XX
The word 'vampire' haunted my thoughts. I rummaged through my mind's hidden places, trying to bring it to light. For some reason, I should have recognized it. However, no matter how hard I pressed my memory, I could not reveal its meaning.
"Perhaps…" I muttered to myself, suddenly inspired.
I dragged my trunk to the center of the room and lifted the lid. Carefully, I removed my unused summer clothing and stacked the folded garments on my bed. My most prized possessions, Papa's books, lay across the bottom of the traveling crate. In the haste of our immediate departure, I saved about twenty of our favorites.
Slowly, I shifted through the novels, searching for one that might hold a particular clue. Many of them recalled special memories. Picking up LITTLE WOMEN, I considered the charm of Louisa May Alcott's March Sisters. Papa presented it to me as a birthday gift when I turned twelve. I immediately flipped through the pages, promising myself I would re-read it.
I placed the book on my night table and returned to my task. Next, I selected Jules Verne's AROUND the WORLD in EIGHTY DAYS. The adventures of Phileas Fogg and Passepartout filled me with the excitement of world travel. Entranced, I pictured myself floating amongst the clouds in a hot air balloon and racing across America on a steam locomotive. Papa and I became anxious as we turned toward the final pages. Would Fogg win or lose his impossible bet? Knowing the answer, I returned the book to its place in my trunk.
As an avid reader, I became entranced by the selections quickly. Many of them drew me far away from Castle von Helfin. I swiftly fell into a world of daydreams and fantasies to escape my present horrors. As I clasped WALDEN, I recalled Papa's admiration of Henry David Thoreau. My beloved father once cherished the ideas of the Naturalist and Pacifist. I hugged the volume tenderly to my heart and pictured Papa's serene smile.
My world had shifted significantly during the past months. I closed my eyes, and the castle disappeared. Instantly, the parlor at Grey Friar's Vicarage appeared. The fire crackled merrily upon the hearth, and Papa sat in his favorite chair. He poked his lit pipe into the corner of his firm mouth and opened Dickens' A TALE of TWO CITIES. Kneeling beside him, I leaned my head against his knees. I closed my eyes and pictured the great guillotine towering against the lowering sky. Madam Defarge knitted a long scarf as the Royals lost their heads one by one.
"Read as much as you can, as often as you can," Papa advised, closing the book but holding the page with his index finger. With his other hand, he combed through my soft brown curls. "Books are your friends; the stories within the key to a world full of imagination."
"Yes, Papa," I muttered, smiling up into his twinkling grey eyes. I wanted to read—to travel from adventure to adventure.
"These stories will take you to places you have never imagined," he continued, lifting Lewis Carroll's fantastic fantasies, ALICE'S ADVENTURES in WONDERLAND and THROUGH the LOOKING GLASS.
Her many curious adventures sparked my imagination. I often poured over ALICE while sitting beneath the plum tree in the vicarage garden. Usually, I fantasized about following the White Rabbit into his hole or stepping through the looking glass. I drifted into Alice's Wonderland and joined the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.
"Foolishness," Prentiss Wills exclaimed, breaking into my illusion. His sudden appearance startled me.
The curate lifted the book from my hand and snapped it closed swiftly. Leaping to my feet, I attempted to take it back. However, Prentiss held it behind his back. I dodged to grab it, but his grip remained firm.
"Divine foolishness," I remarked, finally dislodging it from his grip.
Prentiss snorted derisively.
"You should not describe such flippancy as divine," the curate sternly admonished. "Divine translates as Godly. There is nothing Godlike about this drivel."
"Papa adores Lewis Carroll's books," I hotly exclaimed. I hugged my beloved storybook against my heaving bosom and glared defiantly at Prentiss.
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"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
I quoted from "The Jabberwocky." Slowly, I rocked back and forth on my heels as the words tumbled from my lips quickly. Then, I spun and raced into the churchyard. My skirts tangled amongst my ankles, and I tripped over a grave surround.
"Norah!" Prentiss exclaimed, suddenly contrite. He fell to his knees beside me.
