Castle Rouge (50 page)

I shook myself free of the memory as I looked away from Tatyana’s tame brute. My winking Gypsy man would look like fair Romeo in contrast. I braced myself to study every Gypsy face until I found his.

Godfrey, meanwhile, had been commandeered by Tatyana. In this she unknowingly played into our plans. I took a wine goblet from the table and made my sipping round of the room, pausing to nod and tap (head and foot) at the energetic violinists.

As I really examined them for the first time, I found them no less crude and grimy than Tatyana’s servant, but far less sinister. Their aspects were dark: raven-dark hair and mustaches, skin more swarthy than filthy now that I looked closely upon it, but their persons were caparisoned in brightness, like my boots of many colors.

And their dark Gypsy eyes glinted with hidden laughter and tears, not wolfish and pale and ravenous, but deep and secret and satisfied. They were lost in their music. And although that music had a raucous abandoned flavor, a deep and sensitive melancholy underlay it. Although I am abysmally untalented in the music field, my association with Irene has made me understand the art and passion of it. And once I listened, I found both art and passion in the Gypsies’ playing. Their eyes held the same lost, intent expression of Irene’s when essaying a Schubert étude on the piano.

They paid me no attention. This was a boon under the circumstance, a kind of freedom I had not felt since waking in this accursed castle. I sensed that could we cross the many barriers as high and wide as mountains between us, they would understand my fundamental need for freedom, now that I understood it for the first time. And, for the first time I dared hope that my wild scheme to appeal to one of their number could bear some fruit.

The ringing of a dinner bell called me away from my session in music appreciation.

It was not a bell, but Tatyana’s oafish servant banging a dinner fork upon a chased gilt goblet.

It brought the dinner party together, though. Godfrey, who had never left her side. Myself. The Count in his same oddly old-fashioned dark garb, rather like a Spanish aristocrat of the time of Queen Elizabeth. I did not anywhere see Colonel Moran, and was vastly relieved. Tatyana would monopolize Godfrey tonight, as she had before, making an unholy trinity of her end of the table between herself, the Count, and Godfrey. And I would be left to myself at the other end, free to surreptitiously study the Gypsy servitors and musicians, hunting my would-be admirer.

“Tonight,” Tatyana announced after nodding to her “Medved” to cease his banging, “we have the opportunity of a surprise guest.”

Godfrey and I eyed each other, noting the special twist she had put on the word “opportunity,” taunting us with the hope that a stranger on the premises might give us some chance to grasp at freedom.

“Ah, here he comes, after performing a few ablutions in his chamber.”

She glanced to the hall, from which came the sharp advance of boots. A man, then. Not Irene! Unless she was masquerading as a man. No, not even Irene, not here and now, would be so bold…

“I believe,” Tatyana said almost coyly, a mood that did not sit well upon her long, wiry form, “that our English friends will be most pleased to meet a countryman.”

Definitely a man. My heart stopped.

Quentin in some wild disguise?!

42.

A Mystery Man Indeed

I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest
.

—
THE COUNT, BRAM STOKER’S
DRACULA

He came striding into the massive chamber, as confident as any British empire-builder. A pity he was neither actually British nor an empire-builder.

I nearly stood at my place, but forced myself to push all my emotions—amazement, disbelief, fear—deep behind the lattice of my Gypsy corselet and my thumping heart.

His confident advance stopped precipitously midway across the vast chamber. At that point, he turned his back on the dinner table and began staring up at the three stories of bookshelves, turning slowly to take them all in. I suspect that he was also gathering his wits at being confronted so unexpectedly with two acquaintances from London, and, more latterly, Paris.

“A magnificent library, Madame,” he said, turning finally all the way around to pay Tatyana the necessary tribute of gazing solely at her. “Although the castle is in disrepair, I have not seen so splendid an assemblage of books since England.”

“Indeed. Quite a compliment from an Englishman. We already have two English guests, as you see.” Tatyana waved a bejeweled hand, directing his attention to us and watching carefully.

“What a happy meeting,” he announced back, bowing to Godfrey and myself. “A pair of doughty explorers like myself, I vouchsafe, only it is not Darkest Africa that draws our conjoined curiosity but mysterious Transylvania, eh? Mister and Missus, I presume? I seldom meet a lady in out-of-the-way places, save that she is the adventuresome wife of a man with a wandering instep. Alas, my own wife is a homebody. I envy you your stouthearted companion, Sir.”

Of course the possessive Tatyana writhed like the snake she was at this misapprehension. At this so very clever and theatrical and deliberate misapprehension, which was nothing less than I should expect of our new dinner partner and canny confederate, Mr. Bram Stoker of London and most recently of Paris, France.

I giggled like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t hard to feign. I was so happy to see his broad form and face and to know that he understood enough of our situation to immediately play the part of an utter stranger.

“Oh, my goodness, sir,” I tittered to Bram. “I am a spinster and Mr. Norton’s secretary, but I thank you for your flattering assumption that I am one of those ever so brave lady explorers. I must apologize. My luggage was lost in a river crossing, and I have been forced to wear what can be found for me.”

“Then circumstance has dealt most charmingly with you. I confess that I am a frequent traveler and relish seeing every region’s native dress in all its imagination and history.” He again gazed around the crumbling but grandiose room and at its odd occupants with a scholar’s nearsighted delight, as if nothing could possibly be wrong that this bluff gentleman would ever observe.

“Let me introduce—” Tatyana looked to the quiet figure of the Count on her left.

“We have met,” Bram forestalled her, “in the village when I first came through. It was he who suggested I might be interested in seeing this most impressive example of a twelfth-century castle.”

