Chapter 57: Boundaries
by Luciaphil
Once upon a time, The world was sweeter than we knew,
Everything was ours, How
happy we were then .
. . But, somehow, once upon a
time, Never comes again!
~ From the 1962 Stage musical "All American"
Lyrics by Lee Adams
* * *
Voiceover (Louis Edmonds): On this night in 1897, the
residents of Collinwood
sink deeper into darkness. One threat has been extinguished, but they
are but
a prelude to what will follow if Victoria Winters and
Barnabas Collins cannot
solve a deadly puzzle.
* * *
Petofi set the Vessel of Anubis down. The Hand was nearby. That was a great
relief, not that he would ever voice such a sentiment,
least of all to a toy
like Charles.
“It is time,” he announced.
“Time for what?”
He ignored Charles, not the easiest feat.
“I said, time for what.”
“Not now, dear boy.” Petofi fondled the artifact. There was little room for
error, he realized.
The agenda was clear and at the immediate moment, it
didn’t include Charles Delaware Tate.
* * *
Long ago, Edward Collins had learned that life was
much easier when one could
impose mental filters over the more unpleasant facets
and events that fate
chose to throw his way. With practice, he had become quite adept at
selective
blindness and/or deafness as the occasion
demanded. So skilled was he in this,
that often, he had no conscious idea he was doing
so. He had not, for
instance, mentioned Laura to Victoria because in his
mind, Laura *was* dead.
He had decided that she was (certainly, Laura deserved
to be dead) and from the
moment of her leaving him had ceased to be an
impediment to his finding a
well-deserved happiness with a respectable young lady.
Victoria was quite everything that he wanted in a
wife: beautiful, docile, and
dutiful. Someone to grace his side and his bed--that
she resisted his advances
now was a credit to her character. Propriety and an end to scandal, above all
these he craved and by God, he was going to get them!
The object of his affections was wearing an
uncharacteristic expression of
disgust, but he was too busy conferring with Judith to
notice. Quentin stood
to the side. He
and the children were covered in ash and they reeked of smoke.
Neither Jamison nor Nora had said anything since their
uncle had pulled them
out of the west wing. They had not even blinked when he’d told his
brother a
convenient concoction of lies and half-truths.
“They need a doctor,” Victoria said again. It was a discussion she’d been
trying to have with him for the past half hour.
Judith glared at her and even Edward’s expression was
strained.
Victoria was insistent. “They’re in shock.”
Beth draped a blanket over Jamison’s shoulders. She desperately wanted to know
what had happened in the west wing. She remembered Laura Collins only too
well. She had
been there when his and Laura’s affair had been at its height.
Edward moved over to his fiancée’s side. “My dear, your feelings do you
credit, but I don’t want you to worry about a
thing. The children are going to
be fine. Why
don’t you go upstairs to bed? You
mustn’t--”
“Look at them!”
There was something compelling about her voice and
reluctantly Edward turned to
view his progeny.
Beth noted that Quentin, however, kept his gaze firmly on
Victoria Winters. He’s never looked at me like that,
Beth thought. He’s never
looked at any woman like that.
“For God’s sakes, go to them! What is wrong with you? They need a doctor.
They need you!
You’re their father, don’t you care?”
Edward flushed.
No sooner had she said it than she realized that he
didn’t care. Only in the
sense that they were his possessions and he didn’t
want what was his harmed.
And Nora and Jamison knew it, understood it fully,
even if Edward himself
didn’t. The
sickening feeling that Victoria had been fighting for ages now
deepened. “You
are their father and they need help,” she repeated, with quiet
force.
Everyone’s attention again on Victoria, no one noticed
the brief flicker in
Nora’s eyes. By
the time they were fussing about and sending for doctors, it
had gone.
* * *
Deep in the bowels of Collinwood, Tim Shaw sat on the
floor of a filthy room,
propped up against the wall like a rag doll dropped by
a bored child. Had
anyone discovered him, a look--the pallor of the skin,
the stench, the blood
that had encrusted on his neck and clothes--one would
think he was dead.
Until one looked into the eyes and plunged straight
into hell.
Someday, perhaps not soon, but someday Miranda (or
whoever she really
was--Edith knew a poseur when she saw one) was going
to pay most dearly.
Forget about her ungrateful, wretched, greedy
grandchildren, her enemy in the
poison green dress would be the first account Edith
would call due. Not since
the days of her first marriage had Edith burned with
such determination or felt
such frustration at her helplessness.
Wasn’t it dark yet?
