“I want an answer, you tiresome girl. I am becoming fit to be taken to the madhouse, burbling of your wonderful bosom and your irresistible derrière. Why are you so difficult?”
“This is awful. You might spare me your coarse remarks. You already have my answer.”
“Surely you are not really aiming for my Cousin’s title?” He did more eye flashing.
She glared back. “No, Monsieur Émile, I am aiming for the door. Please to let me pass.” She pulled her hands away.
“You encourage my Cousin, who, being human is not indifferent to your wiles. I think you too ambitious, Mademoiselle. Perhaps it was rash in you to dismiss my own foolish offer, which you do not need to flatter yourself I will repeat.”-
Sophie, her hand on the door, felt if she didn’t answer this then she would be angry for the rest of her life. Her words, however, struck her as being ludicrously self-pitying and melodramatic. “No, Monsieur Émile, I do not expect an offer from His Lordship. I was delighted at your own, for I had admired your exploits for years. All the time when you lived in danger, I prayed for you every night. But how can I say I remember what I do not, even though this necklace is mine, and you had it? I still will pray for you every night, but it will be as one who uses me ill.”
She realised this worthy of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela*, but it was how she felt. She let out a sob, snatching at the doorknob, tears blurring her eyes, aware of him starting towards her again.
The kitten, which had slept on the rug throughout their angry exchanges, sprang to its feet, hissing wildly. It was suddenly icy and still in the room. The flames in the fire and on the candles on the pianoforte died down as though invisibly extinguished. Monsieur Émile’s eyes dilated. “What the Devil?!”
They turned at a sudden tapping at the window. Sophie gasped as they saw a huge bat bumping against the darkening windows. It was five times bigger than any bat she had seen; worse, its horribly aware, beady red eyes appeared to be watching them. The kitten yowled with anger and fear.
Monsieur Émile flung himself out of the door opening onto the terrace, slamming it shut behind him, and loped down the flight of stone stairs leading to the gardens. She snatched up the kitten and ran over to the window to watch her grand relative down below in the darkening herb garden, searching about in the sleet.
After a couple of minutes he ran back up the stairs, and she realised that the fire and the candles were now burning normally. The room was warmer, despite the draft from the door, but Sophie was shivering uncontrollably as he strode back in, smiling at her. “That was an enormous specimen but harmless, Sophie, I am sure. We must ask Ynyr about it.”
“Oh, it was horrible!” she was ashamed to be in tears from the shock.
“Why, you are terrified!” He came over and took her in his arms, kitten and all. Despite being damp from the sleet, he was warmer than she was. “I should not be doing so, eh, ma petite? Monsieur Gilles won’t take advantage of you in such a state. Come closer to the fire while I mend it.”
He drew her over to the fire as before in the library. It was burning brightly again, but he picked up a log and threw it on. Searching about for a poker and not finding one, he kicked the fire into more life. It reminded Sophie of his attack on the fire in the library on Christmas Eve. He must have damaged his boots, for she smelt singing leather. Given his fondness for clothes, it was nice of him.
She shivered as she sat, still holding the kitten and the necklace. He looked concerned. “It was only a bat, Sophie, not Madoc the Magnificent or any of his relatives. I know you ladies don’t like ‘em, but they are harmless and have no interest in tangling in ladies hair.”
“The c – candles went down.”
“An unlucky coincidence, chérie, some draught. They would have done so had a mouse looked in. A trick of the light gave the creature those glowing eyes. I know what you need. Wait here.” He went out and roared in French down the staircase to the basement. After some moments, she heard Georges’ voice yelling back. Monsieur Émile bawled some instructions and then came back to her.
“Are you warmer, Sophie?” He came over and taking the kitten from her, put it on the floor, where it shook itself and rushed off. Monsieur Émile laughed and placing the necklace on Sophie’s lap, chaffed her hands. “Are you so scared, ma chére? Surely you do not believe ma petite Katarina’s absurd tales of Kenrick and his wife?”
“What does she say?” Sophie guessed even as she asked.
