Now Comes the Mist

CHAPTER SEVEN

W inter ebbs into spring, and as the days grow longer and our journey to Whitby looms, Mamma enters a state of frenzy. In March, she suddenly decides to replace all the draperies in our London house, and her days are spent visiting cloth merchants before finally settling upon a deep green brocade only a shade darker than our original fabric. In April, she leads an army of servants in polishing every surface, repairing errant clocks and wardrobe doors that hang askew, and uprooting the garden so that neat stone paths and useless statues may be installed.

“What has gotten into you, Mamma?” I ask more than once, to which she replies, “I want everything to be perfect for when you inherit all of this, my love.” And when I tell her that there are many more years before that happens, she only pats my cheek before returning to her manic activity, causing me to wonder if my obsession with death is catching. Perhaps I breathe so much mingled longing and fear that Mamma has taken it from the air into her lungs and heart. I cannot see any other reason for this sudden and morbid desire to ready her affairs for me.

In early May, a week before our journey to Whitby, she knocks on my door before dinner—something she almost never does, for by unspoken agreement between two adult women living together, she and I do not disturb each other in our respective sanctuaries. I am on my window seat in the open spring air, dreaming in the light of the setting sun and contemplating the multiple bouquets that grace my dresser and send a cloying scent into the air.

“It looks like a florist’s shop in here,” Mamma says, plucking a few dying blooms out of a vase of snow-white roses. “I’m surprised your young men haven’t exhausted their wallets yet, buying you every flower to be had in London.”

“They aren’t my young men, Mamma,” I say, laughing, though I get a thrill from the words. My men, whom I own. My property.

“Well, I certainly hope that changes very shortly.” She brings the dead flowers out to the hall, placing them on a table for the servants to discard, before returning. “One of them will have to tire of courtship soon and make the deal official by asking for your hand.”

“Mamma, I am not a business contract,” I protest. “You know very well that these matters of the heart take caution, tact, and time.”

She sits at my vanity table, facing me. “Time? What time do they think any of us have?”

I study the lines around her mouth, her blue eyes, and the shine of her ash-blond hair. “Mamma, what dark thoughts you entertain lately,” I say playfully to mask my anxiety. “Why, pray tell, are you suddenly so eager for me to marry and inherit all of your property?”

“These aren’t dark thoughts,” Mamma says, waving a hand. “You know how impatient I am when things are left unsettled. I like tasks to be done, affairs to be completed, agreements to be reached, and all that. The sooner you marry Arthur and have a dozen children, the sooner I may rest easy and enjoy my old age, knowing that my work as your mother is done.”

“It’s hard to believe that you will ever grow old.” I look down at my hands, slender and pale, the nails like gleaming shells. “Mamma, are you so certain that I will marry Arthur?”

She laughs, looking pointedly at the bouquets around her.

“Those are not all from him. Only the camellias. The other red flowers are from Dr. Jack Seward, and the white roses are from Quincey Morris, as a sign of surrender in a battle of wits we have been waging.” I look with satisfaction at the snowy blooms, thinking of the notes the handsome American and I have exchanged over the past few months. Everything we have written is perfectly innocent, but the meaning between the lines … those, I am relieved no florist shall understand, for they would be horrified by the thought of the virtuous Miss Lucy Westenra expressing herself so openly to any man.

“Lucy, you must choose one eventually. And I think we both know who it will be,” Mamma says indulgently. “You are twenty in September, and it’s time you settled down.”

“Mina turned twenty-four, and she is not married yet.”

“Because Mr. Harker has been working hard to build up his savings for her and prepare for their life together,” Mamma says. “He is a lawyer’s clerk. Your young men are in vastly better positions and need not wait to take care of you .”

I lean my head against a plump satin pillow, lazily enjoying my reflection in the mirror behind Mamma. “Well, then,” I say archly, “since you insist upon me marrying at once, I shall propose to one of these men before we leave for Whitby. Will you ask Harriet to lay pillows upon the parlor floor, so I will not hurt myself when I get down on one knee?”

She shakes her head, chuckling. “How absurd you are.”

“No more than you, dear Mamma. You know perfectly well that I would prefer to propose, but society forbids it, so I must linger on until one of my suitors finds the courage to speak. And since you are determined to hope for Arthur, I’m afraid it will take years yet.”

