If Morning Never Comes - Episode Eighteen
In Which: Complications Continue To Multiply
Editor’s Note:
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The next day, Charles was sick. Due to the wet weather, of course. But it would have been dishonest to say that his encounter with Edgar Raines had not been contributory. Shivers and a slight fever gave him all the excuse he needed to shut himself up in his room and hide.
Now that the moment was past, he could not decide whether he had been brave or reckless. Mr. Raines had been hardly put out by his outburst. The pair had walked home in silence and parted with a tip of Edgar’s hat. Charles felt proud as Tom helped him strip off his damp clothes before the fire, but as he detailed the day’s events to Herr Stryker in a letter, doubts began to creep in.
Had he just signaled to Edgar Raines that he was more of a threat than he actually was? Had he put himself or Herr Stryker in danger? As he played the scene over again and again in his head, he grew more and more ashamed of himself, and hid his face in the pillow. Tom came in to check on him periodically, but Charles had nothing to say. He was still a fool, no better than the day he and Stryker had first met. As he lay sneezing in bed he worried that he would receive a letter from his teacher at any minute, berating him for jeopardizing the mission or forcing the vampire to accelerate his plans.
But instead of a letter, late that morning Tom announced that Herr Stryker had come to call and would not be deterred from seeing him. Charles sat up with the aid of his elbows and in walked Georg Stryker, pushing past the awkward valet-in-training.
He was wet and his boots were caked with mud. He had clearly foregone the carriage to ride horseback through the rain. He held his three-cornered hat in his hands. His mustache was unkempt, bristles askew. His bright blue eyes were intent on Charles’ face.
He said nothing, so Charles began in a raspy voice, “Hello, Herr Stryker.”
Stryker chuckled and sighed, “Charles, my boy. How are you?”
Charles felt foolish, now that the old man had bothered to visit. He was obliged to try and exaggerate his symptoms. He coughed and waved a hand. “I’m alright, sir. Just a little under the–”
Too quick for the eye to follow, Herr Stryker stepped right up to Charles and tilted his head back with a hand. He ran his callused fingers over Charles’ neck and throat with practiced movement. He grabbed Charles’ wrist and held it, listening. After a few beats, he nodded and squeezed the young man’s arm.
“Forgive me, Charles.”
Charles was more amused than offended, “Don’t you think I would have mentioned something like that in my letter?”
“When it comes to these things, Charles, it is always best to verify for yourself.” Stryker pulled a wooden chair away from Charles’ desk and sat.
Charles smiled at the old eccentric, “So you just came to make sure you didn’t have one more vampire to fight?”
“I came here because I was worried about you,” Stryker corrected. Then his brow unfurrowed. “I am glad to see you’re alright.”
Charles scoffed and coughed, “I’d hardly call this alright.”
Stryker dismissed him with a wave, “Sickness doesn’t last. Some things are forever.”
The two fell to discussing the previous day’s events in detail. Stryker pressed Charles for information, although he did not have much to give. He tried to hedge when asked about his defiant outburst, but Stryker made him repeat it word for word. When he did, the old man smiled and leaned back with his arms folded.
“You told him to go to Hell?”
“I did,” said Charles, blushing.
“Ironic,” said Stryker.
“Indeed.”
Stryker shook his head and chuckled to himself. Charles felt his spirits lift. He wanted him to go on.
“Do you think I did the right thing, Herr Stryker? Provoking him like that?”
Stryker’s arms were folded, eyes on the window. He laughed, “Heh! It’s about time that fiend heard someone roar back. And it’s about time we found a good use for your defiance.”
Charles laughed, “I didn’t know there was any use for defiance. I always get scolded for it.”
Stryker grunted, “Most of the time you deserve it. But most adolescent sins are just bullets aimed in the wrong direction.”
“I’m not a very good shot,” Charles admitted.
Stryker smiled, “I can teach you.”
The banter was warm and kind. Charles felt reassured. The dynamic between him and the old man had shifted. He seemed to have passed a test of some kind. The thought made his heart full. Despite his cold, he was profoundly grateful to have this old German sitting in his room right now.
But Stryker’s expression faded and his eyes grew distant. He sighed and looked to the window, where the patter of rain was muffled by the heavy curtains. Charles shivered.
“It’s quite a thing, isn’t it, Herr Stryker?”
Stryker hummed an affirmative. He blinked and turned back to Charles, “Have you written Miss Tarrant yet?”
The question was unexpected. Charles sputtered that he had not, that he had been too ill to think of it. Stryker waved his hand.
“Well, if you’re sick, best get over it and write that letter.”
