An impossible impostor, p.5
An Impossible Impostor, page 5
Stoker frequently resorted to Keats in intimate moments, usually fitting his caresses to the appropriate lines, delivered in his rumbling baritone. I was powerless against the elegance of the poetry coupled with delicate debaucheries, and I did not refuse him. It was not at all the sort of adventure I meant, but it would do, I decided. Oh, it would do very nicely indeed.
* * *
• • •
The soft and lovely weather of London had subsided by the time we reached the other side of Salisbury Plain, growing progressively nastier until a proper gale was blowing as our train drew into the tiny station Shepton Parva. The Hathaways, expecting us, had kindly sent a conveyance, but it was obvious from the moment we settled ourselves inside that Charles Hathaway’s lavish improvements at the Hall had not yet extended to the stables. It was an elderly vehicle, at least sixty years past its prime, with leaking roof and cracked windows, and a broken-down nag to pull it along at a snail’s pace. Outside, the tempest roared, lightning occasionally illuminating a landscape of bleak moorland punctuated by lonely tors.
We journeyed into this no-man’s-land for what seemed hours, and I thought of the man they called Jonathan Hathaway, making such an effort whilst in the grip of injury and illness. Did some primal knowledge in the blood draw him back to the land where his people had lived for centuries? Or had he merely stumbled into a fortuitous household where the lady of the house was prepared to do her Christian duty and entertain strangers unaware?
As we drew closer to the Hall, I became aware of a growing unease, a feeling not mitigated by the wildness of the landscape. The further we went, the more torturous the scenery, what little of it we could discern from the begrimed windows of the coach. The driver had been a dour sort, communicating only in monosyllables before taking his place on the box, and he seemed content to travel at the horse’s painfully slow pace, although only an oilskin cape shielded him from the vagaries of weather. At last, he thumped once on the roof of the coach, calling in a harsh voice, “The Hall,” as we paused—either for some dramatic effect or to rest the horse. The miserable creature stood a moment, and just then a sudden flash of lightning showed us our destination, a great monstrosity of a house, crouching against the landscape like a beast ready to spring itself upon unsuspecting prey . . .
(Stoker, who has been reading this account over my shoulder as I write, has just interjected. “For God’s sake, Veronica, it was a house. Large and rather ugly with a few more gargoyles than strictly necessary, but it was a house.” I have informed him that editorial criticism is not welcome within these pages, and I expect to hear no further commentary upon the veracity of my accounts. I should point out that I have long since ceased sharing my writing with him prior to submitting my accounts to the archive of the Hippolyta Club. He takes umbrage at my descriptions of his physique as well as any mention of physical intimacy between us. For all of his robust enjoyment of such activities, he occasionally demonstrates the fastidious prudery of a spinster aunt. It is a flaw I am attempting to remedy. In any event, I have banished him to work upon his newest acquisition and expect now to return to my account uninterrupted.)
. . . a great monstrosity of a house, crouching against the landscape like a beast ready to spring itself upon unsuspecting prey. A faint glimmer shone against three of the windows, but no blaze of light greeted us, no promise of warmth and welcome. In fact, we stood upon the step, barely sheltered from the worst of the driving rain, as Stoker applied himself manfully to a bellpull that resisted his efforts, clearly broken. He resorted to the knocker, an enormous affair of iron wrought in the shape of a ram’s head—the Hathaway badge, as we later learned. Stoker grabbed it by the snout and dropped it heavily against the strike plate. The sound of it was barely discernible over the storm, and he was just about to raise it again when the door swung back on creaking hinges. The inside of the Hall was scarcely brighter than the tempestuous night, but it was enough to reveal a housekeeper, I presumed, with steel grey hair coiled above each ear in a style that had last been popular when Empress Eugénie was a bride. A chatelaine, heavy with keys, jangled at her waist as she moved.
“Oh, I am sorry! ’Tis such a filthy night, we expected you would have stayed the night at the village inn rather than make such a journey. Fair five miles it is in that rattletrap of Tom Carter’s,” she fussed, ushering us inside and towards a hearth where a single log smoldered.
