I had not remembered my girlhood vision of a wedding dress, though I did recall hiding the sketches under my bed. “How strange. This design is the very latest fashion. How could I have known what that would be nine years ago?”
“Perhaps you are a visionary! I always thought that, of the three of us friends, you were the most intelligent. Don’t tell Kate I said that.”
“Well, it isn’t true,” I said. “Kate’s intelligence is now a part of the public record. She has been writing long and thoughtful pieces of journalism for all London to consume, while I am still teaching girls how to sit and to pour tea.”
“Tell me everything about your wedding,” Lucy said excitedly. “Will it take place in Exeter?”
“Yes!” I answered, feeling pleasure at being able to share my plans with a friend. “Mr. Hawkins and his sister have offered to host a party after the ceremony.”
Many months prior, chaperoned by Jonathan’s aunt, I had spent a weekend at the Exeter home with Jonathan and his uncle. As soon as I saw the Cathedral Church of St. Peter, I knew that I wanted to be married in it. I was awed by its size, by the immense flying buttresses, and by the fading colors on its once brightly painted facade.
“Will I be invited?” Lucy asked coyly.
“You are my family, Lucy,” I said. “I have none but you and Kate and Headmistress, who is mother and father to me. You will attend me in a silvery gown that will bring out your blue eyes,” I said, producing an article on planning a wedding. Lucy eagerly snatched it from my hand.
“I tore it out of our copy of
“Your wedding day will be glorious,” Lucy said. “You are marrying someone you love. Nothing can harm you now.” She looked away from me as if she heard a noise outside the window, but I could hear nothing but the sea, which crashed loudly against the Whitby cliffs. I recall having heard that no matter where one stood in Whitby, the sea was a constant audible companion.
“And your news? Are there to be two weddings in the near future?”
“I have accepted Mr. Holmwood’s kind offer of marriage,” she said quietly.
“Congratulations, dear friend,” I said, taking both her hands, which were cold, and kissing her cheek, which was hot. “He will make a fine husband, and you will make a lovely bride and mistress of the manor.” Waverley Manor, his family estate in Surrey, was known to be one of the finest homes in southern England.
Lucy’s smile looked like a fresh knife cut across her pretty face. “Oh, yes, the sheer size of it is rather intimidating. But Arthur says that his only desire in life is to make me happy. What more could I ask for?”
I started to give my heartfelt agreement, but she interrupted me. “I think it’s time for bed. We are sharing a room. Won’t that be fun? This is our last opportunity to be together before we are old married ladies.”
The Westenra house in Hampstead was of formidable size and elegance, and whenever I had slept there, I had my own room with an enveloping feather bed. Still, on most nights, Lucy climbed into bed with me, and we talked until dawn. I was disappointed to call our evening to an end so soon, but I voiced no displeasure, washing my face and hands and changing into my nightdress while Lucy did the same.
The bedroom window faced an old churchyard with gravestones that seemed haphazardly placed as if they might topple against one another in a strong gust of wind. Behind it I could see the ruins of Whitby Abbey, stark against the night sky. We were in bed before ten o’clock with the lights out and the window open so that the roar of the sea might lull us to sleep. I could hear the voices of people walking down Henrietta Street to the harbor, but I must have been more tired than I recognized because in a few moments, I slipped into a dreamless sleep. Not long thereafter, though, I was awakened by a noise. I opened my eyes to see Lucy tiptoeing out of the room.
“Lucy? Is anything the matter?” I asked.
“No dear, I just want to peek in on Mother to make sure she has taken all her medicines. I will stay the night with her if she asks me to. Go back to sleep.” She blew me a kiss and walked out the door, and in moments, I fell back asleep.
The next morning at the breakfast table, Lucy received a note from Morris Quince, Arthur Holmwood’s American friend. The note announced that Quince would be away for a few days, and Mrs. Westenra expressed her delight that he would not be gracing her parlor. “The Quince family is absolutely scandalous, Mina, and the scion is no better,” she said. Lucy rolled her eyes.
For as long as I had known her, Mrs. Westenra had always appreciated a good gossip session, and she spared no detail about the infamous Quinces. “Oh, the father is wealthy,” she said, slathering butter on her toast and then covering it with runny blackberry jam. “But he began his career as a circus performer! When the American Civil War broke out, he began to smuggle goods over enemy lines, and, apparently, had no compunction about selling stolen battle plans to either side, or that is the rumor. They also say that the man is actually a Jew, which of course would have abetted his journey into banking and finance. That, dear Mina, is where he made his second fortune.”
Though Mrs. Westenra had looked pale and ill at the start of breakfast, talking of Morris Quince’s unscrupulous father brought a good deal of color to her cheeks. Lucy, on the other hand, looked tired. Little purple veins had crept out beneath her eyes, which were red at the inside corners.
Mrs. Westenra continued, “It is a well-known fact that the senior Quince keeps a showgirl as his mistress, but they say that Mrs. Quince does not mind because-Mina, dear, forgive me for what I am about to say. I pass this along to you because I want you to be armed with the realities of this man’s background, should he try to charm you. As I was saying, Mrs. Quince pays no mind to her husband’s indiscretions because she is reputedly engaged in a sapphic relationship.”
Mrs. Westenra picked up another piece of toast, methodically smearing it with the contents of the condiment tray.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Westenra, I do not follow,” I said. “Is Mrs. Quince a poet?”
“Dear Mina, dear, dear Mina. You must keep up with modern terminology. Dr. Seward-you have not met him, but you will. He was crazy over our Lucy, but, of course, she could not turn down the future Lord Godalming for a poorly paid mad doctor, now could she?”
Lucy had never mentioned a doctor who had been one of her suitors. She merely shrugged, pouring herself more tea.
“At any rate, when I told this very story to Dr. Seward, he informed me that ‘sapphism’ is the medical term for the disease in which women fall in love with other women, transferring to them the same feelings that normal women have for men.”
“Mother, you must stop telling everyone these awful stories,” Lucy said. “You are merely repeating idle gossip. How will Mina be able to look Mr. Quince in the eye when she meets him?”
“He is very handsome, dear. It is quite the pleasure to look him in the eye,” Mrs. Westenra said. “I thought our Mina should be warned about him. He might try to charm her away from Mr. Harker.”
“Mother!” Lucy threw her toast on her plate in exasperation. “Mina is solidly in love with Mr. Harker. No one may taint her character; she would not allow it.”
“You are both naive young ladies,” said Mrs. Westenra. “It is my duty to prevent you from falling prey to men’s schemes. Mr. Quince has a certain raw American charm but has no solid plans. The man paints! What sort of a man paints? A man who likes to see ladies without their clothing-that is who paints!”
Small beads of sweat appeared above her quivering lip. She patted her mouth dry with a napkin, then picked up her fan and fluttered it rapidly. “Mina does not have a mother’s guidance and welcomes my insights. Is that not correct, Mina?”
Headmistress always stressed the importance of deferring to one’s elders, though Mrs. Westenra’s warning did little but increase my desire to see this terrible man.
“Did you sleep well last night?” I asked her, attempting to change the subject.
“No, Mina, I did not. I tossed about all night.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, “but that explains the pallor in Lucy’s cheeks. I suppose you were kept awake too?” I
