That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  Yet Georges made no objection to their using the herbs; his own mother in Provence had used herbal medicines. “Alors, it will make Monsieur laugh when he gets the better of this. Fear not, I’ll keep your wild ideas to myself. Little wonder you wish them to be secret…There he is, spewing again. I will leave him to your care, Mademoiselles.”

  Sophie kept telling herself she would go to bed shortly. She woke at about six, with her face buried in the covers of the bed. Agnes slept in another chair next to her, her cap disarranged, while Katarina dozed on the chaise longue, and Sophie thought they looked adorable.

  In the icy drawing room at Plas Cyfeillgar, Kenrick was complaining about the cost of replacing the window Émile had broken in escaping.

  Ceridwen Kenrick distracted herself by looking across the room at her reflection, thankful as a half human she had one. She liked to reassure herself by looking at her beauty; this shocking pink dress, cut off the shoulder, brought out the warm tones in her skin, setting off her inky hair.

  A detached part of her mind spoke, as it did sometimes, try not to think as she would: Your beauty is all you have left in life. Your emotions are no warmer than those of that monster sitting opposite you, complaining of domestic trivia.

  “I am minded to send the ruffian the bill. Firstly he sees fit to steal one of our skivvies, now this. To be sure in his past there are enough of those scenes of blood and gore with which you entertain your sweet self, my dear. Did he see your display, to react with such violence he could overcome Arthur? Usually our conquests are torpid.”

  Ceridwen played with her rings. “I regret he may have seen it. He seemed to object to my taking his blood, too. It is strange how humans resent that particular intimacy. He was in a trance when I left to deal with one of our domestic crises. I returned to see Monsieur’s exit. I have not enjoyed such entertainment since I saw that play on Robin Hood.

  ‘Arthur loves a fight and picked up the nearest weapon from the hall, but Gilles Long Legs had a cutlass. I was entertained by a fight worthy of Robin Hood escaping from Nottingham Castle. Monsieur managed to wound poor Arthur – one of us though he is – then kicked out the glass of the window and hurled himself through.”

  Kenrick scowled. “Women pretend to detest violence, yet they thrill to a fight. Such hypocrisy! Scarce wonder Captain Mackenzie is such a success with the ladies. He is worse than Dubois, which is saying much. The man is like a Marquis of whom I heard lives in Dubois’ part of France – what is his name, Comte de Sade?* Still, what woman have I known who is not a Jade masquerading as a domestic goddess? Do I see a blush, Madam? No, it would be too maidenly. I digress.

  ‘Regarding that ruffian Dubois, he is a criminal, and we must remember how their brains aren’t those of the normal human. As he came so early to himself, I hope that he will respond to the orders you put in his warped mind?”

  “I am sure of it, you need have no fear.”

  “Good. Both he and that ineffectual Lord avoided my gaze, but I knew I could rely on my little wife.” He reached over to chuck her under the chin and she jerked her head away.

  He rose and went to drop a kiss on her shoulder, while she shuddered. He laughed outright. “Good night, my dear. Stay not awake for me.”

  She didn’t smile. “There is little chance of that.”

  “Are you ready to leave for Chester tomorrow? I collect Alick Mackenzie will meet us betimes? Arthur comes too if he is sufficiently recovered. Dear one, you are spoilt for choice quite.”

  He was gone.

  She went over to the cabinet and took out the heavy book, mirror, candles and little glass. She hurried up to her bedroom, sighing with relief as she shut the door behind her, though of course, no door could keep out Kenrick.

  She set up the book, and worked some time on the flickering lights and the shadows plunging on the ceiling. She swore, while beads of sweat and faint lines showed on her brow.

  At last, she was rewarded. A solid Georgian house appeared above her, and she honed in ever closer until she had a bright nursery where stood a family group. A dark and lovely girl, her face so soft she was hardly recognisable as Ceridwen herself, held up a baby for the admiration of the man, handsome, blond and dandified, who smiled on them. She put the baby down on the rug, where she crawled and chuckled while they watched her.

  Ceridwen spared no glances for the man, her eyes fixed on the baby. She let out a sob, but no tears came. She breathed hard, clutching her hands spasmodically: “Marcie!” She jumped up and flung open her arms.

