Dracula, My Love: The Secret Journals of Mina Harker Read online

  “I am! I do love Arthur. He is so tall and handsome, and has such lovely, curly hair. We have so much in common, and Mamma simply adores him. I know he is the perfect man for me, and I am very happy.”

  We had crossed the bridge over the river, which was the only way to reach the East Cliff. At the other side, we began our ascent up another, very long flight of steps—the ones Lucy had pointed out from the carriage—which wound up the slope in a delicate curve from the town to the ruined abbey and church above.

  “If you are happy, Lucy,” I said as we climbed, “then why do you look so troubled?”

  “Do I look troubled?” Lucy’s brow furrowed in that sweet, puckered look I had come to know so well. “I do not mean to! It is only that I get a little sad when I realise this will be our last holiday together, Mina, just you and I, and that very soon, I will no longer be thought of as an eligible young lady but as a sober, old, married woman. I did so enjoy the thrill of being young and admired and wanted by so many different men! To think all that is over, and I am not yet twenty years old!”

  I took in the woebegone expression on Lucy’s lovely face and restrained the urge to laugh. “Dear, dear Lucy,” I said, taking her arm in mine, “I would like to sympathise, but I am afraid I never experienced the thrill that you speak of. I have only ever had one suitor: Jonathan. It is not every girl who receives marriage proposals from three different men in the same day.”

  Lucy shook her head in bemusement. “I still reel in disbelief every time I recall that day! I tell you, it never rains but it pours. I never had a single proposal before the twenty-fourth of May—at least not a real proposal—for you cannot count the time that William Russell hid a ring in my slice of iced cake when we were nine years old, or the day Richard Spencer kissed me in the field behind Upton Hall School and asked me to promise to marry him. I was just a girl then, and they were silly young boys. I have had loads of men admiring me ever since I moved home to London, but no one came close to asking the question; and then suddenly three proposals at once!”

  Lucy had written to me with the particulars of that extraordinary day. Dr. John Seward, an excellent young physician, had stopped by in the morning, declared his love, and asked for her hand. He was followed by another suitor—a wealthy American from Texas named Mr. Quincey P. Morris, who was close friends with both Dr. Seward and Mr. Holmwood—who made the same earnest request just after lunch. Lucy, overwhelmed by regret, had been obliged to explain that she must refuse their offers because she was in love with another man. That very same afternoon, Arthur Holmwood had managed to find a quiet moment to make his own sweet declaration, which Lucy had accepted with enthusiasm.

  “It must have been a wonderful feeling,” I said, “to discover that you were adored by so many good, noble, and worthy men.”

  “It was wonderful—and yet it was too, too awful at the same time. How Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris could have determined that they were in love with me, I really cannot say; for every time they came to call, I was obliged to sit by like a dumb animal, smile a little school-girl smile, and blush modestly at every word they spoke, while Mamma did most of the talking. Sometimes I just wanted to scream with frustration, for it was all so silly. Yet I liked them all, and there we were, alone at last, and each man was pouring out his heart and soul to me. Then I had to send two of them away, hats in hand, to know that they were passing quite out of my life for ever! I burst into tears when I saw the expression on Dr. Seward’s face, for he looked so downcast and broken-hearted. When I told Mr. Morris there was someone else, he said, in that charming Texas accent of his, ‘Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a lover.’ He said lots of brave and noble things about his ‘rival,’ not even knowing it was Arthur—his closest friend. Then—did I tell you in my letter what Mr. Morris asked me to do before leaving?”

  “Yes! He asked you to kiss him, to help soften the blow, I suppose—and you did it!” We paused part-way up the steps to catch our breath, and I glanced at her. “I admit, I was a little surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Lucy, you cannot go around kissing every man who asks for your hand, just because you feel sorry for him!”

  “It was just one kiss. Oh, Mina! Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble?”

  I laughed out loud and took Lucy in my arms. “You silly goose. Marrying three men? The very idea!”

  “I felt so bad that I had to make two of them so unhappy.”

