by Syrie James
Finding my voice again, I assured him that I was the happiest woman in all the world.
That same day, I wrote a long letter to Lucy, for I knew that she would be anxious to hear all that had happened since we parted at the railway station at Whitby. I poured out my heart with regard to Jonathan’s state of health, gave her all the details of our wedding, and expressed my sincere wish that she would be very happy in her own upcoming marriage.
The sisters brought a cot into Jonathan’s room, and that is where I slept that night, and every night for two weeks thereafter. I fully understood that my Wedding Night—that Night of Nights which had always been touted as such a great and wondrous mystery—would have to wait until Jonathan had recovered his health, and we could leave this hallowed place, where the good sisters checked on him so conscientiously all day and night.
For two weeks, I served as Jonathan’s nurse and companion. I shaved him every morning, and arranged to have a barber come to the hospital one afternoon to cut his hair. One day, while he napped, I took a carriage into Buda-Pesth. What a marvellous city it was, different from London in so many ways, with so many unusual sights and smells! I loved its immense castle and its old, imposing buildings, many of which had beautiful spired domes. I enjoyed strolling through the tree-lined squares, and across the bridges over the Danube connecting the cities of Buda and Pesth. The Széchenyi Chain Bridge, suspended above the water by a great chain rather than cables, was particularly impressive, with its four colossal stone lions at the ends.
I made only that one visit, however, preferring to stay at Jonathan’s side, where I dedicated myself to ensuring that he ate properly, keeping his spirits up, and making sure he steadily regained his strength. He began with short walks down the hall, progressing to strolls out in a wheeled chair, until that day when he could, at last, walk about the grounds under his own power.
When the doctor released him, we said our tearful good-byes to all the dear sisters, thanking them profusely for all they had done. Jonathan mapped out a different and more expeditious route for our return journey than the one I had taken in getting there, which involved riding the Orient Express to Paris, where he insisted that we stop for several nights. I found Paris to be a wondrous and romantic city, even more beautiful than Buda-Pesth. As we strolled the wide boulevards together hand in hand, visiting the museums, dining in cafés, and taking in the sights, I thought I was in heaven.
Jonathan found us a tiny, clean room a few blocks from the Seine, and it was there, more than two weeks after our wedding, that we had our first true wedding night. The only intimacy we had previously shared, beyond holding hands, had been kisses. I believe—although I did not ask him—that Jonathan was as inexperienced as I, and we were both nervous. He seemed to feel the weight of my expectations, and I did all I could to relieve his anxiety. When he came to bed and gravely took me in his arms, I silently commanded myself to relax and gave myself to him willingly.
Afterwards, as I rolled to my side and listened to the sounds of his even breathing from the pillow beside me, I felt a great pang of disappointment.
I could not help thinking of that night, some three weeks previously, when I had stood on the terrace of the Whitby pavilion, in Mr. Wagner’s arms. As he had gazed down at me, his lips just inches from mine, my heart had pounded with wild abandon. I had been filled with desire. My encounter with my husband, however, had been very different. It had begun very sweetly, but—dare I admit it?—it was over much too quickly and was devoid of the pleasurable physical feeling that I had hoped for. Jonathan, on the other hand, seemed perfectly satisfied—elated, in fact—and highly pleased with himself.
Was this all I could ever hope to expect from my marriage-bed? I wondered. Was the act of married love truly something that only men could enjoy, and women must endure?
SIX
WHEN JONATHAN AND I ARRIVED AT EXETER ON THE 14TH of September, Mr. Peter Hawkins was waiting for us with a carriage.
“My dear children.” He exchanged kisses with me on the cheek and shook Jonathan’s hand heartily as we took seats opposite him inside the conveyance, after our luggage was placed on board. “Please forgive me for not meeting you on the platform. I have been suffering from an attack of gout these many weeks, and it is difficult to get about.”
“It is so good to see you, Mr. Hawkins,” I said with great affection. “I am sorry you have not been feeling well.”
