Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  She escorted him into the parlor. A coal fire was burning in the hearth and the red silk curtains were drawn over the windows. She took his cloak, again noticing that it was none the worse for wear from the frightful weather. “May I pour you a glass of port?”

  “Thank you.”

  She went to a walnut cabinet from which she withdrew Papa’s decanter of port and a single glass. Her hands shook treacherously as she poured. What was it about this man that set her nerves on edge? She could see him so much more clearly here in the candlelight than she had that night on the bridge or in the dimly-lit garret room at his house. His fine, strong features were clearly not those of an Englishman, but indicative more of his Slavic ancestry. His well-featured face was full of haunting angles with eyelids as pale as harebells and delicate blue veins visible beneath the translucent skin. His clothes were well tailored, and though his bearing gave the impression of someone well bred, there was, nevertheless, an unrefined quality about him. He did not possess an imposing frame, yet even with his slender form and pallid complexion he managed to convey a solid, rock-like impression.

  She returned with the glass of port. “This should warm you. It’s frightful outside.” The burning candles caught the golden highlights in her hair that cascaded past her shoulders reaching nearly to the waist of her simple dressing gown as she handed him the glass.

  “You are not joining me?” he asked as he took a sip.

  Pru gave a demure shake of the head. “I’m afraid it goes much too quickly to my head. We are about to take our evening meal. Would you care to join us?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” he answered, “but I have recently fed.”

  “Won’t you have a seat?”

  She gestured to a mahogany settee that sat in front of a carved gilt wood mirror. “I cannot stay,” he flatly declined, moving away. “I came to thank you for delivering the sheet music the other evening. I have taken the liberty of adding my humble expression to your father’s brilliance. I would be honored if you would allow me to play it for you.”

  “Certainly. You can play it in the music room.”

  “Not here. At my home.” In answer to the uncertain look that flashed across her face, he swiftly added, “I am partial to my own instrument.”

  A part of Pru was relieved that he was not staying. “I would be pleased to hear you play it.”

  “Good. Then shall we say tomorrow evening at eight? I’ll send a carriage for you.” He swallowed down the rest of the port and handed the glass back to her. Swirling his cloak about his shoulders, he said, “I must admit, I am a bit shy about my music. Perhaps you would not mind to come alone.”

  Pru moistened her lips as she contemplated the invitation. Aunt Vivienne usually went out for the evening. Papa would be asleep, and Gladys would be here to look in on him. It was highly improper for her to be alone with a man in his house, but any objection she might have uttered was stilled upon her tongue when she looked into those intense green eyes and heard herself say, “Alone. Yes, of course.”

  She walked him to the door and did not see his malicious grin as he disappeared down the street and was swallowed up by the fog.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Will you ring for a cup of tea, my dear?” James Hightower asked in a thin voice that sounded like it belonged to a much older man.

  “Of course, Papa.”

  Pru gave the bellpull a good tug. She went to the candle that had burned its beeswax nearly to its base and touched its wick to a fresh candle. In moments light sputtered into the bedroom.

  Her father lay in his bed, his face looking ashen and lost against the feather pillow. Earlier in the day he had looked a little better, but this evening the tiredness had set in anew, washing the energy from his limbs and the color from his cheeks, giving him a pallid, death-like appearance and Pru fresh cause for concern.

  She looked up when the maidservant came into the room. “Some tea please, Gladys.” The woman nodded and left.

  During the time in which it took to draw the water and set it to boil, Pru jabbed a poker into the embers in the fireplace and threw in more coal she had brought up from the cellar. She tucked in the corners of the quilt and propped up the pillow behind Papa’s head, all the while wondering how to tell him of her decision.

  “Papa…” she began, but staunched her words when Gladys entered with the tray and set it down on the bedside table. She exchanged a worried look with Gladys from over her shoulder as the maidservant closed the door behind herself.

