by Karen Essex
We followed Lucy’s coffin through a leafy, overgrown path toward her final resting place. The rest of the cortege—the procession leader with his baton and attendants, the servants from Lucy’s household, and the professional mourners and mutes who had walked in the parade from the church—fell in line behind us. Kate, leaning on Jacob’s arm, walked in front of me, wearing the intricate ebony gown she had purchased for her ruse with the Gummlers.
How nice it would be to have a man at my side today, when I felt limp with shock and grief. Jonathan had offered to come with me, but he was very busy with the work neglected by Mr. Hawkins during his illness, and, besides, I was afraid that exposure to travel and tragedy would bring about another relapse.
I had traveled in mourning clothes to London. Kate and Jacob met me at the train station, and we hired a cab to take us to the church where the service was being held. On the way, I had asked about the deaths of both Lucy and her mother.
“Mrs. Westenra died of heart failure just a few days after Lucy’s wedding. The poor girl had no chance to celebrate her marriage.”
Kate had not been in touch with Lucy but had gathered this information from people she had talked to at Lucy’s wake. “I tried to contact Lucy after I saw her mother’s obituary in the newspaper, but she did not answer my notes. The service for Mrs. Westenra was private. I thought that Lucy might even be away on her honeymoon.”
“I cannot imagine that Lucy is dead! I saw her just six weeks ago.”
“Her husband said that the cause of death was acute anemia brought on by refusal to eat and melancholia. She died in a private asylum, Mina. Apparently, her condition was advanced enough for her to be committed.”
“But she wrote me a letter dated a little over a month ago that she was about to be married. She sounded so happy. What could have happened?”
“I don’t know. The young Lord Godalming is beside himself with grief,” said Kate. By this time, we had arrived at the church and were standing outside. “You should have seen the Westenra’s house last night, Mina. Arthur had hundreds of candles burning in the rooms and wreaths of white roses and gardenias on all the doors. It was positively transcendent. I am so sorry that you did not see our girl all dressed in white tulle, with the most delicate pearls in the netting. I have never seen a sight so beautiful except—”
Kate stopped, choking on her words. “Except Lucy when she used to smile.”
She broke down, bending over in tears, and Jacob took her in his arms and rocked her gently, whispering things into her ear that I could not hear. In that moment, I knew beyond a doubt that she and Jacob were lovers. I remember how morally superior I had felt to her just a few months before, but now I envied that she had the love of a strong man who would hold and comfort her.
Arthur Holmwood, with his mother on his arm, had overheard this. He took me aside, and with frantic eyes, said, “Mina, you’ve no idea what we have been through. Lucy, my poor Lucy! I should have buried her in black. She was still in mourning for her mother, and I for my father. But I could not bear to see an angel go to Heaven in black!” He turned to his mother. “Was I wrong, Mother?”
I could not see the lady’s face beneath her heavy veil. I remembered that her husband had died not two months earlier. She clutched her son’s arm and with a very tired voice said, “Come, Arthur, help the mourners out of their carriages.”
“She should be in our family tomb,” he said. “I have done everything wrong!”
“She should be beside her parents,” said his mother. “She was theirs much longer than she was ours.”
I sat numb through the service, staring at Lucy’s coffin. I thought of Jonathan, of Lucy, of myself—of all the hopes we had harbored. How could the fabric of our lives have disintegrated so quickly? And, of course, I thought of Morris Quince, who was absent but who may have been responsible for Lucy’s demise. If she had never met him, she would have quietly married Arthur and learned to love him, as many a woman before her had done. It was Quince who had made her sick with love. It was Quince who had killed her. I sat in the pew with my fists clenched. I wanted him to pay for what he had done, but he had escaped to America unscathed and probably already had another naïve girl under his spell. After the service, I got into one of the funereal carriages as quickly as possible and was silent on the drive to the cemetery. I was too angry to participate in the predictable postfuneral lamentations.