“Why the hurry?” Charles asked.
Stryker stood and took up his cane. “Because time is always short, Mr. Ashley. And you,” he pointed with the cane, “have just escaped certain death. Nothing like a romantic escapade to take the edge off.”
“Certain death?” Charles cried, “You told me I was in no danger.”
Stryker smiled under his mustache and donned his rumpled cap. “Afternoon.”
In a moment he was gone. Charles flopped back onto his bed.
After his lunch had been brought and consumed, Charles began to feel better. Rather, he began to feel silly for lying in bed over something as silly as a cold. His fever was gone anyway. He whipped the covers off and stood on his feet.
He called for Tom, but he did not come. That was fine with Charles, he felt odd asking his friend to wait on him so closely anyhow. He dressed in dry clothes and took up his hat, closing the door on his way out.
He had no time for John’s protests, so he chose to exit through the back of the house. He went down the stairs and immediately turned in the opposite direction of the main door. He checked the corners and stepped into the library.
Upon opening the door, a startled Tom coughed and replaced something behind a group of books. He turned to Charles, his back concealing where he had been. He tried to greet him according to the proper etiquette, but a high wet cough kept him from getting his words out. Charles raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Thirsty?”
His valet-in-training coughed and spoke from his sleeve, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Master Ashley.”
Charles chuckled and clapped him on the back. “No worries Tom, you needn’t fear me.”
“Good, ‘cause I don’t,” said Tom, his eyes red from coughing. He straightened his jacket. “Ain’t you sick, anyway?”
Charles laughed again, “Undoubtedly. But I’ve a call to make. Would you have the carriage made ready for me?”
Tom looked mischievous, “How ‘bout you take your carriage and–” he broke off, “Yes sir, Master Ashley, right away.”
Tom hurried out of the room before Charles could say another word. He looked around. Standing in the doorway was his sister Charity. She was staring after Tom with mournful eyes. The corners of Charles’ mouth began to turn up, mouth agape.
Charity turned to him and grinned, “I fancy him!”
Charles laughed and pulled on a glove. “That’s hardly appropriate, is it?”
Charity turned to look at him, “No more appropriate than Miss Jenny Tarrant, Master Ashley.”
Charles froze with a glove half pulled-on. He had no words, but Charity just laughed.
“I knew it! Even the typhoid fever can’t keep you away from her,” she simpered.
Charles finished with his glove, “It’s not the fever, nitwit. I’m quite alright.”
Charity began to quip back, then looked behind her and turned around quickly. “Mother!” she whispered.
Charles tried to look innocent as his mother trundled into the room, talking to herself.
“How we’ll ever survive in a pigsty such as this is beyond my capacity. Me a desperate widow, and three children to – oh!”
She noticed her progeny all at once. Charles greeted her like a rabbit greets a hooded falcon. Mrs. Ashley cleared her throat.
“You’ve recovered, then, Charles?”
“Yes ma’am,” Charles replied.
“Very good,” she said, “Very good. I’d hate to think – well, that’s that then. How was your outing with Mr. Raines yesterday? I trust there was no,” she searched for the right word, “catastrophe?”
A vision of a stag’s blood pumping out from where its neck used to be filled Charles’ mind.
“No Mother, it was all very ordinary.”
“Thank the Lord for that!” said Mrs. Ashley, “The last thing we need is any disruption in that department. Eleanor is doing so splendidly, we may very well pull this out after all. Isn’t it exciting, Charity?”
She turned to her daughter and they picked up their usual stream of gossip. Charity took her mother’s arm and turned her to walk out of the room. Before they left, she turned to her brother and winked. Charles smiled and disappeared through the side door.
The next door he visited after making his escape was that of Genevieve Tarrant. He knocked, standing in the rain. When no one came to the door he knocked again. He began to feel foolish standing there, dripping. He worried that the breach of etiquette would come across not as dashing, as he had planned, but rude or impertinent. He tried to keep somewhat dry under his tall hat.
Finally, he heard steps within and the latch rattled. There stood Jenny, her hair put up and not a little flyaway, wearing an apron over a simple green dress. She was breathing heavily, as if she had hurried to the door. Seeing Charles, she started with an, “Oh!”, and proceeded to blush so deeply that in concert with her dress she reminded Charles of Christmastime. He smiled. The look suited her.
“Hello, Miss Tarrant,” he began. “May I come in?”
His words snapped her awake and she gushed, “Of course! Oh please come in Charles, please.”
Charles stepped in and removed his hat, trying to smooth down his hair. Jenny closed the door and turned, wiping her hands on her apron.
