If Morning Never Comes - Episode Seven
In Which: Charles Escapes Disaster
Welcome to “If Morning Never Comes,” a serial adventure from and proudly published by . If this is your first time, catch up before you begin this chapter:
Episode One | In Which: We Meet the Ashley Family
Episode Two | In Which: Charles Makes A Grisly Discovery
Episode Three | In Which: The Subject of Vampires is Introduced
Episode Four | In Which: Charles Encounters a Fight, a Girl, and an Invitation
Episode Five | In Which: We Arrive at a Mysterious Manor
Episode Six: In Which: Charles Encounters the Raines Family
Please enjoy!
~ The Editor
The light was gone. Charles was adrift at sea. Something was lurking beneath the waves. Something monstrous. It held him. It had him. Would the sun ever rise again? Implacable cords constricted him and pulled him down. Water ran into his nose and mouth and ears and eyes.
Then his body convulsed, muscles tightening all at once. With a jerk, his eyes were open. He was lying on a bed. He felt his heaving chest. His heart was still beating. Charles sighed and let his head fall back to the pillow. It felt thin, the mattress hard. He wiped a hand across his face. His clothes were damp.
The panic receded like the ebbing tide. He finally had enough presence of mind to realize he was not in his own bed. The room was small and whitewashed. The ceiling was low, and the only furniture was an old wooden chair under a window. It was raining.
He noticed his dinner jacket, trousers and other apparel hanging over the back of the chair. He was only in his shirt and underclothes. What happened last night? All he could remember were dark dreams. He shuddered and wrapped himself in the sheets, curling up against the nightmares.
His head felt split in two. Behind his eyes was a pain that throbbed with every rush of blood to his head. He squeezed them tight to no avail. He felt sick to his stomach. All of this made it extremely unpleasant when there came three loud raps on the door.
Without waiting for an answer, it swung open with a loud screech. There in the doorway stood Georg Stryker. Charles sat up quickly, then moaned to match the rusty door hinge. He held his head and exhaled with a hiss.
“Good morning,” said Herr Stryker, louder than Charles felt was necessary at that hour.
“Good morning, Mr. Stryker,” Charles managed.
“How do you feel?” Stryker asked.
“Not well,” Charles mumbled.
Stryker walked over to the bed and placed his bony hand on Charles’ forehead. He took his chin and looked him in the eyes. He nodded and released him, walking to the door.
“Well, you can’t stay in bed forever. Get dressed and come out.”
“Stryker, I don’t think I can even stand.”
The German slammed the door, prompting another cry from Charles. How did he end up here? The previous night was a haze. He felt like he had forgotten to do something important but could not remember what it was.
He swung his feet to the floor and stood. He was shaky but he could move. He pulled on his trousers and saw his cravat lying folded on top of his silk hat. In that moment, he remembered.
The party. Raines Manor. The black and red and gold. The dinner, the music, the dancing. Edgar Raines. Amelia Raines. He got a chill when he remembered dancing with the beautiful stranger. Then he remembered how the dance had ended. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it in over the knot in his stomach.
He opened the creaking door and stepped into the cottage’s entrance hall. If you could call it a hall, tiny as it was. To his left was the door and to the right he could hear noise that sounded like breakfast. Suddenly he was very hungry. He went down the short corridor and into the dining room, through which he entered the kitchen.
Stryker was piling sausages onto a plate. There were already pastries on the table, smelling like warm dough. Combined with the sizzling of the meat, it was irresistible. Charles coughed to announce his presence. Stryker looked over his shoulder at him and grunted. He turned back to the fire.
Charles did not know what to do. He felt uncomfortable waking up in a house that was not his. Especially since he had no memory of falling asleep here. Stryker pointed to a pot of tea without looking at it. Charles walked and poured himself a cup. He could not remember the last time he had poured his own tea. As his cup filled, he realized it was coffee.
“Is there milk and sugar, Mr. Stryker?”
The German reached and handed a bowl to Charles. He said, “Herr Stryker.”
Charles took it, “Yes of course. Sorry sir.”
The German grunted again. The pile of sausages kept growing but he said nothing. The man was clearly perturbed. Charles could imagine why. He was beginning to put together what had happened the previous night. The only question was whether Stryker had housed him willingly or if his mother had refused to bring him home. He supposed he had better get the conversation out of the way. It was not as if this was going to be a good day.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Herr Stryker.”
Stryker nodded. He took the plate of sausages and placed it on the table. “Sit,” he said.