“Do not worry about me, it is only an old man’s complaint; let me take a look at you. Mina, you are as beautiful as ever. Jonathan, you are a bit on the thin side, and a little more pale than usual, but not too bad, considering. I must say, I am very pleased—nay, relieved—to see you both home again, safe and sound.”
“We are glad to be back, sir,” Jonathan replied. “Thank you again for all you did for us while we were in Buda-Pesth.”
“It was the very least I could do, my boy. I promised your dear father on his death-bed that I would look after you and your mother. Until now, I thought I had done my best in that regard.”
“You have done so, sir. You have been like a father to me, and I will always be grateful.”
Mr. Hawkins frowned, the lines in his face deepening as he smoothed back his thinning white hair with a freckled hand. “I did not do right, it seems, in sending you to Transylvania. I have been so deeply worried these past few months, wondering: what is taking so long? What on earth could have gone wrong? I am sorry you became ill, Jonathan. That Sister Something-or-Other at the hospital was particularly vague about it all, and you did not tell me much in your own letter. Is it true that you suffered a mental breakdown of some sort?”
“It is true, sir.”
Mr. Hawkins shook his head, very upset. “I am at a loss. I have known you all your life, Jonathan. You are a strong, sensible young man. When faced with a difficulty, you have always kept your head. You are not the sort to have a breakdown. What happened to you over there?”
Jonathan hesitated, an anxious, pained look on his face. “I would rather not speak of it, sir.”
I took his hand and squeezed it, hoping to convey my silent sympathy and support.
Mr. Hawkins leaned forward in his seat, his hands resting on his cane. “Son: you went overseas on business for me. Had I been feeling better, I would have made the trip myself. I feel completely responsible. Count Dracula wrote a very gracious letter to me, expressing perfect satisfaction with the arrangements we had made on his behalf and complimenting you on your presentation of them. He said nothing of your being ill. Nothing at all. In fact, he—”
“Please, speak of this no more!” Jonathan blurted out, a sort of wild, confused look in his eyes as he yanked his hand from mine. “I am sorry, sir, if you feel that I have let you down; dismiss me if you wish; I would not blame you. But I have fought long and hard to recover my sense of well-being, and I cannot revisit the source of my discomfort. I cannot!”
Mr. Hawkins’s face fell. “Forgive me. I will not ask again, son.” He sank back heavily against his seat and lapsed into a grieved silence for the better part of the journey.
JONATHAN AND I HAD ANTICIPATED THAT FOR OUR FIRST FEW months of wedded life, we would live in the tiny flat which he had occupied during his six-year tenure in Exeter. Eventually, we hoped to move into something larger, although still humble, according to our income. However, fate had something very different in store for us.
“I would not think of you and Mina staying in those two dark, depressing little rooms of yours, Jonathan,” Mr. Hawkins said, as his carriage drew up in front of his house. “You are a married couple now. You must stay here with me.”
Mr. Hawkins owned a big, old, beautiful, three-storeyed house on a lovely, tree-shaded street not far from the cathedral close. The house had a large, airy drawing-room, an oak-panelled library, a commodious and well-outfitted kitchen, a sitting-room on every floor, and a great many bedrooms. Each and every room had been lovingly and tastefully furnished. I was familiar with the place, h
aving spent a memorable week there the previous Christmas as Mr. Hawkins’s guest, when Jonathan and I had been newly engaged.
Now, Mr. Hawkins had prepared a very nice suite of rooms for the two of us up on the first floor. As Jonathan and I unpacked, we found that our generous host had provided many thoughtful touches, including a vase of pretty flowers on our sitting-room table, and a pair of matching silk dressing-gowns that he’d had made especially for us.
The cook prepared a delicious dinner in honour of our return. The three of us spent a good two hours at table, where the conversation flowed smoothly and amiably. It was like a return to old times: to the countless occasions over the years when Mr. Hawkins had visited Jonathan and his mother at the orphanage in London, or at her little flat after she retired, and we had gathered around her kitchen table for one of her wonderful meals.
