Dr. Frankenstein's Daughters (6 page)

FROM THE DIARY OF
BARONESS GISELLE FRANKENSTEIN

June 17, 1815

The days grow ever longer and warmer in this strange windy climate. It serves to make the place less forbidding. The fatigue and congestion I was feeling are slowly abating as I recover from my exhausting journey with long, dream-filled bouts of sleep. The constant crash of waves and calls of seabirds create a lullaby that I find deeply soothing, conducive to healing slumber.

Ingrid and I turned seventeen two days ago, and though there was no real way to celebrate, Baron Frankenstein bade Mrs. Flett to make a special dinner and a sumptuous cake. He gifted each of
us with a jeweled broach from the estate of our grandmother Caroline Beaufort Frankenstein. Mine is in the form of an exotic bird with long, draping, emerald-laden feathers; for Ingrid, he selected a rose pin with rubies.

With my renewed energy, the undertaking of the castle’s restoration seems less daunting. I am convinced that it has a life that belongs to it alone, as though it were a living creature. With the aid of the very capable Mrs. Flett, it is gradually showing signs of returning to its former self, much like a recovering patient who day by day regains the glow of his former health.

Mrs. Flett has lived on Gairsay from the dawn of time and seems to be related to every soul on the island, nearly all of whom share the bright orange locks they claim to have inherited from their forbearers, the Vikings. This I have no difficulty believing, as they — the men in particular — are as strong, rough, and in some cases as savage as those Nordic plunderers of old.

Thankfully, the good Mrs. Flett knows how to harness all the raw energy of her unruly relatives into a most impressive group of workers, and has employed nearly all of the young men in the restoration of the castle. Whatever misgivings they may have had about the place have been overcome by the appeal of the steady pay that will last at least until the castle is as I desire it to be, which I estimate to be months away. Crude and boisterous as these young
men are, I have to admit that their shouts and laughter have enlivened the place considerably and dispel a great deal of the ominous feel of the castle, at least during the day.

There is one young man in particular who holds me in a most bold, direct gaze every time I pass by. His insolence should anger me, yet I find it difficult not to make eye contact with him. He is strikingly handsome in a rough sort of way, with orange hair to his shoulders and a well-muscled torso that he displays when his arms lift. The other day I controlled myself until I thought I was well past him, then gave into the urge to sneak a glance. He was still looking at me, and our eyes locked for a flash before I averted mine. Even though I was turned away, I could feel him grinning with triumph.

As I turned to leave, I ran right into Mrs. Flett and jumped back in surprise. “Don’t let Riff bother you,” I think she said, although it sounded more like “Dunna le Riff ba ye.” The best I could make out of the rest of her words amounted to the fact that Riff chases all the girls on the island and catches most of them. Honestly, Diary, I can see why. He has a sort of strange magnetism, though he certainly is not someone I would ever be interested in.

Riff kept watching while I spoke to Mrs. Flett. Noticing, she shooed him off with a wave of her hand until, with an obnoxious smirk, he finally turned away. From now on I shall go out of my way to avoid him whenever he is near.

It makes me sad that Ingrid does not partake in the excitement of the renovation. Now that Baron Frankenstein has departed for Scotland to visit with an associate in Edinburgh, Ingrid is my only company, and she has spent all of this past week in that tower room, poring over the volumes of our father’s work that she discovered on the first day we were here. Occasionally I can persuade her to take a walk with me in the front grounds overlooking the ocean, but when we do venture out, she is so hopelessly lost in thought that she’s not much of a companion.

“Don’t become like our father,” I joke.

She doesn’t find much humor in this statement, and her sour reaction makes it less of a joke than it had been when I made it.

Often I see that she’s looking over at the little cottage to the right of the castle, as though she expects to see smoke signals forming in the puffs of white smoke that lift relentlessly from the chimney stack.

“What do you find so intriguing about the old man who lives there?” I asked yesterday, and Ingrid seemed not to know what I was referring to.

“Old man?” she asked me blankly as we stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean, the wind whipping our skirts.

“You told me an unhappy old man lives there,” I reminded her, exasperated.

“Oh, yes!” Ingrid recalled. “Well, perhaps he’s not as old as I made him out to be.”