  While the baby seemed always about to crawl down from the ceiling, she never did.

  Ceridwen stared in torment, her face distorted, while the visions above ran on. Once she gave a violent jolt, seemingly pulled slightly upwards. She shrieked, “Yes!” but the movement ceased. She covered her face, and groping, slammed the book to, cutting off the pictures and the gurgling.

  Monsieur Émile continued in a delirium the next morning. The Dowager Countess sent for Dr Powell.

  Sophie was snatching a couple of hours’ sleep in her own bed when the doctor arrived, but Éloise told Agnes how Georges and Dr Powell had to restrain Monsieur Émile while he cursed the Doctor for a sneaking Bow Street Runner. Why he should object so to a visit from one puzzled Éloise. Sophie could imagine Georges’ inscrutable look.

  At breakfast, the Dowager Countess said mournfully, “It is good of you to take so much of the burden of nursing my nephew upon yourself, ma chère. It is too bad he should need your care now, when many of the staff are sick too, there are people ill in the village, another baby is due, the flowers are wilting in the dining room though we have the Bishop to dinner tonight and my sewing is somehow all of a tangle.”

  “All this, dear Madame,” smiled Lord Ynyr, “Only serves to show how invaluable Miss Sophie is become to us.”

  “Thank you Your Lordship, you are too kind.” A couple of weeks back, Sophie would have batted her eyelashes at him. Now if her lids drooped it was through fatigue.

  The Count went on, “Dr Powell says Émile will be better directly. The others are recovering and the doctor is quite won over to plant cures. I am happy you have prevailed on our awkward patient to take the herbs I left with him, Miss Sophie.”

  Sophie forced a smile before sipping her coffee. She usually drank tea, but wanted something stronger this morning. Over this elegant breakfast table it was impossible to credit how Her Ladyship had far more cause to worry than she knew. Gazing through the great window at the lightening sky, Sophie was glad that from this side of the house the roofs of Plas Cyfeillgar weren’t visible.

  Katarina told Sophie the sooner the cure was begun, the more effective it would be. Now, however, Éloise was with Monsieur, probably disobeying Sophie’s orders to give him only the herb tea.

  What an annoying girl she is, with her heaving bosom and sparkling eyes. Admit you fear your scoundrel of an admirer might transfer his interest to her, Mistress Kenrick having proved to be so savage a mistress.

  Sophie had thought of telling Éloise the truth, but Agnes jeered: “As well tell the town crier. Before we knew it that hen gast (old bitch) Mrs Brown would be trotting to the Dowager Countess and is most likely we would all be locked in our rooms as lunatics.”

  Sophie thought over confiding in Lord Ynyr. Surely, he would dismiss her stories as lightly as Georges, though certainly with more punctilio.

  Yet as they left the breakfast room, she found herself asking, “What think you, Sir, of the wounds on Monsieur Émile’s neck?”

  He gave her his kind smile. “Do not trouble yourself. Dr Powell is sure it is not the bite of a mad animal. Émile himself will tell us how he came by them when he is recovered and knowing him, jesting the while.”

  The Dowager Countess turned back. “Alors, Miss Morwenna will be back this afternoon to organise us all.”

  Miss Morwenna swished her russet dress into the sickroom shortly after two. As Sophie rose from her seat by the bed, she frowned on the Poor Relative a
ccusingly. “Whatever has happened to Monsieur Émile?”

  Sophie found herself stammering guiltily. “Monsieur Émile returned ill from his walk.”

  “He was well in the morning. But he is cut, too! Émile, is there anything I can fetch you?”

  Émile opened his eyes. “Morwenna, I need my knife. Where’s Georges? He must come with me.”

  “Why, you poor thing, you are wandering in your wits. Éloise, go for the cordial Monsieur likes sometimes. What is this dismal looking potion? Ynyr’s herbs, for sure, ugh, and garlic, too. Very well, but I do swear by the cordial.”

  She dismissed Katarina and Sophie. “There are too many people here; anyone would think it was an assembly. I will see Monsieur Émile takes Ynyr’s precious herbs…Please don’t argue further, Miss Sophie!”

