“You’re probably wondering what got into me this morning,” she began.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Walter said.
“Oh, good,” said Jane. “Then just forget I said anything.”
Walter laughed. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll let me off that easy.”
“Excuse me,” Jane said. “But I’m the one who has to provide an explanation.”
“And I’m the one who has to listen to it,” said Walter.
Jane wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or offended by his tone, but she chose to believe that Walter was joking with her. This made her want to be open and honest with him, and so she decided to be as truthful as she could be.
“It’s all Lucy’s fault,” she said, her resolve crumbling before the first word had left her mouth. “She had me thinking all kinds of crazy things. You know how she is.”
“Uh-huh,” Walter said.
“What?” said Jane.
“Lucy had you thinking all kinds of crazy things?” Walter said. “Pardon me for suggesting such a thing, but is it possible that it’s actually the other way around?”
“What are you implying?” Jane asked.
“I’m implying that you’re the one whose imagination occasionally gets the better of her,” said Walter.
“It does not!” Jane objected. A moment later she said, “Well, perhaps once or twice.”
“Yes, once or twice,” Walter agreed.
Jane sighed. “I don’t know how you can put up with me.”
“Because I love you,” Walter said. “If I got upset every time you did something odd, I would have given up years ago. But I’ve gotten used to it.”
“You get used to ugly carpeting,” Jane said huffily. “And Jennifer Aniston’s new haircut. You make it sound as though I need to be endured.”
“Are you saying that you want me to be disturbed by your behavior?” asked Walter.
“Of course not,” Jane replied, wondering how the conversation had gone so horribly wrong.
“Look,” said Walter. “I don’t always know what goes on in that head of yours. And yes, on occasion you do things that are, well, unusual. But that’s what makes you who you are, and I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”
“All right then,” Jane said. “And thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Walter said.
“I’m probably going to get odder, you know,” Jane told him.
“I’ll be surprised if you don’t,” said Walter.
Jane looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“And here we go,” Walter said.
Half an hour later they passed Courmayeur, entered the Mont Blanc Tunnel, and emerged in France. Another hour brought them to Geneva, and then they were driving up a long, narrow road. Jane, who had been napping, awoke when she felt the car stop. She opened her eyes and promptly uttered a very unladylike word.
“Is something wrong?” asked Walter, who had gotten out of the car and was stretching the stiffness from his limbs.
“No,” Jane said quickly. “I’m just surprised is all. I didn’t know we were coming here. I mean, I knew we were coming to Geneva. I didn’t know we were coming to this particular house.”
Villa Diodati had changed little since her last visit nearly two hundred years before. As Jane got out of the car and looked at the house, she remembered quite clearly walking up the drive and seeing Byron standing on the pillared porch. Only a few roses had still been in bloom, and the lavender had been cut back for the year. The cool touch of autumn had brought out the color in the leaves, and the days were growing shorter. But in her heart it had been summer.
“You know who lived here, don’t you?” Walter asked.
Jane nodded. She was staring at the green-shuttered windows, imagining a face looking back at her. Then she realized there was a face looking back at her. It was Lucy, and she was waving. Jane raised her hand and waved back.
“I do,” Jane said, answering Walter’s question.
“We’re really lucky that we get to stay here,” said Walter as he opened the trunk and removed their suitcases. “It’s not open to the public. But Chumsley knows the—”
“We’re staying here?” Jane said, whirling around.
“Yes,” said Walter. “Chumsley is friends with the owner. He’s not here, so we have the run of the place.”
“Couldn’t we stay in a hotel?” Jane asked.
“I thought you would be thrilled to stay here,” said Walter. “How many people can say they slept in the same house where Mary Shelley dreamed up Frankenstein?”
Jane didn’t know how to respond. After all, Walter was right—anyone with any literary inclinations at all would jump at the chance to spend a night in such a fabled place as Villa Diodati. It was the center of much fascination, all of which Jane understood all too well. That same fascination had brought her there when she was still mortal.
She took a deep breath and walked with Walter to the front door, where they were met by Lucy. As Walter carried the bags inside, Lucy hugged Jane.
“Are you all right?” she whispered in her ear.
Jane nodded. “I think so,” she said.
She looked around. Although the outside of the villa was mostly unchanged, the inside had been greatly renovated. This brought some measure of relief, although Jane could still envision exactly where a chaise longue had been and where a painting of cows in a field had once hung. It was as if two houses existed, one inside the other, and wherever she turned she caught glimpses of the older house peeking through.
“Where is everyone?” she heard Walter ask Lucy.
“All over,” Lucy told him. “There’s really nothing planned. Everyone is just kind of hanging out. Chumsley, Brodie, Sam, and Orsino are playing cards and smoking cigars in the living room. Enid and Genevieve are looking at the gardens. And Ben’s taking a nap.”
“What about Suzu?” Jane asked hesitantly.
“Gone,” said Lucy.
“Gone?” Jane said. “As in gone to town?”
