Mina (8 page)

Van Helsing
had been fanatic enough. I gripped Jonathan's arm and nodded. I was thankful
that I had not mentioned to Jonathan

the journal I had taken from
the castle, for he would certainly make me give it to Van Helsing.

When the
others retired for the evening, I stayed behind to speak to Van Helsing in
private. I think he waited for me to confess

that I had seen the women's
bodies. Instead, I spoke as candidly as I dared, dreading his reply. "It
isn't really over, is it?" I asked.

He took my
hands, his own shaking slightly with fatigue or age or emotion. "I know
much, Madame Mina. I know not everything.

Here I will hope to learn more. Go home. Be wife to your husband,
the strength he needs. I will write, hopefully to say that all is as well as I
believe it to be."

He kissed my
cheek and held me tightly. "Daughter," he whispered as he let me go.
I saw that the word had not been said lightly,

for there were tears in his
eyes.

On the train
ride west, Mina finally gave way to the exhaustion of the long ordeal and slept
late the following morning. At

breakfast time, Jonathan knocked lightly on the door to Dr.
Seward's compartment and received no reply. Thankful for the time alone, he
dined quickly then retreated to the smoking car. The crystal chandeliers
tinkled lightly from the swaying of the train, reminding him uncomfortably of
the laughter of the vampire women. He ordered a double brandy neat and stared
into the glass, thinking how luminous their skin had been, how glowing their
eyes.

Now they
were dead and he was alive and everything could be the way it had been. Except
...

He explored
his despondence, finally focusing on the truth of what he had done.

He was a solicitor. The others had
been interested in revenge and adventure and, particularly in the case of Van
Helsing, a rigid form of righteousness. Jonathan had joined them because he
had no choice. With Mina's soul hanging in the balance, he should have reveled
in the act.

Instead he had suffered the quest
with stoic misery, fighting his terror every step of the way. Even when he and
Quincey were in hot pursuit of the cart carrying Dracula's helpless body home,
Jonathan had decided there was something to be said for being a poor rider. He
would not be the one to reach the cart first. Then he had been caught up in the
final heroic moments and, determined to insure that his wife would not turn
into one of those terrible and alluring creatures he had faced in the castle,
he had gripped the cold hilt of the huge kukri blade he carried and spurred
his horse onward. He hardly recalled the final moments of the ride, or how he
had jumped from his horse to the cart. He recalled only that he had killed.

Try as he
might to rationalize that Dracula had died centuries before, he knew he had
killed.

In spite of
the crimes of his victim and all Jonathan's certainty that there was no other
outcome possible, this did not set well with

his conscience.

And why were the vampire women still
on his mind? Why had he, only an hour before, looked down at his sleeping wife with
her slightly open lips, her tiny hands and delicate arms resting so
beautifully on the brown wool blanket, her tousled chestnut hair, and wished
that her brows were darker, her hair thicker, her lips more red.

Mina. If these were his thoughts, what
must hers be? The final question numbed him. He ordered a second brandy then,
without any real plan in mind, purchased the rest of the bottle and carried it
back to the compartment he was now able to share with his wife. He found her
awake, sitting at her dressing table with her traveling cape covering her
nightdress.

She had been
writing something in a thin journal. When she saw him, she closed the book
without letting the ink dry and placed it

in her pocket. "You're
still taking notes, I see," he said uneasily.

"Just a few thoughts. So much has happened." She
hesitated then added, "Poor Quincey." She faced the mirror and began
pinning up her hair. "Let it lie free," he said.

She turned
from the little mirror on the door of their tiny closet. Her brow was furrowed,
her expression puzzled. "Jonathan?" she

asked.

He poured
her a drink and held it out to her. "I know it's early in the day,"
he said. "But we've been through so much, I thought

you might like to join me in
a toast."

"A toast?"

"To
Quincey, who was such a brave man and. . ." He had to say it, as close to
a confession of his thoughts as he dared go.” . . .

to Dracula, who was once a
great general, a protector of his people. May his soul now rest in peace."

Why did Mina
seem so suddenly remote?

"Do you
think it's wrong to raise a glass to him?" he asked.

"No. I
think it's admirable." She lifted the glass and touched it against his,
sipping her brandy then setting the rest on the bedstand.

"Even
after what happened to Quincey?"

"Forgiveness
is always . . ." She hesitated and looked at him. She had always been
perceptive, but now the talent seemed

heightened, as if something of Dracula's mental power remained in
her. She seemed to forget what she was going to say and looked down at her
hands, clearly flustered.

The silence
became long and awkward. "How do you feel?" he finally asked.

"Like
myself. The sleep did me good. And I suspect dinner will taste marvelous."

"Dinner is not for another hour
at least." He sat beside her, aware of the warmth of her body even through
his coat and shirt. He took her hands in one of his-so soft they were, so
warm!-and with the other turned her head toward him and lifted her chin for a kiss.

What was intended to be a light kiss
between husband and wife became something more. He ground his lips against her,
forcing her mouth open. He felt her indrawn breath-surprise, then an even more
surprising response. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.

Yes, she was
perceptive. She knew what he wanted and was willing to give even that. Stunned
by what he demanded, humbled

by his love for her, he drew
back and saw the tears in her eyes.

"Mina,
I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I love
you, Jonathan." She spoke as if he felt some doubt.

