by John Kessel
She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. I moved away from her and sat down to inspect my wound. I shrugged off my coat, unlaced my shirt, and slid my hand over my right shoulder. The ball had struck in the hollow below my collarbone and exited through my armpit. Blood seeped from the wound. The pain was tolerable. I unwound my neck scarf and tried to bind it around my shoulder, but I could not manage it with only one hand.
I had been fumbling for some time when Miss Bennet limped over to me.
“Give me that,” she said. In the moonlight she could not very likely see much, but she wound the scarf around my shoulder and under my armpit, covering the bullet wound. I hung my head as she did this, not looking at her. On her shoeless foot the heel of her pale stocking was dirty.
When she was done, she retreated. There was a fence around the field with a stile, and she sat on the step. “You—how are you here?” she asked.
I had expected her to flee by now. “I might ask the same of you.”
“Do you follow me?” Her voice quavered.
“I follow Victor.” With some difficulty I tugged on my greatcoat.
She remained silent for a moment. “So do I,” she said.
“You know the reason I seek him,” I said. “Why should you?”
“To warn him about you.”
I laughed. “I have warned him about me in every conversation we have ever had. There is nothing you could tell him he hasn’t heard.”
She avoided looking at me. Occasionally she would peek at my face, and then her eyes would flit away.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said.
“I didn’t do it for you. I just did not fancy watching another act of human cruelty.”
“You might have passed us by.”
I did not wish to consider why I did not. “It’s been two months since you saw Victor. Where do you expect to find him?”
“I knew that he intended to visit Perth. I hoped to find him there.”
“Where are all the people who take care of you?”
“I don’t need them.”
“Those highwaymen might disagree.” My shoulder was beginning to throb. I lay my forearm across my lap and winced at the pain. “How did you expect to find him in Perth?”
“I know who he was going to visit there.”
“Who?”
She hesitated. “I won’t tell you.”
“You’ll tell me or I will hurt you worse than those men intended.”
“Does it count as an act of human cruelty if you do it?”
“A good question,” I said. I crawled a little closer to her. “One that you may consider at length after I have made you tell me where he is.”
She fixed her gaze on me. “I make you an offer,” she said. “Help me to Perth, and when I discover where he has gone, I will tell you.”
“I have followed him from Switzerland without anyone’s aid. I don’t require your help.”
“You are a hulking brute with a wounded shoulder. You cannot show your face without causing a furor. I may pass down the streets of Perth in daylight without inciting alarm, can enter an inn and ask questions. I know the workings of human society far better than you. I am a lady.”
She sat on the stile, an awkward woman with her hat awry, her face pale. “A lady missing a shoe,” I said.
“A lady with”—she removed her remaining shoe, turned it over, and shook from it a handful of coins—“two pounds six shillings to her name.” She tucked them into her pocket.
FOURTEEN
After a long, cold night Mary found herself, with Frankenstein’s monstrous creature, at the verge of a stand of trees, looking out on a farm in the predawn light. In the distance—it must be several miles—the very top of a church steeple was visible in the first gleam of sunlight.
“I need to rest,” the Creature said. His voice was a rasp, and he had been moving slowly for the last hour.
He sat down heavily at the foot of a tree and leaned back against the trunk.
“I’m so hungry,” Mary said. The stocking of her shoeless foot was black with dirt and a hole had broken through at her heel. “Rest here,” she told the Creature. “I will stop at this house for food and shelter. I shall go into Perth to find Victor and return as soon as I may.”
“They won’t shelter you,” he said. “At best they will drive you from their door; at worst they will report you to the magistrate.”
Mary avoided looking into his face. “It may take me a day or two to discover Victor’s whereabouts. I will come back when I know.”
The Creature breathed slowly. “Do not tell them of me,” he finally said, “else I will find you and strangle you.”
Mary set off across the field.
The simple stone house had a thatched roof, two trees on the side facing the road, a small barren yard, a barn that was little more than a stone shed. A thread of smoke rose from the nearer of its two chimneys.
Mary knocked on the door. After a moment it opened a crack and a man squinted at her. He opened the door wider. “What d’ye want?”
“Please excuse me, sir. My name is Mary Bennet. I was traveling on the coach from Edinburgh to Perth when we were beset by highwaymen. They robbed and abandoned me in the woods. I have been all night walking and yours is the first dwelling I have come to. Would you be so kind as to help me? Might I stay with you for a day until I can contact my friends in Perth?”
The stone-faced man was perhaps forty-five, though years of labor had taken a toll on him. His eyes were bright blue and his red hair shot with gray. He had not shaved in several days. He wore a dirty white shirt, rough trousers, and worn boots.
He looked her up and down. Despite the night spent in the woods, it was obvious her coat and dress, hat and gloves, were those of a lady.
A woman slightly older than he came up behind him, wiping her hands on her apron. She peered at Mary from around his shoulder.
“Where’s yer shoe?” she asked.
Mary looked down at her feet, then back up. “I lost it in escaping from the highwaymen. I lost all my possessions, too. Please, I ask for one day. I shall depart by tomorrow morning.”
