Silver in the Blood

by Jessica Day George

  She turned her head to the left, scanning the area for her father while she posed. He had just stepped over to look at something, and should be back any moment. Ah! There he was! She tried to signal to him with her eyes.

  “LouLou, are you all right? Are you hurt?” Her father hurried toward her.

  “She’s just fine,” William Carver said testily. “But you’re blocking the light.”

  “Mr. Carver is an artist,” Lou said as best she could without moving her head.

  “Is he now?” Her father’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea that you wanted your portrait painted, LouLou. You should have told me!”

  “I—well—” Lou didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s not a portrait,” William Carver said, even more cross. “I’m not some hack portrait painter, flattering old ladies by painting out their chins! I am a true artist, like the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood!” He struck his breast with one fist, leaving a smear of charcoal on his lapel. “Miss Neulander shall be a nymph, standing before her oak tree.” He gestured at the tree just behind Lou and went back to his work.

  “That is a linden,” Lou’s father said. “And also a very strange angle for my daughter’s head to be tilted at for very long.”

  “The tree hardly matters,” William said vaguely, returning to his picture. He stuck his tongue in his cheek as he shaded something with the side of his pencil.

  Her father gently moved her head over by pushing her chin with one finger, and Lou felt a rush of blood to her neck, making it tingle. She gave her father a grateful look. He smiled at her and then went over to William.

  “Are you Henry Carver’s boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” William said, looking up at her father with an expression that said he was suddenly aware of how rude he had been. He dropped his charcoal pencil into a little case and held out a smudged hand to Mr. Neulander.

  Lou’s father smiled and handed him a handkerchief instead of shaking hands. “Son, I’m not here to scold you,” he said. “I know your parents have done a fine job of educating you as a young man should be educated. But I would like to give you two pieces of advice. Will you listen?”

  Will Carver gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “First of all: treat all ladies, even young ladies you’ve known for years, as if they were princesses and you merely a servant. Understand?” Mr. Neulander cocked his head.

  “Yes, sir,” said Will Carver in an abashed voice.

  “And second . . .” Mr. Neulander stopped for a moment and looked at Will’s drawing. “You don’t need a model in front of you, just paint from the heart.” He held out his own hand then, and Will, looking rather dazed, shook it, stammering his thanks. He offered Mr. Neulander his handkerchief back, gray with charcoal, but Lou’s father just waved it away with another smile and shake of his head. “You keep it, my boy. Good day to you.” He held out his arm to Lou. “Shall we, my dear?”

  Lou took her father’s arm and they strolled out of the Tuileries in search of lunch. She sighed happily, drinking in the sights and sounds of Paris.

  “You’re a good girl, LouLou,” her father said, putting his other hand on top of hers where it rested in the crook of one elbow. “Perhaps too good,” he said in a low voice.

  “Whatever do you mean, Papa?”

  “Just a moment, my dear; I did want to talk to you, but let’s get comfortable first.”

  He took her into a hotel that was quite as grand as the one they were staying in, if not grander. There were ladies in fanciful hats and elegant gowns going in and out, servants bearing luggage or boxes from fine shops, struggling along in their wake. Lou instantly felt very young and rather grubby, and tried to adjust her hat and straighten her gown as best she could as they went into the restaurant, which had a chandelier the size of a small carriage hanging from the ceiling.

  “Papa, I don’t think I’m dressed properly,” Lou whispered as they followed the maître d’ to a table.

  “Nonsense,” her father said, squeezing her hand again. “My LouLou is beautiful enough for any restaurant in Paris.”

  Lou reminded herself sternly that while New York may not have been as elegant as Paris, it was hardly Robinson Crusoe’s desert island. And she was from one of the oldest families in New York on her father’s side, Romanian gentry on her mother’s. She straightened her shoulders and gracefully sat down in the chair offered to her.

