Dracula, My Love: The Secret Journals of Mina Harker

by Syrie James

“Sorry, miss,” she said. “I’ve been at this house ten years now, but I wouldn’t know nought about what went on before my time.”

  “Is there a family called Cuthbert in the neighbourhood, or a servant or coachman with that name who is perhaps forty years of age or older?” I asked, a question I had posed at every house along the way.

  “No, miss. Not that I know of.”

  She was about to close the door, when Mr. Wagner asked: “By any chance, is there a man in the area whose Christian name is Cuthbert?”

  “Well, there’s Sir Cuthbert Sterling who lives at Number 24 down the street. We don’t see too much of him, though, for he has a seat in the Parliament. When he’s not working, he’s out with Lady Sterling.”

  My pulse quickened. “Has he lived there long?”

  “Oh, the Sterlings have lived on this street for ever, or so I’m told—nigh on to fifty years.”

  We thanked her and walked away. “Well!” Mr. Wagner said, raising his eyebrows. “This is an interesting development.”

  “The man is in Parliament,” I returned sceptically. “He has lived here fifty years. He is probably eighty years old!” The challenge in Mr. Wagner’s eyes, however, was impossible to ignore. “All right,” I said, laughing. “We will go and ask. But this is positively the last enquiry. I must get back before Dr. Seward becomes concerned about me.”

  I had difficulty making out the house numbers in the dim glow of the street-lamps, but Mr. Wagner could read them with ease. He found Number 24 and knocked. The door was answered by a stout, sensible-looking, middle-aged woman in a starched maid’s uniform, whose auburn hair was laced with grey. As she lifted her eyes to mine, her placid expression instantly dissolved, replaced by stunned amazement.

  “Good gracious!” she cried, her hand flying to her mouth. “Anna Murray? How can it be? But no, no, forgive me—that’s quite impossible.”

  The woman’s outburst—and the name she’d spoken, Anna Murray—took me by such surprise that I nearly forgot what I had intended to say. “Is…Sir Cuthbert Sterling at home?” I managed, my heart pounding.

  “I’m sorry.” She glanced at Mr. Wagner, but his charming smile only seemed to add to her discomposure. “He and Lady Sterling are out at present. May I tell them who called?”

  “My name is Mrs. Harker. Forgive me—but you called me a name just now: Anna Murray. My maiden name was Murray. I came to enquire about a young woman who worked in this neighbourhood some two-and-twenty years ago. Her name was Anna. I think she was my mother.”

  A soft look now came into the woman’s eyes as she studied me, and her lips began to quiver. “I thought I was seeing a ghost,” she said, shaking her head wonderingly. “Yes. Yes. You’re the spitting image of her, you are, except for the eyes. Anna had dark brown eyes.”

  “You knew her, then?” My heart leapt. “Did she work in this house?”

  “She did. It was a long time ago, when I first started in service here. We were chambermaids together. She was eighteen years old when she—when she was obliged to leave. I always wondered what became of her.”

  “It seems she passed away when I was a little girl. I would love to know more about her if you would be willing to share what you remember.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. The gleam went out of her eyes with the suddenness of a candle blowing out. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “I could come back if this is not a convenient time.”

  The maid shook her head, looking very worried now. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Think how much it would mean to the young lady,” Mr. Wagner interjected quickly and gently, gazing directly into the woman’s eyes, “to have a tour of the home where her mother once lived and worked. Surely you could spare her a few minutes.”

  The woman froze, staring at him; then she turned to me and said in a somewhat dazed voice, “You had best come in, ma’am.”

  I had witnessed a similar reaction once before, I realised: outside the post office at Whitby, when Mr. Wagner had somehow redirected the attentions of my inquisitive landlady. As I darted him a grateful but puzzled look, he only stepped back and said with a smile, “I will wait for you out here.”

