I went outside to walk a little before going to bed. In the deep dusk I spied Giselle standing near the edge of the cliff, her hair and dress blowing in the ever-constant wind. I was glad she was awake, since I hadn’t spoken to her all day.
Although it was not entirely dark, a three-quarter moon had arisen. She seemed to be gazing at it.
“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” I said as I came alongside her.
When she didn’t turn or answer, I took a second, harder look at her. Her face was wide-eyed.
“Do you think he will come again?” she asked me.
“Who will come again?” I asked.
Giselle scowled deeply. “The man who came in the moonlight. The very bad man.”
“What bad —” And then I realized she was asleep. She must have risen from her place on the chair and walked out here, still in a dream.
“There is no man, Giselle,” I assured her.
“There is,” she said confidently. “He tried to take me away. We must watch for him. I think he will come back and try again.”
“Try to do what?”
“To take us.”
“Take us where?”
Giselle suddenly whirled toward me, clutching my shirt by the collar. “We can’t let him take us!” she cried. She dropped her head onto my shoulder and began to tremble. “He can’t take us. He’s bad!”
Wrapping my arms around her, I held tight. “No one will take you, Giselle. I promise.”
Giselle made no reply but continued to shiver fearfully.
“Let’s go in,” I suggested, turning her toward the castle.
“Yes, we must go inside,” she agreed. “It’s safer there.”
As I turned, I glanced over the cliff at the dark churning ocean below and saw a white horse cantering along the beach, Walter Hammersmith in the saddle. On horseback I would never have realized he was infirm. I wondered what he was doing riding alone on the beach at night.
He intrigues me so. I resolve to get over my shyness and go back to his house sometime very soon.
June 19
Right after breakfast this morning I made good on my resolution to see Walter again. With Mrs. Flett’s help, I loaded a basket with some of the fresh eggs, butter, and milk that she buys from our neighbors. With these stowed, I donned my bonnet and shawl and headed for his cottage.
There were no white puffs of smoke coming from his chimney, but the weather was getting warmer every day and it was very possible that he’d chosen not to make a fire. When I knocked, there was no immediate response, but I knew it would take him a while to answer. With my ear to the door, I listened for the sounds of movement and heard nothing. Just as I was about to leave, I heard a scrape. It was as though someone had moved a container across a table. With this encouragement, I rapped on the door yet again. Still no one answered.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps he had fallen and needed help. Going around the corner, I saw that his horse was still there, docile as ever and munching grass. The windows were heavily curtained, but this time one corner of the curtain had fallen aside, enabling me to peer in.
Walter sat in the darkened room at a writing table. He was illuminated by the flame of a single candle. By its light I saw that he was slumped there with his head dropped into one hand. Never before had I witnessed a scene of such utter dejection.
Still worried that he needed help, I knocked on the window. This caught his attention, and slowly he gazed up at me. Scowling, he waved me off in a way I would have found rude were I not so concerned about his well-being.
Returning to the front of the cottage, I pounded on the door once more. “Lieutenant Hammersmith! Are you all right?”
The slow shuffle of his footsteps told me he was approaching. Soon I heard the lock opening. The door creaked open.
“Please go,” he said, returning to his table. “I am not well today.”
Feeling strangely bold, I entered the cottage, placing my basket on the table. “You should not be alone if you are ill,” I insisted. “What bothers you?”
Tossing back his dark curls, he laughed bitterly. “What does not?”
I gazed at him with a questioning expression, which made him respond with more unhappy laughter. “My dear Fräulein Frankenstein, my wounds in conjunction with my mysterious disease of the nervous system have combined to make me a hopeless wreck,” he said. “Of the many things that afflict me, an overwhelming sense of despair is probably my most acute and debilitating condition.”
“You are deeply sad,” I said. “I can see that.”
“It’s evi
dent, is it?” he scoffed.
“Is it because you are in pain?”
“I awake with pain and sleep with it. Pain is my most intimate companion. But today my dark mood is worse than at other times. When this morose state comes over me I never can predict how long it will last.”