“How old is he?” I demanded.

“Hard to tell exactly,” she replied. “Not as old as I thought at first. In fact, he’s not that much older than we are.”

“Not much older than we are? Then he’s not old at all! How could you have made such an error?”

“It was dark and he’s ill. I told you that,” Ingrid snapped.

I was quite taken aback by her peevishness; it’s not like Ingrid to be so easily vexed, and her reaction bewildered me. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

She told me that a nerve disease had wreaked devastating effects on his body and that he’d been wounded by cannon fire from Napoleon’s war. As she explained, there was such tender sympathy in her eyes as I have never seen there before.

“Will you go see him again?” I inquired.

“I think I will,” she said. “He strikes me as someone deeply in need of a friend.”

“You’re sure he’s quite sane?” I checked. “From what you describe, he seems rather odd. Is there any threat of danger in being there with him alone?”

“He’s safe enough, and there’s no violence in him. But he is tormented by a profound unhappiness.”

“He’s ill,” I pointed out.

“Even so, it’s not proper for you to be there alone with him so much,” I pointed out.

“He’s always a gentleman!” Ingrid cried, vexed by my inference. “And I don’t care a thing for what others might think.”

“This is a small island, Ingrid. People will talk.”

“Let them! We’ve done nothing wrong!”

“He is a dark and brooding man,” I reminded her. “That’s what you have told me. He may be more unpredictable than you think. Perhaps his illness is driving him mad.”

“He’s not mad, I tell you! Instinct tells me that there is some very sad secret in his past. If only I knew what it was.”

“What could you do, even if you knew?”

“I would help him to rise above it.”

“Some secrets are best left unrevealed,” I commented.

We stood in silence for a few moments more, each looking out over the ocean, lost in thought. It occurred to me that Ingrid had not answered my original question, so I asked it once more. “What do you find so intriguing about Walter Hammersmith?”

“What do you find so intriguing about Castle Frankenstein?” she countered.

“I envision it as it must have once been. I imagine its former grandeur and long to return it to the glory it once possessed,” I answered.

Ingrid gazed out over the ocean a few moments before answering.
“Yes. That’s how I feel about Walter Hammersmith, exactly the same way.”

“I can restore the castle, but you can never bring Walter Hammersmith back.”

“I can,” she insisted.

“How?” I challenged.

“With love.”

“Love?”

“And science,” she added.

“Ingrid, you worry me.”

She smiled grimly. “I worry myself.”

“You mentioned love. Do you love him?”

“As one human loves and feels compassion for another,” she replied, but I didn’t believe her.

She was clearly enamored of this sick and morose individual who could never be a suitable husband to her. “You are getting involved too deeply with this man. Stop now: Don’t go there anymore,” I beseeched her.

Ingrid sighed, and it occurred to me that she had been sighing quite a lot lately. “I have to go,” she insisted before turning back to the castle. “Please don’t try to stop me,” she added as she walked off.

I am so worried about her reputation as well as her emotional well-being. I know not what she has in her mind but no good can
come of it, I’m afraid. If only this Walter Hammersmith would simply disappear, my mind would rest so much easier.

June 17 (continued)

Oh, Diary! The thing I both dreaded and dreamed of has happened, and I don’t know what to do!

The mail here comes about once a week, brought over from the mainland of Scotland by boat. In the near fortnight since we arrived, the boat hadn’t brought a single piece of correspondence, even though I have written to several of my friends from Ingolstadt.

But this afternoon, I received a letter from Johann.

It is the first letter he’s ever written to me, so I did not recognize the hand at first. But once I opened the envelope, I knew.

My breath was quite knocked out of me.

Before I could read a single word, I was dizzy with questions: How had he found me? Why had he written?

In order to read in private, I hurried out to the cliff overlooking the ocean and, with trembling hands and racing pulse, I read it. Dear Diary, it is no exaggeration to say that his words have shaken and stunned me, as they are wholly unexpected.

I have used sealing wax to attach the letter here:

With mixed emotions, I folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of my dress. Of course I feel elation: This is my fondest dream come true. But I am also confused by this change of heart. The story about the girl in Geneva might be true, I suppose, though my friends who are closer to Johann than I was have never alluded to it. On the contrary, they assured me there was no specific rival other than the many girls who, like me, admired him from afar.

