Mina Part 23

He was prepared for a battle. Instead, she was standing at the open window, looking down at the grounds below. "I feel ever so much better, Jack," she said. "Do you suppose we could go outside for a walk? The view from this window is so oppressive."

"I'm sorry you had to be given this room. The only other one is mine, and it's so cluttered with books and patient files that I could hardly give it to a guest."

"But I'm not a guest, am I, Jack? Perhaps you could put me in the asylum with the other lunatics."

He flushed. "No," he said. "You've had a terrible shock, but you hardly belong there."

She laughed. "Well, that's encouraging, anyway." She walked past him, through the door and down the stairs. She paused on the steps of his house to wait for him, and link her arm through his. "You'd best hold on to me, Jack, or I might fly away like a bird, or should I humor your belief that I am delusional and say bat?"

Seward smiled and patted her hand. They walked on until they came to a little bridge over a creek flowing into the Thames.

Willows grew along the banks, and there was a covered gazebo close to the water. He took Mina there and sat beside her. "Tell me what happened yesterday?" he said.

"I cannot start my story there, Jack, because it began long before that, even before we left Transylvania."

She lied, but only a little. She told him that she had found the book in the gypsy cart, below Dracula's box of earth. She told him, too, of the feeling that she had, the feeling that whatever poison had been put in her was still there, infecting her. She spoke of her trip to London to find a translator, of the attack on Winnie Beason. She mentioned the note Gance had sent to her and how they had discovered Ujvari floating in the river.

"I felt so guilty then, Jack. His death was my fault, you see. If I had told Jonathan about the book and about my feelings, we might have contacted Van Helsing for help. Instead, I acted alone and the outcome was terrible."

"Guilt is not hysteria, Mina," Seward explained patiently. "You were hysterical when Jonathan and I saw you."

"The old man in Gance's garden was James Sebescue's father. He was going to kill me, Jack. He called me nosferatu." She described the attack as it had happened. "There was blood everywhere. Yes, with the past horror so recent and vivid, I suppose I did lose my mind. So they drugged me, Jack, and I dreamed of Dracula and the terrible night he made me drink from him. I woke.

I pounded on the door until my hands were sore." She showed him the bruises. "But no one came until you and Jonathan arrived."

She sensed that he wanted to believe her, to hold and comfort her, but he remained aloof, a doctor rather than a friend, and a friend only because he could not be something more. "We should go back," he said. "I'll have the staff clear my room. You can sleep there tonight."

In a calculated, seemingly impetuous gesture that Lucy would have envied, Mina kissed Seward's cheek. "You always were so kind to me, but the move isn't necessary," she said and pulled him to his feet, starting back toward the asylum, willingly it seemed.

He stopped just inside the door. "I must work," he said.

"I understand, Jack. May I choose a book to take upstairs to occupy my time?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." He led her into his study and pointed to the shelves along one wall. "Take more than one, if you like."

"I would like to know as much as possible about my illness."

"Then take this." He handed her a book by Henry Maudsley. "It discusses the origins of dreams."

"And a novel, Jack. Something light to pa.s.s the time." She reached for The Count of Monte Cris...o...b..cause its binding was worn. She a.s.sumed it had been read many times.

She was correct. "Have you read it?" Seward asked with a new warmth in his voice.

"Yes," she responded. "It is such a beautiful tragedy. Do you suppose that lovers so perfect for one another can ever find happiness with others?"

"If they can accept that as their fate," he replied.

"Is that what life is, Jack? Acceptance?"

He knew exactly what she meant. "I'll help you," he said.

A servant brought them lunch. After they ate, he showed her back to her room, apologizing profusely before he locked her inside.

In truth, she welcomed the solitude. The words were already forming in her mind. Wincing with the hypocrisy of them, she opened the journal and began to write.

I began to tell Jack all the secrets I had kept from Jonathan with a sense of fatality. Someone must know them, and Jack, like Van Helsing, is trained to listen and understand. I found my confession so easy as we sat by the river, and I felt a great closeness to him. He treats me as an equal, the way Van Helsing did, and the way Jonathan does so rarely now. I think that is why I am able to speak to Jack so easily.

Mina paused. The sudden memory of Seward's daily examinations on their journey East returned. She recalled his fingers lifting her lips, moving through her mouth, feeling her teeth to see if they had grown. She s.h.i.+vered, as if shaking the images from her mind.

Thinking only of what had to be done, she went on.

I have become so useless to Jonathan. All our dreams of being helpmates vanished with his sudden success. I have servants to keep house. He has clerks to help him with his work. My position all too often resembles that of an obedient pet-I am pampered so long as I adore. Even the woman's domain, the care of the house, has been ceded to another.

