Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Genevieve’s father, Ezra Dryden, had been a man set on a life of scholarship.
He had had a passion for history and the Old English language, and he’d set out to Oxford to earn his degree and enter the world of academia.
He would translate old, moldering documents and write treatises and teach young men how to mind their ts and es.
Then he’d met Constance Thorne at a small chapel in Oxford and the course of his life had shifted.
She had been the only woman for him, and they’d fallen in love like lightning, like thunderbolts, as her father had declaimed to a young Genevieve many a night, narrating their love story.
But he could not become an Oxford fellow if he’d followed his heart—Oxford professors were not allowed to marry.
Dreams of recognition and success, or love?
Setting aside his dreams of research and scholarship, Ezra had taken up tutoring young men looking to enter Oxford or attending school and struggling with their studies, and had married Constance, though he’d made only enough for them to scrape by on the fringes of respectability.
After a few years, when they realized that they had a child on the way—“Me!” a young Genevieve had always exclaimed—Ezra had taken a risk and used his background in history and language and his love of story to write a novel.
And it had sold.
Thanks to the burgeoning love of novels and the popularity of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe in particular, Ezra’s novels, full of romance and daring set in a pre-Norman Britain during the rise of Saxon kingdoms and the Viking invasions, had allowed the Drydens to live in relative comfort as he’d tutored young men in language and history during the day, sneaking in his own research during the sessions, and he’d written at night under the penname E.D.
Saxon. Much of the passion, romance, and heroism in the books had been due to Constance, who had urged less emphasis on dry, political-focused plots and what the era would have been exactly like, and more artistic freedom to allow the characters to follow the spirit of adventure.
Ezra had often worked out details of the novels in Genevieve’s bedtime stories or by discussing the tales with Constance.
After her mother had died when Genevieve had been seventeen, her father had lost some of the heart for the historical novels.
He had penned a series of short satirical works while focusing on translating Old English texts with some philology associates.
He’d retreated into his books and into the past. While Genevieve had assisted with copying out his translations and proofreading his satires as she’d kept house and looked after him, she had urged him to return to the sweeping, romantic historical tales she had loved so much as a child, since he had told her many tales he had not yet developed into novels—but he had not made much progress on those stories.
And then she’d been taken, and it had been too late for anything.
Genevieve couldn’t tell how long she sobbed against Kendrick’s chest. She was no rational being, just pain and anguish, only held together by his arms around her.
By the time she’d managed to sob herself spent, her eyes throbbed and her throat ached. She felt like she had been pounded by relentless waves of sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice a thread.
Kendrick’s hands tightened around her. “Don’t apologize for your grief, Jenny. Not to me.”
“My father always called me Jenny. How did you know that?”
Kendrick’s hand stroked her neck. “It’s him you wear the black for, is it not?”
She sniffed and nodded. “When the blood bond broke, I ran before anyone could stop me. I had tried so many times before to go home, but I had never made it out of the city. I went to Oxford by train, fighting to stay awake during the day, trying to find safe places to wait until dark. But he wasn’t there.
Someone else lived in our house. I couldn’t find any of his colleagues.
Finally, I looked in the cemetery.” She clenched her hand in his shirt, but all her tears had run dry.
Her head dropped to Kendrick’s shoulder.
“He died last year,” she said tonelessly.
“I was too late. By one year. I didn’t—couldn’t—”
She sucked in a gasping breath to brace against the pain.
“Afterwards, I came back here. Because I didn’t have anywhere else.
And there was Elspeth, and Sparrow. A-And this is why we have to make the Ossuary better.
” She sniffed. “Because this is all I have now, and I can’t accept this being all there is with no change for eternity. ” Her voice dropped into a whisper.
Kendrick’s comforting voice was almost an embrace on its own. “Jenny, I don’t believe that a man who writes with such touching sincerity and warmth didn’t let you know he loved you.”
“I know he loved me. I just hate thinking that he believed I would abandon him.”
Her position curled in his lap dawned on her. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “Oh—I’ve gotten your shirtfront all bloody—” She raised a hand and then checked herself. How would she wipe her face or his shirt without staining her gloves? She had given away her handkerchief.
“I am no stranger to a bit of blood. It will wash out.” Kendrick stilled her hands’ fluttering and wiped her face with his handkerchief, one finger under her chin to hold it steady.