  Her father ordered lunch for them in his impeccable French, learned from private tutors and polished with a grand tour of Europe. They ate and chatted about the food and the enormous chandelier and the other diners, but all the while Lou was wondering what her father wanted to tell her, and could see that whatever it was occupied his thoughts as well.

  When their plates had been cleared and they were eating sorbets garnished with fresh berries, her father at last looked her in the eyes and began to speak very seriously.

  “LouLou, I know that you don’t always feel like you are beautiful, but you are.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” she murmured, looking down at her dish.

  “No, look at me.”

  She looked up at her father, a little puzzled. His expression was so grave: quite unlike his usually sunny countenance.

  “You struggle to be tall and slender like Dacia, but you aren’t, and that doesn’t matter. Everywhere we have gone today, the young men haven’t been able to take their eyes off you.”

  She blushed and wished she dared look down. She had a feeling that her father wasn’t simply going to warn her about speaking to strange young men in public gardens. She met her father’s gaze as frankly as she could and nodded a little to urge him to go on.

  “And you are also a very intelligent young lady. I’m proud of how well you did with your studies, and if you wanted to continue at a young ladies’ college, I would be happy to support you in that.”

  Her mouth opened slightly in surprise, and she put some sorbet into it hurriedly. College? She really had not thought of such a thing . . . well, that wasn’t true. She had, in fact, toyed with the idea of studying to be a nurse, but had mentioned it just once to her mother.

  “Mama said . . . it’s just foolishness,” she said when she had swallowed her sorbet. “Young ladies with my upbringing . . . don’t do such things.” She was a little surprised by how much that still stung. She remembered sobbing into Dacia’s lap that young ladies of their upbringing never got to do anything, startling them both with her vehemence.

  “That’s precisely what I wanted to talk about,” Mr. Neulander said, putting down his spoon. “Your mother.” He grimaced. “And her sisters. And the whole damn family—pardon my language.”

  Lou’s eyes widened and she set aside her own spoon.

  “You’ve always been a sweet and obedient daughter,” her father continued. “And I know I should be grateful, but just at present this worries me. Your mother and her family are . . . different. More different than you think, and it has everything and nothing to do with where they come from.”

  Lou stared at her father. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t.” Her father scowled. “And I’m sorry, but I promised to let your mother and her kin tell you more about the family once we arrive in Bucharest. Why I agreed to such a thing I’ll never know. But I have always tried to honor my promises . . . and I know you have, too. Which is why I need you to promise me something now, Maria Louisa.” He reached across the table and took her hand.

  “All right, Papa.” Her voice was shaking. She was bewildered and frightened by her father’s words, and the unusual pallor that had come over his face.

  “I want you to swear to me that you will listen to your own heart. If your mother’s family asks you to do something that . . . that sounds too strange, or that you don’t want to do, I want you to listen to your heart and follow it instead. You and Dacia both. You can come to me, and I will do my best to help you. Both of you.”

  Lou was very frightened now.

  “Can you promise
me, darling?” her father said. “If you are ever scared, you can come to me, and I will take you and Dacia home to New York at a moment’s notice. I will send you to college, or whatever you like. That is my promise to you, if you will just listen to your heart, and refuse if you are asked to do something that . . . that feels wrong.”

  “I promise, Papa,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Thank you.” He squeezed her hand and sat back. “I’m sorry to darken our day like this. I’m sure it will all be nothing but a silly fancy of mine, and in a few months we shall return to New York with a song in our hearts!” He signaled the waiter and ordered a plate of crepes with strawberries and chocolate sauce. “To cheer ourselves up,” he told Lou.

  She smiled automatically in reply, but she was too shaken to enjoy the rest of the day.