  It was a brief but memorable tour. The maid said her name was Miss Hornsby. She showed me the grand, high-ceilinged drawing-room, a beautiful library, and a sitting-room on the ground floor. As we ascended the staircase to the servants’ quarters, I could hear the sounds of children laughing and romping about on the first floor, and the stern voice of someone in command. Knowing that I was climbing the very same steps that my mother had used—and then, seeing the very chamber where my mother used to sleep—filled me with such emotion that I was moved to tears.

  “I was one of four chambermaids in the old days,” Miss Hornsby said as we made our way back down-stairs, “when the house belonged to Sir Cuthbert’s father, God rest his soul. It was a never-ending job keeping this house clean, I can tell you, barely a minute to ourselves, and only one day a month off to go home. Not that Anna had a home to go to.”

  “She had no parents?”

  “No. She never talked much about herself, but she did say she lost both her parents to illness and went into service at a young age. She was a cheerful sort, and very pretty. She didn’t have much schooling, but she taught herself to read, and was very fond of books. She was always trying to better herself. And she had a way of knowing things that were going to happen before they did, if you know what I mean.”

  “No; what do you mean, Miss Hornsby?”

  “Well, I remember one time when a gentleman friend was supposed to meet me on a Sunday to walk me to church, and he didn’t come. Anna said, ‘He’s had an accident, hurt his left foot in the stable-yard,’ and so it proved. She was like that. She always knew to the minute when young Master Cuthbert was coming home from University for one of his surprise visits, even when his own mother didn’t have a clue. I used to tell Anna that she must be descended from gipsy stock, and could have earned her living as a fortune-teller if she chose.”

  This information so filled me with wonder that I could barely speak—a feeling intensified by the fact that I now had no further doubts as to who my father was. We were approaching the foyer when I finally found my voice again. “Miss Hornsby: you said you were my mother’s friend. Is it too much to hope for—when she left, did she by any chance leave any of her belongings behind?”

  Miss Hornsby pursed her lips, thinking. “Now that you mention it, I think she did give me something, which I might have kept. I will look for it. You must tell me where to send it.”

  While she went in search of a piece of paper and a fountain-pen, I heard a carriage draw up outside. Miss Hornsby returned; and while I was writing down my home address, the front door flew open and a well-dressed lady and gentleman entered. They both looked to be about forty years of age. From their manner, and from Miss Hornsby’s mortified, averted gaze and deferential curtsey, it was clear that they were the master and mistress of the house.

  “Good evening, Hornsby,” replied the gentleman heartily, handing her his hat and coat. “And who might this be?” As his eyes caught mine (green eyes that mirrored my own), his mouth dropped open, and he froze, with an expression so stunned that I thought he might drop dead on the marbled floor before me.

  “Is this a friend of yours, Hornsby?” asked Lady Sterling in some confusion.

  “Yes, and she was just leaving, madam,” Miss Hornsby replied quickly.

  Sir Cuthbert took two steps back, still staring at me in consternation. Recovering my wits, I gave Miss Hornsby the fountain-pen and paper, saying, “It was so nice to see you. Good-night.”

  No sooner had I gained the front step than the door slammed shut behind me. Mr. Wagner, who was waiting beneath a near-by tree, hurried to join me. “I saw them draw up. Was he—”

  “Yes. I fear I gave him quite a shock.”

 
“Forgive me. I placed you in a very awkward situation.”

  “Please, do not apologise. I am glad I did it.” I smiled; and then a little laugh bubbled up from inside me. “If not for you, I would never have knocked on a single door on this street, and I would still know nothing about my parents. Now I think I can say with assurance that I am the daughter of a member of Parliament and a gipsy!”

  ELEVEN

  IN THE CAB BACK TO THE TRAIN STATION, I TOLD MR. WAGNER everything that had passed during my brief visit to the Sterlings’ mansion.

  “How remarkable to think that you look so much like your mother.”

  “I did not know whether to laugh or cry when Sir Cuthbert caught sight of me. Did he think I was my mother’s ghost come back to haunt him? Or did he realise that I was his daughter?”

