What’s she after doing with Dracula?’
Charles tried to shrug but couldn’t lift his shoulders.
It was still a moot point whether Geneviève had stolen Charles away from Penelope, or whether Penny had abandoned him for her father-in-darkness, the ill-remembered Lord Godalming. Geneviève thought neither was entirely true. Charles had left Penelope to her own devices because he felt a greater duty, and Geneviève happened to coincide with that duty. If it had been otherwise, she knew he’d have kept his promise to Penelope, no matter how unhappy it would have made them both.
He was, in many ways, an impossible man.
‘Do you see her?’ Kate asked them both.
‘She has called,’ Geneviève admitted. ‘Infrequently.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Charles said, remembering.
Not for Geneviève, it wasn’t. And not, she suspected, for Penelope, or for Kate.
At the end of his life, Charles was forgiving.
Kate and Charles had known Penelope well as a warm girl, of course. Geneviève knew her first as one of those new-borns who didn’t understand anything. Just after turning, Penelope had drunk bad blood and made an invalid of herself for a decade. A quack who treated her with leeches hadn’t helped matters much. If anything, Geneviève — working then as a doctor — had saved Penelope’s life. That had been her duty, so she supposed she wasn’t that different from Charles.
‘She was the first to tell me I should turn,’ Charles said. ‘She wanted us to become vampires together. It seemed the done thing, if one wanted to be advanced.’
Kate shot Geneviève an alarmed glance. He was forestalling their carefully composed argument.
‘Gené, Kate,’ Charles said, looking at them as if they were his ashamed grandchildren, ‘I know you don’t mean it as she did, but you ask the same thing. The thing I cannot do.’
Kate covered her face, to hide the tears.
‘I’m sorry, Kate,’ Charles said, touching Kate’s elbow. ‘It’s nothing wrong with you. Or you either, Gené. It’s me.’
Despite the strength of his feelings, he was fading before their eyes. Every day, perhaps every hour, he became fainter, a vaguer presence, losing substance.
‘You’re not too old, Charles,’ Geneviève said. ‘You can turn. I’m sure of it.’
He shook his head.
‘You could be young again,’ Kate sighed.
‘He grew young,’ Charles said. ‘Count Dracula. I doubt if he’d much pleasure of renewed youth. He has always struck me as a profoundly sad individual. When he turned, he lost something. Most vampires do. Even you, my undying darlings.’
He looked serene, but Geneviève heard his excitement. His heart beat faster. His brow was dampened. His voice was near cracking.
‘Am I so selfish?’ he asked. ‘To want to leave?’
Later, after nightfall, they sat together, and talked about the past, forcing themselves not to talk of the present and future. Kate prompted Charles to tell Geneviève of many things she had missed during her time away from him this century.
She had realised, of course, how close Charles and Kate had grown in the First World War. Now she saw how they had fixed so much of their hope in Edwin Winthrop of the Diogenes Club, whom she’d spent an interesting weekend with in 1923. She almost regretted not being there in the bloody mud of France, in the thick of intrigue at once absurd and terrifying.
She was a creature of a slower age, where time was measured by seasons, not wristwatch ticks. She had never adjusted to this century of jet planes and Sputniks, of CinemaScope and rock ’n’ roll. Charles had lived through more than she ever would and been affected more by it. She recognised her own untouchability as weakness.
Kate would have to do instead. She talked about the Second World War, which she’d seen from the ground as Charles had from maps and despatches. Her commitments were so selfless, to make the world a more just place. Her passion
Charles tried to shrug but couldn’t lift his shoulders.
It was still a moot point whether Geneviève had stolen Charles away from Penelope, or whether Penny had abandoned him for her father-in-darkness, the ill-remembered Lord Godalming. Geneviève thought neither was entirely true. Charles had left Penelope to her own devices because he felt a greater duty, and Geneviève happened to coincide with that duty. If it had been otherwise, she knew he’d have kept his promise to Penelope, no matter how unhappy it would have made them both.
He was, in many ways, an impossible man.
‘Do you see her?’ Kate asked them both.
‘She has called,’ Geneviève admitted. ‘Infrequently.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Charles said, remembering.
Not for Geneviève, it wasn’t. And not, she suspected, for Penelope, or for Kate.
At the end of his life, Charles was forgiving.
Kate and Charles had known Penelope well as a warm girl, of course. Geneviève knew her first as one of those new-borns who didn’t understand anything. Just after turning, Penelope had drunk bad blood and made an invalid of herself for a decade. A quack who treated her with leeches hadn’t helped matters much. If anything, Geneviève — working then as a doctor — had saved Penelope’s life. That had been her duty, so she supposed she wasn’t that different from Charles.
‘She was the first to tell me I should turn,’ Charles said. ‘She wanted us to become vampires together. It seemed the done thing, if one wanted to be advanced.’
Kate shot Geneviève an alarmed glance. He was forestalling their carefully composed argument.
‘Gené, Kate,’ Charles said, looking at them as if they were his ashamed grandchildren, ‘I know you don’t mean it as she did, but you ask the same thing. The thing I cannot do.’
Kate covered her face, to hide the tears.
‘I’m sorry, Kate,’ Charles said, touching Kate’s elbow. ‘It’s nothing wrong with you. Or you either, Gené. It’s me.’
Despite the strength of his feelings, he was fading before their eyes. Every day, perhaps every hour, he became fainter, a vaguer presence, losing substance.
‘You’re not too old, Charles,’ Geneviève said. ‘You can turn. I’m sure of it.’
He shook his head.
‘You could be young again,’ Kate sighed.
‘He grew young,’ Charles said. ‘Count Dracula. I doubt if he’d much pleasure of renewed youth. He has always struck me as a profoundly sad individual. When he turned, he lost something. Most vampires do. Even you, my undying darlings.’
He looked serene, but Geneviève heard his excitement. His heart beat faster. His brow was dampened. His voice was near cracking.
‘Am I so selfish?’ he asked. ‘To want to leave?’
Later, after nightfall, they sat together, and talked about the past, forcing themselves not to talk of the present and future. Kate prompted Charles to tell Geneviève of many things she had missed during her time away from him this century.
She had realised, of course, how close Charles and Kate had grown in the First World War. Now she saw how they had fixed so much of their hope in Edwin Winthrop of the Diogenes Club, whom she’d spent an interesting weekend with in 1923. She almost regretted not being there in the bloody mud of France, in the thick of intrigue at once absurd and terrifying.
She was a creature of a slower age, where time was measured by seasons, not wristwatch ticks. She had never adjusted to this century of jet planes and Sputniks, of CinemaScope and rock ’n’ roll. Charles had lived through more than she ever would and been affected more by it. She recognised her own untouchability as weakness.
Kate would have to do instead. She talked about the Second World War, which she’d seen from the ground as Charles had from maps and despatches. Her commitments were so selfless, to make the world a more just place. Her passion
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