He recalled
with sudden clarity a moment ten days before when he and Quincey were alone
together in a compartment such as

this. The two of them had earlier come upon Van Helsing and Seward
whispering together in the smoking car. The subject apparently changed when he
and the American joined them; the conversation remained awkward until he and
Quincey left to return to the compartment they shared with Arthur. At the
door, Jonathan had turned back and seen the two speaking once more, their heads
close, the voices low,

"How
can you tolerate the way those two are always watching Mina," Quincey had
said when they were alone. "They act like

she's dying when it's clear
she is better than she's been in weeks. You should be with her, not cooped up
in here sleeping triple with

Arthur and me."

"Van
Helsing doesn't think that wise," Jonathan had replied carefully, not
certain how to respond to Quincey's American

directness.

"You've
been married for what, six weeks ... Well, I'm sorry. I guess I just don't see
things with quite the same reserve as the

English." Quincey hardly
sounded apologetic.

Jonathan had waited until Quincey
was asleep before slipping out of the compartment and going to Mina. He had
stood at the foot of her bed, staring at his wife, so innocent save for the
terrible scar on her forehead that was visible even in the moonlight shining
through the window. Though she had been sound asleep when he arrived, she
seemed to sense his presence and held out her arms to him. He kissed her once,
chastely, but she pulled him closer to her, responding with a passion he had
never felt in her before.

"Mina,"
he whispered, stroking back the locks of hair that had fallen over her
forehead.

"Promise
me that they will not be harmed," she whispered. "I will do anything
if you only promise me."

"Of course," he replied and moved away from her,
guessing what presence she thought was in her room, the bargain she would strike
with the vampire to save his life. He retreated before he gave in to the
petulant temptation of waking her and telling her what she had promised.

Now he found
himself wishing that she would display that passion to him. It was unreasonable
to be jealous of a vampire, a

creature who could force Mina to respond to him, yet Jonathan was.
How could he be so cruel, so blind! He reached out and gently wiped the tears
from her eyes. "I'm sorry, darling," he said. "It was callous of
me to come to you so soon."

She was
about to say something, but he could not bear to hear her justify his action.
"I'll come for you when dinner is announced,"

he said and left quickly.

The train had stopped to take on
water. Through a window that had been cracked for air, he heard it flowing into
the tank car, felt the vibration its rushing caused. He paused to listen, to
think of what he could do for Mina, but she would not remain in the center of
his mind.

What were
the women's names? he wondered. What sort of lives had they led before they
became Dracula's terrible brides?

Dr. Seward
opened his compartment door. "There you are! Care to join me for drink and
a cigar?" he asked.

"Just a
moment. I bought a bottle," Jonathan replied and went back into his own
compartment to retrieve it. Mina stood looking

out at the town.
"Craiova, isn't it?" she asked without looking at him.

"I
think so."

"When
we leave this land and the terrible reminders it gives us both, things will be
better," she said as if trying to assure herself of

it.

"Of
course." He kissed the back of her neck and fingered a lock of her hair.
"I love you," he added. She turned and wrapped her

arms around his neck,
pressing her face against his shoulder. "I came back for the bottle. Jack
and I are going to have a drink.

Should I have him go on
without me?"

She shook
her head. "I'll join you in a little while," she said.

As he left,
he looked back and saw that she had turned her face toward the window once
again. He was certain she was trying to

hide her tears.

Why shouldn't she hide them? he
thought as he sat in the smoking car with Dr. Seward. Every time she had acted
the least bit emotional, feminine as his father had once called it, Van
Helsing had responded with concern. The entire trip east had been terrible for
Jonathan, evoking all the memories of his weeks in Dracula's castle. How much
worse must Mina have felt? Fool! he thought and must have mouthed the word,
for Dr. Seward looked up from his paper.

"Are
you all right?" Seward asked.

"Just preoccupied." It occurred to him that this might
be the most helpful person he could talk with-but only about Mina. His own problem
was easy enough to identify. "It's Mina. I'm concerned that what she's
been through will have a ... a sort of delayed effect on her."

"Has
she given any sign that there's a problem?"

"Just. Well, she was crying today. And yesterday ... she
seemed so passive. That's not like Mina." "Don't worry about her.
She's been so strong through this ordeal that it's about time she let her
emotions out. She's healthy

-

emotionally as well as
physically. She'll recover with no scars, I promise you."

"Of
course, she is quite all right now."

Jonathan hadn't asked a question, but Seward sensed his
uncertainty. "Van Helsing assured me that when the vampire died, the scar
would vanish from her face, and it did. He said that when the vampire died, his
blood in her would die as well. I have no way of checking that last, Jonathan,
but I trust Van Helsing. The scar is gone. What other proof do we need?"

Mina's assurance,
Jonathan thought. That was what had not been given.

Soon after, the two men and Mina sat
together in the dining car. White linen covered the table. Broad-based crystal
goblets and silver utensils circled the plates. Though they had eaten here
three times already, this was the first time Jonathan had noticed the luxury
and how right his wife looked sitting in the midst of it. The cameo she wore on
her high-necked blouse was the same color of peach as her cheeks, and her
hair, falling in ringlets over her velvet jacket, shone brilliantly in the
afternoon sun.

The weeks since their marriage had
been filled with tragedy. All that would have to change. Hadn't he inherited a
fortune from his employer, a house in Exeter, a position as head of a firm well
established in London business? When the steward came past, he asked for wine
and raised his glass in another toast. "To the future," he said.

Mina smiled.
It was so good to see her smile, if only for a moment. Then the remote
expression returned to her face, like a dark

curtain falling between them,
cutting off their view of each other.