  “I would not waste another minute worrying about Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris if I were you,” I said, as we resumed our climb. “They will recover from their disappointment in time, and find other young women who will worship the ground they walk on.”

  “I hope so, for I believe everyone deserves to feel the kind of happiness that I have found with Arthur and that you have with Jonathan.”

  “So do I. To be a wife—to be Jonathan’s wife—to spend our lives together, to help him with his work, to become a mother—it is all I could ever want.”

  Lucy went quiet for a moment, and then said: “Mina: did you always feel that way?

  “What way?”

  “I know you and Jonathan have been friends for ever—but you did not regard him as a suitor until recently. Did you ever think of another man, before Jonathan?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Never? Surely, in the time since I left Upton Hall, there must have been some boy or man that you liked, and who liked you back—someone of whom you have never spoken?”

  “If there had been, you would know about it, Lucy. I have always told you everything.”

  “That will not do. A girl must keep a few secrets.” Lucy batted her eyelashes playfully. Then she laughed, and added: “I hope you know I am teasing, Mina. I have kept no secrets from you, either—or from Arthur. Mamma says honesty and respect are the most important things in a marriage, even more important than love, and I agree—don’t you?”

  “I do. Jonathan and I abhor secrecy and concealments. We made a solemn pact, long ago, that we would always be completely open with each other—a promise we believe is particularly important now that we are to become husband and wife.”

  “That is just as it should be.”

  We had reached the top of the steps now, and strolled past the Church of St. Mary’s, a fortresslike stone building with a stout tower and crenellated roof-top, whose sturdy exterior seemed ideally designed to survive the onslaughts of the stormy North Sea weather. Our explorations took us now to the adjoining ruins of Whitby Abbey—a gaunt, imposing, and most noble ruin of immense size, situated on sprawling green lawns, and surrounded by fields dotted with sheep. We could not help but stare in wonder at its beauty, taking in the grand, roofless nave, the soaring south transept, and the delicate lancets of the east end of the former abbey church.

  “There is a wonderful legend about this abbey, that I read about before I came,” I said. “They claim that on certain summer afternoons, when the sun strikes the northern part of the choir at a particular angle, a lady in white can be seen in one of the windows.”

  “A lady in white? Who can it be?”

  “Some believe it is the ghost of St. Hilda—the Saxon princess who founded the abbey as a monastery in the sixth century—seeking revenge from the Vikings who sacked her great edifice.”

  “A ghost!” Lucy cried with a laugh. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Of course not. No doubt the ‘vision’ is just a reflection caused by the sun’s beams.”

  “Well, I prefer the legend. It is far more romantic.”

  We left the abbey and headed back past the church, emerging into a wide-open area between the church and the cliff, which was full of weathered tombstones. “Good gracious,” I said. “What an immense churchyard—and what a view!”

  Indeed, the graveyard surrounding the church was very large and well situated. Resting dramatically atop the high cliff, it overlooked the to
wn and harbour on one side and the sea on the other—and it seemed to be a popular place. A good two dozen people were strolling along the series of paths that criss-crossed the churchyard, or sitting on the benches beside the walks, gazing at the view and enjoying the breeze.

  The view drew us like a magnet. We strode directly towards the eminence, where we found an iron bench, painted green, and situated close to the cliff’s edge. We sat down. The seat afforded a magnificent, panoramic view of the town and harbour below us, the endless sparkling sea, the sea-walls, two lighthouses, and the long stretches of sandy beach all the way up to the bay, to where the headland stretched out into the sea. Beside us, two artists worked at their easels; behind us, sheep and lambs bleated in the fields; I heard a clatter of donkey’s hooves up the paved road below, and the murmur of conversation of the passers-by; but otherwise, all was peaceful and utterly serene.

  “I think this is the nicest spot in Whitby,” I declared.

  “I could not agree more,” returned Lucy, “and this is the best seat in the whole place. I hereby claim it as our very own.”

  “I believe,” I said with a happy smile, “that I shall come up here quite often, to read or to write.”

