From the driving seat, Pierre said crisply, “My dear Karl, is there anything you haven’t told her?” He steered the car into a narrow lane near a railway siding, slowed and stopped. “I’m not a chauffeur, you can let yourselves out.”
“What’s happening?” said Charlotte.
Karl got out of the car, came round to her side and helped her out; beautiful courtesy, even in this situation. Pierre turned the high-roofed black vehicle round, glancing at Charlotte with a cold grin as he drove away. All was grey and black; sheer brick walls furred with soot, a distant line or terraced houses backing onto the railway line, straggling verges where nothing but weeds could grow. In all her life, she had never felt so depressed.
“There is a roadhouse round the corner. It’s best the car is not seen right outside it,” said Karl. “Can you walk that far?”
“Yes, of course. I’m quite all right, really. But where’s Pierre gone?”
“To dispose of the car. I shall wait for him, and order a taxi-cab for you to complete your journey to your sister’s.”
“Do you trust him to come back?”
Karl put an arm around her as they walked. “I made an agreement with him. He won’t break it.”
The redbrick eating house was not open, but the lights were on and the owner, a fat, cheerful man, let them in quite willingly when Karl murmured some story about his “wife” being taken ill. The lie curled up and lay heavy in Charlotte’s stomach. It seemed criminal to take advantage of the owner’s good nature. He took them to a corner table and Karl ordered breakfast for her. She could do no more than nibble at it, but her thirst for strong, sweet tea seemed insatiable. She drank cup after cup, letting the warmth and nourishment seep inside her, miraculously restoring her well-being.
Karl sat and watched her across the table, his amber eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. He was quiet, perhaps as if there was nothing to say except “goodbye.”
She said, “When the taxi comes for me… will this be the last time I see you?”
He did not answer the question. “We have some time to talk,” he said. “Pierre will be a while.”
“I hope he takes forever. I hope he doesn’t come back.”
Karl put his hand over hers. She wanted to make this small island of time into a wall against the world; just to stay here, where she felt safe, talking to Karl forever. She said, “I was thinking about what happened in the manor. It frightened me, the way you collapsed; I didn’t think anything could hurt you.”
“Apart from severing of the neck, only cold seems to affect us. I don’t meant the extremes of weather on earth, but an unnatural coldness, like that of the Weisskalt.”
“And the coldness of the tunnel was unnatural,” said Charlotte. The memory chilled her, but thinking of it was better than dwelling on the future. “like complete emptiness. I always felt my mother had left her pain in the house as well as her spirit; but those poor people who died under the manor left only their pain. You mentioned a vampire.”
“Yes. I must be more attuned to such things than I had thought.” Karl spoke softly, as if he found it hard to talk about it at all. “I don’t know how I knew. It was pure intuition, that a vampire had lived there once, hundreds of years ago; lured his victims there and kept their bones. A collector, an obsessive. Some vampires feed not only on blood but on the aura, the life force itself. The victims’ energy was taken and only their pain was left.”
“That’s what coldness is—an absence of energy,” said Charlotte. “Yet it only affected you—not me. I have been through that tunnel twice now, and both times I was left unharmed.”
“Presumably I was recognised for what I was,” Karl said drily. “They wanted back what had been stolen from them. It did not feel like a conscious thing, their revenge; it almost seemed mechanical, a vacuum pulling air into itself. It was a truly horrible feeling, Charlotte. I have felt the cold of the Weisskalt, and this was worse. I think I would have died if you had not been there to help me, beloved.”
“Thank God I was.”
“I don’t think He would appreciate our gratitude.” He was half-smiling, his eyes so warm they dissolved her. “Obviously that vampire left its lair centuries ago, and I can’t think who it could have been. I wonder if Kristian would know.”
“I wish we could go back to the manor and find out.”
“You would go back there?”
“I’d do anything, if it meant we could stay together.”
Karl did not reply. She caught his hands; her nails dug into his flesh but he did not flinch. “Take me to Europe with you.”
His long-lashed eyelids swept down. “I can’t. I am going back to Kristian.”