“Perhaps it would be distracting if I read to you,” I suggested, gesturing toward the many books on his shelves.
He looked me over, his brows furrowed in thought. “Perhaps it would,” he allowed at last.
Outside, the patch of blue sky through the open door sparkled in stark contrast to the gloom within. “We could sit outside. It’s a beautiful day,” I said.
Squinting his eyes as though unaccustomed to the daylight, he shook his head. “That might bring on more good cheer than I am up to right now,” he replied.
“You should smile more often,” I commented. “It suits you.” He was, indeed, very handsome when he smiled.
“I used to smile more often,” he said, growing serious once more. “As you might imagine, I have seen better days.”
“Perhaps you will see them again,” I offered.
Walter shook his head. “This disease progresses in fits and starts, but it inevitably worsens with time.”
“And science progresses every day.”
“Are you always so optimistic?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“I couldn’t say. I only know that science is moving forward every day and it can do amazing things.”
“Really?” he said, and I sensed he was mocking me.
“May I ask you a question?” I asked.
“That depends on the question,” he replied.
“I saw you riding your horse the other day. How are you able to do that?”
“As you can see, I can still move around on my own a bit. My horse is old and sweet. I’ve had her since I was a boy, and she is patient as I fumble my way into the saddle. I was once a very adept horseman.”
“Where do you go?”
“That’s two questions.” Lieutenant Hammersmith rose unsteadily. “Choose any book you’d like and we can read.”
Surveying his books, I selected one called Kinder- und Hausmärchen.
“Grimms’ Fairy Tales?” I asked. It was oddly out of place among his collection of military history and battle strategies. “It surprises me that you have this book.”
“I read it completely when it was first published. Not for children at all. Much too frightening. But taken as a collection of folk stories, it is fascinating.”
“Did you read it in German?” I asked.
“I did. It would have been easier for me in English, but I don’t like to trust translations done by others. I prefer to translate for myself. I studied German in school.”
“Would you like me to read it?”
“Yes. Its gloom and misery will be just the thing. Plus I will be interested to hear a native German speaker read it.” He smiled after this statement, and I smiled back. I spent the next several hours reading in a wooden chair beside Walter while he listened from his corner.
At one point he reached out with his good left hand and took hold of mine. Startled, I looked at him. But his eyes were closed and his head leaned back in the chair.
His hand was large and warm. The sensation of having my own hand enfolded in his was lovely. It occurred to me to lean over and kiss his lips. I imagined that if I did so, he would pull me to him to kiss me back tenderly.
I became so lost in this daydream that my speech faltered. Checking him, I saw he had fallen asleep.
I gazed at his face, so wonderfully strong and manly in repose. It was his bitterness that occasionally warped the fine male beauty of his features. I sat and watched him slumber for a while, picturing him as he must have been when in better health. Finally, setting the book aside, I left quietly.
I think we have become friends. But I would love to be so much more to him.
FROM THE DIARY OF
BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN
June 25, 1815
At last the day came for us to travel to Edinburgh, and Ingrid and I set out for the dock having sent our bags ahead in a cart driven by the arrogant Riff. He offered to take us but I declined, saying we preferred to walk. Now that Johann has returned, the man’s charms don’t hold the same power to thrill me that they once did, and I was glad to be in the open air with only my sister by my side.
I’d written to Uncle Ernest and he replied that he was eagerly awaiting us in Edinburgh and would happily chaperone my meeting with Johann. Ingrid, however, was not as happy about this meeting and made no disguise of her disapproval. “I don’t trust him,” she said in that overly candid way of speaking she can adopt from time to time as we walked along, nearing the harbor. “He was brutal to you. Forget him!”
“Stop saying that,” I insisted. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear, but it’s advice I can’t take because my heart won’t allow it.”
“Does emotion rule you entirely?” she challenged.
“When it comes to Johann, it does,” I confirmed, raising my voice to be heard above the wind.