Yet I feel a need to help where I can. Tonight I shall ask Jack if there is some work I could do during my treatment here.

I may not have formal training, but I have an instinct for dealing with people. If that isn't possible, I could work in his office. I think he could use some a.s.sistance with the files. Like all busy men, he has so little time to organize the clutter in his life.

Was the flattery too obvious? Much of what she wrote was actually true; only the tone was off. Somehow, she doubted he would detect the deceit. When she'd finished, she placed one of her hairs across the corner of the last page and closed the book.

At dinner that evening, Mina noticed that Seward had dressed more formally, arranged to have the table set and included a winegla.s.s at her place. "Do you think it's wrong for me to drink?" she asked as he poured it.

"It is a weakness, Mina. I don't drink because I don't believe in giving in to weakness, but I could certainly understand that others . . ."

"Then I won't have it," Mina declared and set it aside. "I want to get well, Jack. I want you to do whatever is necessary to help me get well."

"And what do you think is necessary, Mina?"

"That I not dwell on the past. That I be useful to someone. You said you were so busy. There must be something I can do."

Seward thought a moment. "There is. We have inmates who cannot read but find stories and poetry a great comfort. If you could just read to them for an hour or two every day it would be welcomed."

For the first time, Seward spoke of his patients as individuals, each with his or her own needs. This revealed a different side of him, one Mina had never suspected. "I would be happy to help, Jack," she said sincerely.

Later, as she sat in one of the quieter rooms of the asylum, reading a poem by Robert Browning to a girl whose face was an impa.s.sible mask hiding all emotions, she noticed Seward standing in the doorway. He listened. He watched. For a moment, Mina wondered at the intensity of his expression, then she noticed the girl, tears rolling down her cheeks though her blank expression did not change.

Mina's voice remained steady, but when the poem was done, she set aside the book and gathered the trembling girl in her arms, stroking her matted hair, paying no mind to her dirty clothing or the smell of old sweat that hung about her. Instead, Mina hummed softly, rocking the girl back and forth, comforting her with the pressure of her arms.

I felt humbled by my own instincts, Mina wrote that night. The girl never spoke. She never indicated any particular poem, yet I chose one that touched her. What a sad past she must have had to have isolated herself so perfectly from those around her. What wonderful work Jack does. And how kind he is to those in his care.

If Winnie were here, Jack would learn exactly how kind, Mina knew. Winnie would not tolerate the filth of the asylum, the way the staff treated the inmates with boredom and occasional cruelty, or how Seward turned a blind eye to all of it. If her entire focus were not on leaving this place, Mina would have voiced her outrage as well. Instead she hid it as best she could and, when it surfaced, lied about its source.

III

When three days had pa.s.sed without Mina contacting her, Winnie Beason grew concerned. She sent a note to the Harker house.

It was not answered. Discreet inquiries revealed that Mina was apparently visiting friends in London. Winnie did not believe it. She sent a wire to Gance and requested an immediate reply. None came.

Winnie had met Jonathan only a few times, but she thought he knew him. Honest. Upright. A bit dull. Not at all the equal of his wife in either wit or intelligence and well aware of the fact. In short, he resembled so many other husbands, save that, like Mr. Beason, he was fiercely in love with his wife.

She wasn't solely aware of that because Mina had told her so. Anyone who saw them together could not help but notice it.

Yet Jonathan was in town, going about his business as usual. This puzzled Winnie. She knew that if she were missing, Mr. Beason would be frantic with worry. She expected the same of Jonathan Harker. Therefore, he must know exactly where Mina was.

Winnie decided to force the information from him.

She went to his office. Denied an appointment, she sat in the lobby until it became clear that she would wait the day, if necessary, just to speak to him.

What did she expect? she wondered. Since he knew where his wife had gone, he must also know where she'd been. Winnie could hardly expect him to welcome her prying. He seemed only tolerant as he offered her tea. She declined, then scandalized him by asking for sherry instead. He poured her a small gla.s.s, slowly, as if measuring just the right amount for a woman.

Winnie laughed. "More, please. I think the amount Mina takes to help her sleep would be about right for this conversation." She saw the shock in his expression and laughed. "Mr. Harker, in the few weeks your wife has lived in Exeter, we have gotten to know one another quite well. She told me about the sherry. Among other things."

As she had last time she was here, after Mina's fainting spell at the hospital, she went directly to the point. She explained how she had accompanied Mina to the station and seen her off on the train for London. Mina was supposed to contact her and had not done so, "I a.s.sume that you've heard from her," she said.

"Yes." Jonathan stared down at his desk top. "She is remaining in London for a time."