Hastily, I tried to stand, but my ankle would not support me. I winced painfully. An angry black bruise marked my leg instantly. Carefully, the curate lifted me in his arms and carried me to the vicarage parlor. He tenderly placed me on the settee before the roaring fire. Dr. Murray arrived shortly after and declared I had twisted it.
For the next month, I rested with my ankle propped up on cushions. Tenderly, Prentiss carried me from my bedroom to the parlor. He greatly sorrowed over my affliction and blamed himself for causing my graveyard accident. However, the opportunity to spend my time selecting reading material from the vicarage library thrilled me.
Papa presented me with copies of Tolstoy's ANNA KARENINA, TESS of the D'URBERVILLES by Thomas Hardy, and Nathaniel Hawthorne's The SCARLET LETTER. My heart panged over the fates of the three tragic women. Then, KING SOLOMON'S MINES caught my attention. As I turned the pages, I felt deeply entranced by H. Ryder Haggard's handsome adventure, Allan Quartermain, and his search for the lost treasure.
I moved the books beneath my hands as though playing the shell game. As I did, I mumbled the titles HEIDI by Johanna Spyri, The PRISONER of ZENDA by Anthony Hope, George Eliot's MIDDLEMARCH and STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL and MR. HYDE by Robert Louis Stevenson. Then, I rested my hand on LES MISERABLES.
"The poor, wretched ones," I muttered, flipping the pages of Victor Hugo's masterpiece. "Mama and I are the poor, wretched ones now." A tear glittered at the edge of my eye, and I dashed it away. My shoulders heaved. Heavy-heartedly, I fought back my tears and lost.
Sullenly, I began to place the books into the trunk. One by one, I lovingly lined them along the bottom. Bittersweet memories contained within the pages of beloved old tomes brought back better days. Oh, those happy times of the not-so-distant past! Mama was different. I missed her smile and laughter and the love she and Papa shared. I had nearly forgotten the sense of security the vicarage provided.
Six books remained. I placed Rudyard Kipling's The JUNGLE BOOK beside Hugo's novel. VILLETTE by Charlotte Bronte followed it. I stared at the last four: Wilkie Collins's The MOONSTONE, Thomas Hardy's FAR FROM the MADDING CROWD, and Sir Arthurs Conan Doyle's first Sherlock Holmes adventure, A STUDY in SCARLET.
The last book remained a mystery. Papa brought it home from London on the fateful day he killed a man. In my haste to pack, I had not removed the brown paper. Slowly, I turned it in my hands, wondering what the small package contained. Then, I ripped it open.
"Yellow," I whispered, ogling the contents. My fingers trembled as I contemplated the book. The significant color shocked me. It indicated that the story held disreputable subjects. Bold red lettering stood out from the mustard-tinted cover. I traced my finger against them.
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Dracula
By Bram Stoker
Papa and Prentiss argued over the newly printed novel. The fervent curate insisted that it was unfit to read. On the other hand, Papa decided anything 'unfit to read' required his attention. I leaned toward my father's opinion.
"Stay out of it, Norah," Prentiss remarked when I spoke my mind. "Let the men decide."
My cheeks flared at his biased viewpoint. According to him, men made all decisions. Women had little say in any matter. That would certainly change, I determined, if we were ever married. Many things would change…indeed, they would!
"I have the right to state my mind," I countered hotly. Tightening my fists, I faced Prentiss.
Behind me, my father stood hastily and placed his hand on my shoulder, restraining me. He knew my temper when it came to my feminist stance. Papa hated confrontations in his home and always sought to avoid them. Nevertheless, I prepared to confront the curate.
"And you would read that filth?" my father's assistant stated coolly.
"I certainly would!" I responded, rising to the bait. I folded my arms tightly across my heaving bosom. "If Papa says it's all right to read it, I intend to and gladly."
When Papa journeyed to London, he always stopped at the bookseller's. He constantly kept his selections a surprise. All day, I anxiously anticipated his return. I hoped he would decide to purchase the Stoker novel, although Prentiss disapproved. Then, catastrophe struck, and the book lay forgotten in its wrapper.
Eagerly, I stretched across my bed on my stomach and opened the first page. Jonathan Harker's Journal entranced me immediately.
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