by Cat Winters
Percy called out another “Whoa,” and the buggy rocked to a stop in front of our curb. Mandolin whinnied. Rain pattered against the vehicle’s roof, which made me think of poor Frannie and Kate trudging through drizzle and hopping aboard streetcars to get home, and there I was, sitting in the height of luxury on padded green leather.
“Well,” I said, “I should probably—”
“You looked beautiful on that stage tonight, Olivia.” Percy turned toward me, briefly illuminated by a delicate strand of moonlight that stole through the clouds.
I sat up straighter. “I did?”
“Yes.” His eyes—black in the night, a beguiling greenish-brown in the daylight—stayed upon me. “I don’t know if you remember it, but that hypnotist laid you out between two chairs. You were as stiff as a board, with only your neck and your ankles supported, and you were as lovely as Sleeping Beauty.”
I snickered. “I was?”
He scooted closer to me on the seat with the soft whisper of leather. “My father leaned over to me and said, ‘Now, that’s womanhood perfected, Percy my boy. That’s the type of girl you want. Silent. Alluring. Submissive.’”
My stomach lurched. I tried to appear unfazed by his father’s words, but my mouth twisted into an expression that must have looked as if I were swallowing down those milky gray eggs from the courthouse attack.
Percy laughed. “I said those were my father’s words. Not mine.”
“Oh.” I sighed. “I’m glad. You don’t think women ought to be silent and submissive, then?”
“You are silent, Olivia. I’ve never heard you speak one word in any of the classes we’ve had together.”
“That doesn’t mean I like to be silent.”
Unfortunately, my argument ended there, and I indeed fell silent again. As did Percy.
Down the street, a dog howled. A pitiful wail.
“‘Listen to them—the children of the night,’” I said before I could think to regret quoting Dracula in the middle of an already awkward moment.
Percy straightened his neck. “What did you just say?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What about nighttime children?”
“Oh . . .” I wrapped my arms around my middle. “I just . . . I have a strange attraction to horror novels.”
“Which ones?”
“I’m reading Dracula . . . for the fourth time.”
“The fourth time?” He whistled and shifted his knees in my direction. “Doesn’t the library mind you checking it out so often? I’ve heard it’s all the rage.”
“I saved enough money to buy my own copy as soon as it showed up in Harrison’s Books last year. Have you read it yet?”
“No.” He tugged at his stiff collar. “My father only allows classic literature in the Acklen household. Friends have to sneak me copies of anything new and exciting.”
“I could lend you my copy if you’d like.”
“Really?” He scooted another inch my way. “You’d help corrupt me?”
I sputtered a laugh. “Dracula may frighten you, but I doubt it will corrupt you. At least . . . I don’t think it will. There are some . . . scenes . . . I suppose some people would find . . .”
“What?” He tilted his head. The right corner of his mouth arched in a wry smile that Frannie would have hated. “What types of scenes are there?”
My face flushed. “I’m not going to say. You’ll just have to read them.”
“You’ll definitely have to lend me your copy, then. Show me what I’m missing.” He pressed the side of his arm against mine, clearly meaning for me to feel him.
I froze. My heart rate doubled, and I was certain he could detect my pulse jumping about beneath my sleeve, even with all that fabric separating us.
“Well . . .,” he said.
I lifted my eyes. “Yes?”
“I suppose I should help you down before the vampires crawl out of their graves and drink your sweet, invigorating blood. What do you think?”
I nodded. “I suppose you should. There aren’t any Van Helsings in the neighborhood.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
He shifted his weight and climbed out his side of the buggy, another smile half hidden on his face in the moonlight. His leather soles squished toward me through the shallow mud; then he stopped below me on the damp sidewalk and hooked his fingers around the crisscrossing metal next to my arm. “Thank you for letting me drive you home.”
I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling. “May I ask you something about that?”
“Yes.”
“Um . . . well . . .” I drew a breath that made my tongue go dry. “You didn’t ask to drive me here merely because you liked how I looked when I was in that trance, did you?”
“Well . . .” Percy beamed at me in a way no one ever had before, his head tipped to the left, his dark eyes glassy and wistful. “You really were a beaut up there, Olivia. You should have seen the way the lights shone down on your black hair and your sleeping face.”
“But have you ever felt—” My skin warmed over. Words wilted at my lips, but I forced myself to finish my thought. “You’ve never seemed to notice me before this evening. Am I only attractive to you because I was lying unconscious across two chairs on a stage?”
“No . . . that’s not . . . I just . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d never thought of you that way before. You’ve always simply been . . . Dr. Mead’s daughter.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “I see. You’re afraid of my father like everyone else.”
“No, I’m not afraid. It’s just . . . well . . . your father has never worked on my teeth, but he certainly took care of my mother’s and father’s mouths—I can tell you that much. He fitted them with the finest dentures money can buy.”
“And is that so terrible?”
“Your father smiled the entire time he was yanking out my father’s molars. As if he enjoyed it.”