The farmer scowled. “We should let some English vagabond stay wi’ us?” His thick accent sounded rough on her ear.
“They stole most of my money,” Mary said, “but I can pay you for food and a night’s lodging.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“Would a shilling be a fair price?”
“Three or be off with ye.”
It was a week’s rent for a Meryton tradesman. Mary took the coins from her pocket. “Here,” she said, handing them to him.
He opened the door and let her in. “I’ve work to do. See to her,” he said to his wife, and went out.
The woman took her in and gestured at a plank table.
“Porridge is all we can give ye,” she said.
“Porridge will do.”
The woman set out a wooden bowl and a pewter spoon.
“What’s your name?” Mary asked her.
“Abigail Buchanan.” She poured Mary a mug of water from a pitcher and sat opposite her in the only other chair. “How is it that you are come to Perth?”
The oatmeal was thick and congealed, but Mary was hungry enough that it tasted divine. She drank from the earthenware mug. “I am come to visit a friend of our family, a Dr. Marble. Do you know of him?”
The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Dr. Marble is physician to Mr. McKenna, who owns the land ye are sitting on, and half the county besides. He has a grand town house on Kinnoull Street.” Mrs. Buchanan’s voice lightened at the thought of Dr. Marble and his house. She was a small woman; she wore an apron over a plain gray homespun dress that matched her tired eyes.
“How far is that from here?”
“It’s a mile or so to town, and maybe a mile more to his home.”
“I shall walk there, then, after breakfast. Might I wash my face and hands, and have you a comb I may
use?”
“I do.” Mrs. Buchanan paused. “But it’s a long walk for a lady with one shoe, and it will not do for you to knock on his door in such way.”
“I intend to stop at the coaching inn and retrieve my portmanteau.”
“And to walk to the inn? Ye cannot depend on the coachman to have left it.” Mrs. Buchanan rose and went off to another part of the house. She returned with a package wrapped in old paper. She unwrapped it to reveal a pair of ladies’ shoes. “You shall use mine. These is my best. I was married in them.”
Her lips tightened for a moment in a wan smile. Mary realized that Mrs. Buchanan, instead of being near fifty as she had assumed, was no older than herself. She handed the shoes to Mary.
The shoes were old-fashioned high-heeled pumps of figured purple leather, cheaply made even when new. Mary’s ankle-high boots of kid leather put them to shame. But one boot was worth nothing. “I should pay you.”
“ ‘Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee, turn not thou away,’ ” Mrs. Buchanan said. Then she laughed, and looked positively girlish. “Donald took ten times what he should from you to stay a night. For both our sakes, best not to let him know I lent you these.”
Mary reached across the table to touch her hand. “God bless you, Mrs. Buchanan.”
Mrs. Buchanan showed Mary to the tiny loft room where she would sleep. “Give me your stocking and I will mend it. I’ll have it done by the time you’ve washed up and combed your hair.”
Within half an hour Mary had made her ablutions, donned her mended stocking and Mrs. Buchanan’s shoes, and set off down the road toward the town.
It was a cloudy, dank day, and gave a strong intimation of the coming fall. There was not an ounce of sunlight, and a steady, cold wind blew from the west. Mary hoped that the sky would do no more than threaten rain.
Mrs. Buchanan’s shoes were snug. She was weary. Had she been at home, she might have enjoyed this air, but she was uncomfortably aware, after the last night, of how vulnerable she was in the middle of this road alone, a stranger in a strange country, almost penniless, companioned with a creature that was not human.
When she reached the town, she found the streets busy with morning bustle. The smell of coffee wafted from a coffee shop, hams hung in a butcher-shop window, and wagons rattled over cobblestones. She found Kinnoull Street, and after inquiring of a costermonger, Dr. Marble’s house. It was three stories with rows of windows, a great red door, and a brass door knocker in the form of a boar’s head.
She lifted the knocker and rapped it against the plate.
Mr. Price, the butler who answered the door to Dr. Marble’s home, did not know just what to make of Mary. She did not claim any acquaintance with Dr. or Mrs. Marble, but said she was there to pay her respects to their houseguests, Henry Clerval and Victor Frankenstein. She was a well-dressed lady, no longer young, and her accent marked her as English. She wore a pair of abominable shoes. Mr. Price took her coat—soiled about the hem with a loose seam in one shoulder—escorted her to the drawing room, and went to fetch Mrs. Marble.
While she waited, Mary examined the room. There was no fire in the grate. On the mantel stood two china statues, one of a shepherdess carrying a crook with two sheep looking up at her, and the second of a man wearing a kilt and carrying a pike. The furniture was new and uncomfortable. A large pendulum clock with a sylvan scene painted onto its face ticked ponderously. It was seventeen minutes past ten. After Mary had waited in the Marble drawing room for five minutes, the door opened and Henry Clerval entered, along with an older woman.
“Miss Bennet! I could not be more surprised to hear that you had come to see me. Mrs. Marble, this is Miss Mary Bennet, whose acquaintance Victor and I had the pleasure to make in London.”