“It is not the Hathaway carriage?” Stoker asked.
“Lord love you, sir,” she said, “the family have a smart new carriage, but it cannot stand to our rough roads. The axle has been broken twice and one of the wheels came clear off yesterday. Now, stand you there, by the fireside,” she instructed. She hurried back to the door, where the aptly named Mr. Carter was depositing our bags. Stoker proffered him a generous coin in gratuity and he took it, slouching out again and leaving the bags in a heap inside the door.
“Never you mind,” the housekeeper said. “I will have your things brought to your rooms. I am Mrs. Desmond, the housekeeper.” She guided us in, clucking a little like a hen over errant chicks. “The family have retired hours ago, and you must be worn to ribbons. Let me just turn down the beds and have hot bricks put in.”
She hurried up a wide, oaken staircase. It was unusual in design, carved with decorations I could not quite make out in the gloom. Animals, I surmised, catching a glimpse of pointed fangs. Across the bottom of the staircase hung a pair of wooden gates, to keep the dogs from the upper floors, no doubt. But there were no dogs here now, warming themselves at the feeble fire. In days long past, there would have been a pack of hunting hounds, perhaps a lady’s spaniel or two, lolling on a bright woolen hearthrug.
Now there were only the bare flags of the hall, upon which stood a pair of tall wooden chairs, enormous things with carved hoods over the tops, and a single suit of armor, rusting sadly in the corner. A large dining table had been set in the center, not half near enough to the fire for comfort, and a collection of worn sofas and armchairs that looked the worse for moth completed the arrangement.
A narrow gallery ran the length of one wall, and I saw Mrs. Desmond’s head bobbing above the railing as she made her way to the private quarters of the house. A few odd bits of weaponry were hung upon the walls, and a tapestry frame—stripped of its treasure—showed where something grand had once hung. Picture frames had left their marks upon the stones, but only the nails were left. The room was a ghost of what it might once have been.
“So much for Charles and Mary Hathaway’s modernizing,” I murmured to Stoker.
He pointed to the swatches of bright new wallpaper that had been applied to one wall. They were various and hideous shades of mauve, all flowered, and I repressed a shudder.
“To do that to this grand old room is a crime,” I observed.
“Then do not look at the new tiles heaped up in the corner,” he advised.
Mrs. Desmond returned then and led us to our rooms. Theseus sprang to mind as she guided us down passages and up some stairs only to descend others. We turned, we twisted, we climbed. Some of the passages were laid with thick carpets, obviously new. These corridors were dotted with palms and aspidistras in heavy porcelain pots, and the walls, decorated with silks or gilded papers, were hung with paintings of fruit and landscapes, and Mrs. Desmond paused in front of each to recite the artist and subject, obviously having learnt them by rote and doubtless at Charles and Mary Hathaway’s insistence. The sharp odor of new paint hung in the air in these corridors, but when we at last reached our destination, it was in a passageway with bare floorboards and doors painted in a faded, bilious green.
“This is the Maidens’ Wing, and here is your room, Miss Speedwell,” she pronounced, flinging open the door. I could sense rather than see Stoker’s lips twitching. Maidens’ Wing indeed! Mrs. Desmond went on. “All unmarried ladies stay here, but at present that is only yourself and Miss Euphemia. She is just down the corridor. And you have only to ring if you require anything,” she said, motioning for me to enter. “Your bag has been brought up,” she added, nodding to the carpetbag being unpacked by a young maid. The girl had already placed my clothing in the wardrobe and books upon the bedside table, and she adjusted the hot bricks under the sheets before bobbing a curtsy and scurrying away to the servants’ stair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Desmond,” I said.
The housekeeper pointed out the location of the bellpull and bustled away with Stoker, who winked at me behind her back. That little gesture warmed me, and I closed the door to take stock of my bedchamber. It had been furnished sometime early in Victoria’s reign, I had no doubt, for there was an austerity to the heavy dark wooden furniture. It was thickly carved with motifs I could not quite make out, and the hangings were a dark ruby red. There was a needlepoint rug on the floor that might have been stitched by Methuselah’s mother, and the cracked bowl of the washstand was lavishly decorated with garish red roses. There were few ornaments, the bulk of them having long been sold, I suspected, and what remained was of dubious quality.