  THE DIARY OF MISS DACIA VREEHOLT

  22 May 1897

  Oooh la-la! Whatever shall I do? There are far too many beautiful young men in the world, and I am just one girl! First there was Will Carver in New York, then Lord Johnny in London, and now I have just met the most delicious of them all! And it seems that he is a prince! Prince Mihai of Wallachia, if you please! It’s an old title, and one that (sadly) does not mean much anymore. Still. A prince! A prince with beautiful long lashes and thick curling hair. A prince who wears perfectly tailored suits and speaks seven languages, who likes to go to plays and concerts and read popular novels!

  If anything, I would say that he is too perfect for words! Yes, yes, diary, I can hear Lou’s voice in my head right now, asking me about Will Carver and Lord Johnny. Well, I’m sorry, but neither of them are here at present. Surely it can’t hurt to amuse myself a bit in Romania? When I return to New York, dear Lord Johnny will be but a memory, and Will Carver will be back from France, eager to dance with me once more. Until that day, however, Prince Mihai and his beautiful eyes are here to entertain me. That is, if Aunt Kate will let him!

  STRADA SILVESTRU

  “I don’t like it!”

  “I don’t care! I say yes!”

  “You have been gone too long; this is not a matter that you can decide alone!”

  Dacia pretended that she wasn’t listening to the shouting across the hall and took a card, looked at it, and discarded it with a sigh. Radu looked at his own cards, frowned at the one she had discarded, and raised his bid by a penny.

  “Thank you for telling me what I can and cannot do,” Aunt Kate screamed at her brother. “May I remind you of who I am?”

  “You know,” Dacia said, drawing another card, “I think that I should be the one who gets to scream.”

  They had been listening to Aunt Kate arguing with Radu’s father, Horia, for nearly an hour now. It was because of Dacia, naturally, but this time it wasn’t something disgraceful that she had done. Instead the argument was about whether she should be allowed to do something: specifically, to go to the opera with Prince Mihai. Uncle Horia and Aunt Kate wouldn’t dream of talking it over with Dacia, and Radu seemed to despise the prince, so Dacia was sitting in the parlor playing cards with her cousin and trying to avoid the topic altogether.

  As well as anyone can avoid a topic that is being discussed in the next room by two irate and shouting adults.

  “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about,” she murmured.

  “You don’t know Mihai,” was all Radu would say. “Call.”

  She threw down her cards, which were completely useless anyway, and watched with a sour expression as Radu gathered up the pennies they had been bidding with.

  “And you do?” She studied Radu, but his expression was closed as he pocketed the coins and then began to shuffle the cards. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “You should stay away from him, that’s what I can tell you about him,” Radu said, sounding more like his father than usual.

  “It’s just the opera,” Dacia said. “I don’t understand why your father objects.”

  “Nothing is ever ‘just’ anything with Mihai,” Radu muttered.

  “Have I been gone long enough for you all to run mad?” Aunt Kate’s voice pierced the walls. “This is an opportunity we cannot pass up!”

  “It is an opportunity you think we cannot pass up,” Uncle Horia countered. “But those of us who remained here—”

  “You know why I left, and what I’ve given up,” Aunt Kate shouted. “Now I’m back, with her. It’s time! It’s long past time! The rest of the family—”

  “The rest of the family spends too much time in the country, pretending it is still the twelfth century,” Uncle Horia shouted back. “I who know the Draculas all too well—”

  “I not know the Draculas? I? Don’t make me laugh!” Aunt Kate’s voice was so enraged that Dacia cringed.

  “Who are the Draculas?” Dacia forced herself to nonchalantly pick up the cards Radu had just dealt her. “That can’t possibly be their real name. Who would call themselves Dragon? Or want to be associated with Vlad Tepes?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Mihai’s family name is Dracula,” Radu said, arranging his own hand. He glanced up and caught her expression. “No, really. He’s descended from Vlad the Impaler too. Which just proves that you don’t know him well enough to see him.”

  Dacia tossed aside the information that the elegant Mihai was related to the twelfth-century butcher known as Vlad the Impaler. It was impossible. She and Lou both had nightmares for a week after their governess had regaled them with stories about that monstrous warlord.