Perhaps it is only that distance has made him appreciate me more or that his letter is, in fact, true, and he is now free and taking the opportunity to act on what he had also felt deep down. I find myself hoping this is so, and will trust that emotion to be my guide.

I will write him immediately to say I will be Edinburgh with my uncle, and then write to Baron Frankenstein, entreating him to let Ingrid and me join him there.

Johann spurned me as a young girl, and now I see he may have been right. But I am different now. If he saw me as I am here, he would find no trace of youth. I have become his equal.

Dear Diary, I am filled with happiness!

FROM THE JOURNAL OF
INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN

June 18, 1815

I read and read without ever being bored for as long as there is daylight. (And every day the light lasts longer and longer. This morning it was light by four in the morning and stayed so until eleven at night. The night was more like dusk, lacking any true blackness.)

Hunger drove me to set the journals aside and wander down the winding stairs to seek food. I wasn’t halfway down when the din of boisterous workmen hammering, sawing, shouting, and occasionally laughing filled my ears. Giselle was in the middle of it, directing the entire campaign. How brilliant she is! If she were
a man she would no doubt have made a great general. Napoleon would be no match for her.

Good smells from the kitchen drew me in. I found Mrs. Flett serving bowls of her wonderful lamb stew to the men. Thankfully I am starting to understand her heavy dialect better each day. The moment I entered, she set a place for me at the long kitchen table and ladled a bowl of stew for me, accompanied by a hunk of her homemade bread. I thanked her with a smile and a nod.

As I ate, various men came in looking to be fed. They tipped their caps to me politely and left with their bowls of stew. All of them were very respectful except for one young man in his twenties who actually winked at me. He was clearly related to the others but was somehow more striking.

I am sure I blushed. No man has ever winked at me before.

Mrs. Flett scolded him angrily. She expressed her disapproval in such a loud and agitated manner that this time her words were lost to me. I caught that she called him Riff, though.

“Don’t you mind him,” Mrs. Flett told me once he was gone. She had calmed down enough that I could understand her once more. “Riff be a scoundrel.”

I retreated to my room and continued to read until I noticed that the soft “summer dim” had replaced the day’s light. It was lovely to read bits and pieces of how my father and mother had met at a café in Ingolstadt and fallen in love. But this romance was
related only in side notes, as if they were an afterthought. What was really obsessing my father was the question of how to animate lifeless matter. He wasn’t alone in this quest either. It was, apparently, the subject of great debate in public forums. Scholarly articles were being written about it. The subject was the cause of violent rifts among students and academics. My father was no madman. He was simply in tune with the concerns of his time.

After several hours, hunger induced me once more to put down the fascinating volume and seek food. As I descended the stairs, I noticed that the earlier clamor had turned silent. When I reached the first floor, I saw Giselle asleep in a high-backed chair she’d purchased from a local carpenter. The day’s labors had clearly exhausted her.

On the large table in the kitchen, I found a plate of still-warm sausage-and-potato pie awaiting me. There was no sign of Mrs. Flett, so I assumed she had retired to her room for the evening. The one thing she hadn’t left for me was something to drink, and so I began to search the kitchen. I recalled seeing Mrs. Flett come back from the market with a jug of apple cider and hoped I could find it among the pantry items.

After rummaging without success through the cabinets, I opened a closet door and peered into darkness before I realized that it was some sort of basement. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw the
glint of jar lids and decided it must be a root cellar and that Mrs. Flett had already laid in some supplies. Perhaps she’d put the cider down there to keep cool.

Before descending the steps, I retrieved the lantern Mrs. Flett had left burning on the table. By its glow, I cautiously made my way down the narrow stone stairway. Just as I had thought, there were jars of pickled foods, barrels of potatoes, bags of flour, crates of nuts, and various other items Mrs. Flett must have purchased for our meals over the last several weeks.

The sound of scampering feet made me freeze, and I swept my lantern toward the scratching. Fortunately it was not a rat but a field mouse that faced me. I saw that he’d eaten clear through a burlap sack of flour. In the next second, he scurried off and I watched as he disappeared into the far wall. But a second look told me that it was not a wall but rather a door that the tiny rodent had squeezed under.