I swallowed and squirmed. “He’s not smiling when he’s pulling out teeth. A natural reaction to luring a person into opening his mouth is to make a funny little grimace. I used to play dentistry with my dolls, and my grandmother observed me making the same face.”
“I’ve heard he also enjoys the use of leeches.”
“Only to relieve inflamed gums. It’s standard dentistry practice. They do the job beautifully.”
“They suck blood out of patients’ gums beautifully? Is that what you’re saying?” His eyes shimmered with amusement. “My goodness, Olivia. You do like horror stories, don’t you?”
“You see? This is why I don’t talk much in school. You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m just entertained that sweet little Olivia Mead is defending the use of leeches inside people’s mouths.” He inched his hand down the metal bar, closer to my skirt. “You have to admit, it is a little shocking.”
I picked at my coat’s cloth-covered buttons.
“Please, Olivia”—he nudged my leg with the back of his hand—“don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. It’s just not easy being the daughter of . . . my father.”
“I understand. I’ve got an infamous father, too. He’s been known to make grown men cry in court.”
“Oh.” I met his eyes again, noting the softening of his expression. “I didn’t think of that. I suppose you might truly understand, then.”
“I do. I really do.” Percy offered me his hand. “It’s starting to rain harder out here. We should get you inside before it pours.”
“Will you come up to the door with me to meet my father?”
He helped me down from the carriage with a backward glance at the house.
“My father doesn’t extract teeth and leech gums just for fun, Percy,” I said with a smile. “His home office is solely for emergency treatments, not for torturing his daughter’s drivers.”
Percy blanched. “He keeps dental tools in the house?”
“I promise, you’l
l leave here tonight with all the contents of your head intact.”
“Oh. Well . . . good.” He tucked my hand inside the crook of his elbow. A wind kicked up around us, forcing him to press his top hat against his head with his free hand. “Come on. We’re going to get soaked.”
We ran up the brick front path just as the rain gained force and pelted the ground with a clatter that sounded like the applause Henri had received when I was standing on the stage with him. Up on the porch, we ducked under the cover of the roof and shook water off our sleeves.
“Come inside for a moment to get dry.” I turned the doorknob with an embarrassing squeak and poked my head inside. “Hello? Father?”
Silence met my ears. The only movements within the house were the twitching flames of the entry hall’s sconces, which threw shadow and light across the rusty-brown wallpaper. The air smelled of gas from the lamps’ hissing jets, and there were lingering whiffs of the pot roast supper Father and I had shared earlier that evening.
“Father?” I called into the silence, stepping inside the entryway with a moan from the unvarnished floorboards. Our home had never seemed so much like the sinister abode of a mad, leech-loving dentist until that moment. “Are you still awake?”
“I need to talk to you, Olivia.” Father clomped out from his office at the back of the long hall, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief the way he usually did when he was anxious. When he saw I wasn’t alone, he stopped and blinked, as though trying to clear his head of a brandy-induced hallucination.
“Olivia?” He tucked his handkerchief into his coat pocket and patted down his graying black hair—a longer and scragglier mess than most professional gentlemen’s. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest home.”
“Father, this is, um, P-P-Percy Acklen, Judge Acklen’s son. He kindly drove me home from the hypnotism show.”
“He did?” Father bounded our way with a jolly smile that rivaled Santa’s in my illustrated copy of A Visit from St. Nicholas. The leftover stink of one of his cigars muffled Percy’s musky cologne. “What a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Acklen.” He shook Percy’s hand with rapid pumps that jerked the boy’s shoulder. “I’m Dr. Mead, a great admirer of your father’s newspaper opinion pieces. He’s a just and wise man.”
“Thank you, sir.” Percy slid his hand out of Father’s and stretched his fingers with a crack. “He’ll have another piece printed soon. A group of women gathered on the courthouse steps this afternoon and protested their lack of a vote in next Tuesday’s election.”
My heart stopped.
Father’s eyes flitted toward me for the briefest of seconds. “Oh?”
“The protest turned somewhat volatile.” Percy removed his top hat. “My father yelled out the window for them to all go home before he set the police on them.”
“I don’t blame him. That must have been appalling.” Father darted another quick glance my way, which turned my stomach into a flip-flopping jumble of nerves.
He knows I was there.
“Well”—Father cleared his throat—“that sort of behavior is inexcusable for a woman. If my own daughter ever dared to throw a tantrum like that on the courthouse steps, I’d pull her out of school and send her straight to a convent.” Father snorted. “And I’m not even Catholic.”
Percy laughed as if he had just heard the wittiest joke ever uttered, perhaps to humor Father, but he straightened his posture and sobered when he caught my unsmiling reaction. “Oh, I doubt Olivia has ever done anything wrong in her entire life, sir. There’s no need to worry about her. In fact, the entire city just witnessed her strict obedience this evening.”
Father stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“She was hypnotized. That hypnotist fellow we went to see—Henri Revelry—”
“Reverie,” I corrected Percy.
“He called her up to the stage and put her under his spell. She did everything he asked of her.”