“She insists he and his wife are Half Vampires, having been bitten yet lived to tell the tale, warning me Ynyr and I endanger ourselves in calling there, though happy I am fond of garlic. She has fashioned a wooden cross for each of us. My breath did disgust Kenrick, which no doubt ma pauvre petite would take as confirmation that he is indeed a monster bat. Bien sûr, it will be no loss for me not to call on him as I cannot endure him.
‘He insists he will bridge the gap between superstition and natural philosophy by bringing to it the discipline of mathematics, for which purpose he tried to recruit me. I had to say him nay.
‘Katarina has patrolled about this house, armed with garlic, to seal it against him, insisting having been invited in once, he is free to come and go as he chooses.
‘Sophie, I am trying to make you laugh and you shudder even more, yet I must not take you in my arms again. We know where that will lead with a rogue like me and you will not have to do with me.”
He chaffed her hands some more. She burst out, “Monsieur Émile, indeed you should not go there! Once I thought I saw him appear by my bed –” she broke off, appalled at what she had said.
He laughed. “I am overcome with envy of the fellow, ma petite, and wish you would dream so of me. Ah, and rather more…But I must control myself. That you did so of him does make me dislike him the more.”
At a tapping on the door he got up to sneak a quick kiss on the top of her hair before Georges strutted in with a familiar leer and a tray with a little bottle and a cup of hot milk.
“Have you called Agnes, Georges? Mademoiselle Sophie had a fright.”
As he set the tray down on the side table by the chaise longue, Georges said something sneeringly in unintelligible French. Monsieur Émile laughed. “Georges thinks the sight of my face was sufficient to cause your state, but I suppose you are become used to its imperfections.”
Georges left. Monsieur Émile poured what she was sure was brandy into the hot milk. He made her drink it and stood watching her, chatting of trivial things. Just before Agnes bustled in, Sophie said – the brandy having loosened her tongue – “I am much better now. I am ashamed, for I have been behaving like Lucasta in ‘Madoc the Magnificent.’ Thank you for being so kind.”
“Kind? That is not what you were saying a short time since. It seems to be my fate to treat you for shock, eh, Sophie? But you will not remember the other time when I did so, and you subdued me quite, you infuriating minx.” He took the necklace from her, and fastened it about her neck, while his fingertips sent thrills down her spine.
He sighed and she joined in. “Here is Agnes. Agnes, Mademoiselle Sophie has seen something unpleasant – do not glare at me so, it was no part of me – and I leave her to your care.” He kissed Sophie’s hand quickly and his endless legs took him away.
“What was it, Miss Sophie?”
“A giant bat.”
Agnes’ jaw dropped almost ludicrously. “Oh, Miss! That is what they say all about the villages.”
Chapter Seven
The Lewis’s annual Twelfth Night ball was due. Agnes worked long making Sophie look as beautiful as possible; she washed her hair in a special mixture of juice from the hothouse lemons and camomile, bringing out the golden lights; she tinted Sophie’s eyelashes again with the strange dark mixture which she applied with a thin stick, making them looked twice as long; she polished her teeth with salt until they gleamed.
Then, Agnes brought out the pale blue and silver ball gown which she had been working on for weeks. As she put i
t over Sophie’s head, and it fell in rustling, silken folds to her matching blue dancing slippers, Sophie gasped. “Oh, it looks wonderful!” She had never had a dress half as lovely. “Agnes, you have done a perfect job.” She kissed the girl on impulse.
Agnes giggled. “You are looking so lovely that maybe he will go back to proposing tonight, Miss Sophie.”
Sophie felt her face go hot. Agnes had stopped troubling to call ‘him’ by name to Sophie, having divined – without needing her Tarot – there to be only one ‘him’ for Sophie now.
Despite her flushed face Sophie tried to sound indifferent. “If you mean Monsieur Émile, Agnes – that is unlikely. He has been avoiding me since the Quarrel in the Music Room. He has been polite, but distant.” She had been unable to resist telling Agnes all the details of her confrontation with Monsieur, including his producing a necklace identical to her lost one.
Absurdly, though wondering how the rascal came by it sent an unaccountable shiver down her spine, since he had fastened it about her throat, Sophie was unable to bring herself to take it off. She was even going to wear it – along with a gold locket she had inherited from her mother – to the ball.