Hurrying to it, I tried the heavy iron bolt. It wouldn’t budge, even though I threw all my weight into it. Further inspection revealed that a piece of metal blocked the movement of the bolt’s bar. A key was required to open it.

What could be in there? Eager to know, I turned and let out a startled cry as I found myself facing Mrs. Flett.

“Sorry to scare you,” I believe she said in her heavy dialect.

“Do you have the key to this door?” I asked.

She shook her head, glancing down at the heavy ring of keys she carried attached to the leather belt of her apron. “I was going to ask the same of you. No key I’ve been given opens this door.”

Placing my hand on the door, I realized it was quite cool. “I will ask Uncle Ernest when he returns,” I assured her as we walked out of the dark basement pantry together.

When we had climbed the stairs and were once again in the kitchen, Mrs. Flett warmed my meal further and, at my request, found the cider. “Mrs. Flett, do you know anything about our neighbor, Walter Hammersmith?” I asked as I ate. I meant to ask this casually, as idle conversation. In truth I was hoping she would have something to tell me. Since meeting him, I found he was constantly on my mind. I couldn’t stop picturing his riveting gaze or hearing the low deep tone of his voice.

Mrs. Flett fixed me with a searching look. My attempt to conceal the keenness of my interest hadn’t fooled her. “I know he rides that white horse of his at night,” she said.

“But he can’t walk,” I told her.

“He walks well enough to get onto that mare,” Mrs. Flett insisted. “I’ve seen him on it.”

“Where does he go?”

“I don’t know. The woman who shops and cleans for him says he’s surly.”

“I’m sure his condition makes him very unhappy,” I speculated.

Mrs. Flett grunted dismissively, as though she were disinclined to grant Walter that much leeway.

When I finished, I went outside to walk a little before going to bed. In the deep dusk I spied Giselle standing near the edge of the cliff, her hair and dress blowing in the ever-constant wind. I was glad she was awake, since I hadn’t spoken to her all day.

Although it was not entirely dark, a three-quarter moon had arisen. She seemed to be gazing at it.

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” I said as I came alongside her.

When she didn’t turn or answer, I took a second, harder look at her. Her face was wide-eyed.

“Do you think he will come again?” she asked me.

“Who will come again?” I asked.

Giselle scowled deeply. “The man who came in the moonlight. The very bad man.”

“What bad —” And then I realized she was asleep. She must have risen from her place on the chair and walked out here, still in a dream.

“There is no man, Giselle,” I assured her.

“There is,” she said confidently. “He tried to take me away. We must watch for him. I think he will come back and try again.”

“Try to do what?”

“To take us.”

“Take us where?”

Giselle suddenly whirled toward me, clutching my shirt by the collar. “We can’t let him take us!” she cried. She dropped her head onto my shoulder and began to tremble. “He can’t take us. He’s bad!”

Wrapping my arms around her, I held tight. “No one will take you, Giselle. I promise.”

Giselle made no reply but continued to shiver fearfully.

“Let’s go in,” I suggested, turning her toward the castle.

“Yes, we must go inside,” she agreed. “It’s safer there.”

As I turned, I glanced over the cliff at the dark churning ocean below and saw a white horse cantering along the beach, Walter Hammersmith in the saddle. On horseback I would never have realized he was infirm. I wondered what he was doing riding alone on the beach at night.

He intrigues me so. I resolve to get over my shyness and go back to his house sometime very soon.

June 19

Right after breakfast this morning I made good on my resolution to see Walter again. With Mrs. Flett’s help, I loaded a basket with some of the fresh eggs, butter, and milk that she buys from our neighbors. With these stowed, I donned my bonnet and shawl and headed for his cottage.

There were no white puffs of smoke coming from his chimney, but the weather was getting warmer every day and it was very possible that he’d chosen not to make a fire. When I knocked, there was no immediate response, but I knew it would take him a while to answer. With my ear to the door, I listened for the sounds of movement and heard nothing. Just as I was about to leave, I heard a scrape. It was as though someone had moved a container across a table. With this encouragement, I rapped on the door yet again. Still no one answered.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps he had fallen and needed help. Going around the corner, I saw that his horse was still there, docile as ever and munching grass. The windows were heavily curtained, but this time one corner of the curtain had fallen aside, enabling me to peer in.