Now we walked down the wooded path to the mournful tune of the pipes and drums that Arthur had commissioned, past ornate marble monuments topped with delicate angels, crosses, and other sculptures. Thick with chestnut and maple trees that blocked out the skies, Highgate seemed more forest than graveyard. The Westenra crypt was in the Circle of Lebanon, a cluster of tombs beneath a magnificent centuries-old cedar of Lebanon that gave it its name. We passed through the entrance, an Egyptian style arch flanked by two ancient-looking columns and two tall obelisks, where the path began to slope gently to a semicircular arrangement of tombs with Roman-style doorways.
The procession stopped, and we gathered ourselves around the entry, where the pallbearers stood with Lucy’s coffin. My hands began to shake, and I looked for someone who might help steady my nerves when John Seward’s deep-set eyes met mine. I cannot explain his look, a mixture of fear and sadness. He seemed to need even more comfort than I. Kate told me that Lucy had died in his care while he and his colleagues heroically attempted desperate measures to save her, and that she thought he felt responsible for Lucy’s demise.
The minister began to recite prayers, and everyone bowed their heads. Kate had instigated a scheme that I would read a poem that Lucy had liked in the days when the three of us had become enthralled with the poetry of Christina Rossetti. Headmistress believed that such maudlin literature would thwart the sunny temperaments natural to young ladies and diminish our enthusiasm for accomplishment. Naturally, Kate and Lucy had smuggled it into our dormitory, reading it by moonlight after everyone else had gone to sleep.
“Don’t you remember, Mina? Lucy said that she wanted the poem to be read at her gravesite,” Kate had said, thrusting a copy of it into my hands.
“She was fifteen at the time, Kate. I think she would have changed her mind.”
“Perhaps she had a premonition that she would die young,” Kate said.
“Perhaps you have spent too much time investigating mediums,” I replied. “Besides, if you feel so strongly about this, you should read the poem yourself.”
“You were Lucy’s closest friend and you are the elocution instructor. I sound like a shrill harridan in comparison.”
Objectively speaking, it was true. My voice was gentle and melodic.
Arthur Holmwood was all for the idea. “If that is what my darling would have wanted, then we must make sure that it is done,” he had said.
Now I heard his voice at the end of the minister’s prayers.
“Miss Mina Murray—oh, I am sorry, Mrs. Jonathan Harker, that is—will now read a poem that Lucy had admired when she was a student at Miss Hadley’s School for Young Ladies of Accomplishment.”
Everyone looked up, following Arthur’s eyes, to rest upon me. My heart started to pound in my chest, and I tried to smile, but not too much for the solemn occasion. Shaking, I walked forward to the casket. It was difficult to retrieve the poem from my pocket, what with my gloved, trembling hands. Arthur gave me an encouraging smile as he took my umbrella and held it over my head.
I began slowly, for there is nothing less eloquent than allowing nervousness to speed us through important moments. “When we were just girls at school, Lucy told us that she wished to have this poem read at the site of her burial. I had hoped that I would be a very old woman delivering these words, if at all, for it would have been my fondest wish to have had my companion for many more decades, and even more, that I would have passed before her. This is for Lucy.” I read:
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Ea
rth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
Hush’d in and curtain’d with a bless’d dearth
Of all that irk’d her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
And when she wakes she will not think it long.
I got through the delivery of the poem, even smiling at one point when I remembered Lucy, her young face bright with revelation, exclaiming, “Imagine, death is a place where all cares disappear!”
We watched the pallbearers place Lucy’s casket in the vault with her parents, whose coffins sat on the first and second shelves of the tomb. The men slid Lucy’s casket onto the third shelf, hitting the wall of the vault with such finality that it made me shudder.
John Seward came out of the vault and met my eyes. He walked to me, and we stared at each other. His ever-questioning eyes, full of sadness and longing, searched mine. The rain had stopped. “Let me take that for you,” he said. He shook out my wet umbrella.