“What a pleasant surprise, Charles! Although I really must apologize,” she forced her hands to her side, then smoothed the apron. “I’m not really – well, anyway, come in! Come in and I’ll bring some tea.” Charles stepped into the parlor as Jenny disappeared into the house.
She appeared a few moments later. The apron was gone and her hair had been redone with a lovely pin. She carried a tray with a pot and cups. She set it on the table before them and poured Charles his tea.
“Sugar, Charles?”
“Yes please,” he replied. “Cream as well, if it’s quite alright.”
“It is,” she said brightly. She handed him his cup before pouring her own. Before she sat she gave the room another quick look and then sat with a long exhale of breath.
Charles laughed, “You seem busy today, Jenny.”
She sipped her tea and blushed again. “Yes, well, we’re shorthanded here lately, but we’re managing. How are you, Charles? How is dear Herr Stryker?”
Charles noted the quick change of subject and determined not to broach it again. “He’s well. I saw him only this morning.”
“Really?” asked Jenny, smiling, “Carrying rocks again, were you?”
Charles laughed – there was always a reason to laugh with her, “No, not today. I was not well this morning and he came to visit.”
“Were you not well, Charles?” asked Jenny, “I hope it is nothing serious!”
“Not at all, Miss Tarrant. I wouldn’t risk your health, of all people.” Charles’ stomach turned a somersault.
Jenny smiled with pursed lips and wide eyes, “Well, that is something. It was kind of him to call on you. The two of you seem to be really getting on.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Charles. “We do see a lot of each other. He’s a good man.”
“I think he’s simply darling!” said Jenny. “I love that little mustache of his.”
Charles laughed and shook his head, “Let him hear you saying that, and he’ll make you carry rocks next!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jenny said, “He likes me too much.”
Charles smiled and took a drink, “I think you’re right.”
Jenny leaned in, “He is a little peculiar, though, isn’t he?”
“I won’t argue with you,” said Charles. “But it’s the best kind of peculiar. Not like my mother or Vicar Clarke, for example.”
Jenny scolded Charles gently, “Is that any way to speak of your mother?”
“The only way I know of,” Charles quipped.
Jenny did not contest that. She scooted an inch closer to Charles.
“Even if Herr Stryker is odd, I think he’s wonderful. He always makes me feel as though everything...”
She trailed off and her countenance fell. Before he could inquire further, Charles heard coughing and a weak call from up the stairs. Jenny replaced her cup and saucer quickly and hurried out of the room with an apology. Charles stood as she went, unsure what to do next. He had no sooner sat down again than he heard Jenny call his name.
“Charles!” she sounded frantic, “Charles, come help. Please!”
Charles ran out of the room and up the flight of stairs. A clock on the landing was striking three-quarters of an hour. He came upstairs and turned left, following the sound of violent coughing from the bedroom at the end of the hall.
He walked through the door. Jenny was standing over a table piled high with medicines, mixing frantically and reaching for a spoon. On the bed lay Mr. Tarrant, blood dripping from his mouth as he lay on his side, hacking and sputtering. For a moment, Charles froze.
Jenny saw him and her voice shook, “Quickly Charles, his head, hold up his head!”
Charles ran to the bedside and took Mr. Tarrant in his arms. The man weighed too little; Charles could feel his joints. He sat him up and helped him lean forward. As he did, a violent cough sent blood spraying all over Charles’ shirt and jacket. The sheets were splattered as well. Charles looked around and saw a stack of clean towels folded at the beside. Keeping one hand around his shoulder, he grabbed a towel and snapped it open. He wiped the excess from Mr. Tarrant’s chin and pressed it to his mouth. The man put up his own hand to hold it, but weakly. The coughs still came, deep and rattling, into the stained white cloth.
Jenny came over quickly and carefully with a small cupful of medicine. She had sticky blood drying on her arms.
“What can I do?” Charles asked, the man’s back throbbing with each convulsion under his arm.
Jenny had tears in her eyes, “Just wait until he stops, then we’ll give him his medicine.”
The attack lasted another few moments, then Mr. Tarrant took the bloody rag away from his mouth, his lips and teeth red, with lines of spittle stretching to the cloth.
“Hold him,” said Jenny as she came close.
Charles cradled the man’s head in the crook of one arm as Jenny helped him drink the contents of the cup. He coughed as he swallowed, but the heavy convulsions did not start again. Jenny arranged his pillows and Charles laid him back.
An hour later, Charles sat in the front room again. His jacket and cravat had been removed, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. It was a clean shirt, one of Mr. Tarrant’s. He held a match in one hand, lighting a gas lamp with the other. Jenny and he had removed Mr. Tarrant’s bloodstained nightshirt and replaced it with a fresh one. They had done the same with his sheets. The old man had drifted off into a quiet sleep with the aid of his tonics.