  Biting her lip, Sophie went to the library. As she opened the door she remembered the scene with Monsieur Émile here. Fighting back a sob, she began to search the shelves.

  The book on vampire lore wasn’t on any of the lower shelves, though there seemed to be books about everything else. She couldn’t find the catalogue, so looking for a section on myths, she scanned memoirs, maps, collections of sermons, scientific volumes and medical books. There were few on plant cures, for Lord Ynyr kept these in his laboratory.

  Sophie pulled across the short ladder, hoisted her skirts carelessly and scaled it.

  Finally, she came upon the selection on the top shelf over by the statues. She pulled out fully a hundred books, sneezing in the dust she dislodged, but found nothing on vampires. She turned impatiently at a knock at the door.

  Agnes came in, giggling. “Oh, dear, Miss Sophie, is funny, though poor Monsieur Émile! You are wanted in the sickroom.”

  “By Miss Morwenna?”

  “Miss Morwenna is too squeamish to watch Monsieur spewing up like a fountain, and is run away saying she has an idea for the dinner table tonight.”

  Over the next couple of days, Sophie became so tired that later she could never remember what happened sequentially. Monsieur Émile remained in a fever. She, Katarina and Agnes dosed him with the herbs, he brought most of them up again, and Sophie pulled her hair in frustration.

  Agnes spent the earlier part of each evening with Georges in Monsieur Émile’s dressing room. The rest she spent with Sophie, sitting up by him, while Katarina slept in snatches on the chaise longue. The sultry Éloise came as often as she could.

  Miss Morwenna looked in to lay a tender hand on Monsieur’s brow and then left quickly. Madame Blanch, the under housekeeper, Lord Ynyr and Her Ladyship looked in at the sick chamber, but never stayed long. Not calling in during the night, they never surprised Sophie sleeping with her head on the bed.

  Sophie went on failing to find a book on vampire legends in the library.

  Finally she caught Lord Ynyr alone. She thought she must seem furtive as she tried to conceal her desperation. “Your Lordship – you might consider this morbid, but I am interested in the book on vampire lore Her Ladyship once mentioned.”

  The Count’s eyebrows shot up. “My dear Miss Sophie! I hope you are not joining Miss Morwenna in a fascination with the supernatural?”

  “No, Sir, but I am interested to learn how people reconcile such beliefs with Christianity.”

  The Count smiled. “I doubt they trouble their heads about the finer points of theology. I think you will find a book in the library written by a believer who credits such nonsense. You know our librarian was obliged to take several weeks of absence, leaving a pile of books in that antechamber across from the library where he does his cataloguing. It might be among those. Do you know, Miss Sophie, these last few weeks absurd rumours have started in the villages? The Vicar is outraged. Perhaps it was these roused your curiosity?”

  Tired though Sophie was, she sang after dinner each day. Morwenna said teasingly as they exchanged places at the piano, “Miss Sophie, I am more anxious than you over Monsieur Émile – having known him since the nursery – but you have lost your colour sadly, whereas I am determined to keep mine.”

  On the third evening, the Lewis family came to an informal dinner.

  Sophie wore her peacock blue dress. When she sang after dinner, the younger Mr Lewis stood by the instrument, turning the pages of her music and looking intense. Morwenna gave them quizzing glances. Sophie was confident the youth would soon get over his infatuation. Hers with Monsieur was a different matter.

  Soon, she left the company (young Mr Lewis’s face fell absurdly) and went up to the sick chamber, first changing into her ordinary grey dress.

  Agnes told her Monsieur Émile’s fever was lifting before going with Georges to the dressing room. Katarina agreed to go to bed at last. Yawning, she explained how now the fever was abating, after one last dose tomorrow, the cure must be stopped. Meanwhile, it would be impossible to tell if it was working, as either way, Monsieur must develop ‘Symptoms’ over the next few weeks.

  “Tell me what those might be?” Sophie tried to steady her voice.

  Katarina’s voice shook too. “In the Half Vampire, the teeth and nails sharpen, the monster side comes to the fore and the thirst for blood.”

  Despite herself, Sophie shivered. She put on a bright tone. “We shall not worry about that for now. You have been wonderful, dear.” She kissed her the girl, but then couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Are there other cures?”

