Page 15 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

15

May 16, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

My hopes that all Doctor Seward’s visits would include Quincey Morris, who is at least distracting and tolerable, have been thoroughly dashed.

He—the doctor, with no Texan in tow—arrived early this morning, bearing his doctor’s bag and also flowers. I wanted neither. With barely an examination, he told Mother that the condition of her heart was “precarious” and she had best retreat to her bed. Then he insisted on taking me on a walk about the park because my color was “off.” As though I am a pampered pet and must not be allowed outside without a leash and minder.

I resolved to endure it as best I could. There is nothing outright beastly about the doctor. Mother certainly likes him. I do feel I’m being unfair to him at times. It’s not his fault that his hair looks like a patch of dying grass, or that his breath has the strangest smell of antiseptic, or that he speaks in a monotone so droning I can feel it in my teeth. I can be indifferent to all those things. But spending time with him is like being under observation. I am more specimen than a person. I would so love to be a person sometimes.

The day was beautiful, though, and despite the company I enjoyed the walk.

Doctor Seward stopped. “You should sit,” he said to me, pointing to a bench. I informed him that I would like to continue walking. He insisted I sit, so I sat. Perhaps I am a pampered pet, and a well-trained one at that. Mother has taught me it’s always better to do as I’m told; it’s not worth the fight.

Doctor Seward’s face became even graver than usual. The light caught on his glasses so that his eyes appeared to be two half-moons of brilliant white, impassive light, burning down at me.

“Your mother is dying,” he said.

How does one respond when calmly informed of such a thing? My etiquette lessons never included this. I said the first thing that came to mind, which was the wrong thing. I should never say what’s actually on my mind. I know better.

“How long will it take?” I asked. His eyebrows raised in surprise and perhaps alarm, so I pulled out my kerchief and hid my face, feigning upset. Was I feigning? It is upsetting. But at the moment I only wanted information. Everyone’s always keeping the truth from me for my own protection.

“I can see you’re overcome with emotion,” Doctor Seward said, which proves that while he can watch me all he wants, he doesn’t see anything. “Here, this will calm you.” He held out a vile little vial. He’s always offering me laudanum drops, or other things in powders or pills. I never take them. I can only be myself in my own thoughts; why would I let something else influence those thoughts?

“No,” I demurred. “I must stay strong for Mother.”

He droned some nonsense about my own tender and excitable nerves needing care, relentlessly pushing the laudanum on me until at last I accepted. I slipped behind a tree as though modest and fearful of being observed—though laudanum drops are hardly a shocking matter among women of my station—then poured half the bottle into my handkerchief.

Doctor Seward seemed satisfied after that, assured my womanly hysterics would not inconvenience him. I moved as if in a daze while he walked me home—not because I was pretending to have taken his laudanum, but because I was actually in a daze.

Mother is dying. I still cannot force my mind to accept the information. Mother is everywhere; Mother is infinite. Mother is the gravity of my whole life, keeping me chained to the earth, forever revolving around her. What will happen when gravity ceases its terrible tyranny? Will I float away? Will I shed my mortal coil and become nothing but light and happiness? Or will I be condemned to hell for these very thoughts?

(I do not believe in hell, I think. It feels too much like something Mother would invent to keep me in line. Fire and brimstone and eternal torment to deal with if I’m not a perfect doll who can marry well! Though marrying any man I know seems about as close to eternal torment as I can imagine.)

I was in a state of frantic confusion when I arrived home, ready to write a letter to Mina, begging her to come over. I burst into tears upon finding Arthur Holmwood in the sitting room waiting for me, instead.

“My mother is dying,” I said, hoping he would excuse himself out of shame for my hysterics.

To my surprise, he rose from the sofa and took my hands in his. Genuine concern creased his brow. He looked at me like I was a person, rather than a silly girl.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Westenra. Please, come, sit. Would you like to talk about it?”

No one ever asks me what I’d like. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh in my judgment of Arthur. I babbled some of my fears—how long it might take, whether she would suffer very much. He generously assumed that I was afraid for her, rather than afraid of how badly this would increase my burdens. But he listened with gentle patience as I came to the end of my fears and was faced with the reality of the moment.

“Perhaps we should consult a specialist,” I said, reluctantly.

He patted my hand, mustache pursing thoughtfully over his thin lips. “That’s certainly an option. But I worry. She likes Doctor Seward so much. Would it upset her to introduce someone new?”

“It would upset her. You’re right, it might do more harm than good. We must avoid upsetting her at all costs.” I was relieved he agreed with me. I am certainly going to hell for my feelings, but I do not want someone who might make her live another five, ten years. I cannot pretend it is out of concern for prolonging her suffering, only out of concern for my own.

He nodded, immediately trusting my assessment. It was nice to be listened to. “In that case, allow me to bring in a solicitor to make certain all your mother’s affairs are in order. This is a perilous time for a young woman. We must secure all your inheritances so no distant, predatory relations swoop in and take advantage.”

I had not thought of that. In truth, we’ve always had so much money that I’m careless and unaware of the cost of living, a fact Mina has often pointed out to me. I readily agreed to Arthur’s offer, grateful that he understands these things and is willing to help.

I’ve softened toward him. I should be more generous in my judgments of others. After all, I’ve only known Arthur for a month. Surely if he does not really know me, I do not really know him, either. He could be a friend. And I have so few people in my life who care to protect me. Perhaps I can be a good friend to him, too, and convince him to shave his silly mustache. But gently, so as not to hurt his feelings by pointing out how much it looks like the clippings from a dog’s coat.

Now I am as tired as I have ever been. Mother is in bed at last, none the wiser for what Doctor Seward told me. Part of me wants her to know what’s coming for her. But then she holds my hand so tightly and says I’m her whole world, her heart outside of her body, and I feel ashamed of my secret dark resentment.

If Mother is dying, I can make her happy for what time she has left, and I can let Arthur help. It will not kill me.