I take out my handkerchief and dab the bit of lace-trimmed fabric along my temple. The air is much too close. My confidence fades. While I appear to have fooled him, I don’t even know Mary’s full story yet, and my ruse is full of holes. The longer I engage in conversation with him, the more likely he will see through my unpracticed veneer. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.
Varina ends her song, and the room explodes in applause. In the brief pause before the next song, Dr. Broadbent leans close and whispers, “I can see by your expression that I’ve frightened you. But wedohave a persistent murderess, Mrs. Jones. A she-devil who hungers for the blood of young women.”
“How terrible.” I nearly slip out of my Scots accent but catch myself just in time to roll myr’s.
“Yes. As a physician, it’s harrowing but fascinating. I’ve been practicing medicine for over twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. Bodies completely drained of blood.”
“And it’s a woman? This murderer?”
“Yes. Lillian Carmichael. She’s been seen about town since her apparent death. She collapsed on the morning of her execution, on the way to the gallows. She murdered her own sister. Poisoned her.”
At this, I flinch.
“Miss Carmichael was a former patient of mine. I examined her corpse myself. Her body, though absent of heartbeat, pulse, and breath, was remarkably preserved. I’ve never seen the like.”
“How uncanny,” I say. Although I manage to keep my voice steady, inside, I’m tied in knots. With his cool manner and probing questions, I have the feeling Dr. Broadbent is toying with me. That he senses my dissembling. I must find a way to extricate myself from this party, undetected, before my lies get the better of me.
I try to control my emotions, as Kate admonished, focusing on the glittering tableau of wealth surrounding me—the plasterwork ceiling with its swirling clouds, the whale oil chandeliers, the fashionable taffeta-clad ladies with their ruffles and lace. Vanities I once believed important.
“I’ve read a story written by a fellow physician, Dr. Polidori,” Broadbent continues, losing no interest in the topic at hand, “though as a lady, you’re unlikely to have read it yourself. I’m convinced Miss Carmichael must be akin to the creature Polidori describes in his novella. A vampire. I’m curious whether he ever encountered such a creature himself. I’d give anything to study one. To capture Miss Carmichael and investigate her physiology. The science that might come about ... it would be truly uncharted territory.”
I could almost laugh if I weren’t disgusted. But even though the killer isn’t me, what if he’s right? What if thereissome beastly creature walking the streets of Charleston, draining women of their blood? Whether it’s a human or monster, I’d be in just as much danger as any other lady here. So would Kate. Suddenly, everything feels like a waking nightmare. I recall my terrible dream of Rebecca. Her sharp teeth and wild, rage-filled eyes. Surely ... no. The thought is abominable. My sister has been dead for nearly three years. It couldn’t be her.
“Ireallyshould escort you home,” Broadbent says, turning the subject effortlessly. “Should we become separated, come find me before you leave. I’ll safely see you returned to your cousin.” His persistence isjarring. His interest unsettling. The urge to flee screams through me. All my petty jealousy over Kate and Barbara, my foolish curiosity—none of it was worth the risk of this encounter. Suddenly, the neckline of my dress feels much too snug. The air too thin to breathe.
As soon as Varina begins the next song, I excuse myself with a smile and slip down the hall and up a set of stairs. I hide behind a hutch, clawing open the neck of my bodice as I try to catch my breath. I bite my lip until I taste blood. A Negro maid comes out of one of the rooms, her eyes widening. “Ma’am, you’re bleeding. Are you all right?”
“Is there a room where I can hide, until the party is over? Please. I beg of you.”
“Certainly.” A moment of immediate understanding passes between us. “Come with me.”
She ushers me down the hall and unlocks a door, motioning me inside. “This room belongs to the mistress’s daughter. She’s with her grandmother tonight, across town. No one will find you here.”
“Thank you,” I say, sobbing, barely comprehending the fact that Barbara is a mother.
The maid gives me a shy smile, presses a clean handkerchief into my hand, then leaves me. I collapse onto the thick Aubusson carpet and try to push aside my memories, but they come anyway. They have nothing to do with blood-drinking monsters, but they’re nearly as vile. My mother, swooning with pleasure in Dr. Broadbent’s arms, while on the other side of the house, Rebecca lay dying, with Papa in prayer at her bedside.
Sixteen
I stay in the room until I can no longer bear it. I need fresh air. Though all my fears have coalesced—Dr. Broadbent’s questions, along with the very real possibility of encountering the murderer, alone and defenseless on the streets—I need to get out of this house. The sound of Kate’s singing filters up to me as I sneak into the hall and slink down the servant stairs, gather my cloak, and slip out of doors, undetected. I hurry to White Point Gardens, where I’ll hide and watch for Kate. She’ll have to pass by the gardens on her way to the wharves, where our rowboat is surely moored. Though I shudder to think of her anger when she discovers I’ve followed her, I don’t feel safe walking to the wharves alone, where it’s unlikely I’ll find a boatman willing to ferry me over the Cooper at this time of night.
I nestle against the trunk of one of the sheltering oaks near the entry gate, hidden in the shadows beneath its low branches. I pray Kate’s performance ends soon. I long to be back at Angel’s Rest, where the fear overtaking the city can’t reach us.
I’m there for only a few minutes before I hear a soft whimpering from somewhere deeper in the park. It sounds like a hurt animal. My ears perk up. The sound grows louder, more desperate, until it becomes a high-pitched mewling like a kitten or a rabbit in pain. I can’t bear it. I’ve always had a soft spot for animals. We rescued our wolfhound, Walter, from drowning as a puppy—someone had tied him into a bag and tossed it into the Ashley River.
The mewling rises in intensity, then diminishes again. To my shock, I make out a word: “Please.” It’s not an animal. It’s a woman. All my instincts tell me she’s in danger. My conscience spurs me to action. I rush from my hiding place and up the path. What I see next makes my blood turn to ice. A man—for it is a man, there’s no denying it—crouches over a woman lying on the ground, her legs akimbo. A person happening upon them might think they were mid-tryst, but her cries are of pain. Not pleasure. Everything in me screams to run. To turn away. But I can’t.
“Stop!” I screech. “Get away from her!”
The man stills. Lifts himself from between the woman’s legs and, without looking at me, lopes into the low-hanging oaks. I catch a glimpse of a pale face. Dark, feral eyes.
I rush to the woman and kneel at her side. Shock and disbelief wash over me. It’s Arabella Meade, her prim curls unbound, skirts rucked above her waist, her drawers ripped. The ground beneath her is soaked with blood. A wound on her inner thigh pulses. I pull her skirts down and try to use the fabric to stanch the flow, but it does little good. The silk taffeta soaks through in seconds. She lifts her head weakly, her eyes wide and frightened. She attempts to speak and cannot.
Time slows. If I don’t get help, and soon, she’ll die. Dr. Broadbent. I pray he’s still at the party. “I’m going to get help, Bella,” I say, using the diminutive Rebecca had used. They were always Bella and Becca. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Arabella’s eyes plead with me.Don’t leave me.
But I must. I fly through the park, back to the Kincaid mansion. I push through the double doors and up the stairs, into the ballroom. Most of the guests have left, but Dr. Broadbent is there, conversing with Georgina McClintock. “Help!” I scream. “It’s Miss Meade!”