  Pru poured her father a cup of tea and guided it gently to his hands. His fingers were long and finely shaped, the pads of those on his left hand slightly roughened from years of pressing the strings of the violoncello. There had always been a transcendent quality about him which her mother had called his musician’s nature. And yet, he had shown amazing strength of character when he had given up performing in favor of teaching, which paid a better wage when he had a family to support and there were so many students eager to learn from the master.

  Pru’s attention was drawn to the gentle ticking of the chiming clock on the mantle. The carriage would be arriving within the hour. “Papa…” she began again.

  “Where is your aunt?” he weakly uttered between sips of tea.

  “Out for the evening. We must not fault her for wanting some amusement. She works so hard to take care of you, coming to your room as she does each evening before she goes out.”

  An expression of apprehension tugged at his tired face. “You must not let her come.”

  “She assures me it’s no trouble at all.” She offered a guilty little smile. “I know she talks quite a bit, but having her here has been a Godsend.” But as it wasn’t the subject of Aunt Vivienne she wanted to deal with, she said directly, “Papa, there is something I must discuss with you.” She hesitated, chewing a corner of her lip. She had rehearsed the words over and over again, yet when faced with their delivery, she grew suddenly unsure of just what to say.

  “What troubles you, my dear?” he asked of the cryptic look in her blue eyes.

  “It’s about Edmund.”

  He handed the teacup back to his daughter, signaling that she had his undivided attention.

  She gathered herself and began slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I realize that your sanction of my marriage to Edmund is all important, and ordinarily I would never think to defy what you perceive as to be in my best interests. But Edmund is…oh, how shall I put it…perhaps not in my best interest.”

  Has he dishonored the treaty of marriage?” her father questioned.

  “No, Papa. His claims of character, fortune and expectations are as he stated them.”

  “Has he raised his hand to you?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “Has he asked of you things meant only for the marriage bed?”

  “No, Papa,” she said, her cheeks coloring.

  “Then why would he not be in your best interest?”

  “Because I do not love him.” Her hands fidgeted nervously in her lap. “Aunt Vivienne says it is neither necessary nor wise to love the one you marry, but I think if Mama were alive, she would say differently, and I suspect that in your heart you feel the same.”

  James Hightower’s eyes misted at the mention of his beloved wife. “How did I fail her? I gave her the only thing I had to give, my love, and for the first twenty years of our marriage that seemed to be enough. But then everything changed. She became moody, striking out at me, claiming that my love was smothering her. The night I climbed the stairs to the upper room I found her loom smashed to pieces, silk threads scattered across the floorboards, your mother gone.”

  Pru’s own eyes filled with tears. Her mother’s body had been found two days later, broken from the fall. “Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Margaret’s blue eyes stared back at him, yet it was Prudence who sat now on the edge of the bed. He touched her hand with his. “Ever since your mother…went away…,” he said,
voice brimming with sadness, “I have tried to do what I thought she would want. And in asking you, my sweet child, to marry a man you do not love, I have failed you, too.”

  “Oh no, Papa,” Pru said tenderly. “You showed your love for me by wanting to secure my future. And for a while I, too, thought my future lay with Edmund. But I have come to feel differently. I can’t explain it. It’s something I feel in here.” She placed a palm pointedly over her heart.

  Her father nodded with gradual comprehension. “When will you tell him?”

  Yes, Papa understood. She sank into warm relief and gave him a loving smile. “I will call at his shop tomorrow morning.” The bed creaked when she rose.

  “Pruddy.”

  He had called her that since she was a toddler and had been unable to pronounce her own name. She paused at the door and looked back at him from over her shoulder.

  “Your aunt,” he said. “She must not come.”

  “Get some sleep, Papa. You’ll feel better in the morning.” But even as she said it, she despaired that it would not be.