“As in gone,” said Lucy. “She had us drop her at the airport. She said something about needing to get back to Tokyo tonight.”
“Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about seeing her again,” Walter said to Jane.
“I suppose not,” Jane said. She looked at Lucy. “Any other interesting developments?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Are we in any particular room?” Walter asked.
“We saved you the one next to ours,” Lucy said. “It’s just up those stairs, on the right.”
“I’ll take these up then,” said Walter.
When he was gone Lucy said, “Did you know we were coming here?”
“No,” said Jane. “It’s a bit of a shock.”
“I know you’re wondering, so I’ll just tell you—they think you were off your meds this morning.”
“My meds?” Jane said. “What meds?”
“The ones for your bipolar disorder,” said Lucy.
“But I don’t have—” Jane began.
“You do now,” said Lucy. “And when you don’t take your meds you start to imagine things.”
Jane opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. She opened it again, and again shut it. Finally she said, “That’s not a bad explanation.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “I thought it worked rather well.”
“Am I on my meds now?” Jane asked.
Lucy nodded. “Walter made sure you took them,” she said.
“Good,” said Jane. “Do they still think I pitched Ryan over the wall?”
“That’s unclear,” Lucy answered. “I think they kind of like the idea that you might have, though, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“This morning went rather badly,” said Jane. “And now what am I supposed to do about Suzu? She demanded that I give her Crispin’s Needle in exchange for Miriam. But if she’s run off, how can I possibly give it to her
? Never mind that it either has disintegrated or was a myth to begin with.”
“Somehow I suspect she’ll turn up again,” Lucy said. “There’s no way she’s just disappeared. I think she was just trying to make everyone believe she was gone.”
“You’re probably right,” said Jane. “I’d just feel better knowing where she is.”
“Jane!” Walter called from upstairs. “You have to see this room.”
“Should I tell him I already have?” Jane murmured to Lucy.
She went upstairs and pretended to be appropriately awed by the room. She was relieved that it wasn’t Byron’s room, which was down the hall and was being occupied by Orsino. She then endured a tour of the house narrated by Chumsley, who not surprisingly focused on the summer of 1816 and the visit paid to Byron by Percy Shelley, Mary Godwin, and Claire Claremont.
“It was the eruption of Mount Tambora the year previous that caused what was later referred to as the ‘year without a summer,’ ” Chumsley told them. “It was perpetually gloomy and rained nearly every day.”
This was true. Jane remembered it well. At the time, the notion that the eruption of a volcano in Indonesia could affect the weather in Europe had seemed fantastical. Some of the more superstitious among the population even suggested that black magic played a role in the events, inventing covens of black-robed witches summoning forth the demons of hell. For what reason they might do this no one ever fully explained, but it was a thrilling idea and the subject of more than one penny dreadful.
Chumsley continued with his story. “Because there was little that could be done outside, the party amused themselves by telling ghost stories,” he said. “Several of them—most notably Mary Godwin and Byron’s personal physician, John Polidori—committed their stories to paper and gave us Frankenstein and The Vampyre.”
“We should do that,” Sam said.
“Do what?” Genevieve asked.
“Tell ghost stories,” said Sam. “Tonight. After dinner.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Chumsley said.
And so they did. Following a light supper of salad, grilled trout, and apfelküchlein prepared by a girl from the village, they gathered in the salon, where Chumsley surprised them by producing a bottle of absinthe. He poured it into eleven delicate reservoir glasses, then for each one repeated the process of pouring water over a sugar cube balanced on a cunning slotted spoon. The air was soon filled with a woody, herbal smell.
“You’ve counted wrong,” Enid said as Chumsley handed round the glasses. “There’s only ten of us.”
“The eleventh glass is for our friend Lord Byron,” Chumsley said. “I’m hoping he will be kind enough to join us for the evening’s storytelling.”
Oh, good gods, you have no idea what you’re asking, Jane thought. But part of her did wonder what Byron would make of their little party. She would have to tell him about it when they got home.
There was a fire in the fireplace, and for the occasion the lights had been turned off and candles placed throughout the room. The flickering flames cast shadows on the walls and lit up the faces of the assembled group. All in all, Jane thought, it was very atmospheric, even if it did make her feel wistful. She leaned against Walter, who sat beside her on the sofa, and he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Who will start us off?” Chumsley asked.
“Jane likes to tell stories,” Genevieve said. “I think she should begin.”
Jane bristled at the implication but decided to take the high road. “All right,” she said. “Just give me a moment to think.”
She considered various tales she had heard throughout the years. In the end, though, she decided to make up one of her own. It was about a girl who had no heart. The girl tried to make a heart out of many things—the innards of a clock, a rose, a bell. But nothing made her feel alive. Then one night she awoke to the sound of a thunderstorm. Going to the window, she watched as lightning lit up the sky. She ran outside with a jar and waited until the lightning flashed again. She caught it in the jar along with some wind and rain, then screwed the top on tightly. She placed the jar where her heart should have been, and she felt the storm raging inside her. Then she felt truly alive.