After dinner, as the three of us relaxed over a superb bottle of wine, Mr. Hawkins raised his glass and said: “My dears, I want to drink to your health and prosperity, and congratulate you on your marriage. I wish you all the greatest happiness.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan replied. “May I drink to your health, as well, sir; and please allow me to express our deepest gratitude for your hospitality.”
“I trust you found your rooms comfortable?”
“Very much so, sir.”
“And you, Mina? Do the arrangements suit you? Do you like this old house?”
“Oh, yes sir!” I returned with feeling. “It is a beautiful home. I have loved it since the first moment I saw it.”
“I am glad. My wife Nora felt the same way. The day we saw it, she said: ‘Peter, I must have this place. I cannot imagine living anywhere else.’ So I bought it for her, and we spent many happy years here before she passed away.” He gave a little sigh and seemed lost in thought for a moment.
“Let me assure you, sir,” Jonathan said, “that we will not impose on you for long. As soon as I am settled back in at work, we will find a place of our own.”
“If that is your wish, I will not try to stop you,” Mr. Hawkins responded, with a little frown. “You are newly wed. No doubt you would prefer to be alone together somewhere, rather than to live with a sick, old man like me.”
“Sir!” Jonathan began, but Mr. Hawkins stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“It is entirely understandable. I am sure I would wish the same thing, were I in your shoes. But before you go looking elsewhere, allow me to at least attempt to persuade you otherwise.” He took a sip of his wine, and continued: “It has always been my dearest wish that you two would marry one day. Now, as you settle down in life together, I would like to do something to make your lives a little easier. As you know, our only child, our darling boy Roger, did not live past his fourth birthday. Nora has been gone these many years. You two are all I have left. I have, with love and pride, seen you both grow up, and I consider you as my own flesh and blood. I have watched you, Jonathan, mature in your work over the past five years, into a man of great dedication and integrity, and I know you will make a very fine solicitor. As such, I want you to know that I have drawn up the paperwork to make you a partner in the firm, and in my will I have left you this house, and everything I possess.”
Jonathan and I were both stunned speechless for a long moment. “Sir,” Jonathan managed at last, rising to his feet, “that is—I—thank you, sir. Thank you so much. I do not know what to say.”
“Thank you will do just fine, son,” Mr. Hawkins returned with smile.
As he and Jonathan shook hands, tears came into my eyes; then I leapt to my feet and Mr. Hawkins and I exchanged an embrace as I thanked him, and we all started laughing and crying at the same time.
When we had recovered a bit and resumed our seats at the table, Mr. Hawkins said, “There is one last thing to discuss. I may have ten years left in me, or ten minutes; only the good Lord knows about that. As I said, if I were you, I might not think it the most desirable thing in the world to live here with me. But as this place is to be yours one day, it seems a shame for you to go anywhere else. This house is far too large for one person—ever since Nora passed on, the walls have seemed to echo with a sort of hollow emptiness—and it needs a mistress. Mina, I would give you full sway with the staff. You can run the place any way you like. You can both have all the privacy you want, as I generally retire early. And think of it this way: if you make your home here with me, you will give great pleasure and satisfaction to a lonely old man.”
“Oh! Mr. Hawkins,” I said.
Jonathan and I exchanged a look, silently conveying our joint agreement with regard to this generous offer; and as he took my hand beneath the table, he said: “Sir, I think I speak for both of us when I say: we accept with the utmost gratitude.”
We were so very, very happy that first evening. I had “my Jonathan” back—or so it seemed; we were settled in a lovely place with a man who was as dear to us as a father; and we had a measure of privacy at last. After dinner, we retired to the drawing-room, where Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins encouraged me to play the piano for them. Although I was somewhat out of practice, I soon found my fingers, and passed an enjoyable hour entertaining them with some of our favourite tunes.
