“There’s someone well in his cups by the sound of it – what the Devil?!”
Émile stood in the doorway, wild eyed. He was dirty and dishevelled, his shirt torn and gaping open to show a throat encrusted with dried blood, his hair in wild disorder and stained with blood too, his hands and arms dirty and covered in cuts, his fingernails broken and filthy.
He staggered over to a chair and leaned on it. “Georges – don’t let anyone else go there! It was a wild beast tearing at me.”
Georges jumped up. “De quell idiot, have you got yourself bitten by a mad animal? Agnes, stoke the kitchen fire and put on the kettle!”
Agnes rushed to do so. Meanwhile Georges sat Émile down in the chair, trying to find out what had happened. Émile denied he had been bitten by an animal, though he said again that Ceridwen Kenrick wasn’t human. Georges saw tiny pieces of glass in his hair.
Whatever had happened, he was in a fever and making no sense. Georges and Agnes treated his wounds as they would had he been bitten by a rabid creature.
By a fluke, all the kitchen staff was away. The cooks and the kitchen maid were using the slack time of day for a trip to the village; the scullery maid was ill with the malaise which had been going about since before Christmas; the laundry maid was kissing the stable boy in the tack room.
Agnes cleaned the wound on Émile’s neck. Her voice shook. “Georges, this wound is strange. It’s as though it was made by two prongs.”
Émile shifted under the scalding heat of the hot compresses. “It was That Jade, the disgusting –” He broke off, retching.
Georges jumped back, but not in time. “Merde! All over my best boots.”
Katarina, alerted by some instinct, stood alarmed in the kitchen doorway. “What ails Monsieur?”
Georges – mopping his boots with his handkerchief – spoke heartily, “It is probably only the sickness going about, Katarina, but he seems to have cut himself nicely, so we thought it best to take care of those. Mop the floor, girl. Gilles, you could have avoided my boots. Agnes, we must put him to bed.”
Katarina rushed up to Émile as he sat, still heaving. “Oh, Monsieur, you are very ill!” She dug in her pocket for the handkerchief he had given her and handed it to him. “Did you go to Plas Cyfeillgar?”
Émile slurred, “I am sorry, ma petite, to make such a disgusting mess.” He staggered to his feet and swaying, rummaged in his pockets to hand her a tip which would cover her old wages for half a year.
Georges and Agnes took an arm each and helped him from the room. Katarina began to blubber as she went for a mop.
The wind howled about the roofs as Sophie practised in the music room. She had brought Jem the kitten with her, hoping his antics might divert her from this agony of jealousy and anxiety hounding her through the day. Her tears after Monsieur bounded off to Plas Cyfeillgar hadn’t relieved her; more pricked behind her eyes continually, threatening to fall.
At one point Jem climbed half way up the priceless brocade curtains. She broke off from an aria from Mozart’s ‘Don Giovanni’ ‘Il me Tradhita’ (‘I Still Pity Him’) to catch him.
She was laughing for the first time that day as Agnes came in. “Agnes, you shiver; come and warm yourself by the fire, there is a bitter East wind – What ails you?!”
But she knew; she sensed it as surely as she had sensed last night that Mr Kenrick was a vampire.
“Miss, we thought you might like to know. Monsieur Émile is come back from Plas Cyfeillgar in a terrible state.” As Sophie stared wordlessly, Agnes went on, “He is in a fever, making no sense and he spewed all over Georges’ boots.” Her lips twitched even in her concern. “Georges and I just put him to bed. A fight we had of it, too.”
Sophie felt a surge of relief. “It may well be only the affliction of the stomach has been about.”
“But Miss, he has funny punctures in his throat, and is cut too and says she is a wild creature – Mistress Kenrick, he means.”
Sophie tried to speak calmly. “I will come and see what is to be done.” How absurd! As if there is anything I can do to help him now!
Georges looked solemn as he opened the door. “They are ruined!”
“Oh, do be quiet about those wretched boots, Georges!” Agnes pushed him.
