Chapter Thirty-Two #2
Bram nodded. ‘A brigantine out of the port of Narva.’ He turned and framed the window with his hands.
‘Imagine this, Florrie. The heaving seas, rain lashing the cliffs, the howling wind – and in the midst, a tossing ship in grave danger. Apparently, the townsfolk lined the cliffs to watch, fully expecting it to break up before it crossed the bar.’
My heart began to beat strangely. Sweat dotted my upper lip, trickled between my breasts. Noel looked up from his book, his face ashen, his chin quivering.
Bram seemed unaware of the effect his words were having on us.
Had he so swiftly forgotten what we’d endured on the Victoria?
‘Miraculously,’ continued Bram, oblivious, ‘it managed to sail into calmer waters where it ran aground, over there, near Tate Hill Pier.’ He pointed.
‘It was completely embedded in the sand. Spectators broke out into huge cheers, uncaring of the rain or wind, for not one life was lost.’
I’d been holding my breath and released it slowly.
‘Between that tale, those of the fishermen I met mending their nets, the wretched bats escaping the church tower each evening, screeching and wheeling about the sky —’
‘I don’t like bats,’ said Noel.
I gave his back a comforting rub as Bram continued, ‘The magnificent sunsets, the grey mists over the brooling sea, the cemetery with its ancient tombstones and vista of The Scar, never mind the marvellous abbey ruins – well, it was enough to send my mind spinning.’ He paused to drink his tea.
‘That, and the … um … man we’ve discussed.
Your … er … man, Florrie; the one you told me about.
Your excellent description became lodged in my mind. I made notes.’ He tapped his journal.
I withdrew my hand from beneath Bram’s. I should have known my dark phantasm would become creative fodder for my husband. I tried not to feel exploited, but to see it as a positive step. Perhaps once my apparition was on the page, he would disappear from my life once and for all.
Unaware of my thoughts, Bram glanced at Noel, then leaned over excitedly. ‘Then, yesterday, I found this book in the library.’ He drew it out of his satchel and placed it on the table.
I picked it up. An Account of the Principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia by William Wilkinson.
‘The library here has some fascinating tomes, but it was this one, Florrie, this one,’ he struck the cover with his knuckles, ‘that clarified all the ideas whirling in my brain.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s about the Carpathians, to be exact.’ He took it from me and began to leaf through the pages. ‘It says here —’ he gave a dramatic pause, finger against a line on the page, ‘that “dracula” in the Wallachian language means “devil”.’
A shadow passed over me. Noel reached for my hand, clutching it tightly.
‘Dracula,’ enunciated Bram. ‘What a magnificent word. It conjures so much just in the saying, don’t you think?
Drak-u-lah.’ He lowered his voice, waggled his brows.
‘Wallachians bestowed it as a surname upon any person who rendered himself conspicuous by courage, cruel actions or cunning. It’s a name to be given to a hero.
Or a villain …’ He snapped the book shut.
I smelled dust and myth; death and blood-soaked tales.
Bram sat back and looked at me triumphantly.
‘Irving,’ I said, having not yet told Bram about the name change, something that would need to happen soon, before he went to Oxford. I released his hand and stroked his cheek. ‘Why don’t you take your book to our room and read a while? Later, if you like, we’ll walk up to the abbey.’
‘Can I count the stairs?’
‘The stairs, the cows in the fields, the birds in the sky, whatever you wish.’
‘I’d like to see the circus.’
We’d learned yesterday there was a circus in town.
‘We’ll see,’ was the extent of my commitment.
Noel sighed and with a kiss on my cheek, tucked his book under his arm and left the breakfast room.
‘Dracula,’ I said finally, as Bram finished his meal with gusto.
‘It’s evocative, isn’t it?’ he said between mouthfuls.
‘What with your vision of the dead man who manifests in shadows and fogs, in the corner of rooms, his blood-red eyes and sharp teeth, flocculent palms, I have my villain. I’m thinking of writing about a psychical research agent who investigates those who refuse to die, who taunt the living.
The undead. Someone or something called Dracula will feature, of course. ’
‘The undead?’ I swallowed. My hand trembled as I reached for the teapot. I suppose that was what the drowned man was – to me, at least. Undead.
‘I rather fancy calling this agent Singleton. Dr Singleton, you know, to represent someone of single purpose. He’ll have white hair and a beard, like Walt Whitman, only more adventurous.
Ever since I met that fellow who came to your first salon, the explorer, Burton, I’ve wanted to include men like him as characters in a book.
Bold, daring, enterprising. Intelligent.
Fighting evil. A story of this nature is perfect. ’
‘Undead,’ I repeated. Again, an image of the spectral man rose before me. ‘Like a ghost that manifests in daylight to unsettle anyone who sees it?’
‘Oh no,’ said Bram with an odd smile, looking straight through me. ‘Something much, much worse.’
Our time in Whitby passed quickly. Noel and I attended dances, concerts and even a marvellous performance of The Marriage of Figaro.
In our final week, I met the novelist Violet Hunt.
Noel and I had been taking tea at the spa in town.
Miss Hunt was seated at an adjoining table and asked us to join her and her mother, Margaret Raine Hunt, who had her own claim to fame for translating Grimms’ Fairy Tales from German into English (Noel’s grandmothers had read these to him over the years).
When she learned I was married to the acting manager of the Lyceum and a published author, Miss Hunt wasted no time inviting us to her parents’ place nearby for a soiree.
One of the guests at Broad Ings Farm happened to be George Du Maurier.
I’m not sure what came over Bram as we whiled away the afternoon eating cakes, drinking tea, playing games and exchanging stories.
Perhaps it was an attempt to upstage Mr Du Maurier, who was in fine fettle, or to prove himself worthy among Violet’s well-known acquaintances (including Ford Madox Ford and the writer Herbert Wells), but before too long, Bram began to regale those present with tales from the Lyceum I’d never heard before, arousing much laughter.
Later, while some of the guests played tennis, I took Noel into the gardens to see the huge aviary. Part of it was enclosed to protect the birds from the weather. Noel wandered around the cage, pressing his face against the glass, agog at the colour and noise. That was where Mr Du Maurier found me.
‘Even their brilliant plumage pales beside you.’ He swept a bow.
‘Really, Mr Du Maurier?’ I laughed. ‘That’s the best you can do? Comparing me to parrots?’
He chuckled. ‘Oh no, I can do much better.’ He stood so close, our shoulders touched. ‘If only you’d give me a chance.’
‘Mr Du Maurier …’ I flashed a look at Noel, then out of the corner of my eye, I spied Bram heading towards us across the lawn.
Mr Du Maurier saw him too. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stoker, but it’s so easy to forget what stimulating company your husband can be, he’s so often lost in Mr Irving’s shadow.’
I released a tired sigh. ‘He casts a long one. We’d come here to escape.’ I didn’t admit that not a day went by when I half-expected Henry to show up at our lodgings.
‘Well, I for one am glad you did. It’s always a pleasure to spend time with you, Mrs Stoker.’