  “Yes, Miss, but they cannot work yet…”

  Sophie was left alone with Monsieur. She sat by the bed righting the Dowager Countess’ embroidery and then her crochet work.

  He kept his eyes closed and seemed to be asleep. She knew he wasn’t. When she got up to do chores, she felt his gaze on her. Once, turning quickly, she even saw the glint of his eyes before he could close them.

  Finally, tossing aside the crochet work, she moved her chair closer to the bed, and began to stroke his forehead. He allowed this intimacy, she supposed for the last time. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and looked full at her, his gaze going to her throat.

  For a horrible moment, she feared he was thinking of biting her, but he muttered, “That necklace.”

  She said, “I swear I know not how you came by it, but you see I have worn it since you put it about my throat.”

  He was about to speak when there was a flickering. Sophie glanced about, saw it was coming from somewhere about the ceiling, and gasped in terror as pictures formed and spread down, so they were all about the canopy of the bed.

  Monsieur Émile was clutching her to him, his eyes dilated as he pulled her head down onto his shoulder, hiding her face. “Not those accursed scenes from that Jade!”

  But far worse – ludicrously too – they were both drawn up towards the moving shapes, which had solidified into crowded buildings, a squalid street. They were still clinging on to each other, and floating, as if in a dream. It was incredible; it was impossible, but it was happening. They struggled against being drawn into those living images, but the pull was inexorable.

  “It’s Paris. Keep with me, Sophie!” Despite being weakened by illness, he held Sophie so tightly he hurt her – and she clung to him with all her strength – but they were wrenched apart. She landed in Revolutionary Paris by herself.

  Chapter Nine

  Paris

  May 1794

  Sophie came down gently on some cobbles in the middle of a narrow street. There was a strong smell of urine and rotting vegetables. Monsieur Émile was nowhere in sight.

  Before she could think, a cart clattered past, the owner turning to shout at her as it clattered away.

  Sobbing, she staggered to her feet, dizzy, her heart hammering so that she could scarcely breathe. She stared about desperately. The street was dark and narrow with rubbish littered at both sides. She noted a couple of primitive looking shops. It was warm, thankfully, and from the light that filtered down even into this narrow, dark alley, she guessed it must be some time in the afternoon.

  A hulking, seedy looking young man was hurrying
over to her, speaking in French. He was acting out concern, pretending to help her to her feet, but she could tell he felt none. He groped her breast with one hand and tried to get to her pocket with the other.

  “Ugh!” She slapped at him furiously.

  Laughing nastily, he felt at her bodice again while another man came up, eyeing her intently. On top of everything else, her assailant smelt of old sweats and dribbled urine. His teeth as he leered at her were rotten.

  Disgusted, she slapped at him again. His accomplice was laughing delightedly. At this second blow the man became angry. Swearing, he slapped her back, catching her on the side of the face. She shrieked and an approaching man shouted. The lout snatched at her pocket, and a large woman ran towards them, yelling. The accomplice turned and ran, and Sophie’s assailant took one look at the woman and ran fast too.

  Sophie let out another hysterical sob. The middle-aged man was pressing enquiries. Her head whirled and she felt in a nightmare, unable to answer even in English. Meanwhile a young workman joined in the chase.

  Everything was confused. “Anglaise?” another woman was asking. A group was assembling as Sophie tried to gather her wits.

  The situation was desperate. Monsieur Émile had said the images were of Paris. She was in France, a country at war with her own, without money and with only a rough knowledge of the language. She knew no-one except her missing relative, who was somewhere here, half naked and ill. What could she do to help them both?

  Then, she remembered his insistence on their having met in Paris.

  “S’il vous plait, quelle date sommes-nous aujourd’hui?” She knew the phrase well from her governess.

  The man stared; certainly, she had spoken breathlessly, and her accent wasn’t good. She repeated herself. He said something about ‘mai.’.

  Of course! She had fallen asleep unaccountably on her bed last May.

  The large woman came panting back, swearing. The louts and the workman in pursuit must have outrun her. Sophie asked hopelessly, “Gilles Long Legs?”