The Vampire and the Viscount
"Truly the best theater in all of London!" Charles Nielson enthused, gesturing around at the complex stage. The back was full of ropes and pulleys for various backdrops and props, while the front had trap doors and risers to allow for actors to magically appear or disappear from the stage.
"The Savoy is no longer the only theater with electric lighting or numbered seats!" Nielson continued "We have more seats and better facilities for the intermission."
Henry nodded, looking at the vast array of seats visible from the stage. A few of the cast and crew from the play currently showing at the theater were sitting in the front row, chatting before the daily rehearsal due to start shortly. "Truly an impressive facility Charles, I'm sorry I haven't had the opportunity to inspect it before now." Nielson was an old acquaintance, a performer turned theater owner that he'd first met in Austria years before. Henry had helped him get started in running his own theater about a decade ago with some seed money, and the other man provided box seats for free whenever Henry felt the desire to attend the Opera or see a play.
"Ah, but for all the conveniences of modernity, I am sure you know, our true prize lies in our actors. If you will permit me, Henry, I should like to introduce you to one of such prizes." He walked briskly, knocking on the door of a dressing room, private and rather expansive in comparison to the others. "She has just arrived from France. I daresay you will like her, old chap." The door was opened by a young maid who looked a little put out until she saw that it was the proprietor himself who had arrived.
"I should like to introduce to Madame Larousse my good friend Mr. Armitage," Nielson said in his friendly if slightly condescending way. The girl curtsied and turned away. The two men were greeted with a vision from the East. Madame Larousse was reclined on a small couch, intently studying a script. