Page 2 of Kept 2
Sighing, I fold down into the chair, sip my drink and close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath, before reaching into my bag and pulling out my mother’s well-worn recipe book. There is comfort in these pages, in the notes written in her tiny handwriting, in the recipes and the memories they invoke. I need to find something new to practise now that I’ve mastered the sauces. I wonder what I should concentrate on next to ensure I have a more complete understanding of French cuisine. But the words swim before my eyes; I can’t concentrate on tastes when I’m under the threat of being tasted myself, by a vampire.
Taking another deep breath, I put the recipe book back and withdraw the new journal James had given me; the vampire’s very first journal, stolen and spirited away from the UK by the possibly murdered, possibly not-yet-murdered, Lucy Bernshire.
I don’t want to read it – Blake was right about one thing, these books freaked me out, gave me nightmares, put shit into my head Ireallydid not need in there. But knowledge is also power.
“Know thy enemy,” I whisper, opening the journal and hoping against all hope I find some magic bullet that will render my pursuer dead in the water and allow me to return to my nice, safe, ordinary life.
Entry 1:
Journal 1, in the year of our Lord 1537
Given that Constance’s family has fallen on hard times, and my father no longer supports our betrothal, this night we wed in secret.
I start this journal as proof of my undying love and commitment to the one I adore, and as written legitimacy to her claim on my inheritance should I die during my forced departure from Ereston, to the court in London, where the plague runs riot.
I have written my will and testament and ensured that while I have little fluid funds, those I do have and are entitled to, will go to Constance. It is my intention that this wealth will allow my wife to thrive comfortably until the Estate comes into her possession and can produce compensation. This may take some time, given the lands are burdened with debt due to my father’s mismanagement and overspending.
In writing this will, in leaving my entitled property and possessions to my wife, I know I will go expressly against the resolve of my father. I know and have told my beloved, that should my death precede my father’s there is no chance he will allow my will to be honoured - but she accepts me regardless, in richer and poorer. I can only pray that I outlive him if even for a day, should this plague reach our house, as it has so many others.
As for my forced separation from my new wife. My own parents insist publicly to Constance’s mother and father, their ‘good friends,’ Mr and Mrs Ingleby that my going to court will expand my mind and allow Constance to reach maturity before marriage.
But in truth, since the Ingleby’s have lost their fortune, and now live in our lesser Manor house on the eastern edge of Ereston Estate, this is not so. My father and mother have appeared to be continual and particular supporters of the family, they have offered sustained companionship and aid to Constance and her mother and a small stipend to Mr Ingleby to allow him to continue his business operations and work himself out of debt – but behind closed doors they revile them for their mistakes.
They also now make motions to secure me, their heir, a more worthy wife, one of status and consequence, one with money.
“She is no longer befitting the heir to Ereston,” my droll and avaricious bitch of a stepmother intoned just a few days ago.
My father agreed.
“Your separation will cure you of your affection for her when you see what lovelies there are at court, what sophisticated and worthy young matches you can encounter, when your eyes are not blinded by puppy love.”
Both could not be more wrong.
I could not part from her, as decreed by Mother and Father, without our bond being secured. And although we have not consummated our marriage, lest a pregnancy ensue, we are bound in the eyes of God.
Our joining was performed and witnessed by our Catholic parish priest, illegally of course, since the King has changed our country’s religion. But Constance is, as I am at heart, Catholic, and so there was no contest as to whom would witness our troth.
Our secret nuptials were also, in truth, the priest’s opportunity to thwart my father, who has had the church’s paintings whitewashed,and stained glass windows smashed at the behest of the crown, and who, being a favourite of the King, has absorbed the surrounding land, cemetery and all, into Ereston.
Tomorrow I must leave for London. My heart is heavy, it feels as if I can hardly breathe with the pain of our separation, and I know, dear Constance feels it just as deeply.
I have told her I will record all my daily doings in this journal – keep my conversations and thoughts recorded for her and posterity and remain true and faithful to our marriage.
I must sleep now. The journey starts early and is long.
I close the book as my flight is announced and frown, it didn’t seem like I had waited long at all, or maybe I was so absorbed in what I was reading the time had flown.
He seems so young, so full of hope, so good at this time. Obviously, something terrible happens to turn him into the sarcastic and murderous creature he is now.
Whatever. It is my turn to head to London now, and I have a hell of a lot more to worry about than the fucking plague.
2
London is not far enough, not nearly far enough, but I can’t go to Paris – too obvious.
I bite my nails as I sit, hunched and dejected, in my plane seat and think through my options. I don’t have much money left, just a little over $1500 – so another long flight, say Bali, is out of the question.
Ideally, I’d head to France, to Rennes, the place my maternal grandparents hailed from before their move to the US. I’ve longed to see this place ever since I was a little girl.