"Is she all right?"

"You've seen how fragile she's become." He looked her squarely in the face as he finished. "She is quite ill. She is remaining in London for treatment. She'll contact you when she can."

"Is she so ill that she cannot put a pen to paper?" Winnie asked with real concern.

"Not physically, no."

Winnie had intended to push him, but she heard the anguish in his voice and admired his candor. He still loved Mina, that much was clear. Yet his voice held traces of weariness, as if the love had become a ch.o.r.e he'd grown tired of performing. "I'm sorry, Mr.

Harker," Winnie said. "Please, give Mina my love. Be sure to tell her that a woman who can face the undead can survive any lesser shock."

Winnie's revelation had the effect she'd desired. "She told you about that?" Harker asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes. She told me about Dracula, and Lucy Westerna, about all of you and what you did in the east."

"You must have thought she was raving."

"On the contrary, I believed every word Mina said because she spoke them." She leaned across Jonathan's desk, as if about to impart some great secret. "You see, I have faith in Mina. But of course you understand that well enough."

"I did." His voice held traces of bitterness, the emotion well hid.

Winnie, finding the clue to how much she could reveal, plunged on. "Until Lord Gance?" she asked.

His expression grew more bitter. "You knew!"

She nodded. "I hardly approved, but I understood. We are taught such rubbish, Mr. Harker. Sometimes it takes a desperate act to unlearn it."

"But that she could love him. It's unthinkable, insane."

"Love!" Winnie wanted to laugh at him. Men could be so incredibly dense when it suited their egos. "Did she tell you that?"

He shook his head.

"She didn't love him. She didn't even care for him. Go and ask Mina what he was to her. The answer won't come as a surprise. I think you already know it."

"I'd like you to go now," Jonathan said.

"Not until you tell me where she is."

"This does not concern you," Jonathan replied. "Now, please go.""It does concern me. She confided a great deal to me because she saw no way to confide in you."

"Go!" he bellowed.

"Where is she?" Winnie repeated, calmly, as if their conversation were still a cordial one. "I will leave when you tell me where she is."

He stalked from the room, taking his coat from the rack, then slamming the outer door behind him. Winnie sighed and picked up her things. Stopping in the outer office, she noted the sudden silence. As she stood, wondering what to do next, the typewriter began to clatter again, a conversation between a clerk and a client continued.

Though it wasn't a workday for her, Winnie stopped at the hospital and pulled the last three issues of the London Times from the stack the volunteers kept for patients to read. She spread them out on one of the tables in the nursery and began to scan the news she usually skipped-the tales of killings, beatings and robberies that seemed to plague all big cities these days.

On the bottom of the front page, she found a follow-up story on Anton Ujvari's murder. The report noted the further mystery that Ujvari's death had taken place days before the fire occurred. Police speculated that the fire and murder were not linked, the fire possibly started accidently by looters who had entered the abandoned house.

Mina had been too late. And the fire?

The knowledge of James Sebescue's attack and death, her affair with Gance, even the loss of the child would not have been enough to push Mina into the insanity her husband hinted now possessed her. This had to be at the root of her problem.

Winnie tore out the story and finished her work quickly. It was time to go home, she decided, and well past time to have a frank talk with Mr. Beason.

The housekeeper had fixed a lunch. Winnie took a tray to Margaret's room and ate with her. She had just finished when someone pounded on her front door. Winnie cracked open the door enough to examine the Scotland Yard identification the man offered her.

"Are you here about the robbery?" Winnie asked after she'd shown the man into her parlor and offered him a seat in her most ornate and least comfortable chair.

He seemed far too young to be an investigator and most aware of it. He sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, twisting the brim of his hat as he spoke. "We've identified the man you killed. His name was James Sebescue."

"I'm sorry, but the name means nothing to me."

"I doubted that it would, but you see, there is another mystery here."

Winnie leaned forward, "Such a terrible affair. My maid was wounded, you know. But mysteries. Sir, I do cherish them so."

"Then you should appreciate this one. It seems that two days after James Sebescue was shot while attempting to rob your house, his father, Ion Sebescue, an aged and somewhat crippled man, was killed by Lord Gance while attempting to rob the Gance estate in London. What do you make of that?"

"Why, nothing. Except, of course, that I know Lord Gance. Everyone in Exeter does; he sees to it." She hesitated, then asked, "Can you tell me what happened?"

"The report will be in The Times this afternoon. According to the statement we were finally able to take from Lord Gance-"

"Finally? Was he hurt?"

"Seriously. He was shot by the man. Though badly wounded, Lord Gance then attacked and overpowered him, stabbing him with a knife he'd been carrying."