“Well, then, if the roll has been called, you may take a seat at the opposite head of the table,” Tatyana suggested. “Next to Miss Stanhope.”

Bram raised his eyebrows in polite compliance and nodded at me, accepting my renaming by Tatyana as absolute fact.

In truth, it was all I could do to keep from directing a lancing look her way. How cruelly she could play with those in her power, as Godfrey said. At least Quentin was not here to suffer her barbs—and worse—in person. And she would have no reason to know Bram Stoker was a friend of Irene’s…would she?

“Well, this a treat!” Bram went on, flourishing his napkin like a white flag of truce as he sat down. “To dine in an ancestral castle dating back to the time of the Turks with the incomparably wild music of Gypsies for accompaniment and the most beautiful woman in Transylvania—possibly the world, for I have not yet quite seen all of it—as a hostess.”

Bram Stoker had not spent time buttering up Sarah Bernhardt for nothing. His bow was Elizabethan and his
bonhomie
was so natural that flattery flowed off him like honey out of beehives.

Dear Bram! How could we have possibly considered him as a candidate for the Ripper? How could I even disdain his possibly inappropriate presence in brothels? He was taking command of the situation almost as persuasively as Irene could when called upon. Just to see a familiar face, hear a reassuring voice…danger took three steps backward and curtseyed like Mignon.

Tatyana, however, expected curtsies to be extended to her. She nodded at the clumsy “pet” always standing behind her, and he again filled the goblets with wine.

As he came to me, his coarse shirt sleeve brushed my bare forearm. I could not resist starting as if snagged by a thornbush. The creature offered me the same vile, knowing grin along with the wine before moving on to fill Bram’s glass.

“Thank you, my good man!” Bram responded, still playing the part of an Englishman so hearty-natured he is blind to all around him.

As soon as our glasses had been filled, Tatyana took command of the conversation again, although Godfrey and I knew better than to try to speak with Bram.

“So, Sir, my servants and the Gypsies tell me you have been exploring the village and environs on foot for more than a week now, Mr.—?”

“Abraham,” Bram said, adroitly substituting first name for last. “Oscar Abraham. And I find walking the sublimest way to travel and see the sights. I have tramped across most of England and western Europe and am now acquainting myself with the wonders of Europe east of the Rhine.”

“For what purpose?”

Bram assumed a smugly modest look. “I have had a few scribbings published.
Meditations on the Midlands
, that sort of thing. There seems to be a market for the musings of the contemplative traveler. In fact, that is an ideal description for myself…the Contemplative Traveler. I foresee a new monthly column in some literary magazine. I thank you again, Madame, for serving as my occasion of inspiration.”

If ever there was the epitome of a heedless, pompous, self-satisfied man of imagined letters, Bram Stoker was he to the fine point of a goose quill.

What a brilliant ploy! Like all people who mean ill to others, Tatyana tended to underestimate people who imagined that reasonable behavior would answer any human strife.

Godfrey squirmed in his chair at Bram’s posturing, as if to underwrite her opinion of the fool who had been invited to dinner and could probably quite safely be let go again, thus giving her prisoners a tantalizing glimpse of freedom that was never to be theirs.

I took my cue from Godfrey and visibly subsided into a downcast pout, barely touching the food, but—here was
my
brilliant improvisation of the evening!—pretending to sip frequently from the wine. If later I had an opportunity to opportune my once-seen winking Gypsy, it could be laid to my tipsy behavior. Tipsy with the Gypsy. Perfect!

“And what,” Tatyana inquired, “have you learned about this quiet corner of Transylvania?”

“That it was not so quiet centuries ago! Even today the villagers hush at the mention of certain topics…certain names and practices.”

“Don’t tell me that you are also a collector of ghost stories, Mr. Abraham.”

“Ah, you have caught me out. There is a fierce appetite for tales of ancient evils, from the drama of
Macbeth
to the legends of Attila the Hun to this Tepes chap who may very well have resided in this very castle at one time, is that not what you were telling me?”

Mr. Stoker deferred to the Count, who stirred in his monsignorial chair. “He had several castles. Yes, this could be one. Where he lived, or died, though, is not important. What matters is that he stopped the advance of the Turks when no one else could. Vlad Tepes, known as the Impaler.”

I knew better than to ask why, but feared that I should soon be told. By then the dinner dishes had been cleared, and it was time for “tales.” Given the company, I knew they would be sinister. Sinister I did not mind. Bloody was another matter.

“A great Christian prince and hero of the fifteenth century,” the Count went on in his soft, accented English.

I wondered why a member of the nobility in an area of Europe dominated by Hungary and Germany for so many centuries should trouble to learn English, yet it had certainly made Godfrey’s assignment easier.

“And,” the Count added, “utterly merciless to his enemies. We are at table and in the presence of ladies.” He looked at me, not Tatyana, I noticed. “However, I can tell that you are much interested in local lore, Mr. Abraham, which I find admirable in a mere traveler through our land.”

“Such interest is part of my position as a theatrical manager. Last spring the principals of my company spent weeks in the wilds of Scotland to prepare for a new and stunning production of
Macbeth
.”

“I am not familiar with the name or the play.”

“Macbeth is an ambitious Scottish nobleman who kills his king for the throne, but comes to a bad end. It is a tragedy.”

“Ah, we have seen much of that in Wallachia and Transylvania. In Vlad’s day, too. He was known as Dracul. His brother was buried alive, which may be why he settled on a slow death for his enemies.”

“The impaling,” Mr. Stoker prompted. “Some tribes of American Indians can be quite cruel to captives, even use spears to pin their victims to the ground while they torment them further.”