Page 46 of Now Comes the Mist

Vlad sits back, regarding me with approval and profound interest. I am more daring than he expected me to be. But before he can reply, the people around us utter pleased murmurs as the sun begins filtering through the clouds, casting a soft golden light over Whitby. The sky lightens, and in a minute, the sun will free itself and burst upon the town.

“What a beautiful day it has turned out to be,” Mina says, relieved to change the subject. “Are you staying here in town, sir?”

Vlad stands up abruptly, towering over us, and Mina startles. “I beg your pardon, Miss Murray, but I have just recalled an engagement I cannot miss. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “It was lovely to meet you as well, Count.”

I wait for him to acknowledge me, but he holds his hand out only to Mina, smiling with chivalrous charm. Hesitantly, she places her fingers in his and flinches, no doubt at the coldness of his touch. “It will be easy to love England if everyone I meet follows your shining example,” he says.“You seem a remarkable lady, Miss Murray. And quite a beloved one, I think. I hope we will meet again. Good day.” He strides away without a second glance at me.

“What a strange man,” Mina says thoughtfully, rubbing the hand he had held.

“You did not like him? Even after all the pretty compliments he gave you?” I frown, annoyed by how he had almost ignored my existence.

“I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him. But I find it interesting that he spoke with a heavy accent when we first met him, and by the end of our chat, his English was almost perfect. Did you notice? And how quickly he left when the sun came out. Perhaps his skin burns easily, as mine does. He is paler than anyone I’ve seen.”

“He does seem the sort to be vain and use a parasol,” I quip.

But Mina isn’t listening. “He seems well spoken and amiable enough, but I got the strange sense that he was laughing at us. There was something in his voice, perhaps, or the flash of his eyes. As though he were an adult speaking to two amusing, precocious children.”

I look at her, surprised. “How observant you are, my Mina.”

“The diaries I keep have taught me to use my eyes and ears,” she says, smiling. “He was very cool toward you, darling. Perhaps you offended him by questioning him so thoroughly about his travels. You seemed to think he was lying to us about his journey.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” I ask, sick of the subject of Vlad. “He’s no one and nothing to me. And here is Mamma at last. Let’s go home. I’ve a frightful headache.”

My mother comes out of the post office with Mrs. Edgerton, a widow with whom we had become vaguely acquainted last summer. “Girls, how on earth did you manage to meet the count so quickly?” Mamma asks, glowing with excitement. “All the ladies in the post office are in a flutter over him. And Mrs. Edgerton here knows all about him.”

“You do?” I ask the widow, astonished.

Quiet, reserved Diana Edgerton is in her midthirties and pretty in a faded way, with light brown hair and soft dark eyes. She is often overlooked and forgotten at parties but is tolerated by Whitby’s high society because of the lofty fortune and beautiful summer home her elderly husband had left her. She keeps herself apart and spurns any and all advances of true friendship, including my own, but I do not take offense as the other ladies do, being so fond of solitude myself. And I have always liked the romance of her mysterious past: according to the gossips, she had been a harpistof some fame, disowned by her family for pursuing a musical career, and had met her husband in one of the great houses where she had performed.

“I made the count’s acquaintance this morning,” Mrs. Edgerton says in her soft voice. “He got lost on the beach in front of my house, and as it was cold and rainy, he begged to come in for a cup of tea. We spoke for an hour or two before I directed him into town.”

“An hour or two?” I say playfully to hide my growing annoyance with Vlad. Clearly, I am not as special as he had made me feel on all our evenings together, and he is still searching for thatperfectwoman. “Then you trulydoknow all about him.”

Mamma laughs. “Mrs. Edgerton was forbidden to leave the post office without giving the ladies a full account of the meeting. They even kept me from going out to you girls, for fear of interrupting your tête-à-tête! I think they were hoping he might make one of you his countess.”

“But that is impossible,” Mina says, upset. “Lucy and I are both engaged to be married.”

“I know,” my mother says, touching her shoulder. “It was all in fun, of course. If anyone is to be a candidate for countess, it would beyou.” She raises an arched eyebrow at Mrs. Edgerton, who blushes and stares with her wide doe eyes. “And why not? You are quite pretty and of a good age for him, and the gentleman is so very dashing.”

“I beg you would not say such things, Mrs. Westenra, even in kindness and jest,” Mrs. Edgerton murmurs, though she cannot hide her pleasure at the suggestion.

I stand up, faintly nauseated by the sight of the widow blushing over Vlad. “Mamma, do stop mortifying the poor lady and let us go home. I would like to rest. I was feeling faint earlier.”

“Oh, yes, that was how we met the count,” Mina says. “He gallantly gave her his chair.”

“Poor Lucy. We will go at once.” Mamma smiles at the widow. “Mrs. Edgerton, I hope you will visit us soon. You are welcome at any time. One must not be alone so much.”

“Yes, perhaps, thank you,” Mrs. Edgerton says quietly.

Mamma, Mina, and I head toward home just as one last cloud obscures the sun on its way out to sea. The sudden gloom jars the brilliance like an incorrectly played note in a piece of music and only intensifies my ill humor. I remain silent as my mother and Mina discuss the widow.

“How reserved Mrs. Edgerton is,” Mina says. “She seems lonely. I feel for her.”

My mother nods. “She’s a bit of a shrinking violet. Lucy and I try to befriend her, but she always has some flimsy excuse for not accepting our invitations. It would be good for her to marry again and choose someone who seems as sociable as the count.”

“He is still a stranger,” Mina protests gently. “We know next to nothing about him.”

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