she’d bite, and suck blood like red milk. I’d never feared anything so much, never felt such despair.
Something in my robe’s pocket felt hot against me. Hot as the sun.
Mrs. Westenra’s paper knife! I grabbed it and stabbed for her, not able to feel my hand, nor the shock when it hit. I only knew I’d made the target when I saw her eyes go wide and strange, saw her stumble back from me and sit down clumsily on the floor with her legs splayed.
The hilt of the silver paper knife glittered on her black dress. I’d pinned it to her heart. She looked amazed.
“You—you English dog—”
“
She was still trying to understand that when she died. Yes, I killed her—but here’s the thing, Nora: as she died, she turned to ashes.
Her master stood there, looking at the mess I’d made of Elizabeth Gwydion, and his lips drew back from his teeth. His face was ruddy now, his lips smeared with blood, and I thought of Miss Lucy with a terrible sick pang. I didn’t have the knife anymore, I had nothing to protect me but my small crucifix and my fear.
“You’ve killed my servant,” he said in some surprise.
“I’d kill her again if she’d get up,” I said tartly. “Miss Lucy—”
“Is none of your concern.” He walked around me, staring at me with red-flecked eyes. Like a lion that wasn’t quite hungry enough to pounce. “I could kill you all tonight.”
I couldn’t think of any reason he wouldn’t. Penny, Kate, Alice… all helpless. Me only a breath away from it. The laudanum was a thick black pool in me, and I was drowning in it.
“Go ahead,” I said, as if I didn’t even care. “If you’d stoop so low.”
He smiled at me then, Dracula did. “For you, I might bend my principles, little one. Or make you my own.”
“Go to Hell!” I shot back, amazed at my own bravery. I’d never cursed in my life, not like that, certainly not to a man. And still he smiled.
“Soon,” he promised. “The dead travel fast.”
I felt my knees buckle then, and I fell, face down in the ashes of Elizabeth Gwydion. I rolled over, spitting out the bitterness of her, and saw him looking down at me from such a far, far distance. His cold fingers caressed my face.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I will do you the favor of killing you. Explain this tomorrow, to your betters. Explain your drunkenness and your dead mistress. Perhaps I’ll come to kill you when you’re starving on the streets.”
His words struck fear in me, absolute fear, because he was right. I fought the dark as he walked away, but there was nothing I could do but fall. I dreamed, you know. This time no adders, no abbeys, no pale wasting ladies. This time I dreamed I was in a great cathedral, and I lit a candle to the smiling statue of Mary, and I prayed.
I prayed until the morning, when Dr. Seward arrived at the house and found Mrs. Westenra dead and Miss Lucy dying.
No, no, I’m all right. A fleck of coal dust in my eye, most likely. But it was a sad house, very sad. And no one to blame it on but four drunken servants, which Dr. Seward promptly did, though of course later he said he knew all along we’d been drugged.
It was Dr. Van Helsing who came to our rescue, finding positions for Kate and Alice. Dr. Van Helsing himself who gave me and Penny posts here in his house. Do you know what he said to me, Nora? He said, “There are monsters all around us, Mary Margaret. Some that people in my position will never see, but perhaps you will.”
So here I am. Doing the same ironing, the same scrubbing, the same sweeping. Some things never change, as I said. And some do.
Yes, that one’s good. Hand me the next. Now, you must put a good sharp point on them, Nora. Sharp enough to pierce skin like butter. It’s got to go right to the monster’s heart, you see? Dr. Van Helsing and the others are going after Dracula, but like I told you, this has nothing to do with Dracula. It’s below stairs business.
Poor Penny’s lying in her coffin in the parlor, waiting on the undertaker. And she were bitten by Dracula that night at Hillingham. If she wakes, we’ve got to do for her like the Doctor did for Miss Lucy. Test the knife. Sharp enough to cut bone?
Oh, wipe your tears, girl. And say your prayers. There’s plenty below stairs who might need the same mercy, before this is all said and done.
We care for our own.
Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw
Judith Proctor
1st October 1893
22 Barkston Gardens
Earls Court, S.W.
Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw,
I write to you because I’m not quite sure who else to write to. You, I am sure, will tell me honestly and fully what you believe of these circumstances. I know you well enough to know that you will not gloss over anything in your reply and that if you feel I am being foolish, you will be blunt enough to tell me.
Be the critic for me once more and tell me if this speaks to you of something possible or simply an overactive imagination on my part. You’re as firmly grounded in the real world as anyone I know— your play last year on slum landlords had all of London talking—usually to tear your name to shreds.
I’m wandering off the topic—I’m even being serious—perhaps that tells you how much this has distressed me!
We’re playing
To begin—for I shall never get going if I don’t—it started about two weeks ago. I think it was Wednesday, though it might have been Thursday.
Partway through the play, I became aware of someone in one of the boxes. Now that’s nothing unusual. We’ve been playing to virtually full houses most nights and the boxes are popular. You wouldn’t believe what people sometimes get up to in the boxes— the play must be quite a distraction to them. This man was watching the play though. He wasn’t just watching it, he was virtually mesmerised. You’d think he’d never been to the theatre before. Henry was giving a bravura performance as Lear and I was doing pretty well myself. I’m really too old to play Cordelia now, but when the audience believes in it, I believe in it too. It’s a conspiracy between us and as long as they keep paying to see me, I’m happy to oblige.
The box made him hard to see in the darkness, but I knew he was there—I could feel him.
Last week, he was back haunting me again. That was definitely a Monday. It’s easier to get tickets at short notice on Monday, because we’re rarely full then. Same seat—he obviously preferred the boxes. There was something so intense about him—like a traveller in a desert who’d finally reached an oasis. He wasn’t just thirsty— he was desperate. Something was different this time though, he wasn’t watching Henry, he was watching me. Just me.
I’ve been watched before—you get all sorts in theatres. Some can get a little obsessed. This wasn’t the normal admirer hanging over the balcony though. He kept back, and I could barely see him beyond the shadow of the box. I couldn’t get a chance to look properly at him; I have to concentrate on the part when I’m performing. It’s