Sophie expected Monsieur Émile to look dishevelled and feverish, but the sight of him with his hair in wild, blood spattered tangles – in which some specks of glass still glittered – his face flushed, his eyes over bright, his hands and arms covered in cuts, alarmed her. She stole closer. Her heart lurched as she saw the puncture marks on his neck. She had prayed Agnes might be somehow mistaken.
She expected a hostile reception, but he smiled and muttered, “Ma chére, you choose to come to me now. You must give me time to get the better of this.”
Georges turned to hide his smile. Sophie felt herself doing an imitation of a radish. “I have come to see if I can do something for you, Monsieur Émile, hearing you are ill.” She put a hand on his forehead, which was hot enough to alarm her. “We must sponge him down, Agnes.” This would be improper, of course, but she didn’t care.
Agnes looked uneasy. “Georges and I did so half an hour since, Miss Sophie, with him cursing us throughout.”
“Then we must do so again.”
Agnes went to put a saucepan of water on the fire to warm to tepid. Georges wandered off to the dressing room, muttering bitterly. “A Comte sent his man over to enquire where I came by those boots…I heard they started a fashion at St James*…”
Sophie was shy of sponging down Monsieur Émile, but in fact, what with the sickness and the dried blood in his hair, he smelt unpleasant enough for there to be nothing erotic about touching his bare flesh, despite his spare and muscular body.
When they persuaded him to turn about, and they saw the long, inflamed scratches on his back, she was astounded. She found herself wondering for a moment if an animal could have done that to him after all.
Then, meeting Agnes’ eyes, she realised Ceridwen Kenrick had made those cuts in a sexual encounter.
The world seemed to spin. Looking down at Monsieur Émile again, she felt like running away from this horror he had brought upon himself in his sexual abandon with such a monster. No wonder he called Ceridwen Kenrick a wild animal! From nowhere the memory came to Sophie of Kenrick nipping at her hand with his sharp white teeth, like some playful, unattractive puppy.
Agnes said, “Is proper rude Monsieur Émile was to the Count earlier, isn’t it? His Lordship came offering his herbal remedy, and Monsieur told His Lordship to go to take his damned weeds to the Devil. Poor Lord Ynyr drew back all hoighty-toighty. ‘I will overlook your rudeness, Cousin, for you are not yourself.’”
Sophie stood struggling with herself. As if she sensed this, Agnes waited.
The villain shifted slightly, muttering, helpless in his delirium. Sophie knew then that she loved him too much to turn away from him whatever he had done. After they sponged him down, she stood and sighed. She was not looking forward to nursing a delirious and spewing Monsieur Émile after his treatment of her, but she couldn’t bear to let anyone else take care of him either. She was thankful Miss Morwenna would be away until tomorrow.
When she and Agnes had to leave for Sophie to get ready for dinner, Éloise came up to take over, full of sympathy for ‘Pauvre Monsieur’. Sophie felt a further stab of possessiveness. Would Éloise be so eager to look after him if she knew he had probably been made into a – Sophie might as admit it – Man Vampire? She wondered that she wasn’t more frightened of him, herself. Yet, surely the transformation couldn’t happen in hours? How unbelievably terrible it all was. She must ask Katarina.
“Zut alors, Sophie, my nephew is come back ill from his walk and somehow cut himself. I cannot imagine what he has been about.”
The Dowager Countess actually allowed herself to pace across the sitting room in her agitation. “Après tout, he is never ill, yet he has this sickness worse than any of the footman and is de
lirious. We will have Dr Powell tomorrow. It is too bad dear Morwenna is absent; she would have it all in hand directly. I do not know how we shall manage about nursing him. I am not able for it myself, I cannot impose on my maid Mrs Brown, and our housekeeper Madame Blanch is ailing herself, though she promises to look in.”
Sophie wasn’t surprised the Dowager Countess couldn’t impose on Mrs Brown to nurse Monsieur. Agnes said Mrs Brown detested him and Georges too, trusting they would both eventually meet with hellfire.
“I would be happy to look after Monsieur Émile, Your Ladyship.” Sophie was anxious in case the Dowager Countess might forbid this as improper. “I am sure Agnes, Éloise and Katarina will be happy to help, and if Madame Blanch or the under housekeeper does look in now and then, we shall easily manage.”
