A long silence passed between them, until he barked a bitter laugh. "Not that it would have mattered. She would not have taken me even if I had not had some sport and play with her best friend."
William felt sickened. She had always held her master up as a paragon of virtue; a man among boys, a gentleman among scoundrels, a king among peasants. She had known him to be gloriously handsome from the moment she first laid eyes one him, anyone could see that, but she also took him for being polite and cultured. Elegant and refined. He had fine tastes, and finer clothes, hobbies, and pastimes. He sipped wine alone on his moonlit balcony where most men would have guzzled down cheap ale and told dirty stories in large groups at the harbor. He rode his horse through the sweet-smelling woods where most men would have crowded around fighting dogs or cocks and shouted at their favorite to win. He spoke of love as dearly as William regarded it, while other men spoke of love as casually as fucking and leaving.
She had believed him to be a man of virtue along with his appearance and elegance, but she saw now that he was just like all the rest of them, if not worse, and it sickened her.
She would have pulled away, had he not caught her hand in his. "Tell me, what is your age, child? The servants tell me you look to be no older than ten and five, or ten and six."
It was true, so William nodded.
It had been the evening of her fifteenth birthday when she had first beheld the count, and it had been nearly a year later when she had given up her voice for a pair of legs so that she could walk beside him on land, and she had been with him here on land for nearly a year. She realized that she was late into her sixteenth year, and soon to be seventeen.
He nodded slowly. "A good age, child. You are a good girl, William Hanna. I have not met many of your ilk before, except..."
He trailed off. He looked so alone and sad.
William was afraid to hear it. Still, she shifted under her bedclothes and crossed her legs into a sitting position, to let him know she was listening.
"When I was your age, I married a maid as lovely as winter, with moonlight in her hair." He seemed half as surprised to be telling her as she was to hear it, but also half reminiscing and introspective. The soft glow of the candlelight beside her bed made a romantic mood. "It was a marriage of convenience, arranged by my father. Our family is one of the oldest and most respectable in my home country, but hers had more money. She brought a handsome dowry to the match, which my father craved so much he did not wait until we were both older; mere children at the time, she and I. Yet I could not have loved her more if I had chosen her myself. She was the loveliest creature I had ever seen, with a heart and spirit just as beautiful to match."
A phantom joy lit up his eyes as he recollected, lost to memories. It was a pure and tender joy, not at all like the manic and (at times) boisterous smirks she was accustomed to.
William had once heard a fortune-teller say that there were different kinds of love in the world; the kind that flickers in a moment, the kind that lasts a night, the glow of summer, the kind that fades after a few years... and there was a kind so deep that it changes your smile.
The count's smile changed when he recalled the bride of his youth.
William realized with a dull start that he was still describing her. "She had eyes as bright as stars, and a wit to match. Her skin was white as the moon, and her hair reflected the glow of the moon the few times it shown."
How like his own, William thought. Such loving descriptions, she could have cast about it.
"She was the moon and stars of my life," he said. "As far as I was concerned, the moon and stars shined every night because she was there beside me, and the sun rose every morning when she woke beside me. No matter how much gloom and cloud (and there was plenty, since I inherited my father's cold, crumbling castle in that rainy country), the world was filled with light and warmth in the world because she was in it. She, my darling Elisabeta."
He seemed so lost to memories that the words poured out of his mouth as smoothly as water down a babbling brook. He seemed so absorbed by the joy of his memories that he smiled and his eyes lit like stars themselves, and he went on and on describing their happy life together, heedless of the sad ending that William felt would inevitably come since she, Elisabeta, was no longer here.
When he seemed to reach the part of his story where she would leave, it seemed to occur to him all at once that she was not here, because then it seemed all the light and warmth left his eyes, and the whole room with it. (Although the lamp still burned.)
Lost and cold and hollow, he said, "She died giving birth to our first child…"
Slowly and heavily, his eyes turned to William, "She would have been about your age, had she lived."
William felt puzzled about this, for didn't he say that he and she had been about William' age when they had married? How could Elisabeta still be William' age if she had married the count about sixteen years ago—and then it struck William that he had meant their child.
Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. "A girl," her lips formed.
The count nodded slowly, heavily. "A girl… our daughter." Then a heavy silence fell over them both.
William felt both profoundly sad for him and revolted for herself. She loved him as a bride loves her husband, and she realized with profound grief and disappointment that he saw her only as a replacement to the child they had lost. She felt nauseous and revolted with herself, and wanted at that moment she wanted nothing more than to bathe in bubbling, scalding water and scrub herself clean, until every part of her that reminded him of his lost daughter was gone and all that remained was the type of woman he could love.
But he looked so sad and lost that she pitied him profoundly too, and dared not move or breathe too suddenly in his grief.
He twisted a golden band around his finger. "I looked for wars to fight in. Our country is stable though, and the time of knights and lords battling the Ottoman for God and country are done. My father died soon after, and I was trapped alone in a cold stone castle, filled with nothing but echoes and shadows of what had once been, and what could have been. I traveled from city to city, castle to castle, making calls with other nobles and visiting cities that my Elisabeta had loved, trying to forget my grief, but it would not do. I was alone, trapped, bored ruling a backwater fiefdom filled with worthless peasants and their worthless concerns."