Charles obeyed. The old man bowed his head and offered a prayer of thanksgiving before he began to eat. He did not wait for Charles or ask how he slept. Charles filled his plate in silence.
The sausages were good. They were fat and not overcooked. The twisting baked goods were delicious as well. But Charles could hardly enjoy it with the judgmental German staring him down from over his coffee. Charles averted his eyes. The garden was overgrown outside the kitchen window.
Herr Stryker chewed, his mustache undulating. He took a drink and swallowed and wiped his mouth.
“Does your head still hurt you?”
“Yes sir,” said Charles.
“Are you going to be sick?”
Charles’ stomach was churning. He did not feel well, but he did not think he was in any danger of losing his breakfast. “No sir, I’m alright.”
“Good,” said Stryker. “Then it’s time for us to talk.”
Charles was still amazed by the bluntness of the old man. Etiquette dictated that he dance around the subject until at least afternoon tea before broaching the issue, if he were to do so at all. He knew there was no point in being coy with Georg Stryker.
“Yes sir,” he said. “The details are unclear, but I seem to recall a bit of unpleasantness last night.”
“Heh!” barked Stryker. “A bit of unpleasantness? You made a fool of yourself in front of your family, friends and neighbors.”
Charles felt himself shutting up as he usually did when talked down to by his elders. Often it was the precursor to an outburst. He hated nothing more than to be scolded as if he were a child. He hoped he would lose his temper. He was in the mood to mouth off.
When he did not answer, Stryker continued, “Do you remember what you did last night?”
Charles shrugged, “I made a fool of myself apparently.” He was baiting the old man now.
“You drank yourself stupid and passed out on the dance floor. I’m not sure what else you would call that.”
“I don’t need you to remind me, Stryker,” Charles bristled.
“No, I think you do, because you don’t seem to have clear recollection of your behavior last night. If you did, you’d be more penitent. You embarrassed your family in front of everyone you know, boy. Have you no shame?”
Charles felt his face grow hot. “My mother has embarrassed herself at every public function she’s ever attended. I hardly think one drunken evening from me will do much to damage her reputation, Stryker.”
“It’s Herr Stryker, boy,” said the old man, his blue eyes blazing. “I am not one of your foolish friends you can speak to however you please.”
“Who are you to speak to me this way? You, a guest on my land and property,” raged Charles. He was angry, but oddly refreshed at the candor of the conversation. “I ought to have you run off.”
“Heh!” Stryker was calm, despite the argument. “You think your mother will listen to you after that display?”
“Mind your own business,” said Charles, crossing his arms.
“Oh, it is my business now. I had to step in and carry you out. I told everyone you had taken ill. I lied to save your family’s reputation and yours. Although I doubt anyone believed it. Your mother was more than happy to have you out of her house for the night.”
“I don’t care what my mother thinks.”
“You should.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“And what about Miss Tarrant, do you care what she thinks?”
All at once, Charles felt the fire go out of his belly. He sunk down into his chair and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. Jenny. He had forgotten all about Jenny.
“I see you remember that, at least,” said Herr Stryker.
Charles was tired and sick from drinking, but the knot in his stomach now had nothing to do with that. Waves of shame and regret washed over him. What had he done? He had anticipated and planned for that moment and then trampled it in the dust. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. But there was no escaping it, no undoing the pain he had undoubtedly caused her.
Herr Stryker said nothing further while Charles agonized. He sipped his coffee and interlaced his fingers, patiently waiting. Charles wanted nothing more than to dig a hole, lie down in it and die there.
He lifted his head and looked at the old man. He could not meet his eyes. He was trying not to cry. He leaned forward on his elbows and held his head in his hands.
“I’m a fool.”
Stryker was silent for a moment. “Yes, you are.”
Some disengaged part of Charles was surprised again at the man’s bleak honesty. But there was no denying it now. Someone had to say it.
Charles sighed, “She came to see me, you know? At my invitation. She hasn’t been in society for years.”
A single line of concern grew across Herr Stryker’s forehead. His mustache concealed his mouth. He sighed through his nose, a gesture of sympathy.
“She was so beautiful,” Charles continued. “She asked me if she liked her dress. I did. It was blue, and she had a lovely necklace, and her hair, and I–“ he couldn’t finish. His gut wrenched within him. He had crushed her, and he knew it. Now what could he do?
Georg Stryker stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He came to Charles and put his callused hand on his shoulder.
“My boy, you are a fool and a snob. But there is good news.” Charles looked up. The old man’s eyes twinkled, just once. “You are young and have at least a fair chance to grow out of it.”