“After everything you said?” Charlotte exclaimed.
“How do you think I persuaded Pierre to leave your family alone? Being in favour with Kristian means more to him than taking revenge on me. Besides, I think perhaps I should have done this before. Tried to talk to Kristian instead of fighting and running all this time.”
“Take me with you,” she said desperately.
Karl shook his head. “Charlotte, I can’t. There will be other vampires there. You can’t have forgotten what Kristian did to my wife?”
“Oh, God.” She sat back on the hard chair, so shaken by the image that she thought she was going to faint again. “After you’ve seen Kristian, can you—can you come back?”
He looked at her and the distress in his eyes burned her. “He may not let me go again, but even if he does, what would be the point? You have your family, your work. God, I should never, never have let this happen. It cannot go on. We both know it.”
She had tried to control her feelings, but she could not. “Are you telling me that this is the last time I’ll see you?” she whispered harshly. “I can’t bear it, Karl, I really can’t. How do you expect me to live, after this?”
Karl remained as still and composed as marble; only the anguish in his eyes betrayed him. “I’m trying to say goodbye to you and I can’t. Go to Fleur’s as you agreed. I am not going to leave London immediately; there’s someone I want to see, someone who knows Kristian. After that, if your family have not come to take you home by then, I will come and meet you.”
She thought, What’s the use? It’s only delaying the moment, as he said. If he doesn’t say goodbye now, it mil be later. But it was all she had to cling to, a reprieve. “Where?”
“In the garden in the centre of the square where she lives. About twelve noon.”
“It’s too dangerous, Karl. What if David’s there by then?”
“Don’t worry. I will see him long before he sees me. If you are not there, I’ll know they have taken you home.”
“I won’t let them. I’ll run away.”
“Don’t, Charlotte,” Karl said gently. “It will do no good.” He leaned forward and kissed her. From the corner of her eye Charlotte saw the owner pause in the act of laying a table, slightly startled at this public display, shaking his head indulgently. But she was past caring what anyone thought.
They must have sat in the roadhouse for an hour, but it seemed only moments before the taxi-cab arrived for Charlotte. Pierre had not returned but she was glad; she did not want to see him again. Numb, she walked outside with Karl and climbed into the back of the cab, lost for words, feeling dislocated and bereft. “Twelve o’clock,” he said, and kissed her again.
The cheery down-to-earth banter of the cab driver disoriented her; it seemed so incongruous after everything that had happened. A mercurial misery dropped through her as she watched Karl’s tall figure dwindling, until he seemed no more than an ordinary man. Already she was thinking, What if he only said we’d meet to stop me arguing? What if he has no intention of coming? And Fleur must know what happened—how can I stop her ringing Father at once?
She leaned back in the hard seat, flattened by exhaustion. London oppressed her unbearably, such a harsh contrast to the hours of solitude with Karl. Such heaviness… Chimneys, towers, gasometers…
The endless rows of buildings were a huge, grey weight of brick and stone that seemed to be crushing her. An hallucinatory grandeur wreathed in smoke and mist, vibrating with noise and people, the rasp of motor horns, the cries of street traders rising and dying away like the voices under the manor… She felt a hot stab of panic in her chest. Does everything look so strange because I’m tired—or was Karl right, his bite has twisted my sanity? No. While I can still think rationally, I won’t give in to this, I won’t!
I know I’m losing Karl. He’s trying to let me go gently, as if he thinks I can’t see how impossible our love is. My heart can’t see why we’re not free to love each other… but these physical and moral bonds hold us into the pattern of our lives like chains. Karl can’t break them any more than I can.
In the cold morning light Charlotte stepped from the taxi and looked up at Fleur’s house in its elegant row; the tall windows set in warm grey brick, the flight of steps up to the door and the neat black railings in front. I can’t face this, I can’t go in… But what else can I do?
“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” said the driver.
“Yes… yes, perfectly.”