“His having your necklace points to something odd indeed, Miss Sophie. Georges says he has never known Monsieur Émile in so sour a temper, save when his poor younger brothers and sister was killed. When Miss Charlotte died, Georges just said he hardly spoke for a week, isn’t it?”
Sophie sighed. “There is no need to remind me how much he has endured, Agnes, or how brave he was in trying to save his family. It does not, however, excuse treating his aunt’s dependant so.”
Agnes looked at her, eyes sparkling, lips up at the corners. Sophie laughed. “Oh, dear! It is no laughing matter he should make such shocking advances. You look so pretty yourself it is no wonder about Georges…” She looked down to fiddle with her dancing slippers.
“Keep still, Miss! Is a tricky bit with these top curls.”
“Agnes, what did Georges say about Monsieur’s bad temper?”
“It isn’t staying awake of nights, because Monsieur don’t sleep well anyway, but he paces about looking like he is going to a funeral and he shouts about things, which is unlike him. Georges has told him straight he will not endure it and next time it must come to a fight between them. There, Miss, you do look perfect. You must keep on blushing like that.”
“Truly, I am not looking forward to seeing Kenrick at the ball.”
Agnes nodded. “I don’t care what Monsieur Gilles says nor Georges neither, what happened in the music room – I mean with the bat, not Monsieur – cannot be natural, nor what goes on at Plas Cyfeillgar. Maybe what Katarina says is true. She is making more wooden crosses, and I am going to wear mine just in case, and I want you to wear one too, Miss Sophie, though I suppose you will be wanting one more grand.”
“Oh, Agnes! But could a Beneficent Deity allow such things as vampires?”
“I don’t see why not, Miss Sophie, seeing as there’s them nasty mosquitoes in the world who don’t seem so different only smaller. Nain did always say isn’t it, Miss Sophie, suffering and wickedness is part of the Lessons we Must Learn Down Here…Now, then! No making water in there!” This last was addressed to the kitten, which was sneaking into the dressing room with a tilt to its tail.
When Sophie came shyly down the stairs, the Count and Monsieur Émile were already waiting in the Great Hall, standing by the fire with the dogs which forever surrounded it. Sophie thought them both so magnificent and negligently aristocratic she could scarcely credit that she, the déclassé Sophie de Courcy, was to be of their party. As they glanced up, Monsieur Émile’s eyes dilated and even the calmer Lord Ynyr looked impressed.
They bowed greetings (which of course as her social superiors they need not). Meanwhile, Monsieur Émile looked on her as Kenrick had on that trifle and Sophie could hardly keep her face straight. For sure, this ball gown was shockingly low, and his protests about her bosom and his sanity came back to her.
Lord Ynyr said, “Miss Sophie, forgive my familiarity, but you do resemble a fairy princess tonight.”
A short time ago, Sophie would have been delighted. For all her indignation over Monsieur Émile’s taunts about her aspiring to Lord Ynyr’s title, until these last few days she had allowed herself to dream about it sometimes.
Now the only attention that counted came from a lanky rogue who admitted to a criminal past, who suffered from delusions, who believed she deserved to receive improper advances and who had called her a name she couldn’t find in the French dictionary.
“My cousin is in the right, Mademoiselle.” The rogue smiled at her.
Perhaps he wanted a truce. Despite his coolness towards her, when last night the Count asked Sophie to put him down for one of the dances, Monsieur requested one too. This made Miss Morwenna turn about, looking startled, as she always did when anyone noticed Sophie. Then she had smiled her congratulations to the companion.
Now, at Monsieur’s words, the world was suddenly brighter. Sophie lectured herself: Do stop being a fool; this is going to end badly for you. You must not let yourself fall for him like a ton of coals being delivered, never mind Agnes’ nonsense.
Lord Ynyr gaped, and Sophie saw Miss Morwenna coming downstairs, tall and elegant in oyster coloured silk with pearls gleaming in her glossy dark brown hair and at her throat.
Sophie thought she looked magnificent, and she glanced at Monsieur Émile, expecting him to be equally struck. To her surprise, his look was only one of mild admiration. He complimented Morwenna with the tinge of familiarity to which he was entitled as a relative, while Lord Ynyr recovered. Morwenna smiled at both the men before turning on Sophie a glance of assessment. “What a sweet frock, Miss Sophie. I expect you are looking forward to this jaunt?”