Walter sat in the darkened room at a writing table. He was illuminated by the flame of a single candle. By its light I saw that he was slumped there with his head dropped into one hand. Never before had I witnessed a scene of such utter dejection.

Still worried that he needed help, I knocked on the window. This caught his attention, and slowly he gazed up at me. Scowling, he waved me off in a way I would have found rude were I not so concerned about his well-being.

Returning to the front of the cottage, I pounded on the door once more. “Lieutenant Hammersmith! Are you all right?”

The slow shuffle of his footsteps told me he was approaching. Soon I heard the lock opening. The door creaked open.

“Please go,” he said, returning to his table. “I am not well today.”

Feeling strangely bold, I entered the cottage, placing my basket on the table. “You should not be alone if you are ill,” I insisted. “What bothers you?”

Tossing back his dark curls, he laughed bitterly. “What does not?”

I gazed at him with a questioning expression, which made him respond with more unhappy laughter. “My dear Fräulein Frankenstein, my wounds in conjunction with my mysterious disease of the nervous system have combined to make me a hopeless wreck,” he said. “Of the many things that afflict me, an overwhelming sense of
despair
is probably my most acute and debilitating condition.”

“You are deeply sad,” I said. “I can see that.”

“It’s evident, is it?” he scoffed.

“Is it because you are in pain?”

“I awake with pain and sleep with it. Pain is my most intimate companion. But today my dark mood is worse than at other times. When this morose state comes over me I never can predict how long it will last.”

“Perhaps it would be distracting if I read to you,” I suggested, gesturing toward the many books on his shelves.

He looked me over, his brows furrowed in thought. “Perhaps it would,” he allowed at last.

Outside, the patch of blue sky through the open door sparkled in stark contrast to the gloom within. “We could sit outside. It’s a beautiful day,” I said.

Squinting his eyes as though unaccustomed to the daylight, he shook his head. “That might bring on more good cheer than I am up to right now,” he replied.

“You should smile more often,” I commented. “It suits you.” He was, indeed, very handsome when he smiled.

“I used to smile more often,” he said, growing serious once more. “As you might imagine, I have seen better days.”

“Perhaps you will see them again,” I offered.

Walter shook his head. “This disease progresses in fits and starts, but it inevitably worsens with time.”

“And science progresses every day.”

“Are you always so optimistic?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“I couldn’t say. I only know that science is moving forward every day and it can do amazing things.”

“Really?” he said, and I sensed he was mocking me.

“May I ask you a question?” I asked.

“That depends on the question,” he replied.

“I saw you riding your horse the other day. How are you able to do that?”

“As you can see, I can still move around on my own a bit. My horse is old and sweet. I’ve had her since I was a boy, and she is patient as I fumble my way into the saddle. I was once a very adept horseman.”

“Where do you go?”

“That’s two questions.” Lieutenant Hammersmith rose unsteadily. “Choose any book you’d like and we can read.”

Surveying his books, I selected one called
Kinder- und Hausmärchen
.

“
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
?” I asked. It was oddly out of place among his collection of military history and battle strategies. “It surprises me that you have this book.”

“I read it completely when it was first published. Not for children at all. Much too frightening. But taken as a collection of folk stories, it is fascinating.”

“Did you read it in German?” I asked.

“I did. It would have been easier for me in English, but I don’t like to trust translations done by others. I prefer to translate for myself. I studied German in school.”

“Would you like me to read it?”

“Yes. Its gloom and misery will be just the thing. Plus I will be interested to hear a native German speaker read it.” He smiled after this statement, and I smiled back. I spent the next several
hours reading in a wooden chair beside Walter while he listened from his corner.

At one point he reached out with his good left hand and took hold of mine. Startled, I looked at him. But his eyes were closed and his head leaned back in the chair.

His hand was large and warm. The sensation of having my own hand enfolded in his was lovely. It occurred to me to lean over and kiss his lips. I imagined that if I did so, he would pull me to him to kiss me back tenderly.

I became so lost in this daydream that my speech faltered. Checking him, I saw he had fallen asleep.