She ached with such yearning that there were so many
moments when she didn’t care that she was disgustingly
dirty, that she had
practically crawled on her host’s hands and knees to
get to this foul little
room filled with broken furniture, spiders, gimcracks,
and vermin. What galled
her most was that she knew quite well that when
Charity came to her, she--Edith
Collins--would be on her knees begging to be enslaved
even further.
She wasn’t done yet.
* * *
Victoria’s disgust with Edward and Judith Collins had
reached new heights.
They’d finally sent for a physician. Edward had been looking at her in such a
mixture of irritation and fondness that it had taken
all she had not to slap
him. His
children were catatonic and all he was thinking about was damage
control.
What Judith was thinking about was a mystery. Victoria had given up on that.
She was no closer to figuring out what needed to be
altered in this nightmare
of a past, but she instinctively felt that Judith and
whatever secrets she was
keeping had nothing to do with her own immediate
problems.
At least Quentin had been gone by then. She ached when she thought about him
and her and a loss that he had yet to realize.
The time had come to do *something*. Victoria struggled back into the heavy
and uncomfortable dress with the idea of going to meet
Barnabas. She’s sneak
out and demand that they come up with a plan.
She was halfway down the stairs, when Edward boomed
out, “Ah, there you are, my
dear. Come into the drawing room. We have a guest.”
Closing her eyes as if to garner some sort of inner
strength, Victoria exhaled
as much as her corset would allow, before dutifully
responding. She hardly
knew what she said. Guests? Now?
* * *
Petofi savored the excellent brandy his hosts with
which his hosts had provided
him. They were weak willed fools, both of them, but
they didn’t stint with the
amenities. He
heartily approved of that. The woman was
a bit shrewder than
her brother, but just as greedy. “Successful business venture,” “Edith
Collins,” “invitation,” “profits due to the family,”
and his own substantial
will, that had been all that was necessary to secure
an invitation despite the
lateness of the hour and whatever crisis they were
obviously concerned with.
Edward Collins had succumbed first and then after a
moment, the sister.
“Here she is.
Mr. Fenn-Gibbon, I should like
you to meet my fiancée, Victoria
Winters. Victoria, this is Mr. Fenn-Gibbon.”
Petofi turned his attention to the girl. Charles, the fool, had called her the
new wife. For
an artist, the boy had no concept of details.
Of course, he had
also said that she claimed to come from the future, a
fact much more important
than her marital status; that alone made her worthy of
notice.
Victoria met his cloudy-eyed stare evenly. “How do you do?”
She was certainly different than the others--that much
was immediately
apparent.
Petofi stood a little straighter.
“I am pleased to make your
acquaintance, Miss Winters and I look forward to
deepening it.”
Victoria drew her hand away quickly.
An echo of something resonated through the room. That he didn’t recognize it
disturbed him.
He must move carefully.
* * *
Beth tucked the covers in tightly around Nora. She gave the little girl a
smile and prepared to leave.
“Please don’t go, Beth.”
“You need your rest, Nora.”
Nora lifted her arms out to her. “Please?”
How could she walk away from that? Even if her back ached and she’d been up
since God only knew when and she still had to take
care of Miss Judith. At
least somebody wanted her company. Beth briefly grasped both of Nora’s wrists
in her hands and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll stay a few minutes,”
she promised.
And then she would steal away and see where Quentin had gotten
to, although she had a good idea he would be in the
vicinity of Mr. Edward’s
fiancée. Beth
pulled her attention back to Nora. She
had turned the gas jet
down, but there was still some light. Nora had never liked to sleep in the
dark and for once, her father agreed that she needed
coddling.
The child kept her topaz-colored eyes focused on
Beth. The maid gave an
involuntary shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” But she rubbed her hands together anyway. How could you tell a little
girl her gaze suddenly seemed like a cat’s?
“Why don’t you warm yourself up by the fire?” Nora
asked reasonably in her
clear little voice.
Somehow Beth didn’t want to do that. Nine going on forty was how the servants
generally described Nora, but to Beth, it suddenly
seemed that the child’s
precocity went deeper than that.
“Go to the fire, Beth,” Nora suggested again.
Beth stood up and obeyed. She held out her hands. The flames had been dying,
but now they shot up.
The warmth was delicious. She
felt safe, secure,
protected. The
longer she stood, the more relaxed she became.
Nora’s face was
in the fire, but Beth didn’t find this
remarkable. She stared into Nora’s eyes
and became as fixed as a fly in amber.
Some time later, she stepped back from the
fireplace. She knew what she had to
do.
