by Karen Essex
I shuddered, remembering my own experience at Whitby Abbey.
“You weren’t the only fancy Londoner who enjoyed my father’s tales,” the old lady offered with considerable pride.
“Is that so?” Kate always said that if you allowed someone to talk enough, they would tell you everything you needed to know.
“Another fellow, a very important personage of the theater, sat here in this very room listening to old Father’s stories.”
Pleased that I did not have to find a way to bring up the subject of the red-haired man, I tried to sound as if my interest in him was casual. “Oh, yes, he pointed that fellow out to me once. Do you know his name?”
“I knew it, but, as old Pap used to say, I forgot it as soon as I remembered it.” She laughed at her own construct of words. “But he could not get enough of the old man’s tales. You see, miss, he is a writer come to Whitby for inspiration. For we have here a most interesting population of spirits, ready to show themselves to whoever is looking in their direction. This fellow said that all London was still living under the terrible threat of the Ripper and that he wanted to make up a similar sort of character, but have him be even more atrocious, something more terrifying than a man, something akin to Mr. Spring-Heeled Jack. For, as he said, who is to prove that those Whitechapel women were not murdered by something more monster than human?”
A few times I had caught some of my students reading the outlandish tales of Spring-Heeled Jack, the monster who wore gentleman’s clothes, but had great batlike wings, pointy ears, red eyes, and the ability to leap great lengths. Inevitably, there was one girl in each class who had inherited a copy from an older brother and used it to frighten the smaller girls.
“And such a monster may indeed have come here to plague us, as if we need more unnatural creatures on this shore!” She picked up a copy of the Whitby Gazette and waved it at me. “You have seen this?”
“Yes, I have,” I said, standing up. “You are quite certain that the man with the red hair is an artistic sort of person and not a newspaperman?”
“The fellow said he was here to collect stories to put in books and on the stage. He already wrote two books that no one paid much attention to, poor fellow, but he believed that after all the murders committed by the butcher of London, the town was ripe for the appearance of a fresh monster, and that Whitby was just the place to find such a creature in our store of goblins and ghosts.”
I said good-bye to the whaler’s daughter and left the cottage with mixed emotions. While I realized that Lucy’s future was not mine to decide, I did not want to be the one to deliver her into the hands of Morris Quincel.
I located the building that housed his painting studio and rang the bell. An older woman with gray curls escaping her white house cap opened the door.
“I am looking for Mr. Morris Quince, the American painter?” I said politely. She looked at me with suspicious eyes. Of course, she had seen Lucy at the apartments and must have thought that I was just another of Morris’s conquests.
“Well, you’re too late,” she said with a look of mean satisfaction.
“How is that, madam?” I asked politely.
“He left yesterday. Packed up his things and went back to America. Now I have a vacancy during the high season, and it’s too late to advertise.”
I supposed that the shock registered on my face.
“So, he surprised you too, did he? Well, you are not the only young lady to come round. But you are the prettiest, if that gives you any consolation. The last one was as brittle as a bird and a bit too eager.”
I gathered that she meant Lucy. “Did he leave a forwarding address or a message of any sort for a Miss Westenra?”
“He left nothing behind but soiled sheets, the dirt from his boots, and a couple of empty canvasses,” she said bitterly, closing the door in my face.
A light sprinkle began to fall on me, but I was in no hurry to deliver the grim news to Lucy, who was probably still sleeping off her sedative. The sky was darkening ever quicker as the end of summer approached. The sun had gone into hiding behind an ominous steel-gray cloud that hung above like a big flatiron. The air felt decidedly different from yesterday—cooler, sharper. Autumn was on its way.
With a heavy heart, I walked up the steps to the churchyard. I raised the hood of my cape and opened my umbrella. Headmistress had given it to me for my twenty-first birthday, knowing how fond I was of the purple foxglove that bloomed in the park. When open, the underside revealed in each of the panels a spray of painted stems, lush with lavender bells. “No matter how bad the weather, you will always be able to look up and see something that will cheer you,” she had said, knowing that my quiet moods often concealed an orphan’s melancholy.
Sheltered, I walked the cemetery to look for the old whaler’s grave, but gave up what with the rain pouring down around me. Hot tears began to roll down my cheeks. All good things ended. Lucy had been ecstatic when she was with her lover. She had been so certain of his love, as certain as I had been of Jonathan’s feelings for me and of his intention to marry me. I walked to the bench where the old whaler had told me his stories, trying not to let the actions of Morris Quince bring up my fear that Jonathan had deserted me; tried to push out of my mind the vision of returning to my room at the school and seeing my mail basket empty.
The rain beat down in staccato on my umbrella. I tilted it back to see a large black vulture flying overhead in defiance of the weather. The creature had an immense wingspan, circling and soaring above me. I watched his performance, wondering if he was stalking a small animal in the vicinity—dead or living—upon which he would prey. Finally he flew away, disappearing into the clouds.