The under-housekeeper was much bribed by Monsieur Émile regarding Katarina’s training, but unlikely to exert herself for anyone. Sophie hoped the Dowager Countess would find Monsieur’s care by unmarried girls respectable with two matrons nominally involved.
“Sophie, this is kind in you. It is unfortunate my nephew should be ill when my silks need matching, but après tout, his health must come first.”
Sophie got back to Monsieur Émile’s rooms to find Katarina, clutching a jar of dried herbs and arguing with Éloise at the door. “I work for him, you don’t!” They broke off to curtsey to Sophie.
“How now, Éloise?”
“Monsieur doesn’t want any of those nasty herbs, Mademoiselle. He told the Count before you came.” The girl must have rushed her bright chestnut hair, long eyelashes and other charms along to Monsieur’s rooms as soon as she heard of his illness.
“I believe Monsieur would take the medicine were he in his full senses. Come then, Katarina.”
Monsieur Émile was either asleep or in a stupor. Éloise sat by him while Sophie drew Katarina away where they could talk in whispers.
The girl said tearfully, “I saw his neck when he came in, Miss Sophie. We have to give him these to stop the poison or he must be a monster too.”
Sophie’s knees went weak at her terrors being put into words. “But – do you really believe these will prevent – such a thing – from happening?”
“There is a fair chance, but we will not know for some while.”
Sophie sniffed anxiously at the herbs, which smelt strongly of garlic. “What are they?”
“Rosemary, sage, thyme, mint and garlic. He must have at least ten doses over two days…” Sophie’s head whirled with horror, so she couldn’t take in the rest of Katarina’s information.
There was nothing to lose if they could persuade the awkward patient to drink the herb tea. Sophie and Katarina quickly made it.
They took the drink over to Monsieur Émile and gently roused him from his torpor.
“Marguerite, ma petite, have you something to show me?”
Sophie supposed he mistook Katarina for his youngest sister. Then, she saw that he was looking eagerly at a point to the left of Katarina, where some odd reflection from the candles and the fire was producing a flickering trick of the light in mid air.
Katarina eyed it too. Éloise, pouting disapproval as she poked the fire, didn’t notice.
Sophie felt mean as she said duplicitously, “She wants you to have this drink she made, Sir.”
He took it and sipped some, then grimaced. “Tres bien. I will save the rest for later – What?” He looked back at the shifting glow. “If you insist.” He gloomily went back to sipping it. “No, stay! Tell me what you have been about today – ”
The flickering was gone. He stared at the point where it had been, then with a sigh subsided back against the pillow, eyes closed, dropping the cup before Sophie or Katarina could catch it, spilling the remainder of the herbal brew on the floor.
Éloise smiled to herself.
Sophie followed Katarina to the dressing room to ask, “How came you by these herbs, Katarina? Are they the Count’s?”
“Oh, no, Miss Sophie, I had them hidden in my box at Plas Cyfeillgar. After Monsieur took me from there, he had my things sent for and the herbs were still there.” Katarina turned an adoring glance back at her rescuer.
“Find a cloth, dear, we must try again later.”
Madame Blanch, the housekeeper, did look in for one minute. “How is the patient, Mademoiselle Sophie? So unfortunate I have the malady myself, and must dose myself with brandy. Monsieur would go out without an overcoat, which has probably caused the mischief.”
Monsieur Émile wakened only to vomit. Then Sophie and Katarina had to examine the bowl’s contents to see how much of the herbs were in it. They thought about half, which meant he had only retained a quarter dose so far. Sophie wrinkled her nose and Katarina went to make some more of the tea.
“Are you sure it is helping him and not making him worse, Miss Sophie?” Éloise demanded.
“It helped the others.”
When they brought Monsieur Émile some more of the tea, he looked outraged. “Take that damned stuff away! It’s you, Sophie?”
“Of course I am here. Please drink some of this. It will help you, please believe me.”
Katarina whispered, “Monsieur, you must drink it, if you are not to become One of Them.”
Whether he remembered Ceridwen Kenrick drinking his blood, Sophie didn’t know. He seemed to be thirsty and swallowed some of it before looking at her resentfully. “Anyway, you have forgotten me.”
