by Sam Gafford
By the time I had gotten home I realised I was starving, so I fortified myself with a quick lunch. While I sat there, eating some cold mutton, I could hear frantic footsteps running down the stairs and then Mrs. Hutchins burst into the kitchen. “Mr. Albert! There you are! What are you doing just sitting there? Get upstairs and start getting ready.”
I went up to my room and found an outfit picked out for me and laid out on my bed. I cleaned myself up and gave myself a close shave. There were sounds coming from Ann’s room, but I tried not to notice them. When I was ready, I went downstairs and sat in the drawing room and waited . . . and waited. Eventually I nodded off in my chair.
When I awoke, I could hear Ann coming down the stairs. I stood up and faced the doorway, feeling my blood rush through me. I don’t think I had ever been so excited and so nervous at the same time before. As she turned the corner and faced me, I felt my breath catch in my throat. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Her dress was a simple thing with fluffles and ripples of material that flowed around her hips like the wind. It was a soft, powder blue which, to my astonishment, matched the colour of her eyes. The dress had a tapered waist that blossomed as it rose. Her hair was magnificently done with flowing curls and a maze of pins that I couldn’t begin to unravel. Her makeup was impeccably applied so that her cheeks were rosy and her lips soft and red. I was stunned and immediately felt that I was not worthy to take her arm.
“Is this acceptable, Albert?” Ann asked. She said it with an air of audacity, but I could hear a hint of fear behind it. For some reason, she was afraid that I would not approve; that, in some way, I would find fault with her.
“Oh, my, yes. Ann, you’re . . . you’re beautiful.”
She blushed. “Thank you, Albert. May I say that you’re looking quite handsome tonight as well?”
“You may, but I am sure that you far outshine me. Are you ready to go?”
“I am, but I am a bit nervous. Do you think everything will be all right? With the party, I mean?”
“I am sure it will be fine. Believe me, you will stun them into speechlessness with your beauty.”
Ann laughed. “You really are too much, Albert. You seem to have quite the bit of the rake in you.”
“Not at all, Ann, I see no one but you. Now I believe that I have a surprise waiting for us outside.”
“Oh, please, Albert, I’m not sure how much more I can take. This day has already been too taxing.”
I guided her gently past a beaming Mrs. Hutchins and towards the front door. “I think that you will enjoy this one.”
Thankfully, Netley was on time and standing by the coach as I opened the door. Ann exclaimed a short ‘oh’ and smiled. The coach was nice and shiny and even Netley appeared to be cleaner than he had been earlier in the day. He held his hat in his hand and bowed slightly to Ann as we walked down the stairs.
“Good evening, Madame. My name is Netley, and I will be your driver for this evening. Please mind the step up into the carriage.”
Netley opened the coach door and held Ann’s hand as she climbed into the carriage. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I thought that Netley held her hand a little longer than necessary.
“Thank you, Mr. Netley,” Ann said. “Your coach looks very fine indeed.”
Netley bowed in gratitude and turned to me. “Would you prefer any particular route to your destination, Mr. Besame? There’s a nice little park we could stroll through if you like.”
“That would be very nice, Netley, thank you.” I climbed into the carriage and we were on our way.
Ann was next to me and laid her head softly on my shoulder. “This is wonderful, Albert. I couldn’t have asked for a better surprise.”
“I’m glad. I just want this to be a great night for you, Ann. I want it to be a night to remember.”
She held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I know it will be.”
And it was, but not for the reasons we were thinking.
Chapter 17
I love London society! I think it has immensely improved. It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be.
—Oscar Wilde
The ride to Arthur’s went by much faster than I would have liked. Before I knew it, the park gave way to the city streets again and we were there. Netley climbed down, opened the door, and helped Ann out.
“Shall I wait for you, Mr. Besame?” Netley asked.
I thought for a moment, wondering if it would be better to let him go, then decided against it. “Yes, yes, I think so. I’m not sure how long these things run, though. We may be quite a while.”
“No problem, sir. I’m used to waiting. Waited for a gentleman nearly an entire day once, I did. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Netley.” I took Ann’s arm and we walked up to Arthur’s door. My heart was in my throat for more than one reason. I seized the door-knocker firmly and heard it resound throughout the house. It took barely a minute for the door to open and Rose to let us in. She was wearing a neatly pressed housekeeper’s uniform and looked as if she herself had been preparing for the party as well.
“Good evening, Mr. Besame,” Rose said. “It is good to see you here again.”
“Thank you, Rose, it’s nice to be here. Are we early?”
“Oh, just a bit. There’re a few people in the sitting room already and Mr. Machen is there. Go right in.”
Ann took my arm and I led her into the other room, where I found Arthur talking to a small group of people. A table was set with a fine selection of cheese and fruit, and a nicely dressed man was playing a piano in the corner. As soon as he saw me, Arthur dashed over to us.