But for all its faded grandeur, the house gleamed, every surface polished and waxed to perfection, every cobweb swept, every mantelpiece dusted. Mrs. Desmond clearly took excellent care to maintain the place, and my comfort had been anticipated. A merry fire burned hot upon the hearth, and cans of steaming water had been carried to the adjoining bathroom, where an enormous and ancient tub stood in pride of place. On a small table by the fire in my room, a covered tray waited. I lifted a dome to release the fragrance of hot chicken pie with vegetables and fresh bread. There were cups of custard, golden and eggy, and I knew if Stoker had a similar tray, he would be making low whimpers of pleasure.
In spite of the luxurious hamper on the train, I was hungry, the cold and wet trip across the moor rousing my appetite. I fell upon the food like a starveling, making short work of the late supper. My ablutions were swift, for the water had cooled as I ate. As I toweled myself dry, I cast an eye towards the bed. It was narrow as the devil and hard as a rock, stuffed with horsehair, I decided after an experimental bounce. The resulting shriek of bedsprings sounded like the proverbial banshee, and I realized that any private demonstrations of affection with Stoker would have to wait until we returned to London. Stoker had, upon more than one occasion, remarked upon my vocal expressions during lovemaking, which tended toward the exuberant and audible. With his natural delicacy, he would never attempt to engage in activities which might be overheard, and I was keenly aware of young Euphemia, no doubt slumbering peacefully somewhere along the same corridor.
I climbed into my high, narrow bed and burrowed into heavy sheets that smelt strongly of lavender. I might have appreciated Stoker’s presence as a platonic bedwarmer, but the hot bricks had fulfilled their purpose, I realized as I sank into drowsiness. There are few comforts as satisfying as a warm fire, a cozy bed, and a delicious meal after one has been chilled to the bone with wind and rain.
Somewhere, in the depths of the house, a clock struck the hour and a floorboard creaked. Rain, which had lashed the windowpane, settled to a soothing hum, and at last, I slept.
CHAPTER
6
I woke to a tapping upon the door. It was early, the watery light just beginning to fill the room as I sat up in bed. Without waiting for a response, the author of the knock entered, a young woman dressed in a sober gown of dark flannel stuff. Her features were bony, her skin pale and starred with freckles. Dark, gingery hair had been plaited and wound to form an untidy coronet around her head. She was tall and slender and carried a tray in her hands. A teapot sloshed as she set it down with a bang.
“Good morning,” she said, coming near to the bed. “I am Euphemia Hathaway. Effie to my friends.”
“Veronica Speedwell,” I said, smothering a yawn.
She poured a cup of tea and thrust it into my hands, a few errant leaves floating on the top. “You are the lady lepidopterist. I have read some of your articles,” she told me, her expression avid.
“Are you interested in butterflies?” I asked, sipping at the tea. It was scalding hot, a rich Darjeeling with a dainty floral note. The Hathaways might live in a desolate and remote place, but they spared little expense in their food and drink, I decided.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Flying worms, I call them. But I know where the best ones are on the moor. I can show you if you want to collect some specimens whilst you’re here.” She looked awkward standing beside the bed, so I patted the edge.
“Sit and tell me what does interest you if not butterflies,” I invited.
She settled herself and I noticed her feet were shod in ungainly black brogues. A small lace collar had been pinned at her throat and she tugged it as she sat.
“My sister-in-law makes me wear it,” she said with a grimace. “She thinks it makes me look respectable.” I suspected the brogues were not Mary Hathaway’s idea. They looked like a boy’s castoffs, and Effie, seeing my gaze, waggled them, clicking the heels together.
“They are miles too big, but I stuff the toes with paper to make them fit,” she confided. “They are excellent for walking out on the moor. Mary says they are definitely not respectable.”