It wasn’t really a ghost story, but Jane was pleased with it nonetheless. When she finished, there was polite applause.
“I do believe la fée verte is working its magic,” Chumsley said, saluting Jane with his glass of absinthe. “That was a most macabre tale. Now who’s next?”
Jane sipped some absinthe and snuggled closer to Walter. She only half listened as Sam began to tell a story about a church haunted by a headless vicar. Closing her eyes, she let the sound of the voices around her become a gentle murmur, the tone changing as each story finished and a new one began. She was very tired, and when Walter shook her gently to wake her she wondered if she’d slept all night. But it was only a little past midnight.
She went upstairs with Walter and got ready for bed. Walter fell asleep almost immediately, but Jane’s nap had revived her, and she found herself awake. Her thoughts turned to Crispin’s Needle, then to Suzu and Miriam. What am I going to do? she wondered.
It had begun to rain, and the pattering on the window distracted her. When lightning flashed, followed by the boom of a thunderclap, she decided to get up. The storm was reminiscent of the one that had shaken the valley the night of her transformation into a vampire so long ago. She wondered how Walter could sleep through it, but he dozed peacefully as another crackle of lightning lit up his face.
Jane got out of bed and went into the hallway. The house was quiet. I’m the only one awake, she thought as she crept downstairs. She was drawn to the front door of the house, which she opened, then stepped out onto the porch. She stood there as the rain fell, not caring that she was getting wet.
“It’s just like the night he turned me,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” said a voice. “Although I believe you were wearing a different nightgown. One a bit sexier.”
Jane jumped. When she turned she saw Byron standing on the steps. Despite the shorter hair and modern clothes, he looked just as he had the first time she saw him. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming. Then she saw the suitcase at his feet.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I thought you might be in need of my assistance,” he said.
“But how did you—”
“Second sight, vampire powers, cosmic woo-hoo,” Byron replied, waving his hands in the air. “Something like that.”
Another figure emerged from the storm, coming to stand beside Byron.
“Oh,” Byron said. “And I brought a friend.”
Friday: Geneva
“YOU LOOK AWFULLY FAMILIAR,” CHUMSLEY SAID AS HE SPREAD marmalade on a scone. “I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“I hear that a lot,” said Byron. “I have one of those faces.”
Indeed you do, Jane thought. And if anyone looks at the portrait of you hanging in the sitting room, they’ll know why that is.
“How did you say you know Rosemary and Guy?” asked Chumsley, referring to their absent hosts.
“I didn’t,” Byron replied. “But since you asked, I’m the godfather to their baby. I saw them at the Berlin Film Festival last week—Rosemary won a Silberner Bär, by the way—and mentioned that I would be passing through Geneva. They suggested I overnight here. I know they wish they could be here with all of us, but you know how it is when you have a film to promote.”
“Of course,” said Chumsley. “Well, it’s certainly a happy coincidence that you’ve come at the same time your friends are here.”
“Isn’t it?” said Byron as he poured himself another cup of tea.
Jane was still getting over the shock of Byron’s midnight arrival. She was also still wondering exactly who his friend was. The man was very good-looking, with thick blond hair, dark eyes, and a rugged physique. He appeared to be in his early forties. His name, as Byron had intro
duced him, was William. Byron had yet to explain why they were there. He and William had retired for the night shortly after Jane had encountered them. The only information she’d gotten out of Byron was that Sarah was being looked after by Shelby, a bit of news that greatly relieved Ben when he walked into breakfast to see the man supposedly taking care of his daughter seated there leisurely drinking a cup of coffee.
This left Jane with numerous unasked, and therefore unanswered, questions. Nor could she ask them now, as the room was filled with people getting their breakfasts. Byron and William were proving to be quite popular with both the ladies (apart from Sam) and the gentlemen (particularly Orsino and Chumsley) of the party. Jane was used to this kind of response to Byron’s brooding good looks and flirtatious charm, but William was proving to be nearly his equal in the reactions he elicited from those around him.
Jane had to remind herself repeatedly to call Byron Brian. This was always difficult for her, and was made even more so by the current setting. She couldn’t see him in the villa without thinking of him as the great Lord Byron. But at least in front of those who didn’t know his true identity (meaning everyone save Jane and Lucy) he was Brian George, writer of romance novels.
“I’m sorry you all have to leave today,” Byron said to the assembled table. “If I’d known this was to be your last day, I might have come sooner.”
In fact, the breakfast they were eating was to be their last meal together. A bus was coming at ten o’clock to take them all to the airport, where they would board planes and return to their respective homes. Jane, Walter, Lucy, and Ben were scheduled to return to London for a few more days, but Jane had a feeling those plans were about to change.
She waited impatiently for a chance to speak to Byron alone.
She finally got it when, half an hour before the bus was to arrive, everyone scattered to their rooms to finish packing. Jane sent Lucy on a mission of distraction, telling her to request a tour of the villa’s smaller guest house from Walter, who she knew would be only too happy to talk about the various architectural features of the building.