“Albert, thank the Gods you’re here. I’m stuck in an interminable discussion about who actually wrote Shakespeare’s plays. To be honest, I couldn’t give a damn! And how are you, my dear?” Arthur turned to Ann and took her hand in a gentle welcome. “I’m so delighted that you were able to join us this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Machen,” Ann said. “I’m thrilled to be here.”
“Enough of that. Call me ‘Arthur’ and I shall call you ‘Ann,’ shall I? My wife, Amy, will be very happy to see you. Now please let me get you both a glass of wine.”
As Arthur walked away, I could feel Ann’s eyes upon me. “You’re not really comfortable with this, are you?” she said.
I coughed. “Well, no, not really. I’ve not had a lot of practice in social occasions.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
Arthur came back with two glasses of wine and Amy, who instantly started talking to Ann as if they had been old friends. Within the space of a few minutes, they compared notes on their dresses, makeup, music, art, and theatre. I was completely at a loss when Amy asked Ann to come and look at some decorations in the other room. Like an abandoned waif, I watched her walk away to the sound of Arthur chuckling.
“Don’t take it personally, Albert, that’s just how they are. In any case, once you get my Amy talking there’s very little you can do to quiet her down again. Here, drink your wine. I promise that I won’t desert you any more than my duties as host require.”
Unfortunately, that proved to be more than I would have liked. Most of the guests started arriving about then, and Arthur was obliged to welcome them and thrust them into the heaving mass that was the party. Every so often, Arthur would manage to snatch a minute to stop by, but it didn’t last very long. I refilled my glass and was starting to feel quite warm and relaxed when Arthur came over with a rather stout-looking fellow with a full moustache and beard who seemed stiffer than the wall I was standing against.
“Albert, I’d like you to meet someone. He’s a writer as well and is working on a novel you might find interesting. Mr. Bram Stoker, may I present Mr. Albert Besame. Bram, tell him about your novel. I know that Albert will be very intrigued.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stoker.”
“Thinking,” Arthur said, “is often more important than writing. Every word, every phrase, every punctuation mark must be considered during the writing process.”
“What is your novel about, Mr. Stoker?” I asked.
“Ah, that is a little difficult to explain. Are you acquainted with the legend of vampyres?”
I would spend the next half-hour listening to Stoker outline to me what would become his masterpiece, Dracula. Although he had not done much writing, he had most of the book already in his head. It was brought to him, so he said, through a series of dreams.
“And this person,” I asked, “this Vlad Tepesc, was a real person?”
“Indeed so. He was quite the fascinating man—brutal and merciless, but his were brutal and merciless times, we must remember. It is said that his name is still feared in certain sections of Roumania today. I hope to travel there eventually and collect some of these legends for my book.”
I was full of more questions for my newfound Irish friend, but just then Amy came back with Ann. “Bram!” Amy nearly shouted. “I’m so happy you could come. But let me guess, Henry will not be here?”
Stoker smiled and his head tilted slightly in response. “Henry sends his regards, Mrs. Machen, but he is mad with work right now. This production of Macbeth has been much more involved than we ever thought.”
“It’s always something, Bram. I am beginning to think that Henry no longer enjoys our company.”
“Nothing of the kind, I assure you. Were it not for work, he would be here now.”
“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with Mansfield coming tonight?” Arthur asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Mansfield?” Stoker replied. “Oh, is he coming? I had no idea. Please excuse me for a moment.”
Amy silently chuckled as Stoker walked back to the table of cheese and fruit. “Arthur, you didn’t really invite Mansfield, did you?”
“Why not?” Arthur replied. “What’s a party without actors?”
“Then it’s a good thing Henry didn’t come. I don’t think the house is large enough for both their egos.”
“Henry who?” I asked, tired of being left out of the joke.
“Ah, Stoker is the manager of the Lyceum, Albert,” Arthur replied, “and is the right hand of Sir Henry Irving, lord of the English stage . . . or so he claims.”
“Is he really? I mean, Mr. Stoker’s the manager of the Lyceum?” Ann exclaimed. That was apparently a name of some import to her, but I had to confess it meant little to me.
“Oh, yes,” Amy said. “Truth be told, I doubt that Henry would be able to accomplish much without Bram, and yet he never appreciates the poor man. I swear, one day Bram will up and quit—and where will that leave Henry then?”
“Did he tell you about his vampire book, Albert?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, that old thing?” Amy replied. “I think he tells everyone that story. If he keeps it up there will be no need to write the book, as everyone will have heard it already.”
They all laughed, but I felt uncomfortable laughing at something that was obviously so important to the man. “He did tell me the story and it’s quite remarkable. I wonder at the imagination that could conceive of that.”
“Indeed?” asked Arthur. “Would you consider it ‘sinful,’ then?”
“Oh, here he goes again.” Amy sighed. “Come on, dear, let me get you out of here before he drags you into this too.” Amy and Ann walked back to another group of people that, I noticed, also contained Bram. It seemed to me that Ann was very impressed with Stoker, and I wondered why.
“What does that mean, Arthur?” I said.