“Years!”

“It took our entire childhood and years of adulthood for him to even look at me. So I’m afraid I will be your age before he musters the willpower to ask for my hand.”

“I am not one of your lovesick men, impertinent miss,” Mamma says, waving her finger at me. “Do not tease me the way you do them. Years to ask for your hand, indeed! I wager with you that he will ask before we leave for our holiday. I saw him at the Marshalls’ dinner party last week, watching you talk to Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris.”

I place a hand against my heart in delight. “Was he green with envy?”

“Like the first peas of spring, which Cook will be serving us at dinner,” Mamma confirms, and we both burst into peals of laughter.

“Dear silly Mamma,” I say affectionately.

“Speaking of dinner, I have invited Dr. Seward to join us this evening. He’s bringing a friend, a foreign gentleman who is also a physician.”

“Why Dr. Seward, when you favor Arthur so?” I lift my head from the pillow, alarmed once more. “And two physicians for dinner? Are we returning to the subject of your dark thoughts and the reason for your preparing my nest for me without you?”

My mother frowns and busies herself with smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. “Papa liked Dr. Seward, as you know, and I think it is important to maintain these friendships. I happened to see the young man in town and thought it might be nice to invite him, since Arthur and Mr. Morris call on us often. When he told me he had a friend visiting, I saw fit to invite the friend as well. Control that wild imagination of yours and get dressed,” she adds, getting up.

“But what if you singlehandedly destroy Arthur’s chances with this invitation?” I tease. “Suppose Dr. Seward, or even this foreign physician, if he is unmarried, proposes tonight in such a way as I cannot refuse and must accept at once?”

“Then I will be pleased, for that is vastly better than waiting for Arthur to take years,” Mamma teases back as she leaves and shuts the door behind her.

I smile and shake my head as I rise from my seat to dress. She is where I get my playful nature from, and I cannot imagine her ever growing old … or not being here.

Dr. Jack Seward is a man who is as precise in his social life as he is in his work, and so just as the clock strikes eight, Mamma and I hear the door open and two sets of heavy male footsteps come down the hall toward the parlor. Dr. Seward enters first, and his eyes find me unerringly even as he greets my mother first. “Miss Westenra,” he says, turning to me with a slow, warm smile. “I would like to introduce you and your mother to a dear friend of mine who has almost become a father to me. May I present Dr. Abraham Van Helsing of Amsterdam?”

The name is of Dutch origin, but the man who bears it does not look even remotely Dutch. He is a head shorter than Dr. Seward but taller than Mamma and me, with a slender build. When he politely takes Mamma’s and my hands in greeting, I feel the strength and quickness in his fingers. He has jet-black hair, a sharp jaw, and narrow dark eyes on either side of a flat nose. In the firelight, his skin is even more olive than my own. He looks to be in his late forties.

Mamma’s face remains calm and polite, though I can see the surprise in her eyes. She had expected someone old, grey, and European, just as I had.

“Mrs. Westenra. Miss Westenra. Thank you for the pleasure of your invitation. I am honored to meet you both after how much Jack has praised you.” Dr. Van Helsing hands my mother a lovely bouquet of yellow daisies. His voice is calm, deep, and impressive, and his English, which is perfect, has shades of both a German and Dutch accent.

Mamma’s eyes shine at his fine manners. “You are most welcome. Any friend of Dr. Seward’s is a friend of ours. Shall we go in? I’m sure you are tired and hungry from your journey.”

Dr. Van Helsing gallantly offers her his arm and she takes it.

“I suppose that makes you my charge tonight, Miss Lucy,” Dr. Seward says. His arm is warm and solid beneath my hand, and I let myself imagine for a moment that he is my husband and that we are in our own home. It is almost too easy to picture, and as I look up at him, I see in his darkening eyes that he is thinking along the same lines. My breath catches, and the realization comes at last that what Mamma said was true: as much as I love flirting with these men and enjoying our intrigues, jests, and playful dances, one day soon I will have to choose from among them. And I will not be able to make them all happy.

“I am glad to be in your care, Dr. Seward,” I say, squeezing his arm lightly to hide my emotion. “How have you been enjoying this weather?”