Father spun toward me. “You were hypnotized tonight, Olivia?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And you did everything asked of you?”
“Apparently so.”
“Well, g-g-good. Good girl.” He slipped his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead again. “That’s my Olivia. An exemplary model of fine manners and strict obedience.”
“And she was positively breathtaking,” added Percy. “If I may be so bold, sir, I’d say tonight on that stage your daughter was the loveliest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Really?” Father cocked his head, sounding a little too skeptical that I could have been that lovely.
Percy fussed with the brim of his hat. “May I ask you a question, sir?”
“Of course,” said Father.
“I was wondering if I might take Olivia with me to an event Friday night. Sadie Eiderling invited me to her birthday supper.”
“Sadie Eiderling?” Father’s eyes expanded at the mention of the local beer baron’s daughter, and I swear I could see the glow of rich golden ale sloshing about in his dazed irises. “You want to take Olivia to a party at the Eiderling mansion?”
“I realize you don’t necessarily know me well enough for me to escort your daughter to such an event, but I’m a respectful young man with a reputation for impeccable behavior.”
Father rubbed his lips and seemed to weigh his decision with great care.
“If you need to think about the proposal before answering,” said Percy, “I’d understand . . .”
“Yes, let me get back to you before I extend such a privilege to Olivia. I’ll send a note over to your house tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your considering the offer.” Percy planted his hat back on his head, and I could feel the enchantment of the evening dissolving into the ether. “Well, I hate to scuttle off so quickly, but I need to go home so Mother doesn’t worry. Thank you for letting me drive you home, Olivia. Good night, Dr. Mead.”
“Good night, Percy,” I said.
“Good night, son.” Father closed the door and allowed Percy to dart back into the rain and the darkness.
I lunged for the staircase behind me.
“Wait.”
I turned and braced myself against the banister. “Yes?”
“After you left for the theater this evening”—Father shoved his handkerchief into his breast pocket—“I received a telephone call from one of my most prestigious patients, Mr. Underhill.”
“Mr. Underhill?”
“He owns one of Portland’s largest shipping firms.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was at the courthouse this afternoon.”
I gulped and turned my attention to the toes of the rain-freckled shoes peeking out from beneath my skirt.
“Olivia,” said my father, “look me in the eye.”
I did as he asked, raising my chin to bolster my confidence.
He lifted his chin as well. “Why did you humiliate yourself by standing in that crowd of hysterical women? Mr. Underhill said men pelted you with rotten eggs.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Why were you there?”
“A friend’s sister is a member of the Oregon State Equal Suffrage Association, and I decided to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Mr. Underhill said you were chanting with the women.”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to vote for president when I’m older.”
Father pinched his lips into a scowl that turned his face lobster red, and his entire body quaked, as if blasts of lava were about to spew from the top of his skull. “Olivia Gertrude Mead, my hope for you since the day your mother left was that you would grow up to be a rational, respectable, dignified young woman who understands her place in the world.”
“But—”
“You’re lucky Percy Acklen’s father didn’t see you standing out there on his courthouse steps, or that d
istinguished young man never would have taken an interest in you.”
“I—”
“Was he hypnotized into falling in love with you?”
“No!”
“Well, then, if you spoil this unexpected bit of luck you’ve been handed this evening, I will keep to my word about ending your education and sending you away.”
“But—”
“No. You are done talking for the day.” He shoved a finger in my face. “I lost Mr. Underhill as a patient because of you. He was supposed to be leeched tomorrow afternoon, but he demanded to know how he could trust me with his mouth when I can’t even control my own daughter. He called me an embarrassment to the men of Portland, and he uninvited me from the election-night ball of the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage to Women.”
“What? That’s ridicu—”
“You will go to your room, change into your nightclothes, and turn down your lamps without reading or writing a single word. You will go to sleep while contemplating your poor decision and figure out how you can compensate for your ills tomorrow. You need to prove you won’t embarrass me if I let you go to that party with Judge Acklen’s son.” He lowered his finger and steadied his breath. A bulging blue vein pulsated in his forehead, and for a moment I feared it would burst and kill him right there in front of me.
“Go!” he shouted.
I scrambled up the stairs with thumps and bangs and skids, failing to sound like a “rational, respectable, dignified young woman.” I sealed myself inside my bedroom—my cherry-blossom-pink Elysium of lace and literature and freshly dusted china dolls in long satin dresses. Father had already lit my frosted gas lamps, so there was no need for me to fumble in the dark for a match.
I grabbed the little steel hook from the top of my chest of drawers and undid the dozen black buttons running down my ankle boots. “Unfair,” I muttered under my breath as I worked to free my cramped feet. “So unfair. I’d like to see him silenced for a change and sent off to a monastery. How would he like that?”
My stocking-covered feet broke loose from their leather prisons, and I stretched out my toes across the cold floorboards.
From my bedside table, the Count’s dark blue castle on the brown cloth cover of Dracula beckoned: Read me, read me. Only thirty more pages to go before Mina will be saved from Dracula’s bloodthirsty curse.