We were both silent again. I put out my gloved hand, and he took it and kissed it. Then he cupped it, using the opportunity to link arms with me. “Shall I escort you back to the carriages?” he asked.
We walked together to the entrance of the cemetery. “I have not spoken with you since your travels,” Seward said. “Is Mr. Harker recuperated from his illness?”
I was groping for a discreet answer to his question when I saw a man standing beside a familiar gleaming black carriage with two restless black horses. He was dressed in a handsome suit of thick velour, with a dark green vest and a black shirt. A silk cravat pinned with a silver dragon covered his neck. The beast had emeralds for eyes, which seemed to be staring directly at me, as did the man from beneath his low-brimmed hat. He held open the door to the carriage.
Come, Mina. Let us be on our way.
Dr. Seward did not seem to see my savior standing there, much less that he was holding the door open for me. Seward continued to talk as we walked right past the carriage, even though my savior held my gaze.
There is nothing for you here, Mina. Come with me.
No one else seemed to notice him, which was strange, considering his formidable presence would surely command anyone’s attention. Was everyone so caught up in mourning the passing of a young life, or was I hallucinating? I wanted to run into the arms of my mysterious stranger, just to see if he was real. But Dr. Seward was already helping me into one of the carriages in the cortege.
“You seem very distraught,” he said to me. “You must tell me what is the matter.”
Dazed, I took my seat in the carriage, and he sat next to me. “What is it?” he asked. His liquid gray eyes were full of concern. The carriage began to move, and I looked out the window, where my mysterious stranger still stood, staring at me as we drove away.
I turned around, running directly into Dr. Seward’s questioning eyes. “It’s a rather difficult subject,” I began slowly.
“I am a doctor. You may confide in me,” he said.
“Thank you for inquiring about my husband. I believe that he needs help,” I said, though I knew in the back of my mind that the person who also needed help was me.
I unburdened myself to Dr. Seward as much as I dared. I did not disclose Jonathan’s infidelity, only that he had suffered a shock before contracting the fever. The doctor urged me to bring Jonathan to the asylum, where he and his colleague might observe and treat him. He assured me that Dr. Von Helsinger was a pioneer in understanding the complexities of the mind, and that if anyone could usher Jonathan out of melancholia, it was he. I did not know if Seward was looking for an excuse to spend more time with me, or if he was genuinely interested in helping Jonathan. I knew only that I had to take action. If Jonathan regained his strength, he could put behind him whatever he had done in Styria and be a husband to me. And that, dear reader, was what I believed would put an end to my own bizarre dreams, yearnings, and visions. Please do not think me naïve; I was merely—how shall we say?—uninformed. It is easy to judge the actions of another, but at the time, I completely believed my own simple logic.
I had arranged to spend the night in my old room at the school. Headmistress explained to me that it would be my last opportunity, as she had found a replacement for me who was arriving in two days. “Of course, no one will ever replace you, Wilhelmina. But I am too old to teach. Young girls these days are allowed to act just like little boys at home, and then their parents send them to us to sort them out. I do believe that if these lax and indulgent parents are not careful, girls will be entirely spoiled, and no one will want to marry them.”
Headmistress had passed her sixtieth birthday. Her hair was silver gray, swept up into a French-style knot that added to her considerable grandeur. While many private schools kept their students in mean conditions, denying them heat and well-cooked meals, Headmistress charged a high fee and warned parents that if they could not pay their daughters would be sent home immediately. She had explained to me over the years that she could either be harsh with the few whose parents tried to take advantage of her, or she could tolerate lack of payment, which would make life less luxurious for all the girls in her care.
We sat in the parlor, each with our impeccable posture and manners. I had spent much of my life imitating this woman, whose graceful hand lifted a teacup and brought it to her lips as if it were part of a ballet.
“Tell me, Wilhelmina, why did you and Mr. Harker marry so suddenly? I thought you had your heart set on an Exeter wedding.”