Genevieve looked into his gold eyes and wet her lips. “You really like his books?”
“Really. He writes adventure in such a way that the blood sings, and you can smell the heather and the scent of the sea. Some of the history is pure invention, but he was able to get so much of the spirit of the time correct.” He smiled crookedly. “Even the invented aspects carry the right spirit.”
“He—He would have l-loved to know that.” She gulped.
“He loved history and language. He would read to me from Old English texts so I might fall asleep. I had no idea what he was saying, but it was the way he said it that captivated me. Why is Wynnflaed your favorite?” she murmured.
“Everyone always remarks upon The Wife of Weland and Finwold Law as being his best works.”
“It has the best romance,” Kendrick said, his eyes sparkling. “But I have all of them, or very nearly.”
“You do?” Genevieve moved to stand, and Kendrick lifted her from his lap and steadied her as she found her balance once more. Unsettled, she ducked her head and slapped ineffectually at her skirts before making for the book table.
“Oh, goodness—Wolfhead Tree, Sigestan of Emberlost—even The Broken Spear! That was his first one, you know, and most people didn’t know what to make of it, though it sold well. You really do have all of them.”
“I think I am missing the second volume of The Banished, but it might be in a different trunk.”
“You do have a lot of books,” she noted.
He laughed. “Not compared to a friend of mine’s hoard, but a few. I have always liked a good tale. They contain possibility. They paint not just how the world is or was, but how it could’ve been. How it could be.”
Her gloved fingers lingered over the worn cover of Wynnflaed’s Knight.
“You do that, too,” he murmured. “Will you give me the chance to build that better world you can see so clearly, Genevieve? Not just for you…but with you?”
“You were in there quite a while,” Etienne murmured as Robbie escorted Genevieve and Elspeth to the tunnels below.
If Kendrick could read a man—and he thought he could, after so many centuries—he’d put money on the Scotsman walking them all the way back to their abode, based upon the many times he turned towards Miss Gibbins to ask for her opinion tonight.
Kendrick had wanted to be the one to get them home safe, but he’d thought better of it when Robbie had offered.
Genevieve needed some time to process his offer.
But she had taken the book with her.
“And mademoiselle came out looking discomposed.”
“Hmm?” Kendrick said absently, watching the rest of the vampires pack up the cleaning supplies and file below before dawn broke above the horizon and sent them to sleep.
“And there’s blood all over your shirt,” Etienne continued, sounding a little irritated now.
“Is there?” He looked down. “Imagine that.”
Etienne made a wordless exclamation.
Kendrick turned and grinned. Winding up Etienne was too easy. “What?”
Addie sighed and rested her chin on Etienne’s shoulder. “You’re so nosy.”
“I was merely inquiring about the lady’s welfare,” Etienne forced out through gritted teeth.
“Oh, was there an interrogative in there? I didn’t hear one.” Kendrick laughed. “The lady is all right. She had an…emotional moment. There’s apparently going to be another attempt on my life soon; make a note, will you?”
“‘Someone will try to kill Kendrick in the near future.’ Shall it be I or someone else?” Etienne muttered, pretending to scribble in the air.
“Is that all?” Addie asked. “She couldn’t have been weeping all over you about assassination attempts. I don’t know her well, but I believe Miss Dryden to be very sensible.”
“Well, I proposed, but she wasn’t crying about that.”
“Quoi?” Etienne exclaimed.
“You proposed?” Addie squealed at the same time.
“You mean marriage?” Etienne pushed his pince-nez further up his nose, magnifying his eyes. “But why?”
Addie smacked him in the arm. “What do you mean, why?”
“I thought he would ask her about improvements for the Ossuary, not plight his troth. But marriage…”
Addie planted her fists on her hips. “We’re getting married.”
Etienne pulled Addie into his arms and rubbed his nose against hers. “Yes, but that is different, mon chaton.” Etienne shot Kendrick a narrow look. “You didn’t know who Miss Dryden was a week ago.”
“Not very romantic of you, Etienne.” Kendrick smirked.
“Yes, Kendrick can fall in love if he wants!” Addie insisted.
Kendrick stilled. Love?
“When are you getting married, Kendrick? Oh! We could have a double wedding.”