“Well, don’t let it,” she insisted. “Use your intellect to overrule it. You deserve better than Johann.”
“You don’t understand, Ingrid,” I replied. “You’ve never been in love like I have.”
To my utter surprise, she blushed as deep a scarlet as I have ever seen her blush before. “Have you been in love?” I inquired quietly.
We had reached the harbor, where the tethered boats thumped against their moorings and screaming seabirds circled overhead. In this din I missed Ingrid’s quick reply and without saying more, her face lit with interest at something she suddenly noticed. Turning from me, she ran toward a white horse that was tied to a post.
I hurried after her and when I reached her side she told me it was Lieutenant Hammersmith’s horse. After speaking softly to the gentle creature, Ingrid then accosted a man working at the dock, asking why the horse was there. The man said that Lieutenant Hammersmith had taken his sailboat out that morning, though he didn’t know where he’d gone to. “He can sail?!” she cried, seeming most surprised.
“Once he gets into the boat, he’s fine,” the man confirmed.
“He’s a remarkable person,” Ingrid said, and from the distant glaze in her eyes I couldn’t tell if she was speaking to me or to herself.
“Is he?” I questioned. “From what you tell me, he simply sounds self-pitying and reclusive.”
“Oh, no, you’re wrong,” she came back quickly. “He is a man of real depth and feeling. Despite his condition he still rides and sails. How many others with his afflictions would push themselves to do that?”
“You know him better than I do,” I conceded. Was it the thought of Walter Hammersmith that had made her turn so crimson when I mentioned love? I hoped not. A dour crippled man leading a reclusive life in a thatched cottage was not the kind of mate I would wish for my sister. But I suspect she goes to see him quite often; I can tell when she’s been there because of the faraway, dreamy look that comes over her. This can’t be good for her; surely a romance with this man will not lead to the full life of the mind in stimulating society that she wished for, but would be more like a jail sentence.
“Have you fallen in love with Walter Hammersmith?” I asked, relying on my privileged position as her twin as an excuse for my directness.
Ingrid’s panicked expression made her look like a trapped animal. With darting eyes, she seemed to be casting about for a way to escape me.
“Well, have you?” I pressed.
Ingrid walked off several paces and turned away from me. “It’s madness, I know,” she said. “But I can’t stop thinking of him and replaying our conversations over and over in my head. When I am with him I am just so happy.”
“Happy in that miserable dark cottage?” I questioned.
Turning to face me, Ingrid nodded. “When we are alone together there, no place could be better.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the taciturn Captain Ramsay, who was as disagreeable as always. He scowled darkly as he beckoned for us to follow him to his boat without even a word of greeting. I don’t know why he seems to dislike us so; perhaps because we are newcomers to the Orkneys, or maybe he sees us as wealthy, spoiled young women because we dress well and have manners.
We made the crossing in silence, feeling too uneasy to converse in front of him.
Captain Ramsay said not a word to either of us, but then as we were disembarking, he muttered something. Although his thick dialect is nearly indecipherable, I suspect that what he said was quite rude and maybe even of an unsavory nature. I shot him a look of indignation, which he returned with a hard stare. I thoroughly dislike the man and hope we can find someone else to take us on the return voyage.
We got to the main island just in time for the ferry over to the town of John o’ Groat’s on the Scottish coast. Ingrid was scarcely there at all, she was so lost in her thoughts of Lieutenant Hammersmith. She nearly walked up the wrong gangplank on the ferry dock and might have ended up on the boat to Norway had I not run to redirect her.
As we crossed the water, I advised her once more to forget about Walter Hammersmith and think about someone more fun and suitable for her, like the young man she was about to see. Ingrid had recently received a letter from a fellow student named Anthony Verde with whom she’d become acquainted while she was in Lombardy. Although she insists there is nothing between them other than friendship and a collegial passion for science, she was most excited to learn that Anthony has enrolled in the University of Edinburgh, which has one of the oldest and most prestigious medical schools in the entire United Kingdom.