  “For all we know, he may never have been aware of your existence.”

  “True.”

  “Do you intend to contact him again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want nothing from him. He has a wife and family. I think I can safely assume that they know nothing about me. My mother was eighteen years old when she left that house; he could not have been much older. I am a mistake from his past. I am happy—very happy—to have seen his face this once, to have the mystery of my birth solved, and to know that my mother loved him; but I would not wish to cause him any pain.”

  “An admirable view,” he said quietly, with a smile.

  When we reached the train station, I expected to say good-bye to Mr. Wagner, a circumstance I anticipated with great melancholy. To my surprise, he bought tickets for both of us back to Purfleet.

  “But you are staying in London,” I said. “Please do not go so far out of town on my account.”

  “I would not think of allowing you to return unaccompanied at this hour,” he insisted.

  We were obliged to share a train compartment with three other people and remained silent for most of the journey, my mind full of all that had just happened.

  When we exited the train at Purfleet, Mr. Wagner said, “It is late. I will not be satisfied until I have delivered you to your door. Where you are staying?”

  I hesitated before answering. I knew I would have to devise some explanation were I to be seen arriving at the house in Mr. Wagner’s company; but I was also relieved by his offer, for I had not looked forward to walking down the dark country lanes alone. It was with some embarrassment that I admitted: “I am staying at Purfleet Asylum, about a mile down the road.”

  “An asylum? Indeed?”

  It had grown chilly, and I wrapped my shawl more tightly around me. “I know it sounds strange, but a friend of mine is the proprietor of the establishment. The house is large and very comfortable.”

  “It is too cold to walk. Wait here, while I find a cab.”

  There were no cabs to be found, but Mr. Wagner persuaded a local man to let him hire his gig for an hour, apparently paying very well for the privilege. As its owner happily walked off towards the inn with coin in hand, Mr. Wagner assisted me to board the vehicle and moved around to the driver’s side.

  Just then, the wind picked up, gusting through the area with such force that it stirred up a quantity of rubbish near-by and sent a pile of empty crates clattering to the ground. The horse reared up and whinnied in alarm. Mr. Wagner darted up to the horse and placed his hands upon its face, petting it and speaking to it in a low, soothing tone; he then whispered something in its ears. Under his caresses, the horse immediately quieted down.

  When Mr. Wagner leapt on board, I said admiringly: “You have quite a way with horses.”

  “‘The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse’s ears.’”

  I recognised the Arabian proverb, and smiled. We got under way. I soon found myself trembling, a reaction which I suspect had more to do with the touch of Mr. Wagner’s thigh against mine than the temperature of the night air.

  “Take my cloak,” he said, as he removed said garment and draped it about my shoulders.

  “Then you will be cold, sir.”

  “I promise you, I will not.”

  We rode in silence for a while. Sadness welled up within me, aware as I was that every movement of the chaise only brought me closer to the moment when Mr. Wagner and I would be obliged to part. “I am grateful to you, sir,” I murmured. “You gave me courage to-night when I needed it most; the courage to fulfill a dream.”

  “I am glad.”

  “How can I ever thank you?”

  As he drove, Mr. Wagner took my gloved hand in his and brought it to his lips, saying softly: “By allowing me to see you again.”

  My heart began to pound. “You are always welcome to visit me and my husband, sir, while we are in town.”

  “Your husband?” He dropped my hand and let out a low, ironic laugh. “I have no interest in seeing your husband, madam.”

  I had no answer to that and fell silent, my cheeks growing hot.

  He looked at me. “All these weeks, since last we saw each other—have you ever thought of me?”

  “Of course I have,” I responded in a voice I barely recognised.

  He commanded the horses to stop and turned to me, his handsome face glowing in the moonlight as his eyes met mine. He rested his cool hand upon my burning cheek, a touch so intimate that it caused me to gasp aloud. In a soft, deep voice, he said: “I have thought of little else but you.”

