required.
Reluctantly he handed it over. “I pray I have not grown too weak to manage the
Times,”
he huffed. “I have few enough pleasures left.”
I bent down and kissed his frowning brow, pained to hear him so distressed.
“You are a good daughter,” he told me, looking mollified. Then he caught sight of the flowers. “Thank you, my dear, very thoughtful of you. And such fine blooms for so late in the year,” he commented.
“A gentleman sent them to me,” I told him.
“A gentleman?” Father raised an eyebrow.
I nodded. “One I met at the Edwardses’ party.”
“Why did you not mention him earlier?” Father asked curiously.
I gave a little shrug. “We chatted, but I thought it only a casual meeting,” I explained. “I did not expect to hear from him again . . . but he’s invited me to join him for dinner.”
Father’s expression changed to one of delight mixed with caution. “Does he seem . . . trustworthy, Mary?” he asked.
I fell silent, pondering. Trustworthy? I had trusted John—only to watch him transform into a treacherous fiend. Lord Bathory did not have the youthful bravado of the John I had fallen in love with—nor the calculating charm and good looks of the evil Quincey Harker. Despite his aristocratic background, Lord Bathory was studious and reserved—his mind surely too full of philosophy and his heart too beset by timidity to be capable of deception? Deception required a determined and fierce single-mindedness. “Yes, Father, I think Lord Bathory is trustworthy,” I answered quietly.
“Bathory? Lord Xavier Bathory?” Father queried, his tone one of surprise.
“You know him?” I asked, surprised now myself.
“I know of him,” Father replied. He tapped the
Times
with a finger. “I have read some of the speeches he has given in Parliament. He must have a keen sense of duty, for they say he battles a natural shyness when standing to speak before his peers. But from what I’ve read, I’m glad he does. He seems like a well-read and levelheaded young man, which is just what this government needs.”
“Then you think I should accept his invitation?” I asked.
It was Father’s turn to fall silent, concern shadowing his eyes. “You know I cannot help but worry about you, Mary,” he said eventually. “I nearly lost you once. But it is my dearest wish to see you find happiness with a good man. I cannot bear to think you might grow old alone. So yes, I think you should accept his invitation.”
“Father, Lord Bathory did not mean his invitation as any sort of proposal, I’m sure,” I told him. A smile tickled my lips at the thought of Lord Bathory’s discomposure at the idea. “But I doubt if I will meet a man safer than he.”
And so, with Father’s approval, I have written my acceptance note and shall hire a carriage for the journey there and back.
ESSEX FARMER’S WEEKLY
2 ND N OVEMBER 1918
S LAUGHTERED S HEEP
R EWARD O FFERED
Purfleet farmer Bill Watts is prepared to pay a ten-guinea reward to anyone who can help him catch the creature responsible for killing four of his sheep. Bite marks on the animals’ necks suggest the culprit is a large hound.
“I’ve not seen killings like this before,” Wattscommented. “It seems the varmint kills just for the sport of it. It don’t savage nothing but the neck and takes no meat. If I catch the villain, I shall shoot it from here to kingdom come, and I’ll give ten guineas to anyone who catches it afore me!”
Journal of Qujncey Harker
C ARFAX H ALL
P URFLEET
3RD N OVEMBER 1918
It is strange to be back in this place.
Two years ago, I was here as Lily’s guest and suitor—and the very air felt alive with her sweet, trusting presence. Now these rooms feel dead, everywhere dulled by absence and dust.
No one has been within these walls since I hurried Lily away on our elopement to Transylvania, Antanasia fussing over our luggage, urging us to be gone, unconcerned about what we left behind. The dusty
Reluctantly he handed it over. “I pray I have not grown too weak to manage the
Times,”
he huffed. “I have few enough pleasures left.”
I bent down and kissed his frowning brow, pained to hear him so distressed.
“You are a good daughter,” he told me, looking mollified. Then he caught sight of the flowers. “Thank you, my dear, very thoughtful of you. And such fine blooms for so late in the year,” he commented.
“A gentleman sent them to me,” I told him.
“A gentleman?” Father raised an eyebrow.
I nodded. “One I met at the Edwardses’ party.”
“Why did you not mention him earlier?” Father asked curiously.
I gave a little shrug. “We chatted, but I thought it only a casual meeting,” I explained. “I did not expect to hear from him again . . . but he’s invited me to join him for dinner.”
Father’s expression changed to one of delight mixed with caution. “Does he seem . . . trustworthy, Mary?” he asked.
I fell silent, pondering. Trustworthy? I had trusted John—only to watch him transform into a treacherous fiend. Lord Bathory did not have the youthful bravado of the John I had fallen in love with—nor the calculating charm and good looks of the evil Quincey Harker. Despite his aristocratic background, Lord Bathory was studious and reserved—his mind surely too full of philosophy and his heart too beset by timidity to be capable of deception? Deception required a determined and fierce single-mindedness. “Yes, Father, I think Lord Bathory is trustworthy,” I answered quietly.
“Bathory? Lord Xavier Bathory?” Father queried, his tone one of surprise.
“You know him?” I asked, surprised now myself.
“I know of him,” Father replied. He tapped the
Times
with a finger. “I have read some of the speeches he has given in Parliament. He must have a keen sense of duty, for they say he battles a natural shyness when standing to speak before his peers. But from what I’ve read, I’m glad he does. He seems like a well-read and levelheaded young man, which is just what this government needs.”
“Then you think I should accept his invitation?” I asked.
It was Father’s turn to fall silent, concern shadowing his eyes. “You know I cannot help but worry about you, Mary,” he said eventually. “I nearly lost you once. But it is my dearest wish to see you find happiness with a good man. I cannot bear to think you might grow old alone. So yes, I think you should accept his invitation.”
“Father, Lord Bathory did not mean his invitation as any sort of proposal, I’m sure,” I told him. A smile tickled my lips at the thought of Lord Bathory’s discomposure at the idea. “But I doubt if I will meet a man safer than he.”
And so, with Father’s approval, I have written my acceptance note and shall hire a carriage for the journey there and back.
ESSEX FARMER’S WEEKLY
2 ND N OVEMBER 1918
S LAUGHTERED S HEEP
R EWARD O FFERED
Purfleet farmer Bill Watts is prepared to pay a ten-guinea reward to anyone who can help him catch the creature responsible for killing four of his sheep. Bite marks on the animals’ necks suggest the culprit is a large hound.
“I’ve not seen killings like this before,” Wattscommented. “It seems the varmint kills just for the sport of it. It don’t savage nothing but the neck and takes no meat. If I catch the villain, I shall shoot it from here to kingdom come, and I’ll give ten guineas to anyone who catches it afore me!”
Journal of Qujncey Harker
C ARFAX H ALL
P URFLEET
3RD N OVEMBER 1918
It is strange to be back in this place.
Two years ago, I was here as Lily’s guest and suitor—and the very air felt alive with her sweet, trusting presence. Now these rooms feel dead, everywhere dulled by absence and dust.
No one has been within these walls since I hurried Lily away on our elopement to Transylvania, Antanasia fussing over our luggage, urging us to be gone, unconcerned about what we left behind. The dusty
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