“Very much indeed. I spent an exciting day last week shooting with friends.”

“With Mr. Morris?”

He darts a quick glance at me. “Why, yes.”

“On Mr. Holmwood’s estate?”

“Yes,” he says, with an uneasy laugh. I hide a smile at his obvious hope to keep my mind only on him. “Well guessed. And you?”

“An uneventful week for me, aside from preparing for our summer holiday.”

In the dining room, a fire roars despite the mild spring night, giving the space warmth and cheer. Mamma takes the head of the table, gracefully directing Dr. Seward and Dr. Van Helsing to the chairs on either side of hers. She seats me—to my amusement and Dr. Seward’s dismay—beside the older physician. To the men, it must seem like a hostess’s courtesy, placing her newer guest between herself and her daughter to ensure that he feels welcome. But the twinkle in Mamma’s eye tells me she is thinking of our earlier conversation in my room.

It’s no mystery who Mamma wants for her son-in-law , I think, obediently taking my seat next to Dr. Van Helsing. I have an inkling that even if Arthur took a whole year to propose, my mother would consider it worthwhile, no matter how she jests when we are in private. I smile, imagining what his proposal would be like. Probably a dry, gruff question put to me in a formal manner, his hands behind his back and his chin lifted. I do not think Arthur would be the kind of lover to get down upon one knee. That would be much more in Dr. Seward’s style.

I glance across the table as the servants bring in the soup and find him watching me, as though he knows I am thinking of him. I blush and look down, and he smiles broadly. I feel Dr. Van Helsing looking indulgently between us and wonder how much Jack has told him about me.

“How did the two of you meet, sir?” Mamma asks Dr. Van Helsing. “Dr. Seward did not specify. Did your friendship begin in England or elsewhere?” It is her tactful way of asking about his heritage. Someone else might have bungled the attempt into something offensive, but the grace with which she puts the question makes him smile in complete comprehension.

“We met over ten years ago, when I was a young and very green professor in Germany,” Dr. Van Helsing explains, giving an appreciative sniff of the whitefish bisque the servant places before him. “Jack was my brightest student and challenged me with many an irritating question.”

Dr. Seward laughs. “You are too modest. I don’t believe you have ever been young or green. That is,” he corrects himself hastily, “green. Of course you were young, and still are!”

Both Dr. Van Helsing and my mother have burst into laughter.

“I see how it is, Dr. Impertinence,” the older man teases, and his smile transforms his serious face into a bright, happy one. I glance at his hand for a wedding ring and see a simple gold one. “You accuse me of being elderly when I have scarcely entered my prime.”

Dr. Seward grins. “You will never be elderly, sir, not even when you are elderly.”

“Before I taught in Germany, I was raised abroad,” Dr. Van Helsing says, turning back to Mamma. “I was born in a village in China, where my mother worked as a laundress. By chance, she befriended a kind Dutch couple. The husband was a physician studying rare illnesses in that region of the world, and he and his wife offered my mother employment in their household and an education for me. They became our family, and we gladly took their name. We lived in Amsterdam until my adopted father sent me off to the best schools in England and Germany, having recognized my aptitude for medicine. And now I find myself back in Amsterdam, which feels more like home to me than anywhere else. I was offered a nice little position there.”

“And by nice little position, you mean you are running the entire branch of physicians dealing with rare diseases all over the world,” Dr. Seward adds, and I favor him with a glowing look, touched by his eagerness to boast about his friend. “He will never tell you ladies, but he is a respected leader in many fields, especially that one.”

“How impressive,” Mamma says. “You must know about all sorts of conditions, Dr. Van Helsing. For example, diseases of the heart?”

“Ah, for that, I concede to my boy Jack,” the physician says modestly. “I myself focus primarily on the blood, in which many contagions can be found. But I beg your pardon. This is not a pleasant conversation for a dinner with two such lovely ladies.”

I laugh. “My father was not a medical man, sir, but he was interested in the field, and strange and grotesque topics were a matter of course at our table while he lived. I am certain I know more about lung conditions or how to prevent biliary upset than any young lady should.”

Dr. Van Helsing beams. “Miss Westenra, your intelligence and charm do not surprise me, as I had heard much about them before I met you,” he says, with a knowing glance at Dr. Seward. The young man blushes and quickly engages Mamma in conversation.