  “Every day, I wondered where you were and how you were,” I whispered.

  “I have done the same. I thought you were lost to me for ever; yet I could not forget you. I can never forget you, Mina.”

  It was the first time he had called me Mina, a familiarity reserved for only the closest of relations. He leaned nearer now, until his face was just inches from mine. Desire coursed through me. I was possessed by a desperate need to feel his lips pressed against my own. Hot tears threatened, and it seemed as if my very throat might close.

  “Perhaps,” I said brokenly, “if I had not been engaged when we first met, things would be different. But I was engaged. And now I am married!” I broke away from him and threw off his cloak. “This is wrong. Wrong! I am sorry. I cannot see you again!”

  I flung open the door, leapt down from the chaise, and ran off in anguish down the wooded lane.

  AT THE ASYLUM’S FRONT DOOR, A MAID ANSWERED MY QUIET knock. I hurried up to my room, where I sank down upon the bed and burst into tears.

  Oh! The folly of the human heart! There was no longer any point denying it: I was in love with Mr. Wagner! Madly, deeply, desperately in love! How was it possible, I wondered miserably, to love two men at the same time? For I did love my husband, very dearly. My feelings for Jonathan were different, however, than those I had for Mr. Wagner. They were softer and quieter, founded in a life-long friendship and respect.

  The very thought of Mr. Wagner, on the other hand, caused my pulse to race; and being in his company—hearing his voice—feeling his touch—filled me with an electric excitement such as I had never before experienced. In saying good-bye to him, I felt as though my body had been cut in two. But what other choice had I? None. None! I was a married woman; and to be in his presence was, and always had been, a temptation nearly impossible to resist. I had already gone far beyond the bounds of propriety just in spending so much time alone with him; and the thoughts now coursing through my mind and heart went against any semblance of decency and morality.

  For some minutes I lay on the bed, crying bitterly; but this, I knew, would never do. Gathering my strength of mind, I dried my eyes and repeated aloud the lines from my favourite Shakespeare sonnet:

  …Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken…

  My love for Jonathan, I reminded myself, was an ever-fixed mark. It was constant and true. It could not b
e shaken by adversity or changed by time. I had felt temptation, and I had not wavered. My love would bear out, as Shakespeare had written, even until the edge of doom.

  I glanced up at the clock on the mantel: it was nearly half-past eight. Dr. Seward must wonder what had become of me. I went to the basin, splashed water on my face, and straightened my hair, determined to put an end to this paroxysm of emotion and to keep my evening’s outing to myself.

  I VENTURED DOWN-STAIRS TO DR. SEWARD’S STUDY, WHERE I found him at his desk, absorbed in reading my typewritten pages. Upon seeing me, he leapt to his feet. “Mrs. Harker. I told the cook to hold supper, as I did not wish to disturb you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, relieved to learn that he had not missed me.

  He eyed me with concern. “Are you quite well?”

  I lied: “I am; although—I have been thinking about poor Lucy, and about all that Jonathan has suffered.”

  “Ah. I understand your distress. I have read your diary, and I am more than halfway through with your husband’s. You were right, Mrs. Harker. You have both been through a great deal. I should have trusted you earlier, for Lucy spoke so highly of you.” He moved around the desk to stand beside me. “You said you wanted to know how Lucy died.”

  “Yes.”

  “I warn you: it is a terrible tale, but if you still wish to hear it—”

  “I do, Doctor.”

  “Then you can begin listening to my phonograph recordings any time you like.”

  AFTER SUPPER WE RETURNED TO DR. SEWARD’S STUDY, WHERE HE placed me in a comfortable chair beside the phonograph. He opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax; but instead of selecting one, he paused as a sudden thought struck him.

  “You know, I have been keeping this diary for months, but it never occurred to me until now: I have no idea how to pick out any particular part of it. To find the passages about Lucy, I am afraid you will have to listen to it all from the beginning.”