  Had I known, then, of the events which would occur at this very spot, which would so disastrously alter Lucy’s fate, and so dramatically and inexorably influence mine, I would have turned around and insisted that we leave Whitby at once. At least—I like to think that I would have had the courage to do so. But how can one imagine the unimaginable? Particularly when it all began so innocently?

  ON MY FIRST NIGHT IN WHITBY, LUCY BEGAN WALKING IN HER sleep.

  The evening had been pleasant enough. After our walk, Lucy and I had returned to the house at the Royal Crescent, where we had enjoyed an early dinner with Mrs. Westenra. That good lady was in excellent spirits and welcomed me heartily. Afterwards, while Lucy and her mother went out to pay some duty calls on acquaintances in the area, I sneaked away to the East Cliff again on my own, where I spent a lovely hour sitting on “our bench” and writing in my journal.

  That night, however, not long after Lucy and I retired to our room and fell asleep, I was awakened by a rustling sound. It was a warm night, and we had left the shutters and window open. As I sleepily opened my eyes, in the glow of moonlight illuminating the chamber, I perceived that Lucy had risen from her bed and was dressing herself.

  “Lucy? What is wrong? Why are you up?”

  My friend did not answer but continued buttoning up her petticoat. Her eyes were wide and staring, with a sort of vacant look; now she took a skirt from the wardrobe and began to step into it.

  “Lucy!” I rose and padded barefoot across the room to her. “Why are you getting dressed?” Again, there was no answer; Lucy did not appear even to be aware of my presence. All at once, I understood what was happening.

  I had witnessed this peculiar behaviour on Lucy’s part on several previous occasions, years earlier, when we were at school. One snowy night, she had risen from our bed and walked outside, barefoot and in her nightdress; thankfully, a servant had found her before she froze to death, warmed her by the fire, and brought her back to bed. Another time, Lucy had dressed herself in her best coat and hat and walked down-stairs to the kitchen, where she had consumed a large slice of apple-pie and a glass of milk before she was discovered. The next morning, she had only a vague memory of these incidents, or none at all.

  “Lucy, dear,” I said now, as I put my hands on her shoulders and gazed into her vacant eyes, “it is the middle of the night. You must go back to bed. Let me help you undress.”

  To my relief, she did not fight me. At the sound of my voice, or perhaps it was the touch of my hands, her intention entirely disappeared, and she calmly yielded herself to my ministrations. I managed to undress her, put her nightdress back on, and get her back to bed, all without waking her.

  At breakfast the next morning, Lucy was her usual, sunny self, chattering away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the night before. With a little laugh, I told Lucy and her mother about what had happened.

  “Sleep-walking?” Lucy replied with a surprised laugh of her own, as she spread butter and jam on her toast. “It has been quite a long while since I did that.”

  Mrs. Westenra did not find the news as amusing as we did. “Oh dear,” said she, her pale forehead furrowing with concern as she played with the string of pearls around her neck. “I have always been worried about that old habit of yours, Lucy. To think that it should come back now, of all times, when we are at this strange, new place.”

  Mrs. Westenra was a petite but full-figured woman of five-and-forty. It was easy to see where her daughter had gotten her beauty, for they both possessed the same attractive features, the same deep blue eyes, dark, curly hair, and smooth, ivory complexion. Turning to me, Mrs. Westenra added, “She inherited this tendency from her father. Edward used to get up in the night and dress himself and go out if I did not wake him in time to stop him. One night in town, a bobby found him wandering about in St. James’s Park in his best Sunday suit. Another time, in the country, he took all his gear down to the river at two o’clock in the morning and went fishing.”

  Lucy laughed. “I remember that. Silly Papa.” Then her smile fled, and she grew misty-eyed as she sipped her cocoa. “Oh, how I miss him.”

  “Your father was a wonderful man,” I agreed.

  Mrs. Westenra shook her head sadly. “I never thought I would be left alone like this. I thought surely I would go first. Dear, dear Edward.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she reached across the table and took Lucy’s hand. “Thank goodness Lucy has been at home with me this past year and a half. How I shall get on after she is married, I do not know.”