  In her bedroom, Pru perused her wardrobe, and sighed. Aunt Vivienne was right; it was much too somber, more befitting a matron. She looked first at the coal-gray silk. With its bodice and full skirt cut from a single length of fabric, the skirt designed to part in front to reveal a contrasting underskirt, it might have been considered fashionable had it not been four years old and seen so much wear that the elbows were beginning to fray. She then contemplated the black linsey-woolsey, its front fitted to the body by means of a tightly-laced underbodice, the back falling in loose box pleats. Torn between the impulse to create a favorable impression on her host and the urge to appear austere so as not to foster an unfavorable impression, she stood before the cheval glass holding one dress up in front of her, then the other, back and forth, unable to decide. Somehow, neither seemed appropriate. And then she remembered the Spitalfields silk dress with the dome-shaped skirt that her aunt had purchased for her, claiming it was wildly fashionable. Pru had taken one look at the heavy silk with lace patterns woven in beige and rust on a dark brown satin ground and shoved the scandalous thing to the back of her wardrobe. She reached for it now.

  Her fingers worked quickly to undo the plait that held her waist-length hair. Brushing it, she re-braided it and wound it around her head. A quick glance at the mantle clock left no time to fuss with the strands that fell loose about her temples and the nape of her neck. From a velvet-lined case she withdrew the aigrette that had belonged to her mother and placed the spray of garnets foiled to resemble bright red rubies in her hair just over her ear.

  When she was finished dressing, Pru stood again before the mirror. Her cheeks flooded with color to see how daringly low the neckline dipped. She was no slattern, but neither was she accustomed to showing off so much of her dewy flesh. She raced to a walnut veneered chest and tugged on the brass handles of the top drawer from which she pulled a lace kerchief and arranged it discreetly to fill in the low neckline, properly concealing the ample curve of her bosom.

  For several moments all she could do was stare at her reflection in the mirror. She looked so much like her mother that the resemblance was chilling. Funny that she had never seen it quite so distinctly before this. Was it any wonder that Papa’s eyes sometimes brimmed with tears when he looked at her? She had never thought of herself as beautiful, but the woman who looked back at her in the glass was quite pleasing.

  As she came downstairs, throwing her cloak over her shoulders, a brisk knock came at the door. Having previously arranged with Gladys for her to look in on Papa, there was nothing left to do but answer it. A footman bowed to her and escorted her outside and helped her into the waiting carriage.

  The carriage clattered its way through the noisy London streets, competing with the roll chaises and drays amidst the chimes from church towers, the hurdy-gurdies and tambourines of the mountebanks who hawked their quack medicines, past a bonfire of shavings that flared almost as high as the upper floors of the houses around which a circle of shouting beggar-boys, sailors and rogues assembled. And everywhere the stink of burning sea coal hung in the air.

  As the carriage drew up before the house in Hanover Square, Pru struggled to keep her nervousness in check. Why was she so anxious about this visit, anyway? The man was merely going to play a piece of music, she reasoned. Yet recalling the effect his music had on her, not to mention the effect of the man himself, she was suddenly unprepared for what she had gotten herself into, to say nothing of her embarrassment for having dressed contrary to her own good judgment to impress a man who was not the least bit interested in her. This was all quite ridiculous, she thought, forcing a semblance of propriety into her being. She would listen to the piece, praise him appropriately for it, and then leave. And tomorrow she would resume her sensible ways, break the news to an unsuspecting Edmund, and resign herself to an uneventful life as an eccentric old maid.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Ah, Prudence, how delightful to see you.” He caught her hand, lifted it briefly to his lips and brushed it with a kiss. “Do come in.” He took her by the arm and escorted her inside. “I have taken the liberty of setting up my instrument in the drawing room. I did not think you would want to climb to the garret floor again.”

  Blushing, she said, “You must believe me when I say that I am not usually so…so…”

  “Let us just say you are inquisitive. But you mustn’t apologize for it. I find it a delightful trait.” He went around her and helped her out of her cloak, his all consuming look sweeping over the back of her neck and shoulders, his tongue flicking across his lips as if he had just glimpsed a tasty treat.

