That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  Émile took Sophie in to a dinner table as luxurious and inviting as always. The candlelight set off the glow of the plate and illuminated Sophie’s centrepiece, the spread of dishes and the stained glass window. As ever, Émile dismissed the servants so they could talk intimately.

  He might pass as sober to a stranger. Sophie knew him well enough to sense how blunted his sensitivities were, though that might partly be his new inhuman nature. As he came over, as always, to help her to food, prickles ran down her spine. He now seemed to be as lithe as ever, and he exuded an air of being sated, horribly satisfied.

  At least, he would have been scrupulous about only taking a little.

  Meanwhile he smiled upon her in a way that put her in mind of the wolf trying to convince Red Riding Hood how it was harmless. She met his eyes only to pull hers away, trying to hide her shudder. “How are you now, Émile? I trust those cuts are not too painful?”

  He looked startled. “I had quite forgot them, they mend apace. And what did My Lovely Girl this afternoon? I hope you were not too alarmed by our singular visitor, ma chère. At last I begin to understand how all this comes about. Keep your distance from such, but as I said, I do not think such incomplete visitations bring full strength or awareness with them. Still, I must be watchful.” He chucked her under the chin, his talons tenderly grazing her skin.

  She kept herself from flinching back. “I had sufficient novelty for the afternoon in that visit. I practiced my music, and then Katarina and I did some work for the Poor Box. And you?”

  “My Good Girl and her Good Works…Does Madame want some of this fowl dish?” He helped her to it. “I cudgelled my brains in my study, after which Georges and I took some relaxation in Denbigh. I believe it is the county town, though bien sûr hardly more than a village. My girl, you look alarmed.”

  She mumbled something. He looked offended rather than hurt, and turned to glance in the mirror. “I don’t look much worse than ever I did. It is so much the better those ridiculous freckles about which you are so sentimental have faded.” He sat down and began to eat, but soon shot at her: “You guess, chérie, about the late Tom?”

  “The late Tom?” Her voice came out as a whisper, but with his new hearing he had no trouble in understanding her.

  “He was shot in an ambush at Hounslow Heath. It was a balmy summer’s day with curlews making a sleepy sound until the shooting began. Georges and I enjoyed the fun once again, courtesy of Kenrick, the night before you swore yourself to me. It is nice to think in a way Tom survives. Of course, my little believer would never doubt his continued existence. By the by, where do you consider that rogues such as myself go when they die? You have never enlightened me.”

  She sighed aloud. “Of course, your rescuing Katarina says nothing about you, whereas if you were a regular churchgoer, never doing a charitable act, you could reasonably expect a place in Heaven. You will laugh, and I hope I don’t sound sententious when I say I am sure we will all eventually meet and understand each other in the next world.”

  He showed his animal’s teeth in an indulgent leer. “All of us? What a tender believer it is! Just think on it, your sweet self and Agnes and Katarina too, myself, Georges, Tom, Mr Kit, Dolly, Kenrick and That Jade, Captain Mackenzie and Kenrick and his lackey Arthur Williams all united in a state of eternal bliss. Eh bien, I would not deprive you of such a hope, my sweet one. Just allow me to send Kenrick and the Gallant Captain ahead betimes, eh?” He laughed, and began to eat again heartily. Clearly, the blood hadn’t interfered with his normal appetite.

  This jovial remark made Sophie leave what remained on her plate. Now Émile became, for the first time since she known him, self-pitying. “What have I done to deserve such distrustful glances from ma femme?”

  Sophie kept silence, torn between sentimental sympathy towards him and the desire to laugh at the absurdity of a maudlin vampire.

  “You see me as a beast, complete with teeth and claws. You are horrified by Gilles Long Legs after all, particularly now he thirsts for your blood. Don’t protest, I see it in your eyes. Ha! For all your talk of loving me forever, no doubt you agree with Lord Dale.”

  “But I must always love you–” she began, but he was still talking.

  “When I relieved him of his valuables, outrage got the better of his fear as he croaked, ‘You are That Scoundrel Émile Dubois! I know you by your eyes!’