“I am indeed, Miss Morwenna.” Sophie had been to few enough balls to find them wildly exciting.
The Dowager Countess came down the stairs in turn, wearing a magnificent lilac dress and her party face, though she disliked balls. Sophie could see how once you thought yourself too old to dance, balls must lose most of their appeal.
Her Ladyship looked them all over. She seemed satisfied. “You young people are a credit to me. Morwenna and Sophie, mes chères, you look delightful both.”
Later, Sophie was to remember the stages of this evening as a series of pictures.
Footmen were handing in rugs to the carriage; then followed the jolting trip down the inky lanes to Llandyrnog*, with Monsieur Émile telling them about his first ball.
He had imagined he would cut a dash, but through a series of accidents, he managed within five minutes to tear his hostess’s ball gown, knock over a candlestick, setting fire to the curtains, and to twist one ankle.
There was chaos outside the Lewis’ house in Llandyrnog; the whole front was lit in a blaze of welcome, with carriages drawing up and footmen running about with torches.
Then the Lewis’s were greeting them, the butler announcing them; finally they were in the ballroom with the smell of hot wax and music and Sophie’s first partner was coming up to claim her.
Here the magic stopped, for this was callow and spotty Mr Lewis. Since he’d started coming out with his mother and older sisters, his infatuation with Sophie increased daily.
Sophie tried to put him at his ease, if only to make him dance better, for he soon began to wander upon her feet and on the hem of her gown. It was a wonder he hadn’t emulated Monsieur Émile‘s younger self and knocked over a candlestick and twisted one ankle.
She saw Monsieur dancing with smiling Miss Morwenna. She refused to think about whether she felt jealous.
Soon, Lord Ynyr was coming up to claim her. She heard a stout matron sitting by ask her neighbours, “Who may be the young lady dancing with Lord Ynyr?”
“Her Ladyship’s companion, a member of a cadet branch of the family. She is quite musical, I hear. It is kind of His Lordship to distinguish her.”
“She is rathe
r pretty.” The matron spoke as though that was not allowed for poor relatives. “And who is the handsome naval officer with Mr Kenrick?”
“That is Captain Mackenzie, who has lately distinguished himself in a couple of naval engagements. The gentlemen are all agog to hear details, and the young ladies are all of a flutter about his looks, but he seems to have no interest in talking to anyone but Mistress Kenrick. Ahem!”
They exchanged a glance.
Sophie had noticed Captain Mackenzie; this not admiringly, despite his looks. His eyes fixed on her with a sort of gloating interest, but not a warm one. She was reminded of a spider moving towards a juicy fly.
Just then Lord Ynyr danced her past the arch dividing the ballroom, and she saw Mr Kenrick, leaning against a pillar close by and talking with the Captain, who looked like the hero of a book in his officer’s uniform, with his sparkling dark eyes, curling dark hair and flashing white teeth.
Kenrick was impeccably dressed tonight (even Georges wouldn’t have found fault with his cravat) but with his pudgy face more florid than ever in the heat and his lank hair, he made a dismal contrast to Mackenzie. He stood with his arms behind his back, looking as if everything was beneath his notice. His marble eyes, however, constantly roved over the crowd.
Sophie saw him fix his gaze on the oldest Miss Lewis, plump in white, her hair a profusion of ringlets. His lips twitched, showing his teeth, almost as if he was thinking of taking a bite out of her.
Even here in the crowd in the brilliant light Sophie shivered, remembering how his saliva ran onto her hand and her vision of him by her bed.
He’s a vampire!
This ridiculous idea came as a sudden conviction.
Lord Ynyr and Kenrick acknowledged each other, while Sophie made a quick curtsy. As they danced away the Count looked perturbed. “Captain Mackenzie is a dashing fellow.”
“Yes, Sir. Is he long with the Kenrick’s?”
“I think he has business in your home town, Chester…What think you, Miss Sophie, of the new décor of this room? Our own ballroom needs refurbishing, and I was thinking of something similar.”
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 10