  He chucked deviously to himself. He only looked beautiful on the outside. Inwardly, his intensions were strictly dishonorable. Some might call him a nasty, evil creature. That was, after all, what he was, swooping down on unsuspecting mortals from out of the dark, grasping them in an unbreakable grip and sucking the life blood out of them. But he could also be charming and witty and utterly irresistible for the express purpose of seducing a mortal woman into having sex with him. Tonight, he would play the finished suite for her, and then the lion would lie down with the lamb.

  “As I recall, you do not drink port,” he said, “so I dare say brandy is also out of the question. Some tea, perhaps?”

  “Yes, thank you.” When she turned back to him, he could tell she was trying not to show her surprise at his attire.

  He had eschewed the more luxurious velvets, satins and bright colored silks of the day in favor of a plain white cambric shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrist and dropped at the shoulders and a high stock at the neck much like an undress shirt. In place of fashionable leather shoes fastened with buckles he wore high Hessian boots. His breeches were not hidden beneath a long waistcoat but were in full view, and unusually tight, revealing the shape of his legs. His dark hair was tied back at the nape of the neck with a black ribbon, a few careless locks falling across his brow and almost into his magnificent green eyes. He caught her staring, and smiled. “You must pardon my appearance, but I prefer to dress casually when in the comfort of my own home. The draper was good enough to import these trousers for me from my homeland where they are called nadragi. Perhaps some day I will teach you some of my language. Have a seat.”

  He gestured to a carved walnut wing chair that stood opposite his instrument. “I have given my servant the evening off, so I’ll brew the tea for us. I’ll only be a moment.” He slipped from the room so noiselessly that it was almost as if he hadn’t been there at all. When he returned a short while later, he stood for a few wordless moments with the tray in his hands, smiling cynically, silently watching her as she was bent over examining his instrument. There was nothing prim and proper about her tonight, dressed as she was in silk and satin. He had not failed to notice the decoration behind her ear with its garnets sparkling like fine burgundy in the candlelight. The scores of candles set about the room cast a radiant glow over her face
and neck…yes, that neck, white and vulnerable and inviting. He placed the tray down on a table and came forward. “It’s quite old.”

  Pru straightened up at the sound of his voice. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful violoncello. The carvings are stunning.”

  “It was built in fifteen-thirty-eight, originally with only three strings, and later painted and gilded to serve as one of a set of stringed instruments for the French court of King Charles IX. Only a very few have survived. There, you see, the coat of arms of the King of France.” He bent closer as he pointed to the emblem that graced the carved neck, his body almost touching hers. “And there, do you see? That is the mark of the maker, Andrea Amati, a master luthier.”

  “Yes, I know the name,” she said, straightening up and smoothing her hands over her skirts. “But how did you come by such a splendid instrument?”

  By killing him and drinking his blood, he was tempted to say. “The king’s mother, Catherine de Medici, was somewhat neglected by her husband and found, shall I say, companionship, with one of my ancestors. This was her gift to him.” It was not a complete falsehood. The king’s mother had indeed been neglected by her husband, a matter he himself had taken full and unadulterated advantage of in her bedchamber. She’d been quite an insatiable lover, for which he had benevolently let her live. But by then, he had already relieved Amati of the magnificent instrument.

  He turned and strode back to the tray where he poured two cups of tea. Glancing slyly over his shoulder and seeing that she was still occupied with the violoncello, he slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a packet, the contents of which he swiftly emptied into their cups and swirled with a silver spoon until it was dissolved. The ancient Romanian potion of black sandalwood and damiana, flavored with cinnamon, would cause her no irreparable harm. It would work within minutes to heighten her senses and create an aphrodisiac effect that she would be incapable of resisting, as well as increase his male stimulation. The potion, an unsuspecting virgin, and a few swallows from the decanter of blood he kept in the smoking room would be sufficient to arouse his phallus to mortal heights. Thankfully, by the time of full arousal he would be seated behind his violoncello and she would not notice the unmistakable press of anatomy against his trousers, until it was too late and it was firmly planted inside of her.