I looked out to sea where the ruined vessel, the Valkyrie, its cargo hold emptied and its shredded sails down, sat heavily in the sand. The newspaper reported that the mystery of the captain’s condition had remained unsolved. The members of the coast guard, who disentangled the body, declared that someone had tied the captain to the helm, negating the assumption that he had bound himself to the wheel to prevent storm winds and waves from carrying him into the sea. The seamen stated that it was impossible for a man to have tied such elaborate, expert knots on himself. The county coroner declared that the gash in his throat was a new wound, leading to the logical but implausible theory that someone had tied the captain to the helm, slit his throat, and jumped overboard in the midst of a brutal storm. The locals—and I am sure that the old whaler would have led this chorus—asserted that the deed had been carried out by the sailors who had drowned in the angry waters off Whitby’s shore.
A controversy had arisen over whether to repair the ship or to destroy it. According to the newspapers, an anonymous individual had chartered the boat in Rotterdam. This person was supposed to have been a passenger on the vessel, but neither he nor his body had been found. The entire cargo of fifty large crates was his property and would be shipped to the location determined before the storm. The escaped dog was being sought by members of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
The abandoned boat slumped against the shoreline like some lone convict awaiting sentencing. Abandoned, abandoned. I could not get the word out of my head. I turned to walk back toward the steps that would take me into town and toward my unhappy task of informing Lucy of the betrayal when I stumbled on a rock, losing my balance. I leaned down to see what it was that had caused this mishap and picked up a stone. The markings on it looked like a little girl’s plait wrapped tightly into a bun, or the curled tail of a seahorse. I turned it over, exposing the face of a serpent with an open mouth revealing two tiny fangs and a long flat tongue. The stone fit neatly into the palm of my gloved hand. It was beyond a doubt the coiled body of a snake, or, at the very least, it had once been one.
Chapter Seven
Later that same afternoon
I returned to a quiet house. Lucy was still sleeping in her bed, her blond hair splayed across the pillow. Her mouth was open, and a t
iny stream of saliva had dried up into little white flakes in its corner. I was trying to close the bedroom door as quietly as possible when she began to stir. Her eyelids fluttered a few times as she whispered my name.
The room was growing dark so I struck a match and lit a bedside lamp. Lucy squinted against the light, shading her eyes with her hand. I sat on the bed next to her, blocking the light for her while her eyes adjusted.
“Oh, I cannot move,” she said, closing her eyes again. I thought for a moment that she would fall back asleep and that I would have a reprieve. But she opened her eyes again, and this time, with an anxious look.
“Well? Did you speak with him?” Despite the lethargy in her body, her eyes peered at me as if she were the predator and I the prey.
“Lucy, my darling, there is no gentle or nice way to say what I must say.” I put my hand over hers, but she drew it away.
I told her the truth: I had gone to speak with Morris Quince, but he had left to go back to America. She did not react as I anticipated, with tears or self-recrimination. She leapt from the bed and tore off her nightdress. She pulled the dress I had laid on the back of a chair over her head. “I don’t believe you,” she said when her head popped out of the top.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You are making too much noise. Your mother is asleep. You’ll wake her.”
“I am going to see for myself. Mina, you have been in league with my mother since you have been here in Whitby. I should never have trusted you.”
She slipped her shoes on but did not bother to lace them and raced to the front door, where she was met with a shock. John Seward and Arthur Holmwood were standing there, Holmwood’s hand raised as if to knock.
“There she is,” Arthur said, kissing Lucy’s forehead. The men entered the room, and Seward put down his black bag. “Miss Lucy, you really should not be out of bed, what with all you have been through.”
Hearing the men’s voices, Mrs. Westenra came rushing in. “Ah, our knights have arrived!”
The men came deeper into the parlor, removing their hats. Everyone stood awkwardly until Mrs. Westenra called for Hilda to make tea.
I will never forget the way that Lucy composed herself at that moment to get the information she so desperately sought. She took a breath and broke into a smile. I knew the smile was utterly false, but I think that the men did not see it. She graciously invited them to sit down. “Mr. Holmwood, I hope you did not upset your holiday in Scarborough for my sake, for as you can see, I am very well.”
“You look as lovely as ever, Miss Lucy,” he said formally. “But I think we should let the good doctor here be the judge of your health.”
“Of course,” Lucy said, looking around the room as if something were missing. “But where there are two, there are usually three. Where is Mr. Quince?”
She astonished me with her innocent tone. Her mother stiffened.
“Why, I have no idea,” Holmwood replied. “He was to travel by land and meet me in Scarborough, but the wretch did not.” His voice was inflected with the sort of affection men reserve for their irascible friends. He turned to Seward. “John, have you heard from Quince?”
Seward scrunched his shoulders in a shrug. “He is our friend, but we allow him to be socially unreliable, as Americans tend to be.”
Holmwood spoke slowly, considering his words. “An interesting breed, but they do not have an English gentleman’s sense of honor, or of the sanctity of his word. He is probably off on an adventure, as per usual. Probably involving one young lady or another.” Holmwood winked at Seward.
“Miss Lucy, you look a little peaked. I would like to check your vital signs,” Dr. Seward said.
But Lucy had reached the limit of her acting skills. “I am not ill. I am well!” Lucy stood, raising her hands into the air like a dancer and then letting her fingers glide down the length of her body as if to emphasize its state of well-being. “I am all too well! Now please excuse me.” She threw her head back and walked into her bedroom.