“Exactly! What does it mean? What is sin? Is it tangible? Can one touch it as you would a table or a woman’s hand? Can a thought, an idea, be ‘sinful’?”
“I should think so. I mean, if one were to have, say, murderous or lustful thoughts, certainly that would be sinful.”
“Come now, Albert. You are mixing sin with faith. Your definition of ‘sin’ is based upon what religion has taught you is sinful—murder, infidelity, stealing. That, to you, is ‘sin.’”
“Yes, of course. What else could it be?”
“Sin, Albert, is not going against the beliefs of man or religion. Sin, true sin, is a corruption of the natural order of life. It is something that is the opposite of what we believe to be true about this world. It really has very little to do with Man. What men do is nothing compared to the sins that are out there in the world.”
I knew we had had this conversation before, but Arthur was more insistent this time.
“I don’t understand. Just what are you talking about?”
Arthur moved closer and fixed me with his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deliberate and slow.
“There are things out there, Albert, perversions walking the earth. Places where unspeakable events take place but they are not done by Man. They are done by abominations that should not exist but do. Creatures that are outside us and this world but which still walk among us. Many legends and fables are a result of these things and their works. What if I were to tell you that there is a race of ‘little people’ living under the hills of Wales that are nothing like the amusing fairies and leprechauns of myth?”
I looked in his eyes. “Arthur, how much have you had to drink? Surely you can’t be serious about this?”
“Deadly serious, Albert. I know this to be true because I have seen it.”
“You’ve seen leprechauns? Where?”
“Not leprechauns, Albert, creatures. I saw them as a child in Wales. I saw them and even more. They showed me things. Terrible and horrible things.”
Now I was starting to get frightened. It was too fantastic to believe, but Arthur was so passionate.
“I learned many things then, Albert. I learned how to make the Aklo letters, what a Dôl is, and what voolas mean. Then there were the ceremonies—all of which are important, but some are more powerful than others. There are the White Ceremonies, and the Green Ceremonies, and the Scarlet Ceremonies. I can’t really go into them, Albert, but they are frightening things. No man on this earth should know these things, but I do.”
“Arthur, does this have anything to do with your seeing death on that poor woman’s face?”
“Yes, it does. When I was younger, I could see things that others couldn’t. Mostly I kept them to myself, but sometimes they were too horrible to believe. I could see death as an actual force and watched it weave around people like a foul wind. At times, I would cease to see this world altogether and could see beyond it to other realities.
“But after a certain event, it stopped. I couldn’t see anything anymore and, when I walked in the woods, there was nothing there to meet me. Still, I remembered everything I had seen and known, which is why I do not scoff at psychics. In a smaller way, I think they see at least a part of what I used to know, and for that I pity them as well.”
“Arthur, I’m not sure what to say. This is all quite incredible.”
“Do you believe me? Do you believe that I saw the hand of death on that poor woman’s face?”
“Yes, Arthur, I do.”
“Good. I swear to you, Albert, everything I am saying is true. I will never lie to you. As you go through life, Albert, the best thing you can do is not to close your mind to other possibilities.”
“This is all a bit much for me. We didn’t have such things in Cornwall.”
Arthur smiled. “Yes, you did, Albert. You just didn’t know it.”
“So what happened to you, Arthur? What changed that you could no longer see these things?”
A shadow came over his face. “That is a story
for another time, Albert, and not during such a happy occasion as this. Suffice it to say that it was not a pretty thing and not something to dwell on. Remember this always, Albert, your thoughts can not only shape the universe but can also attract things to you. Sometimes, they can attract some very bad things indeed. But here come the women, so let us talk of other things.”
Ann and Amy finally left Stoker’s group and came back to us. Amy seemed a little upset, while Ann looked starstruck.
“Arthur,” Amy admonished, “you cannot spend all your time with Albert. We do have other guests, you know.” Although she said it with a slight scolding tone, her eyes were playful. “Besides, I have monopolised dear Ann long enough. Time for her to spend some time with her young man.”
Ann smiled and stood next to me as Arthur excused himself and moved through the room with Amy. “Did you have a nice conversation with Mr. Stoker?”
“Oh, yes, he is a little stern but very interesting. He has so many stories about Sir Henry Irving and the Lyceum. I could listen to him all night!”
“Really? Well, perhaps I should leave you to him then and go home,” I said playfully.
Ann lightly slapped me on the arm with a fake frown on her face. “Oh, stop it, Albert! He is not at all my type!” We laughed and I felt myself soften and begin to enjoy myself despite Arthur’s strange conversation.
For the next hour or so, we mingled through the room, passing from one group to the next. We met a wide variety of people, most of them being creative in some way or another. There were several writers of various success and, I would assume, popularity, but I didn’t really know any of them. Ann talked with a number of musicians, including one who was some sort of conductor. There was a group of painters loudly discussing the value of Impressionism and the declining quality of London museums. Arthur was busily talking to a group of men who turned out to be newspaper reporters. They were gossiping worse than any women I had ever heard.