Éloise was listening avidly. Sophie reddened. “I could never do so, Sir.”
Horror lurked at the back of his eyes. “Everything is ruined; why is that?”
Sophie sat down on the bed without thinking. “This will help.” He swallowed some more but then began to doze, leaning against her as on Christmas Day in church. She would like to put her arms about him, but instead she settled him back on the pillows.
Agnes and Georges came in. Éloise, needed downstairs, had to leave, promising to be back in the morning.
“Ça va, Gilles?” Georges looked down at his accomplice with reluctant tenderness. “Never could stay out of trouble for more than five minutes, could you?” He led Agnes off to the dressing room, where he often spent the night.
Sophie preferred not to think about what they might be doing. Weeks ago, she would not have credited a nice girl like Agnes behaving so, especially with such a rascal. Lately, her ideas had been shaken through her own infatuation with just such another rascal. She glanced anxiously at Katarina, but the girl appeared either oblivious or indifferent to the goings-on in the dressing room. Sophie settled her on a chaise lounge near the fire with a blanket.
Those words from Miss Morwenna and the Dowager Countess on Sophie’s first evening came back to her, ‘…There is a book of old vampire lore on the shelves here…Someone presented it to the Dear Late Count, knowing of his interest in myth…’
Sophie must read it, and ask Katarina more besides. She sat down by the bed in a stupor of horror. Monsieur Émile dozed or rambled in French or English. Sometimes he swore in both languages. Once he urged her, “That Jade – keep away from the place, Sophie.”
A couple of times he said, “Viens ici, salaud.”
Gradually, the household wound down for the night. The sounds of footsteps and distant voices died away. The tickings and creakings of a night house took over.
Sophie roused. The candles were guttering and a chill silence fell on the room. She knew what was coming before she heard the tapping at the window. She looked about wildly, wondering if she dared go and knock at the dressing room door. Her inhibitions outweighed her terror, and she didn’t.
Suddenly, she knew she must see what was outside the window. She tottered on jelly legs to wrench back the curtain, her fingers as stiff and awkward as if she had sat on them an hour.
A giant bat hovered outside, staring at her with malevolent red eyes.
She fell away from the window, dropping the curtain. She found herself back by Monsieur Émile’s bed – he was in no state
to protect anyone this time – and dropping to her knees, she began to pray desperately.
“Oh Lord, protect us. Please let him not become a vampire. Let there be a cure.”
Katarina had joined her. Then she became aware of Monsieur Émile, propped up on one elbow. He looked outraged and said hoarsely, “Taisez-vous!”
She hoped this was annoyance at being disturbed and his general irreligiousness rather than a sign that he was turning into a monster.
She squeezed Katarina’s hand and coaxed Monsieur to lie down. Now the candles were burning steadily and the fire had flared up one more. She put a hand on his brow. “Katarina, we must sponge him down again.”
While Katarina warmed the water, she stood by the bed stroking his forehead. He made no objection, seemingly soothed by it. It soothed her too.
Agnes and Georges came out of the dressing room, Agnes flushed and happy, Georges looking more conceited than ever. “How does Monsieur?”
“Very ill. We must have Dr Powell look at him as soon as may be.” To prescribe a cure for vampirism? How absurd. Certainly, no blood letting will be required; Monsieur has had more than enough of that.
“Off to bed with you, Katarina.” Agnes said briskly. “We will take good care of your precious master. There is no need to refuse to leave his side like a faithful dog.”
“He needs the cure.”
They argued in whispers. Georges jeered at the girls’ terrors. “Vampires? Your Tarot nonsense was bad enough before, Agnes, but this! Are you saying Kenrick sleeps in a coffin like them things is said to do – with such a wife? Still, I do not want to say too much before you, Katarina, ma petite.”
“No, he doesn’t need to avoid daylight, for he is not a full vampire, nor she. But they are dangerous monsters, nevertheless. Monsieur will be as they are, if he does not take a cure.”
“Quel idiocy! There is a big bat been kept as a pet escaped and Gilles Long Legs has the illness the others had merely.”
Agnes demanded, “What think you of the bites on his neck, Georges?”
“Done falling over in them mountain bushes as he staggered home.”
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 12