“What a fascinating life you have led, full of travel and experience,” I say wistfully.

“I have been most fortunate,” the physician agrees. “If the Van Helsings had not adopted me, I would never have been afforded such opportunities.”

“I am hungry to see the world as you have, though it is unlikely that I ever will.”

“You may have a chance.” Smiling, he looks again at Dr. Seward, who is still talking to Mamma, and then back at me. “My late wife, Eleanor, used to say I was her ticket to the world. We had no children, and I took her with me to every medical conference and lecture.”

“Was she so well educated?” I ask, surprised and envious.

He laughs. “She was the most supportive of wives, but my line of work was not for her! During my lectures, she would explore or happily spend the whole day lost in a book.” A touch of melancholy softens the lines of his face, making it rather handsome.

“We need not speak of her if it is too painful,” I say gently.

“On the contrary. I am glad to speak of her, for I am not often able to do so,” Dr. Van Helsing says as the servants place the main course before us: delicate slices of roast beef with root vegetables. “In fact, she is the reason I became interested in folklore and superstition, for everywhere we went, she would learn all she could about the local customs.”

“I, too, am fascinated by folklore. I have read everything in my father’s library on traditions surrounding death.” As soon as the words slip out, I wish I could take them back.

But the doctor seems intrigued, not repulsed. “You, Miss Lucy, a student of death?”

“We have had much loss in our family, and seeking knowledge comforted me,” I explain. He gives me a look of fatherly approval so like Papa’s that I surge on. “I enjoy reading of how cultures across the world perceive death and immortality, whether as a gift or a curse.”

“And what is your opinion?”

I hesitate. “To have my loved ones go on and the world continue as though I had never existed is a chill I cannot shake. I think, sir, that is the true curse. Mortality.”

The doctor studies me, and as adept as I am at reading the thoughts of men, I cannot discern anything in his sharp, clever eyes. “I see your reasoning. But you have many long and happy years ahead of you, I think, and need not worry about such things.”

I make myself give a light, careless laugh. “Of course. These are the mere musings of a sleepless mind. Or rather, a sleepwalking one. An inherited family affliction,” I add, seeing his interest. “My father sleepwalked, as did his father and his grandmother, Van.”

“That is an unusual name.”

“She was an unusual woman. In English society, at least.” His eyes follow my gaze to the jade ring on my finger. “She became Vanessa before her foot even touched English soil.”

Dr. Van Helsing nods with perfect understanding. “When my adoptive parents took us in, my mother urged me to give up my native language at once. Some of us must sacrifice a great deal, must we not? Names, tongues, and roots. I have colleagues who are still perplexed by my existence, even though I turned my back on my heritage and worked harder than any of them.”

“Above reproach at all times,” I say softly, echoing Papa’s words.

“Just so, Miss Lucy.” His solemnity lifts when Mamma asks him a question, bringing him into her conversation with Dr. Seward, and soon they are all talking in animated voices.

But our conversation weighs upon me, as does his expectation that I will choose Jack for my husband. Once again, it occurs to me that I will have to decide soon. Even if Arthur cannot muster the courage to propose, I doubt Dr. Seward or even Quincey Morris would hesitate.

I feel Dr. Seward looking at me again, but I keep my gaze lowered, knowing that my long lashes are put to best effect that way. I know that I appear beautiful and demure to him, but inside, I am boiling with frustration at Arthur. It is my fate to be tied to a man, an inevitable evil. Even Dr. Van Helsing, who had listened to me with respect, had suggested that I would never travel unless my husband took me, as he had generously done for his own wife.

If I must belong to someone, I would rather it be Arthur than any other man, but it is not my choice to make, and many months have passed without him even alluding to the topic again. Perhaps , I think bitterly, I ought to accept someone else to show him that I will not wait forever.

But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I recoil at the sorrow I know I would cause him. And now that I have seen him laugh, I do not want him to do anything else. Of the two of us, I am stronger and bolder. Perhaps all he needs is a nudge.

I lift my hand and whisper my instructions to a servant, still watched by Dr. Seward.

Tonight, I will guide Arthur to the decision he must make.