“I apologize on my daughter’s behalf,” Mrs. Westenra said. “She is not herself since the incident.”
“It’s a typical response from a female who has been attacked, Arthur,” Dr. Seward said. “One must not blame the patient.”
Both Seward and Mrs. Westenra searched Holmwood’s face, looking for signals of his mood.
“Why don’t I go check on Lucy?” I said. I started to make my way to Lucy’s room when Holmwood stopped me. He had yet to comment on Lucy’s outburst, but his face was wrenched into an uneasy frown. “Miss Mina, would you please take a message to Miss Lucy?”
Mrs. Westenra put her hand on Holmwood’s sleeve. “Now, Arthur, please do not take any drastic measures. Lucy has had an upset, but she will recover and she will again be the Lucy you proposed to.”
Holmwood look appalled at the lady’s little speech. “Madam, you misinterpret. I would never abandon Lucy in her hour of need.” He looked truly insulted. “Please tell Miss Lucy that whatever unfortunate thing has happened, it will not cause me to love her less. In fact, I—I—” he stammered, looking to Seward as if for inspiration or permission, “In fact, tell her that I wish to expedite the day of our marriage. Tell her that I desire nothing more than to care for her as a husband must care for his wife, and that I shall set an immediate date for our wedding.”
“Mr. Holmwood, I am overwhelmed!” exclaimed Mrs. Westenra, as if it were she who would marry him the sooner.
“That should go a long way to speeding up Lucy’s recovery,” I said politely, though I knew the opposite to be true. I excused myself, with the three of them watching me as I walked away. I found Lucy in the bedroom sitting at the vanity brushing her hair and examining her face in the mirror.
“Mina, I know you think me a fool, but my heart beats with the certainty that Morris would not have abandoned me to Arthur of his own volition.”
“Let us put aside Morris Quince for a moment Lucy—”
She stopped me, holding the hairbrush in front of her like a shield against my words. “I will never put Morris Quince aside. If you knew anything about love, you would not advise me to do so,” Lucy said.
I intended to give an impassioned speech about the wisdom of marrying Arthur Holmwood and becoming mistress of Waverley Manor, when we heard the light rap of Hilda’s knuckles at the door.
“Miss Murray?”
I opened the door, and Hilda handed me a letter. “This just came for you by messenger.”
“Thank you, Hilda,” I said. The envelope of high-quality laid paper with a teardrop flap and a dragon seal was addressed to Miss Mina Murray. The script was extravagant, with large letters finely formed. I tore open the envelope and read the note given in the same penmanship:
You will find Mr. Jonathan Harker in a hospital operated by the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul in the city of Graz. You may trust that this information is true and is brought to you by one who cares only for you. You will be protected on your voyage, should you choose to go to him. I remain—
Your servant and your master
I tucked the note into my pocket and tried to regain my composure. Even in her mad state, Lucy could see that I was in shock. “What’s the matter?”
“Jonathan’s been found,” I said. I could not disclose how I had received the information, and indeed, I did not know how this all-knowing, ubiquitous creature who called himself my servant and my master had found me in Whitby or how he knew Jonathan’s location.
Two days later, in answer to a telegram that John Seward suggested I send to the hospital, a letter came back that Jonathan was indeed on the list of patients. He was recovering from a case of brain fever, and it was advisable for a relation to come to his aid. Seward translated the letter and assured me that Graz was renowned for its hospitals, owing to the excellent medical school in the city.
“My, but it is useful to have one friend from university who did not waste his tenure at drinking and sport,” said Arthur Holmwood. The t
wo men were holding vigil every day at Henrietta Street, pestering Lucy over her condition. She spent most of her time in bed, feigning headaches just to avoid them, all the while certain that word from Morris would arrive at any moment.
Seward smiled at the compliment, but a worried look came over his face. “Brain fever is a blanket diagnosis for a variety of illnesses, Miss Mina,” he said. “When you return to England, if you do not find him fully recovered, I will have Dr. Von Helsinger examine him. He was my mentor in Germany at medical school and, I am happy to say, now my colleague at the asylum. His theories on the interaction of blood, brain, body, and spirit are considered radical, and yet I believe him to be a man decades ahead of his time.”
“Then I am certain that Mr. Harker would like to meet him, for he too is a very modern thinker,” I replied. I wanted to emphasize to Seward that I was engaged to a man of substance.
I sent a telegram to Mr. Hawkins, Jonathan’s uncle, that he was in Graz and that I would go to him immediately. He replied with apologies for the illness that prevented him from taking the trip in my stead but wired ample funds to a bank in Whitby to pay for my journey and any medical costs that Jonathan had incurred.
I had never traveled out of the country, much less traveled alone, and long dialogues were held about my safety and the best and most expedient route I should take. I allowed these matters to be decided for me, as I had no knowledge that might help form a strong opinion one way or another. I sent a note to Headmistress explaining why I would not be present at the start of classes, and allowed John Seward, who knew German and some of the Slavic languages that were also spoken in Styria, to coach me in the pronunciation of a few key words. Arthur Holmwood used his family connections to have a passport issued to me in haste.