John Abbott (john_abbott) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-10-21 02:39:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | john abbott, marguerite larousse |
Fearful Like a Child
Marguerite found that she was getting quite bored of being the prim Englishwoman she had created in Elizabeth Stoker. The woman she had become as a result of sudden fear of a priest was the very antithesis to everything she upheld as a modern woman. She was dull and easily afraid, and only cared about her sewing. How such women even managed to survive she would never know. She found herself wandering away from the others, wanting to be alone. Though it had been recommended that they stay in pairs, she grew weary of the idea after a while and parted with Miss Cramwell. Besides, she could take care of herself. She had done so for nearly one hundred years, with only a few scrapes to show for it.
She found herself wandering into a nursery, evidenced by the little wooden rocking horse in the corner, the small, covered bed, and the children's books which lined the shelves of a single bookcase. Leaving the door ajar, she knelt before a little chest and opened it, perusing the contents within. They were the jewels of childhood: a dirtied rag doll, several seashells, a book of a child's awkward sketches, a photograph of a family, a lock of hair. All were kept as though enshrined. She opened a Bible and found within it various pressed flowers, and another photograph, this one of a small girl, eyes closed as though in peaceful sleep, propped up in her own coffin. She looked at the picture for a moment, then dropped the book with a small thud, as though she had been burned.
John stood at the threshold of the nursery. The redhead made quite a picture kneeling there, sorting through the keepsakes of a little girl's childhood. At first, he thought her simply charming, but as the seconds ticked by, she took on the look of a grieving mother, and the idea of it settled poorly with him. Perhaps he was thinking of Virginia Abbott. Though it did not look like the sort of moment one should interrupt, her particular breed of madness made him afraid to leave her alone with the episode, if she was about to have one.
"Knock, knock." He rapped his knuckles on the door and went inside. "I hate to intrude, ah..." He settled against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. "Miss Stoker, yes? I hate to intrude, but there's a mystery that has plagued my mind all the while we've been trapped in this house. I hoped you could help me with it." He reached up and pulled on his earlobe, his expression giving away some confusion. "It so happens that you are identical to a Madame Marguerite Larousse," he said, "With whom I share a casual acquaintance. I mean, the resemblance is impeccable! Now, I don't think she'd mind if I took up company with you instead, but I thought I should ask first...
"You're not... long-lost sisters, are you?"
The sudden sound of his voice made Marguerite start. He always seemed to do that to her, come upon her when she least expected him to. She hastily shut the trunk with a somewhat cacophonous thud, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and sneezed. Even in unlife she was not immune to the less appealing effects on the senses. She fanned the air away from her face, then rose, trying to look stately in spite of herself.
"I am afraid I know of no--what was that? Marge Leruss? Alas, you will only find me a quite boring widow. If only I could attend to the planning of the week's meals, or the household expenses. Woe is me!" she exclaimed in a quiet voice, keeping with the accent until finally she approached him, shutting the door beside him. She did not like the idea of others listening in and would rather know if such things occurred. Her demeanor changed, becoming secretive and almost fearful as she whispered quickly into his ear.
"The priest. He will know me. I am sure of it. I did not wish to reveal myself lest he see, lest he know. They know so much more than you think, John. You would think they do not, that they spend all of their time listening to confession and praying and marrying people, but it is not true. They have secrets too, I have seen it." Her eyes were wide and her accent suddenly thick. It was as though all of her anxiety which she had until now kept dammed came flooding out in a tremendous gush. "If he knows, he will find a way to kill me."
"Shh." He took careful hold of the courtesan's wrists and gathered them to his chest. "He does not suspect." John's thumbs rubbed her pulse points in an effort to soothe her, if such a thing were possible. He feared that Marguerite would work herself into such a frenzy that she accidentally revealed herself when so far, the skittish priest seemed more interested in the culprit of their capture than suspicious folks amongst them. In fact, if anyone was in danger of discovery, he did not think it was her. Perhaps he should've affected an unnatural limp and pretended to be a deaf and dumb driver of horse-pulled cabs. If Marguerite's initial impression of him were a common one, he might have managed it well. "Besides which," John said, "He has more than enough to trouble his mind in such a house. I doubt we are the most dangerous creatures within these walls."
She lowered her head, ashamed of herself. Fear was not something she was used to, and she was becoming so much like those milksop Englishwomen whom she spent her life satirizing that it almost made her physically ill. But her memories haunted her. When one lived this long, the only constant which remained was the memories. She thought of the Duc, and how she had seen him--yes, she had seen him in this very house. She could not get the idea out of her mind. She had heard the priest's accent. Surely he was sent from the Duc. Surely he was sent to finish what Alphonse had so cleverly begun. If she did not keep up her pretense and keep it well, she knew she would lose her life--that is, if the priest did not already know her by sight.