  ‘I said in a London accent, ‘What me, a foreigner?” I did enjoy distributing that part of his wealth to the women and children on the streets. But I realised it was as well to take up Ynyr’s pressing invitations to come to Wales. Here I met the girl who made such a fool of me at a certain soiree back in Paris…” He rambled on in maudlin gloom.

  “Émile, you are wrong, I –”

  “Don’t blather, my girl. You broke my heart then and are like to do so again with your rejections of me.” He gave her a filthy look, and then got to his feet adroitly for one under the influence of drink. “Now I must patrol about and see if I have to fight off any more attempts on these miserable ingrates of humans under my care. Do not test me too far, ma femme. Yes, I know you have plans afoot. Don’t believe for an instant you fool your tame wolf...” Still rambling, he left, swaying slightly.

  Plas Cyfeillgar

  Famau Mountain

  Kenrick was putting up a long portrait back in its usual place in his study on the outer wall. He spoke to it, as he often did. When not communicating with it, he drew the heavy green velvet curtain over it.

  “I could not endure to think of those low criminals near you when they called, staring, perhaps even defacing you.” His jaw worked in fury at the thought.

  Behind him, a flickering came on the ceiling and began to play downwards. Moving pictures formed and coalesced, turning three dimensional and running down the walls. He turned, stared, started towards them and subsided to the floor, breathing evenly.

  The horses pulled the carriage up the track. All about, the mountainous, wild landscape of Transylvania was as dramatic as a stage backdrop.

  As they came to the hill, the coachman jumped down, cursing the passenger for not joining him in sparing the horses.

  Inside, Kenrick sprawled, gasping and staring, eyes wild. Finally, he choked out, “I must stop her --- she must not run and fall…” The carriage moved ever more slowly, finally coming to a halt. There was a rap at the door and the man’s head, surmounted by a disordered thatch of hair, appeared in the window, insisting that Kenrick must get out. Kenrick stared, uncomprehending. The man became voluble.

  Finally, Kenrick cursed him and climbed out. He looked about bemused, and then began to walk swiftly, urging the coachman on with gestures.

  The coachman was as surly as any of those who served Kenrick seemed fated to become. As the horses plodded on, their flanks steaming, he muttered in his own language. Kenrick became angry and took a swipe at one of the horses with his cane. The man reproached him in a torrent of his own language and Kenrick turned on him, hissing and barring his long teeth. The man jumped back, eyes widening, and made the sign of the Evil Eye.

  Kenrick moved past him, starting to run. The man made the sign again just as Kenrick stumbled. He called out in triumph as Kenrick seized his head and panted, eyes wild. Then with a spasmodic clutching movement, Kenrick was on the ground, wheezing. As the man came up to him, brandishing his cross, Kenrick’s eyes showed no recognition as his breath came in gasps.

  “Vampire!” the man cried, and Kenrick’s eyes gradually cleared. He muttered, “Put that wretched thing away, you miserable superstitious fool!”

  Kenrick lay on the floor of the study, still gasping. His look changed gradually from one of dazed astonishment to one of exultation.

  He clenched his fists: “It can be done! I was joined to my old self. I remember, afterwards, finding myself on the ground and that fool’s terror of me.”

  Ceridwen stood staring down at him. He looked almost with hatred at her lovely face and wonderful figure, those eyes
as hard as lovely marbles.

  Her tone was sharp. “What ails you? Are you in a fit?”

  “I have been wrenched back in time and in space, across to Transylvania.” He spoke coldly now, unwilling to show his emotion to her.

  Ceridwen’s eyes quickened. “I felt a strange sucking myself from those images.”

  “Now I have more than ever need of that Dubois’ mathematical skill. I cannot afford to wait. This may not last. As well I thirst, my dear, and I called in at Plas Uchaf to leave my card only the other day.”

  Plas Uchaf

  Famau Mountain

  Morwenna wandered about her bedroom, singing.