Charles did not feel good. Nothing that Herr Stryker had said had been particularly kind. He had actually been insulted. But for a moment, Charles felt the weight lift from his chest. For some reason the reprimand of Georg Stryker was more valuable to him than any fawning praise he could ever wring out of his mother. He smiled, even if it did not make it all the way to his eyes.
“Thank you, sir.”
“There’s a reason God does not remember the sins of our youth, my boy. This won’t be the last time you humiliate yourself, don’t worry.” Stryker clapped him on the back, “Come, let’s clean up.”
Charles stood and helped the man clean his table. Stryker set him to washing the plates – a new experience for him – while he tidied up what was left from their meal. When Charles finished, Stryker was draining his coffee in a long final draught. He smacked his lips and put the cup on the table.
“Now,” he said. “Get dressed and start thinking about what you’re going to say to Miss Tarrant.”
Charles’ eyes widened and he froze for a moment.
“Sir?”
An hour later they stood in the drawing room of the Tarrant house. Charles was wringing the brim of his hat, while Herr Stryker looked around the room calmly. He inspected a clock on the wall and nodded with approval. Charles wiped sweat off his brow with his too-short sleeve.
“Herr Stryker, this is not a good idea,” he whispered.
“Yes it is,” said the old man simply.
Charles protested, “She’s not going to receive us, she’ll have us thrown out.”
Stryker inspected a fingernail, “That is probably so.”
“Sir!”
“She deserves an apology. Whether she accepts it or not is entirely up to her.” Stryker had a smile playing at the corner of his mustache.
“You’re enjoying this!” Charles exclaimed.
Stryker closed his eyes and nodded sagely.
Charles sputtered for a moment and was about to protest again when the maid stepped into the room and announced, “Miss Genevieve Tarrant, sir.”
In walked Jenny. She was wearing a simple white dress with ruffles, her brown hair pulled back behind her head. She entered, eyes lowered, hands clasped. She looked up.
“Good afternoon, Herr Stryker.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Tarrant,” said the German.
“Hello, Jenny,” said Charles.
“Mr. Ashley,” she said, not looking at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure, sirs? Won’t you sit down?”
Stryker answered, “No, thank you, Fraulein. We will not be here long. My esteemed friend has a word to speak to you if that is quite alright.”
Charles felt dizzy. He watched Genevieve’s face, not sure if he would prefer her to throw him out or force him to stagger through an apology. She nodded.
“Of course.”
Herr Stryker excused himself and stepped out of the room. They were alone. Jenny turned to Charles. He fought the urge to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple. He met her gaze. She was shy and sad, but there was real anger behind those eyes. Charles could not bring himself to speak. He crushed his hat in his hands. She really was beautiful. The way her eyes looked up at him.
He ventured, “Miss Tarrant, I...“
He was on the verge of bolting out of the room when he noticed her cheeks and eyes beginning to redden. He remembered how he had left her alone the night before, with her eyes looking just like that and all the humiliation came collapsing down upon him again.
“Jenny, I’m so sorry.”
She sniffed and nodded demurely, “That is quite alright, Mr. Ashley. A drunkard cannot be held responsible for his actions while he’s been in his cups.”
His heart was crushed at her words. His shoulders slumped, and he spoke with his head hanging down, “Jenny, I won’t make excuses.”
“Is that so?” she said, cold as ice.
He felt a wave of annoyance, but his shame suppressed that quickly. “Yes.” She was right to be angry. “I can only own that I was wrong, and beg your forgiveness.”
“Why?” The question stung.
Charles took a deep breath, “Because the truth is, I wanted nothing more than to spend a glad evening with you last night. It was all I could think about all day. And I,” he swallowed, “I got carried away. I am truly, terribly sorry.”
He stared at the dark green carpet of the room. It contrasted with the white furniture and walls. And Jenny’s white dress. There was a minute or two of thick silence. Then she spoke.
“You were thinking about me all day?”
Charles nodded, his eyes to the floor. He felt his face heat up.
There was another long pause. Charles expected the shouting to begin at any moment. Finally, he heard her sigh and step away. He looked up and saw her sink down onto a sofa with worn cushions. Her hands were in her lap. She looked at him with kind eyes and patted the seat next to herself. Charles took a shuddering breath and sat.
She said nothing. She wiped her red eyes. Charles swore to himself that he would never allow those eyes to grow red on his account again.
Then Jenny reached out and took his hand. Charles felt his heart accelerate and breathed deeply. Her fingers were small and delicate. She was like a snowfall. He hoped his hand was not damp with sweat. She held it only for a moment and then released him.