* * *
Quentin watched Miranda stroll around the columns of
the folly. She looked
beautiful in a white silk gown with her shoulders
bare. The scene was
perfectly staged: a lovely woman, a beautiful setting,
and the scent of the
garden flowers perfuming the night air. But of course,
she knew that. He’d
been around too many women not to recognize artfulness
and vanity when he saw
it, not that he was complaining. He glanced toward the house. The elusive
Victoria had slipped out after winning her point about
the doctor, gone no
doubt to see Barnabas.
Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? He’d known women more beautiful, had
them, and discarded them a dozen times over. Was it that clear-eyed
self-possession?
That even gaze that sized him up and dismissed him. Was that
it?
“You’re ignoring me.” It was an accusation.
Miranda sounded like a petulant child, he thought, but
it would be insanity to
dismiss her as one.
He thought about what had happened with Laura and it was
all he could do not to shudder visibly. “That, my dear, ‘Miranda’ is
impossible,” he drawled, smiling at her lazily.
She wasn’t fooled, but her hand went to her golden
tresses all the same.
Quentin waited.
If he’d ever had any thoughts about bedding her, they’d
ignited like pine needles after seeing her take on
Laura. He pulled out a
flask and took a swig from it.
“You’re wasting your time with that,” she told him,
her lip curling up in
derision.
“Is that why you wanted to meet me out here? To tell me I drink too much. If
I wanted a lecture on temperance, I could get one from
Judith.”
She spread her hands out before her in a Gallic
gesture of seeming
indifference.
“What do you want?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Simply what it sounds like. What is it that you want?” Miranda sidled up
to
him. “I don’t
understand you,” she said playfully.
It was like watching a cobra toying with its prey
before pouncing, he thought.
Her very winsomeness was appealing and appalling at
the same time. “That makes
two of us.” The exhaustion was catching up with
him. To be rid of the stench
of darkness and fire. To just be somewhere very
quiet. With Victoria. That
was what he wanted.
Was that her moving through the woods now?
“You have so much potential,” she elaborated.
God, he was so tired.
Had it always been so complicated?
Hadn’t there been a
brief moment when contentment and peace had been
within his grasp? Or was that
yet to come?
“Not everyone would agree with you.
*I* wouldn’t agree with you.
Not since the last full moon.” Not since he’d found
out that he’d sired two
children.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Miranda pointed
out. “There is a way out of
this, Quentin. I can show it to you. You don’t have to play by the rules. You
can make them.
Anyone you want to have, anything you want to do, it can all be
yours,” she began, possibility and suggestion
enhancing her words like the
scent of the roses perfuming the dark night.
* * *
Edward folded his paper carefully and stifled a
yawn. The children were going
to be all right.
The doctor had said so. Edward
had not seen them since
bundling them off to their respective rooms, but the
doctor had said they
needed peace and quiet, after all. He’d pay a visit to them tomorrow.
Edward had decided several hours ago that he was not
irritated with Victoria.
It was charming really, that she had such strong
maternal instincts. He
congratulated himself on his taste.
Everything was turning out all right, finally. Laura was gone. Nothing was
standing in the way of his well-deserved
happiness. Judith had mellowed to the
point of asking his opinions on some matters of
business and Edward mistakenly
believed that this boded well for the future. Mr.
Fenn-Gibbon’s arrival,
ill-timed as it was, seemed merely to be the portent
of a successful future.
He took off his dressing gown, turned down the
gaslight and got into bed. It
had been a long day and he started drifting to sleep
almost immediately, which
from Beth’s point of view was very helpful. She stepped out of the corner of
the room, the bone-handled knife cool against the palm
of her hand.
Finally she knew what she had to do. That saying was so true. Beth glanced
into the dying flames of the fire for reassurance and
reinforcement.
Out of the mouths of babes . . .
* * *
Charity drank deeply.
Edith’s thoughts were focused solely on the dark bliss
she was feeling. There
was nothing else.
Until Charity stopped.
The vampire licked the blood off her own lips and
laughed.
Remembering at last what she needed to do, Edith went
down on her knees.
“Please,” she begged.
“You want Tim, don’t you? This is
the only way he can
be yours. Truly
yours.”
“Miranda--”
“--Is not here,” Edith finished weakly. “It is but the work of a moment.”
Charity need no more urging. She fell on Edith’s neck.
She was not done yet.
That was the last thought Edith had before she swirled
away into the darkness.
Tim Shaw slumped to the floor.
* * *
To be continued .
. .