  She had dismissed her maid early, wanting to spend some time alone before she went to bed, gloating over the things Lord Ynyr had murmured that day. Now, whenever she thought of him, it was with a melting sensation. It was odd how before she’d never thought of the Count romantically, for all his good looks. True, she’d angled for him while always truly liking him too, but now, a spark had caught and flared between them.

  Odd, that she should suddenly feel so cold outside, when her insides felt so warm. She shivered even as the candles started to gutter. She turned, astonished to see the fire burning low and Kenrick standing beside her, hands stretched out.

  Even as she cried out in fear, she became fascinated by the secret in those cold eyes. To find it out mattered more than anything.

  In the moment that Kenrick’s teeth entered her neck, she had a glimpse of its nature.

  It was a human secret, with a smiling woman. She was plain and insignificant, but with a tender understanding in her eyes that transcended intelligence as she held out her arms in welcome: ‘We have been apart too long.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Émile’s eyes glowed in the dark. He sniffed the skin on Sophie’s half revealed bosom appreciatively. He sniffed quickly, like an animal, and sighed. She was still fast asleep, seemingly trusting once more after their reconciliation, her arms still about his neck. He kissed her face, murmuring endearments. She made a small noise of satisfaction, holding him tighter before sinking back into sleep.

  He began slowly and gently to disentangle himself, murmuring soothingly to her the while. Perhaps that reminded him of his murmured reassurance to her that first night together; anyway, he risked waking her by softly kissing her some more. She sighed as he placed her arm on the pillow, and he smiled on her for a moment before leaving.

  Éloise was up early in the cold dark of the February morning to light the fires. The servants might be indulged at Plas Planwydden, but still must do such tasks. She hurried along the passages to the breakfast room, shivering so the shadows her candle cast on the wall lurched.

  When a figure appeared down the passage, she started. Then she saw that it was only Monsieur lurking in the hallway.

  Even in the light of the candle – for some reason he didn’t have one – she noticed he was looking strangely bright-eyed, but was his usual self otherwise. She thought him magnificent in his rich dressing gown. His look of interest didn’t surprise her, though she was flattered. She curtseyed, glancing up at him.

  He smiled amiably. “You are up betimes, Éloise.”

  “I must light the fires. But you are up early yourself, Monsieur Émile.” She fluttered her eyelashes. He started to look odd. She thought she knew the reason, despite the early hour. She giggled, and approached him, her lips pursed.

  “I am going out for an early ride.” His eyes suddenly fixed on hers, and he went on to mumble something about, “Nothing about your neck.”

  She thought that he was going to scold her for not wearing her cross. She’d taken it off to put on her necklace for town on her half day yesterday, and forgotten to put it on again. Remembering the tales going about the villages, she’d been relieved to meet no demonic bats on her way home in the cart with Guto.

  He muttered again, “Run away, girl –”

  “You wish me to go?” She knew he didn’t, and stayed, fascinated.

  He moved towards her, and began to stroke her glossy hair. She thought the flaring and animal green in his eyes mad and drew back. Then she lost interest in escape, because they had locked with hers and the most important thing in the world was discovering the secret hidden in their depths.

  She saw it, too. It was a courtyard on a drowsy summer’s day, and some boys playing marbles on warm flagstones. Monsieur Émile was carrying her to the chill of the breakfast room, laying her down on the chaise longue near the fireplace and biting her neck, but that was of no interest in comparison.

  By a huge effort, Émile wrenched his lips away from her throat after three mouthfuls. They moved, trying to fasten on her neck again almost of their own accord. He took out his handkerchief to staunch her bleeding, while she slept on. His eyes were beginning to clear, and he shook his head and cursed himself as he worked to stop the flow. He had to use saliva to clean the wound, muttering to himself, “Let us hope my spittle is not as poisonous to ma pauvre jeune fille as That Jade’s was to me.”

  She was shivering. He wrenched off his coat to cover her and hurried to light the fire with the equipment. When it was burning, he examined her neck again. The bleeding had stopped, helped no doubt by the chill in the great dim room, which was only slowly beginning to lift.

  He whispered to her, “When I leave the room, you will wake up, believing you have just lit the fire, not remembering anything of this, nor wondering how you came by this money. You will hide the marks on your neck, though wondering not how you came by them.” He put some coins in her pocket, pulled on his coat and disappeared.