  “How can I know Prince Mihai if no one will let me see him?” she asked reasonably.

  Radu just snorted, but Dacia thought that she had scored a point. It had been three days since she had met the prince on the Calea Victoriei. They had walked and talked for an hour, with Radu trailing sullenly behind them. The day after their meeting, Prince Mihai had sent flowers and a note. The day after that, an invitation to dinner and the theater, which she’d been made to turn down, and today he had sent her a beautiful black velvet cape lined with lilac silk to wear to the opera, with a plea that she join him for just one night. Aunt Kate had agreed that Dacia had been punished for the Incident in England long enough, and had given Dacia permission to attend the opera with the prince.

  But Uncle Horia and Radu had arrived after breakfast that morning and Dacia had made the mistake of telling them about her upcoming outing with Mihai. The shouting match in the library had commenced not ten minutes later.

  “It’s your bid.” Radu jingled the coins in his pocket.

  “I don’t think my head is in the game,” Dacia said drily. “Actually, I want a book from the library.” She rolled her eyes at his skeptical look. “No, I really do! I want a dictionary. Lou sent me a letter, and I wanted to look up one of the words.”

  “Her vocabulary is more expansive than yours,” Radu said with a smirk. “It seems that one of you was paying attention to that fancy American governess.”

  “Ha-ha!” Dacia flicked him with a finger. “No, a strange man in the street called her an insulting name, and I can’t believe it means what she said it means.”

  “Another man has insulted LouLou?” Radu was instantly outraged. “Tell her to describe him for me, and I will hunt him down!” He made a fist.

  “As long as you let me help,” Dacia said, gingerly curling her own hand into a fist. She’d always wanted to punch someone. But only if she could knock them out with one blow. And only if they truly deserved it, which this man did. “And, of all things, it’s the same man from the ship. Apparently he’s following her through Paris.”

  “The bas—” Radu bit back the insult. “Something must be done! What did he call her?”

  “He called her a houri, and he kept—What on earth is so funny?”

  “A houri?” Radu was still laughing. “Is she certain?”

  “Yes, of course she is! This man has been following her, Radu! First the ship, then in Paris. It’s very serious!”

  “Oh, he certainly must be di
scouraged, but it’s not . . .” Radu laughed again.

  “Explain yourself, or I shall get my parasol and smack you,” Dacia ordered.

  “A houri is a sort of temptress,” Radu said. “A creature so beautiful that she drives men mad. An unearthly being, magical and alluring.” He started laughing again. “If Lou doesn’t like it, we must certainly take steps, but some women would be flattered.”

  “But that’s not flattering, it’s atrocious,” Dacia insisted. “It’s vulgar, it’s forward, it’s—”

  “If he does it again, I will take care of him for her, since her father certainly won’t,” Radu said, casually dismissing Uncle Cyrus, but Dacia didn’t know what to say about that. Radu gathered up the cards and shuffled them again, though they hadn’t played a hand.

  “We might as well play one more time,” he said as the fight in the library continued.

  Dacia subsided, not entirely mollified. As Radu dealt the cards, she strained to hear more of the argument in the library. It wasn’t exactly difficult.

  “This is the reason I brought her here!” Aunt Kate shouted.

  “Don’t play obedient daughter now,” Uncle Horia retorted. “You came back for your own sake, not hers!”

  “This is the reason she was even born!”

  Radu froze with one hand on the cards he was about to deal. His eyes were enormous. Dacia stiffened, but only for an instant, then she was on her feet. She crept through the parlor door and across the hall to the library. She pressed her ear against the door, holding her breath to make sure she heard her uncle’s answer.

  “Not for this,” Horia said, his voice so quiet that if Dacia hadn’t had her ear to the door, she never would have heard him. “Not for him.”

  “Have you forgotten? My task? Your task? Our part in all this?” Aunt Kate was no longer shouting, either. In fact, she was quiet and icy calm.