"You do not understand, John. How could you understand?" she whispered, spreading and flattening her palms against his chest. "You do not know why I left France. I left because he wanted to kill me. I saw him in the window before I came here. I do not care what they say about these silly illusions. He is here. And he has sent the priest as his servant to kill me."
Not for the first time, John found himself at a loss in Marguerite's presence, as if he held a book with some of its pages torn out and she expected him to piece together the missing bits. "Who is he? Who are you speaking of?" He scoured his memory for what he knew of her departure from France; there was a discovery, one that made known her identity as a vampire. Perhaps because he thought her so untouchable in matters of the heart, John assumed that a patron found out the truth and spread it to the public, a scorned lover's revenge after the courtesan didn't favor him with her attentions.
They stood close to the door, which made eavesdropping far too easy. "Come, sit down for a moment." He pulled her to the child's bed and encouraged her to sit on the narrow mattress. He knelt at her feet and stroked her hands. Because his own temperament fluctuated wildly, he was able to cast off the mischief of earlier. Had he misread Marguerite so badly? When he saw her slip into character in the study, he assumed she was having a bit of superfluous fun at the others' expense, and that she felt as bemused over the predicament as him.
Marguerite paused for a long moment, completely still. She closed her eyes. Her face was a mask of torment. There was something soothing about the cool chaffing of John's hands, and she began, ever so slowly, to become more lucid. She opened her eyes, now glistening with the beginnings of tears. She forced them back, though. She was too proud to cry. Crying was a sign of weakness.
"There is sometimes a method to my madness," she began quietly after some time. She looked away, focusing her gaze upon a dingy children's illustrated print which hung on the far wall. "When I was in France...I gave myself to a patron. I adored him--even, perhaps, loved him. But he was vindictive and jealous. He found out about what I did at night." She bit her lip hard, trying to force back the tears. She had never mentioned the event to anyone, not even trusty Bertain.
"So," she said, taking a breath she didn't need. "He took me to his estate. We were supposed to...consummate our union. He did terrible things to me then. For four days I lay bound in his bed, cold and with the scalding pain of the crucifix at my breast. He told me he would return with a priest, that he knew how to kill me and would do it. I was lucky to have escaped. So I saw him in the window and I ran in to kill him. He ruined me, in some ways. But he must have brought his priest here. I know it. You hear him, he is even French." She had bitten so hard on her lip that she drew blood. Absentmindedly, she wiped her mouth with her hand, staining it red.
"Marguerite." On his haunches, he balanced himself and reached for a pocket inside the breast of his coat, knowing that a clean handkerchief waited there. He offered it to the actress for her eyes. "I am truly sorry to hear of the mistreatment you suffered at a suitor's hands. If he were here now, I assure you, I would wound him myself for committing such a vile deed!" He wrung her fingers with conviction. "But the priest, Father Verdoux... He is not here for you. I have just encountered him downstairs," he said, gesturing over his shoulder with thumb, "And he was wholly preoccupied with solving the mystery of this house."
He lifted the lady's hand and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to it, which took care of most of the blood, except that which remained in the tiny cracks of her skin. "If you are afraid, stay by my side. I hope you know that I would not allow any harm to come to you." John meant it, but understood that she might not find solace in promises from another man who fancied himself a suitor. The major difference was that John happened also to be a vampire. However, trust, once broken, was not easily mended.
Marguerite looked down at her hands. She held the handkerchief there but did not use it. Her tears had dried. She found she had none left for the Duc. She very neatly folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket herself. Rising from the bed, she looked down at the crouching John, and took his face tenderly in her hands, her fingers smoothing along its planes.
"Such men as you no longer exist, you know," she murmured. "It is difficult sometimes to discern whether you are a figment of my wild imagination or otherwise." She tangled her hand into his hair for a moment, then turned away. "But you look a bit ill. Have you...dined lately?" She had noticed something different in his bearing, and in the manner of his complexion. It was a bit more pallid, a bit haggard. Nonchalantly, she walked to the little bookshelf and flipped open a small book, looking at the illustrations in a manner similar to a child.
At first, John faltered, unsure of what she meant. "I fed just yesterday." Only upon standing up, and having to bend slightly to accomplish it, did he feel a twinge in his chest and connect the dots. Oh, she was a clever one. Even if the source of his ailment remained a mystery, Marguerite knew one existed. He made a mental note to cover his tracks better. "As a matter of fact, I sustained a mild injury a week ago. It was nothing worth mentioning, only an unfortunate result of too much ale."