“And must you be respectable?” I took another sip of the warming tea.
“I should very much like not to be,” she said, her hazel gaze holding mine. “I should like to have adventures. Like yours. You have seen the world. I read your expedition notes on your Costa Rican trip in The Gentleman Lepidopterist. Granfer used to subscribe to all of the major scientific journals. Your work is superb,” she said.
“I am glad you enjoyed them.”
“Of course, I have no interest in Costa Rica per se,” she went on. “Jungles are no proper place to study stars. I am an astronomer, you see. I must have altitude and very clear skies. I should like a nice Greek island or perhaps a lovely desert . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully.
“There are plenty of accomplished astronomers on these shores,” I reminded her gently. “I believe the University of Edinburgh is considered to be a superior institution. You might study there. They have made great strides in educating women.”
She rolled her eyes. “It would never be permitted. My brother Charles is my guardian, you see, and while I might talk him around, Mary is a different matter entirely. She has plans.” The last word dripped with scorn. “And if one is unfortunately relegated to the position of spinster, one must make oneself useful in every possible way at all possible times.”
“Such as carrying early morning tea to the guests?” I smiled as I held out my cup. She filled it again and settled herself once more on the bed, companionably.
“Heavens no,” she said, her eyes round. “I insisted upon coming myself because I simply could not wait any longer to meet you! You are the first woman of science I have had the pleasure to know—lady,” she amended hastily. “Lady of science.”
“I prefer ‘woman,’” I told her in a mild tone. “‘Lady’ sounds better suited to a horse.”
She grinned, a broad expression that revealed white teeth with a tiny gap in the front. “I feel as if we will be great friends,” she said, leaping to her feet. “That is presumptuous and rude, and I shall be in terrible trouble if you tell, but I do not think you will.”
She bounded to the door and stopped, her hand upon the knob. “I am meant to tell you that breakfast is in an hour’s time, downstairs, in the Great Hall. It is drafty, so mind you dress warmly.”
Before I could frame my thanks, she left, slamming the door behind her, a whirlwind in petticoats. I washed and dressed and made my way down to breakfast, making only two wrong turnings as I followed the aroma of fried ham and the sound of masculine voices. The table had been pushed near the fire, and it was laden with good country fare—eggs, kidneys, ham, breads, jams and jellies of every description, stewed fruit, porridge, and thick, fatty sausages that sizzled in the dish. A chafing dish of kedgeree stood in pride of place, and Stoker had taken a large helping of the savory rice and fish.
He was sitting at the table with a young man attired in the garb of a country squire, tweeds and gaiters. His broad face was open and friendly, the auburn hair brushed back from a high forehead that would grow higher with each passing year, I had no doubt. His plate was heaped high and I could see where the buttons of his waistcoat were straining slightly. He had put on weight recently, I deduced, and would no doubt gain significantly more if he continued to eat like a gannet.
He leapt to his feet as I approached. At the foot of the table, a diminutive young woman kept her seat. Her hair, almost white-blond, had been pinned firmly under an exquisite lace cap, and her wool dress, perfect for a chilly country morning, was a rich bottle green trimmed in fashionable Parisian passementerie. A pair of luscious pearls hung at her ears and she wore a tiny lace collar fixed with a brooch of pearls and small garnets. She might be domiciled in the wilds of Devon, but she had no intention of letting herself become a dowdy country mouse. All of this I surmised in an instant as her husband came forward, his hand outstretched.
“Miss Speedwell! How good of you to come,” he said, taking my hand and pumping it furiously. “I am so very sorry we were not awake to greet you. We expected you would choose to stay in Shepton Parva on such a filthy night, and besides, we keep country hours here.” He was broad of shoulder and tall, thickly set with muscle that would require exertion to keep toned. I could well imagine him, twenty years hence, fat and bald as an egg and entirely happy with his life. An air of contentment hung about him, but also a slightly bewildered look, as if he liked where he found himself but could not quite understand how he came to be there.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” I told him. “Mrs. Desmond was the soul of hospitality.”