At length, we said our good-nights and retired to our room. I was about to begin preparing for bed when I was struck by a sudden compulsion to open the French doors and walk out onto the balcony. There was a bright moon, and the sky twinkled with stars. I stood at the rail, taking in the glory of the dark heavens, and inhaling deeply of the crisp coolness which invigorated my lungs.
“What are you doing out here?” Jonathan asked softly as he joined me on the balcony.
“I just wanted a little air. It is a beautiful night.”
Jonathan wrapped his arms around me from behind and pulled me close. “It is beautiful because you are here with me.”
I placed my arms lovingly over his and leaned back against him, drawing pleasure from his solid warmth. We stood in contented silence for a moment, listening to the chirp of the crickets, and gazing out at the tree-studded garden and the line of rooftops beyond, which were enveloped in ghostly darkness.
“Mina, you have made me so happy.”
“I am happy too, my dearest.”
“I have dreamt of this day for so many, long years.”
“Years? Surely it has not been years, dearest. We were only engaged last autumn.”
“Yes, but I have been wanting to ask you to marry me ever since I was seven years old.”
“Seven?” I repeated in surprise.
“And I have been imagining you here with me in Exeter ever since I began my apprenticeship at age sixteen.”
“Have you? I had no idea. You never said so.”
“We were such good friends. I was not sure if you shared my feelings. I was afraid if I told you how I felt about you, it would change things; that it might drive you away.”
“That could never happen, my love.”
“Oh, Mina!” he said, his lips against my hair. “I want to forget everything that has happened these past few months. I want only to move forward, to dedicate myself to my work, and to loving you.” Gently, he turned me around to face him; my arms wove up around his neck as he looked down at me with earnest affection. “I want to have children, Mina—lots of them, and soon. Do you?”
“You know I do. I have always longed to have a family of my own. And I want all of them to look like you.”
“Only the boys,” he replied with a smile. “The girls must all have your beauty. We will have the best-looking family at church on Sunday—we will take up an entire pew—and then we will return home for roast beef and pudding and read to the children by the fire. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect, my dearest.”
“I love you, Mina.”
“And I love you.”
We shared a heartfelt, affectionate kiss. I was filled with happiness at that moment: firm in the belief that all was well, that Jonathan would very soon be fu
lly recovered from his long illness, and that life would go on as smoothly and delightfully as we imagined it.
Suddenly, a sharp rustling sound from a near-by tree startled us, ending our kiss. We pulled apart to see a large black bat flapping away across the dark sky to the north.
“What was that?” Jonathan said, alarmed.
“I think it was a bat.”
“I cannot recall ever seeing a bat in Exeter before.”
“I saw them quite frequently at Whitby.” I was overcome by an ominous feeling. “It is cold. Let us go in.”
The appearance of the bat inexplicably left us in a strange, quiet mood. Our talk and our kiss had been so warm and tender, that I had anticipated—hoped—that Jonathan would make love to me. Although our love-making always left me with an aching need that I could not quite define, I had learned to appreciate the act for the feeling of intimate closeness it engendered between me and my husband. That night, however, it was not to be. From the look on Jonathan’s face as we undressed and crawled into bed, I deduced that his fears had returned. With a pang of worry and disappointment, I kissed him softly, then laid my head on my pillow and said good-night.
Jonathan soon fell into a restless sleep. Although I was exhausted from our long day of travel, the newness of our surroundings, combined with my concerns for my husband, conspired to keep sleep at bay. It seemed that I had just drifted off at last when I heard Jonathan cry out:
“No! No! You monster! You monster!”
I awakened to find Jonathan senseless and clutching his pillow, crying, “What on earth is in that bag? Set it free! Set it free!”
I knew he was suffering from one of the nightmares which had plagued him during his hospital stay and had continued during our honeymoon. I reached out gently in the darkness to touch his face, which was damp with perspiration. “Jonathan. Wake up. It is all right. It is just a dream.”