Dear god, he did not wish to tell Madame Larousse, lauded courtesan and stage mistress, that he allowed someone to run a stake through his heart!
"You flatter me with your attention to my condition." He wanted to follow her and press a kiss to her nape, but under the possibility of scrutiny he resisted the impulse. John scratched the back of his head and looked around for distraction. Look! A box of ribbons and bobbles, perhaps! He lifted the lid and found it empty of treasures, except for a rough-hewn cross on a chain. He recoiled and sucked on his fingertip.
Marguerite's gaze was particularly keen, and she snapped the book shut, replacing it on the shelf. She returned to the bed, settling herself upon it once more. She watched him for a moment, silent.
"One ought to be careful where one puts one's fingers. Things have a tendency to bite." She had noticed his little injury. It seemed that in regarding his own state of ill health she had lost interest in her own peril. Indeed, a strange, almost maternal feeling churned within her, and try to repress it as she might, it would find outlet.
"Will you come to me, John?" she asked, unbuttoning the high collar of her bodice. "I am sure we will be expected downstairs soon, but please, for just a moment. I think it will make you feel better." She uncovered her neck, the vein pulsing blue in a porcelain background. She had grown quite used to the intimate exchange in which they had engaged, and so it was almost natural for her to offer her neck now.
If ever a vampire doubted his eyesight, a vein across a room brought all back into focus. He stared and then wrenched his attention away, choosing to focus on a rocking horse. John put his hand on the animal's nose and set it into motion. "That's very selfless, but I'm not sure it's wise. After all," he looked at a window and the night falling beyond the pane of glass, "We do not know how long we'll be caught in this mess. Suppose your thirst returns before it's done?" But John knew he would go to her, even as he offered up reasoning to the contrary, not because of hunger or weakness, but because Marguerite offended easily.
A man ought to never watch a woman unbutton her dress, only to refuse her.
He sat beside her. The little bed groaned complaint. He rubbed the back of a finger over the blue vein. If he only drank for a moment, no harm would come of it. Unless, of course, she unbuttoned her collar again and showed the bite to the others. For one strange instant, John imagined her doing so, creating a diversionary tactic that convinced the priest of her innocence and all else of his guilt. His spine stiffened and he frowned. No, mad or not, Marguerite would not do such a thing.
"I am made of stronger stuff than that. And besides, when we do leave this place, I should not like to be connected in a strange series of murders. You needn't fear for me. I have lived long enough to know what is what." Her green gaze shifted in his direction, and she regarded him oddly. There was something about him at this moment which seemed quite foreign to his nature as she had known it. He was hesitant. She had known him to be very impulsive, and so this hesitation confounded her.
"I do not know what happened to you, and I shan't ask, as it is your own business. However, I do not think it wise that you remain as you are. You will thirst, and though you are quite rational when it comes to these things, your hunger might take over and cloud your judgment. So it is for your sake that I offer you this gift. Be wise, John, and take it, lest you try and take it from one of our other companions, and risk the wrath of the priest--or worse." Marguerite was quiet, serene. She pulled him closer to her, embracing him. Her hands were soothing, fingers trailing over his face, into his hair, and down the sides of his neck. She felt odd having to coax him thus.
He felt odd having to be coaxed!
Extraordinary circumstances, he told himself. Tonight marked the first time her unpredictability gave him pause. John put his nose on her flesh and let the scent of her entice his fangs. They stretched in his gums and made ready for the bite. "Do be kind," he jested. "Do not allow me to leave with blood dribbling from my chin." He opened his mouth and pierced the flesh at her vein, grunting in appreciation of her taste. Thirst overtook him. He suckled at her throat for no more than twenty seconds, a modest time, though his body's eager reception of it meant that Marguerite was correct. Towards the end, he took out the handkerchief again. Bloody spots on her collar would be a dead giveaway. "Here," he licked his lips and staunched the bite marks.
Marguerite held the handkerchief to her neck for several minutes, willing the blood to stop. The wound closed itself in good time. She folded up the handkerchief and slipped it down her bodice before buttoning her collar again. It would not have done to leave a bloodstained bit of cloth anywhere in the house, where it might be found by another party, and questioned. She stared at that same tattered illustration on the opposite wall for a few minutes, completely silent. Her tenderness of the previous moment was gone, and she felt somewhat lifeless. Images of the priest assailed her, decapitating her, severing her head from her body in a slow, organized fashion. Perhaps he would burn her alive. Who knew. She straightened up and rose, mechanically walking toward the door without giving John another glance.
"We should go," she said listlessly, in the voice of the proper Englishwoman. "I am quite certain the others will want to know what has happened of us. I daren't frighten them in such a way."