William waited for him to continue. But you left.
"That I did," he agreed. "My Elisabeta had been fond of the bustle of city life, and I had heard great things about England, the Jewel of the World. My fief was small and empty, and the peasants practically ruled themselves; there was no need for me there, and there was no way to forget my own grief when there was not but myself around. So, I made plans to move, and lost myself and forgot my grief in my preparation. I studied for years to learn the English language; and geography, and laws and customs. I had hoped to find a new challenge, and an adventure, and a new start; to blend in and lose myself and start a new life in England's teeming millions."
His hopeful voice turned to hard bitterness as he recalled, "And then I saw the picture."
William had heard the story before, and heard it now in the count's own words. The final preparations were being made, the estate selected and almost bought, and solicitor Jonathan Harker traveled to his estate to help him with the final paperwork. They had gotten along splendidly, and Jonathan even helped the count practice the last of his English, and learn the last of London's local geography, streets, laws, and social customs from the perspective of a native Londoner.
And then the count had spied a picture of Jonathan's fiancé, Wilhelmina "Mina" Murray.
The gossipers said that he had fallen in love with a photograph, but the count told her now that Mina had been his Elisabeta come to life.
And just like that, William suddenly understood why he had gone to such lengths for a woman he had only seen from a distance. He had been consumed with grief for the death of his child
hood bride, and after many years of being alone with the shadows and echoes of her ghost, he he had arranged to live in England for a new start and a chance to forget his grief, and here was a woman (still technically unmarried) who reminded him so much of the wife he had lost. A new start and a new chance indeed.
With all that in mind, of course he would leave for England post-haste, without waiting for the woman's fiancé to return with him. Of course he would arrive in England and try to woo the woman he desired away from her husband, while the said husband dawdled in Transylvania. (And he had more time than he had thought, since Jonathan had taken a sudden chill in Transylvania and became seriously ill.)
Of course he had pursued Mina with heat and fervor, and had ignored or failed to recognize her many rejections because he had been too blind and drunk with love for her.
He described how impassioned his love for Mina had made him, especially since it had been many years since he had desired a woman's embrace. Since he desired Mina so greatly but she would not have him, he blew off some of his fervor for her with a woman who would have him.
When he told his side of the story, in that charismatic tone of voice, it was almost easy to see it from his point of view.
"I did not mean to cause the problems I did," he said sincerely. "I did not mean to get Lucy with child, and I did not mean to ruin her reputation. I did not mean to make Mina doubt my devotion to her by dancing in the arms of her friend, and I did not mean for her husband to become ill. (And I did not poison him, whatever they may tell you. His illness was an unfortunate coincidence, but not one orchestrated by me.)"
William' eyes widened.
He explained how he had remained blind with devotion to Mina, telling himself that he could still win her if only he could do this or that to show his devotion. Even when she publically denounced him and helped run him out of London, he stubbornly believed that he could still turn this around if he showed her that he still cared.
He had thrown everything he had into an armada that set off a dazzling display of fireworks next to her country home on the beach, hoping that if he threw everything he had into a grand romantic gesture, she would be his.
(So that was why he had the armada in the sea when she first laid eyes on him! William thought. And that explained the fireworks!)
But then the storm had struck, and destroyed the armada, and every chance he had of winning Mina.
"… They say your life flashes before your eyes as you are dying, my little foundling," the count said slowly, sadly, "And that the truth comes to you as death takes you, for they are one and the same. And as the life seeped from my wounds; when the light had fled and darkness remained, and my worldly goods were stripped from me and there was nothing left but myself, all pretenses fled.
"I was forced to admit that my life was a lie; that everything I had worked for was built on a dream. My Elisabeta was gone from this world, and nothing I said or did would ever bring her back. Mina was nothing like my bride—of course, she shared her likeness, but their looks were all they shared. She had neither her kindness, nor warmth, nor gentleness, nor regard for me. No, I was forced to recognize that she did not want me at all. I was a plague to her—she had said as much herself, but I was too foolish and stubborn to listen. All hope that she would ever consent had all been in my head—wishful thinking that would not bring result. And in the attempt, I had lost everything I had.
The emptiness of my life consumed me," he continued; numbly, hollowly, with voice cracked, "The darkness soon followed, and the cold after that. I was prepared to allow my death to consume me too, until…"
"RAMOS!"
The memory cheered him, and warmth returned to his eyes. He turned to William, and smiled. "A voice. A voice called out to me. Bringing me back from the brink. Everyone I had known hated and scorned me, so what did it matter if I slipped gently into the eternal night? Who would notice, or mourn me? But that voice…" he smiled, lost in remembrance, "that young, beautiful, earnest little voice, so far away but so filled with spring and hope and life, and worried for me."
William realized that he was talking about her voice!