She put her hand in her coat pocket, suddenly realised she had no money. Before she had time to be embarrassed, the driver said, “The gentleman paid me, miss. Very generous, ‘e was too.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you.” Charlotte turned away and hurried up the steps, her heart thumping. She heard the rough, throaty engine of the cab as it rattled away; she heard birds singing in the square, where Karl had said he would be… How long? It’s nearly nine. Three hours. With an unsteady hand, she rang the doorbell.
She had expected Fleur’s small plump maid Jenny to open the door; instead it was Clive who stood there, handsome and imposing, dressed for the City. The dismay she felt at the sight of him was a reflex; she had never known what to say, how to behave with him. He stood with the morning post in his hand, looking surprised to see her.
“Hello, Charlotte, I didn’t know you were coming this morning. Come in, come in. How are you?”
Charlotte was completely lost for words. He was speaking as if he knew nothing about the events at Parkland, as if he thought this was just a social call. She had not prepared a story. As she stepped into the hallway, Clive’s mouth spread in a grin. “Goodness, still too shy even to say good morning? We shall have to do something about this. I don’t bite, y’know.”
She found his manner threatening, not friendly. Clive was the sort of man who despised weakness, used it to torment those who could not defend themselves. He gave her an appraising look—taking her apart with his eyes, as Pierre had—because he knew it upset her.
After all she had endured, it seemed the last straw, but years of practise enabled her to hide her discomfort. “Good morning, Clive,” she said coldly. “Where’s Fleur?”
“In the dining room, and I’m off to work. Perhaps see you later?” He tipped his hat to her and she watched him leave without a word, only glad that he had gone.
In the dining room, Fleur sat in a flowery silk dressing gown, her short auburn hair falling into her eyes as she pored over a magazine. Jenny was clearing the table. The atmosphere was of serene normality. As Charlotte entered, Fleur glanced up and stared at her sister with arched eyebrows.
“Charlotte? Good heavens, what are you doing here at this hour? I’m not even dressed yet. Was I supposed to know you were coming?” Fleur stood up and came to embrace her.
Charlotte was stunned. She doesn’t know!
Hesitantly she said, “Hasn’t Father or anyone telephoned you?”
“Not for a few days,” Fleur said offhandedly. “Should they have done, to let me know you were coming? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. It’s lovely to see you, darling. Jenny, take Charlotte’s coat and hat, bring some fresh tea.”
The little maid obeyed. Alone with her sister, Charlotte felt like bursting into tears. She had assumed Fleur would know the situation at Parkland; but it was possible that no one had thought to telephone her, or decided that as there was nothing Fleur and Clive could do to help, there was no point in worrying them. It only happened yesterday, Charlotte thought. It feels like a lifetime… and suddenly, helplessly, she sat down at the table and began to cry.
“Oh, Charli,” said Fleur, sitting by her. “Whatever’s the matter? I thought you looked terribly pale when you walked in. There, there… “
Charlotte longed to tell Fleur everything. Confess her sins, pour out the hopelessness of it all. The affection between them had always seemed a surface thing to Charlotte; no real openness. It was as if she and Fleur hardly knew each other, really. You should talk to them, Karl had said. The words twisted in her heart. Impossible, but she had to say something.
“Are you sure you haven’t spoken to Father or David? Not even Aunt Lizzie?”
“No, truly, darling.”
“You don’t know what’s happened, then?”
Fleur draped her arm across Charlotte’s back, shook her gently. “You’re making me very worried, dear. Is it so terrible?”
“I—I caused a row at home. I broke my engagement with Henry. He resigned and stormed out and Father’s absolutely furious with me. And I love someone else and it’s such a mess… “
“Oh, Charli.” Only a trace of astonishment in Fleur’s voice; then complete sympathy. She gave Charlotte a handkerchief. “So you’ve run away? I would have done the same.”
Charlotte blotted her eyes and nose. “Fleur, can I stay here for a while?”
“Of course.”
“And will you promise not to tell anyone I’m here?”
Fleur looked dubious. “Don’t they know where you are? I should let them know, really, or they’ll worry.”