  Lucy put her other hand atop her mother’s, meeting her gaze. “Mamma, you will do just fine. Arthur and I will not live far away, and we shall come to visit you so often, you will hardly know I am gone.”

  Mrs. Westenra dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “I hope so, my dearest. I am very happy for you, Lucy, and I hope you will be happy, too.”

  The two women shared a loving smile. I felt a warm glow of affection for them both—and at the same time, despite myself—a little pang of envy. It was one of my greatest sorrows in life that I had never known the joys of a mother’s or father’s love. The dark stigma of my past had been a source of mortification to me ever since I had learned of it as a child, and I still blushed with shame every time I thought of it.

  “Now let us talk about the wedding,” said Mrs. Westenra, recovering her spirits as she took a dainty bite of her scrambled eggs. “I think you and Arthur should be married as soon as possible.”

  “What is the rush, Mamma? Long engagements are very common. Even you and Papa waited a year before you married, did you not?”

  “Yes, but our circumstances were very different. Your father was struggling to start a new banking business, and he wanted it running smoothly before we wed. Arthur does not have any such financial constraints. He is very wealthy. As the only son, he will one day inherit Ring Manor and all of his father’s estates and holdings. There is no reason on earth for you to wait.” Mrs. Westenra spoke with such urgency, I sensed there might be some other reason behind her desire to see Lucy quickly wed; but she only added: “In any case, September is a lovely month for a wedding.”

  “Well, I will wait and see what Arthur says when he arrives,” Lucy said sweetly.

  “What about you, Mina?” Mrs. Westenra enquired. “When and where are you and Jonathan to wed? Have you made plans?”

  I hesitated, then said solemnly, “We had talked about marrying in Exeter in late summer—something very simple, of course—but now I do not know.” I told her about Jonathan’s business trip to Transylvania, how late he was in returning, and how long it had been since I had heard from him. “There is something about his last letter that does not satisfy me. It is his writing, and yet it does not read like him.”

  “Have you
written to his employer?” asked Mrs. Westenra.

  “I have. Mr. Hawkins has not heard a word either.”

  Lucy and her mother tried their best to allay my fears, but under the circumstances, there was little they could say. After breakfast, Lucy proposed a walk up to the East Cliff again. Her mother, who seemed winded just in walking from dining-room to sitting-room, begged us to excuse her. Before Lucy and I could go out, however, Mrs. Westenra took me aside privately and said, in a low, anxious tone:

  “Mina: I did not want to say anything in front of Lucy, but I am very worried about her.”

  “Why are you worried?”

  “It is this old habit of sleep-walking of hers. It can be a very dangerous thing. Say nothing to her of this; but you must promise me to keep an eye on her, and to lock the door of your room every night, so she cannot get out.”

  I gave Mrs. Westenra my solemn promise, firm in the belief that I could protect Lucy from all harm. Oh! How very wrong I turned out to be!

  THAT AFTERNOON, LUCY AND I RETURNED TO THE CHURCHYARD atop the East Cliff, where we chatted with a gnarled, former sailor called Mr. Swales, who said he was nearly a hundred years old. He and his two elderly cronies were so charmed by the sight of Lucy that they took seats next to her just moments after we sat down on our favourite bench. Lucy posed thoughtful questions about their adventures at sea with the Greenland fishing fleet, and their glory days during the battle of Waterloo.

  I was more interested in the subject of local legends; but when I turned the conversation in that direction, old Mr. Swales insisted that all those tales about the White Lady in the abbey window and so forth were stuff and nonsense.

  “They be just fool-talk for day-trippers and the like,” the elderly man scoffed. “Don’t ye pay them no mind, miss. If ye like tales, howsoever, I’ll tell ye some good ’uns that be true.”

  He went on to relate several colourful stories about the town and churchyard. Lucy became upset when he pointed out that the stone slab at our feet, upon which our favourite seat rested, was the grave of a man who had committed suicide. Mr. Swales assured her that he had sat there himself off and on for more than twenty years, and it had done him no harm.