Mrs. Marble welcomed Mary. “Please allow me to express my deepest sympathies on the death of your sister, about which Mr. Clerval has told me. What has brought you to Perth?”
“I have come in the hope of seeing Mr. Frankenstein, on a matter related to my sister’s death.”
Henry shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mary, but Victor has left Perth. Could I perhaps answer your questions?”
Mary hesitated. “Mrs. Marble, I greatly appreciate your hospitality to a stranger, but might it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Clerval in confidence?”
Mrs. Marble looked very curious, and perhaps a little offended.
Henry said to their host, “Mrs. Marble, let us step out into the hall for a moment.”
Mrs. Marble said to Mary, “Please let me know if there is anything that I might offer you,” and followed Henry out of the room. Another three minutes ticked by on the clock before Henry came back into the room.
He sat, paused as if collecting himself, and then spoke. “Something is wrong,” he said in quite a different tone from that he’d used when Mrs. Marble was in the room. He acted as if he knew more of her purpose than he ought. “Why come all this way to see Victor?”
“I need to know where he has gone.”
“Why?”
“I believe that he is the person who stole Kitty’s body.”
Henry drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and finally replied, “I believe you are right.”
“Why did you not tell me this when I last saw you in Matlock?”
“At that time I was not sure.”
“You are sure now?”
“I do not know it for a fact, but I have every reason to believe he has,” Henry said. “But Miss Bennet, seeking justice in a matter like this is no task for a woman. Where is your father—or Darcy, or Bingley?”
“They don’t know I am here. They have no idea about Victor.”
“You should return home and tell them. No good will come of your pursuing Victor. He has defiled your sister’s grave in service of his scientific research. It is the same madness that we spoke of at dinner at Pemberley—not something that you may remedy, and you are better to let it go.”
“I cannot let it go.”
Henry rose from his chair and moved toward the window. He idly parted the curtains with the back of his hand and looked out onto the street, then turned back to her. “I think you are in love with him.”
He watched for her reaction. Mary’s mind spun. “You are mistaken,” she said.
“The air of tragedy that he wraps about himself is powerfully attractive to a person of sensibility,” Henry said, “but he is not able, at least in his present state, to reciprocate any affections you might invest in him.”
“You do me a grave injustice. That is not my purpose in being here.”
“I should inform you, for I fear that he has not, that Victor is affianced to Elizabeth Lavenza, his cousin, who was reared in the same household. He has promised to wed her as soon as we return to Geneva.”
Mary was shocked. She pulled a kerchief from her purse and held it to her lips.
Henry observed her discomfiture. “He did not tell you, did he?”
“No,” she said. “He did not.”
“Ah, Victor,” Henry said softly, as much to himself as to Mary. “My friend is careless of others’ hearts, Miss Bennet.”
“He played upon my trust.”
“I doubt he sees it that way. If it is any consolation, his engagement to Elizabeth has lasted six years and more. When asked he ardently expresses his love for her, but he shows little eagerness to wed. His affection for her is inconstant at best. When he was gone off to Ingolstadt and we heard so little from him, I wondered whether he might have formed an attachment to some person there of a different class or station, which he was embarrassed to admit. Perhaps he loves someone that none of us could imagine him loving.”
Mary thought of the Creature lying wounded in the woods.
She put her kerchief back into her purse. “Thank you for telling me this, Mr. Clerval. I still need to know where he has gone.”
“You will not return to your home?”
“I cannot until I see him, i
f only briefly. I have obligations of my own.”
Henry lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “He has gone to the far northern town of Thurso. From there I believe he intends to live for a time—in complete solitude, he told me—on some isle in the Orkneys.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“A fortnight or more. I surmise that he means to resume his medical researches. But this is not something that you should witness. And how shall you travel all that way with no companion? It is not safe. I will go with you myself.”
“If Victor wanted you there, he would have asked you to go with him.”
“He specifically enjoined me from following. I am to meet him in two months. But this is all the more reason why you should return home.
“Victor is an unusual man, Mary. I have known him since childhood. He is brilliant, curious, high-minded, and eager to accomplish some great thing, but his fancies are so powerful that at times he cannot recognize anything beyond himself. He professes great love, yet I do not think he sees the people he professes to love.”
Mary stood. “I thank you, Mr. Clerval, for your warning,” she said. The chill in her voice as she said it was not something that she had intended.
“Please, forgive me for not conveying my misgivings about Victor back in Matlock. It seemed to me that in the immediate wake of your sister’s death, my speculations about him, which were no more than surmise, would have done neither of you justice.”
“You needn’t apologize. I appreciate your candor.”
“May I escort you to wherever you are staying?”
“I think not,” she said.
Henry called for the butler and walked with Mary to the door. “If you will not be persuaded to give up this quest, Miss Bennet, let me then convey my sincere hope that when it is complete you return safely to your home. If you do find Victor, please tell him that he must treat you with respect or he will lose my friendship forever.”
In the front hall, as the butler helped Mary on with her coat, Mrs. Marble appeared. “I thank you for stopping to visit, Miss Bennet,” she said, taking Mary’s arm as she drew her away from Henry toward the front door.