I told her what I had told everyone else, a condensed and sanitized version of the truth. “Jonathan contracted a fever of the brain while he was in Styria, and I went there to help him. He did not think it would be proper for us to travel together if we were not married.”
“That was very sensible,” she said, and she patted my arm.
She reached into a drawer and produced two envelopes, which she handed to me. They were addressed to me in Lucy’s handwriting. “These arrived at the time that I was searching madly for a teacher to replace you. I just found them earlier today under a stack of papers. I hope that whatever she wrote to you gives you some comfort for the loss of her.”
I held the letters tight to my bosom. Headmistress kissed my forehead and went upstairs, while I remained in the parlor. A few embers burned in the fireplace, but the room was chilly. I retrieved Headmistress’s shawl from the back of her chair and wrapped it around me. It smelled of the rosewater that she put on her neck after a bath. I breathed it in deeply, remembering all the times that the scent had given me comfort and strength and had staved off the ever-present loneliness that lurked just outside the perimeter of my life, and I started to read.
25 September 1890
My dearest Mina,
Has there ever been a reversal of fortune as dramatic as mine? I will try to elaborate in as much detail as I have time to gather here on the page, for my devoted Hilda, whom mother and I took back to London with us, has promised to sneak this letter out and get it into the post. I am sending it to Headmistress, who I know will faithfully forward it to you wherever you are. I dream that you are fulfilling the plan that you and Jonathan had of letting one of the little Pimlico houses, and that you are there now and will come to see your Lucy as soon as you receive this missive.
Mina, I am a prisoner in my own home, and my jailer is supposed to be my protector. Just three days after Arthur and I were married at Waverley Manor, as we were packing for our honeymoon tour, we received word that my poor mother had died. After all the years that I silently mocked her, skeptical at times that her ailment was real, she had an attack
of angina in the night and was found in her bed, reaching for the servants’ bell. The death of a loved one is always a shocking thing, especially to me, an only child, who has no other living relations. But the most shocking news was yet to come. After we buried my mother, Arthur and I visited the solicitor, who read us the will. I then discovered that before her death, my mother changed the terms of succession.
The considerable fortune left by my father is passing directly to Arthur rather than to me. My mother’s words, included in the document, were that I was a flighty girl of uneven temper and I required Lord Godalming’s sober mind to ensure the continuance of the trust. She added that her medical condition would undoubtedly lead to her untimely death, but she could go to her grave in peace, knowing that she had done a mother’s duty by seeing her daughter married to a man of distinction. Her final request was that if we had a daughter, we would name it after her.
Now you might not think this news to be egregious. However, in my short stay at Waverley Manor, I gathered very interesting information. Arthur inherits a title and vast lands but has no money to speak of. He requires my fortune to support us in the style to which we are both accustomed and to renovate the manor house, which, though grand, has not seen improvements this century.
No sooner had the solicitor read the words than I saw at last the plan that had undoubtedly been made between Arthur and my mother. Outraged, I turned to my husband and accused him of marrying me for my fortune. “That is why you professed love even after learning that my heart belonged to another. Your motive all along was to gain control of my money!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy,” Arthur said. But I was not assuaged. I asked the solicitor, Mr. Lymon, when had my mother made these changes. “Immediately upon returning from Whitby,” he said.
“You made changing the will a condition of marrying me, did you not?” I demanded of Arthur. He did not answer, but put his arm around me and explained to the solicitor that I had suffered an assault in Whitby, and, combined with the shock of my mother’s death, I had not yet recovered my senses. I begged Mr. Lymon, who had been a friend of my father, to help me. “My father would not want this!” I said. “My father would have wanted me to be protected.” I held on to the man’s desk, screaming these words as Arthur tried to take me away. I am certain that I did appear to be mad, but I was in such a state of shock that I could not control myself. “Please allow Lord Godalming to take care of you,” Mr. Lymon said, with a look of great pity in his eyes for me, as if I were the madwoman Arthur claimed me to be. “Lord Godalming knows what is best for you.”