  “Church?” Émile, helping himself to ham and eggs, looked resentful at Sophie’s request. “I have things to do, chérie. You have been praying enough of late to excuse you from regular attendance, bien sûr.” He raised his eyebrows.

  She thought of those times when, slipping out of his sleeping embrace, she knelt down by the bed, praying desperately. She should have taken into account his hearing was now that of a bat. She was nervous, too, as her peculiar sense that he had taken blood from another woman was back.

  Guto scratched at the door and handed a note to Émile. “It’s urgent, Sir, from Lord Ynyr.”

  “It must be, when we were due to dine with them tonight.” Émile tore open the note and his eyes dilated, then blazed.

  “Émile, what is it?”

  “Morwenna is like to die.”

  “If I had only warned you.” Émile whispered to Morwenna, squeezing her unresponsive hand, while she lay ghastly and comatose. “The others might have jeered me, but with your fascination with the macabre, you might not. I so hate myself for this. Forgive me, ma petite.”

  Lord Ynyr was by him, looking startled as well as distraught. “Émile, whatever are you saying? Surely, you do not blame yourself? Most likely this is not the same contagion you had weeks since.”

  Émile whipped about, guilt still in his eyes. “More of this later, Ynyr. For now, when comes the doctor again?”

  “This afternoon.” It was the first time the Count had ever known Dr Powell not be optimistic, save when the patient was already nearly dead.

  Sophie came from talking to the Dowager Countess, who lay on her couch with her smelling salts and a miniature of her two late daughters. She had refused to hear of Sophie’s helping to nurse Morwenna.

  “Vraiment, Dr Powell seems unsure of the nature of this illness. It might be contagious, though he speaks of a startling depletion of the blood for which he can find no explanation. It seems far worse than the one through which you nursed Émile. I cannot prevent poor Ynyr from haunting the chamber with his potions, but I will not have you put yourself at risk, when you are lately married. We have sent for Morwenna’s old nurse, and if anyone can rally our poor girl, it will be she…No, Sophie! Please respect my wishes.”

  Sophie sighed, feeling guilty. Desperately sorry for Morwenna, she was the more eager to help nurse her because she was ashamed of her own former lingering res
entment about how Morwenna’s had treated her as The Poor Relative. She was ashamed too of her jealousy over Émile’s anguish over her. Her only comfort was how much worse matters would be had she suspected Émile.

  As they walked down the gallery, the long windows gave a view out of over the mountainside and Émile glared across to the red rooftops of Plas Cyfeillgar.

  Lord Ynyr looked down at Katarina, patrolling the formal garden. He sighed, thinking of how when Émile arrived at Plas Uchaf last Christmas, he had been the bereaved one, but now their positions were to some extent reversed. “Émile, there is the child you and Sophie are in a way to adopting. How your position has changed since you came to us! You are blessed indeed.”

  Émile blinked. “Blessed, eh?” he muttered, but was too preoccupied to make the answer that would normally come to him. Meanwhile, Sophie saw Mrs Brown glaring at him as though weighing him for the gallows.

  The bitter wind blew flecks of snow in their faces as they rattled down the mountain paths in the pony and trap Émile had insisted on driving himself to save time on the mountain tracks. He brooded in silence. Sophie knew he would go to confront Kenrick.

  They came to where the lane branched off to the more level path leading to Plas Cyfeillgar, down which the Count’s party had ridden on the sleigh last Christmas. She sensed his longing to confront Kenrick at once.

  She said, “Someone must have invited Kenrick inside, but poor Morwenna cannot have worn her cross.”

  Émile turned on her his inscrutable look. “You shiver, and Katarina having been ill, we must get you home betimes for hot soup.” Then he tensed, listening, a wild longing in his look. “What is that?”

  Sophie and Katarina could hear nothing, but a few moments later, they caught the thrilling cry of the wolf. Sophie tightened her arms about Katarina. The horses plunged and Émile had to get them under control before pulling out his pistol.