“Oh, just—just give me a few hours, at least. I need some time to think.”
“All right, darling. You telephone them when you feel ready.”
Charlotte was so grateful for her older sister’s kindness that she almost started crying again. This sudden closeness between them was so unexpected, yet so natural, as if it had been there all the time and neither had been able to reach out for it. “Thank you.”
“But who is this someone you’re in love with?”
“I can’t—it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not Karl, is it?” Charlotte did not answer, and Fleur did not press her. “All this going on… I never guessed.”
“What, that I have feelings?” Charlotte said with a touch of bitterness.
“You do keep things to yourself, rather. You always have.” Fleur hugged her. “It’s awfully bad to bottle things up. If you’re staying tonight, though, I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m having a little party tonight. Just a few friends, artists, poets—you know, all the sorts Father can’t stand—nothing formal. I know you hate it, Charli, but please don’t stay in your room; it might help take your mind off things, to meet a few new people.”
For Charlotte, tonight seemed to be on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. She could see nothing beyond noon. “That’s all right,” she said.
“I have to tell you a little secret,” said Fleur, caressing Charlotte’s hair. “I’m just as terrified of social things as you are.”
Charlotte was so startled by this revelation that she momentarily forgot her own problems. “I don’t believe you!”
“But I am. I’ve taught myself to hide it, that’s all. Much as I would love to hunch up in a corner and speak to no one, I force myself to relax and smile. Looks jolly impressive, doesn’t it? All a sham, my dear. Of course, there are things that help… better than booze, some of them, and then one doesn’t have to pretend. You shouldn’t be afraid to try them. Could make all the difference to you, dear.”
Charlotte did not respond. She did not want to spoil the closeness between them by voicing her disapproval. Besides, who am I to disapprove of anything anyone does?
She said, “I’m rather tired, Fleur. Could I lie down for a while?”
; “Of course. But just come and look at the paintings I’ve been working on. I’m awfully proud of them, I’ve done them all in the last month. I work all night, sometimes.”
Charlotte let herself be led into the conservatory, thinking, is it the cocaine, keeping her awake all night? “Doesn’t Clive mind? He never seemed to like you painting in the first place.”
“Oh, it’s only his way to complain about everything. He’s a sweetie, really, and he adores the work I’m doing now. There, look.”
Breathing in the evocative scent of oil paint and turpentine, Charlotte wandered into the maze of plants and easels. She expected to see the light and colourful themes that Fleur loved to paint; flowers, friends, country scenes. What she saw instead made her stop dead in disbelief.
The canvases were dark and macabre, painted in fierce strokes that vibrated in constant angry motion. Expressionistic yet obscure in style, they portrayed medieval nightmares of plague and death; narrow gabled streets, houses with crosses on the doors, incarnadine piles of corpses on which ugly birds were feeding. The colours were black and purplish browns, relieved only by stark highlights of deathly white and blood red.
Charlotte stared and stared at them, incredulous. Then she turned to look at her sister. Fleur looked breezy, unconcerned, but for the first time Charlotte noticed something strange about her eyes; the pupils were different sizes, giving her an unfocused looked.
“Well, what do you think?” Fleur asked.
Before she could stop herself, Charlotte said, “Why are you painting such awful things?”
“Are they awful?” said Fleur, as if Charlotte were criticising the style rather than the content.
“They’re horrific.” She swallowed, turned away so the angry strokes did not oscillate across her sight. “I’m sorry, Fleur, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t usually paint such ghastly subjects.”
Fleur shrugged. “Ghastly, do you think? I just paint what comes into my head. It’s so very cleansing. It’s no good to turn away from reality, is it?”
Charlotte hardly knew what to say. Can she really see nothing unpleasant in them? The gentle normality of Fleur’s house seemed to be turning sour and she felt a cruel sense of deception, as if she had woken from a nightmare, then realised she was still dreaming. Is this the effect of cocaine, opium or something? she thought. Oh, Fleur, what are you doing to yourself? “You don’t think you are taking—taking drugs rather too often?”
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