She remembered still. When she had called out to him, tried to rouse him from sleep. She could still remember the darkness of the night broken only by the flashes of lightning, and kindling of fire. She still remembered turbulent water of the storm, the pelting of the rain, and the crash of the waves. She still remembered how she had struggled to keep his head above water so he would not drown, and caught a giant burning splinter of wood that would have plunged into his heart, had she not caught it with her bare hands, and held it up so that its top leaned against an overhanging mast that leaned on its side from the storm.
She still remembered how the fire bit her hand and the embers had freckled her shoulders, and the waves had nearly pushed her aside so many times, but she would not let go. She had tried to wake him, shouting his name, so that he might wake up and swim away so that the great splinter would not plunge into his heart, for she did not have the strength to push him away and hold up the beam at the same time.
She had pressed her nose against his cheek and had screamed his name as loud as she could, over the claps of thunder and the crashes of waves; above the howl of the wind and the roar of the rain. She had seen his eyes flicker, and slowly open, and for a moment she had felt elated and triumphant; but his eyes were foggy, unfocused, and barely seemed to comprehend her, before they closed and he was lost to the world again.
"When I opened my eyes, I saw a girl with the most beautiful blue eyes you have ever seen," he continued. "They were so young, and fresh, and innocent, and pure. But they were so full of love and concern. After being scorned by so many, could you blame me for falling in love with such eyes?"
It was me! William thought desperately, but she was frozen in place; her arm would not move. It was me! It was me! Oh, how can you not see that it was me?
The count sighed, and there was a finality in the way he did it.
"I married a maid as beautiful as winter, with moonlight in her hair." He leaned back, and spoke less with reverence and nostalgia as he did before, and more with the matter-of-factly briskness of his usual tone. He was coming back to himself. "And it was the chasing of her memory that nearly drove me into that eternal winter that all men go when they reach the end of their life.
"I am done with chasing ghosts and shadows and memories. My Elisabeta is dead and gone, and while part of me will always mourn her, I cannot forever dwell in the memories where she remains. There is only darkness and winter there, and that is where there is death."
He looked at William, and a trace of that insolent grin returned. "Now I am in love with a maid as fresh as spring, with sunlight in her hair. But she is fast becoming a woman as lovely summer, and I would not have her any other way. Where there is spring and summer, there is life, and there is hope. I will never gain my Elisabeta back, nor win Mina's unwilling hand; but I can live while there is still life, and forge a new life with a maid unlike any I have known, and we can grow a new happiness together, provided she wants me."
I want you! William thought, and felt that fresh tears could spring out of her eyes. I want you! I want you! Oh, how can you not see that I want you?
"She enjoys these games, you know. More than she admits," he turned away, and sighed with satisfaction. "I did not intend to make the same mistake as with Mina. I have told her many times that if she wishes for me to withdraw my courtship—to leave and to never see her, or send correspondence, or to invite her to events again—she need only say so, and I would withdraw forever. And she has not done so. Oh, she has toyed with it a few times—turned them over in her head, toyed with them on the tip of her tongue like babies toying with small tin soldiers—but she never utters them out loud."
Why do you think I want to hear this? William thought miserably.
"The way people talk, you would think I stalked her against her will, but I have given her plenty of distance when she ask
ed for it, and even promised to leave forever if she requested it. I even promised never to speak to her again forever more, and I turned to walk away, but I had scarcely taken five steps when she called out, 'I did not say never again,' and smiled that coy smile, her face peeking out from behind her shoulder and her parasaul."
If only she had told him to leave forever! William thought, Why does he think I want to hear this?
"She has the most brilliant mind I ever had the pleasure of conversing with," the Count said. "She is very well-educated, well-read, and well-informed about world events. Not petty trivialities like Lady Such-and-such's new hair or new salon furniture, but politics and law! She reads the newspaper as well as any man, and can converse with any gentleman in any party keeps up with politics, stocks and trade. While most women at these parties can barely remark upon anything else but the weather above their heads and the fashions before their faces, this young lady can out-debate any gentleman about the nature of religion, science, philosophy, and the very nature of human society."
This made William sick; this, she did not want to hear. She turned over on her bed and slammed a pillow over her head, pretending to go to sleep.
If she had hoped he would get the hint and leave, she was wrong.
"I always knew it was her intelligent eyes and her sharp wit that I admired most about her, from the moment I awoke and got a good look at her. Most of the other cloistered girls were silly, foolish, giggling and gossiping little girls, but she alone remained calm and composed. She saw to my rescue in a swift and orderly fashion, with Beautiful, clever, cunning, and intelligent all the
"She is witty, intelligent, and engaging. Every conversation with her is a battle of wits, which she always wins, but just barely. I actually find myself challenged when I speak to her! Between meetings with her I find myself needing to restock my repertoire of wit, and it is glorious! Oh, I have always longed for a worthy opponent in a conversationalist."
William felt sick; so sick, she felt she could barely endure it. She had given her voice to be with him, convinced that her beauty and her eyes and her smile, and her sweet devotion would be enough for him, but instead it was wit and words he craved in a woman!
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