As Charles finished the second of the four lamps in the room, Jenny’s footsteps came slow and soft down the stairs. He turned as she came in. She had changed her dress and her hair now hung long around her shoulders. She held out her hand for a match.
“I’ll do the others,” she offered.
“No,” said Charles, moving to the third. “You must sit down. I’ll finish this.”
Jenny acquiesced behind him and Charles finished the fourth lamp, extinguishing the match with a wave. A trail of smoke drifted upwards. He sat down next to Jenny on the sofa. Her eyes were unfocused, her expression blank. Dusk was giving way to dark outside. The gaslights cast shadows on her face. Charles poured a cup of tea and extended it out to her.
“He’s getting worse,” she said. Her voice was flat. Charles placed the cup of tea back on the table. “We thought he was improving. The doctor told us he was improving. But now,” she lowered her eyes and looked at her clasped hands in her lap, freshly washed. “Every day it’s more blood.”
Charles wanted to reach out and hold her as he had at the tree at Herr Stryker’s house, but this did not seem like the time. She was not looking for sympathy now.
“Jenny,” he said, “I don’t know what to say.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing to say, Charles. Nothing to do.” She met his eyes for a moment, then looked beyond him, not at anything in particular, her eyes adrift. “We’ve had to let everyone go. All the servants, except for a daytime nurse and old Peter who looks after the stables. He refuses to leave. He has nowhere to go anyway.”
The steady gaslight seemed lifeless to Charles, not like a real, vibrant fire. Everything was too still. The clock bonged out the hour. Jenny turned her head and looked towards the sound. She spoke to him, keeping her eyes aimed away.
“I had a dream last night, Charles. It was dark and heavy, and everything was strange and deep water and cold. Then there was the moor. Our moor, only it was shifting and undulating, like the sea. The wind blew the hills around like they were malleable.” She paused and Charles’ eyes darted to the window.
Jenny continued, “There was a woman. A young, beautiful woman all in white. Or maybe it was black. She glowed in the moonlight. She was walking on the water, looking for a sanctuary. I think she was lost.”
She stopped again, unmoving. Charles truly did not want to hear the rest of this story, but he had to know.
“What happened?”
Jenny turned and looked at him. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “She died.”
The wind from outside groaned and the house shifted. Charles felt a shudder of fear threaten at the nape of his neck. He looked at Jenny. Her face was drawn. It looked thin, older. Her eyes had lost the spark that he loved so much. He felt a wave of feeling come over him. He felt helpless. There was no enemy, no strategy to plot here. What could he do for her? Tease and flirt? She needed more. Did he have anything more to give?
He spoke, “Jenny, I,” he took a deep breath, “I hope you can believe me that if I could take all of this from you and put it upon myself, I would not hesitate. Not for a moment.”
Her countenance softened, but more tears fell down her face in long straight lines. “What if I lose him, Charles?”
Charles felt a memory push against the locked door of his heart. He turned the latch ever so gently. “When I lost my own father,” he stopped. He started again, “I never – I’ve never spoken of it, but,” He coughed to clear his throat, “Even when there seems to be nothing worth living for...I promise that there is.”
Jenny sniffed and her chin wrinkled as she tried to keep from sobbing. “But Charles, you,” Charles offered her his handkerchief. She took it. “You have your mother and your sisters, and Herr Stryker and,” she wiped her eyes, “I have no one. There’s no one left for me.”
In the moment, Charles suddenly felt very sure of himself. He leaned forward and took her hand. She did not resist. He looked deep into her glistening brown eyes.
“I’m here, Jenny.”
They leaned closer.
“I’ll always be here.”
The kiss that followed was not like the frantic gratification of his episode with Amelia Raines. In fact, Charles thought nothing of Miss Raines as he put his lips gently to Jenny’s. Softly she responded, tender and trusting. Charles felt strong enough to keep her safe in those few short seconds. He put a hand to her cheek, and lightly wiped away the tears that had fallen.
Later, Charles rode home in his carriage, the terrors of the darkness driven away for one night at least by the affection that burned in his heart. He slept that night, not thinking of monsters and lost passions, but with a prayer on his lips for a beautiful girl who loved her dying father so much. He prayed that she might have a night of restful sleep, with no further emergencies and no terrible dreams. The rain stopped just before he fell asleep. The moon shone that night.
The next morning, word reached Ashwood that the body of a young woman had been found on the moor – cut open and covered in blood.