She sighed again, “I don’t want to be angry, Charles.”
Charles did not know what to say.
“Really?” he asked, feeling a smile expand in his chest.
Jenny nodded, her expression soft.
Charles exhaled. With all the sincerity in his heart he said, ”Thank you.”
She gave him a small smile. He returned the favor. The insult was forgiven, the offense gone from between them. He felt newborn. And he realized that the situation had entirely changed. No longer was he begging the forgiveness of a lady he had wronged, but now he was sitting alone with a woman in her drawing room.
The room was small and sparsely furnished. There were chairs and the sofa and a writing table. The house was scarcely bigger than Georg’s cottage. The Tarrant family had fallen on hard times indeed.
“How is your father, Miss Tarrant?”
She tutted, “Charles, you have not forfeited the right to call me Jenny.”
He dipped his head, “Of course, Miss Tarrant.”
She laughed but then drew a deep breath. “He is not well today. I don’t believe he shall get out of bed.”
“Has there been no improvement?” he asked.
She shrugged, “He coughs and his fever is never far away. Sometimes it’s all I can do to get him to eat.”
Charles said nothing more. Consumption had taken Jenny’s mother, and now she was watching it slowly kill her father. He felt renewed embarrassment for how he had dishonored himself the night before. All he wanted now was to make this woman happy. It was clear she did not want to talk about her father’s illness, so he combed his memories for a more pleasant subject.
“Have you at least been finding time to read? You mentioned in town that it is one of your chief enjoyments.”
Jenny brightened at the question and answered, “Oh Charles, there is never enough time to read! I’m almost afraid that I’ll grow old before I can finish every book worth reading.”
Charles laughed, “Are there that many?”
Jenny adjusted her position on the sofa so she could lean closer in her excitement. “Yes. And to answer your first question: yes, I have been reading lately.”
“Anything good?”
“I’ve rediscovered Shelley lately. Simply rapturous, don’t you think?”
“Oh certainly,” said Charles, although he thought it an odd choice for Jenny. “I’ve always enjoyed that one. Monsters and madness – quite exciting.”
Jenny giggled and gave Charles a light tap on his shoulder. “Percy Shelley, Charles. The poet. I’m not talking about Frankenstein.”
From around the corner, Charles heard a snort of laughter. He shook his head and coughed to conceal his embarrassment.
Jenny persisted, “You must have heard of Percy Shelley, Charles? Certainly?”
Charles had never paid attention to his lessons if he could help it. He made a show of trying to remember. Jenny shook her head and took his hand. She met his eyes and began to recite:
“Away, away, from men and towns, to the wild wood and the downs – to the silent wilderness where the soul need not repress its music, lest it should not find an echo in another’s mind, while the touch of Nature’s art harmonizes heart to heart.”
Charles had never been one for poetry. He wasn’t entirely sure what these lines had meant. But hearing them fall from the lips of Genevieve Tarrant stirred something in his soul. He held her hand. He simply must see this girl again.
“Well Jenny, I won’t pretend to be as acquainted with the literary world as you. But perhaps you might enlighten me sometime?”
Her face brightened and her cheeks blushed, “Is that so, Mr. Ashley? Are we to go unchaperoned then as well?”
“Oh, I am sure we are not unchaperoned. Herr Stryker is never far behind. Are you sir?”
“You are a cunning young man, Mr. Charles,” came a German accent from the hallway.
The two young people laughed and stood as the short old fellow strolled back in. After a few more pleasantries, Stryker announced that it was time for them to be going. He kissed Jenny’s hand and walked towards the door.
Charles faced the girl in her white dress. “Goodbye then, Miss Tarrant.”
She furrowed her brow in mock seriousness and deepened her voice, “Goodbye Mr. Ashley.”
Charles laughed and nodded. “Alright then,” he reached out and put a strand of hair behind her ear. “Goodbye, Jenny.”
“Such a gentleman,” she said with a smile.
“Such a lady,” he answered.
As they walked to the carriage, Charles said to Herr Stryker, “We could have stayed longer.”
Stryker said, “Yes, but with you, my boy, the less time you spend talking the better..”
Charles laughed and climbed into the carriage.
“But I think it went very well, don’t you?”
Herr Stryker stepped up and took his seat. “Better than you could have hoped for.”
Charles saw Jenny peek through the curtains at him. He gave a small wave, which she returned with a blush and a smile. Stryker snickered to himself. Charles sighed as the curtain closed again.
“Why would she do that? Forgive me so quickly?”
Stryker shook his head and chuckled as he took the reins, “She likes you, Dummkopf.”
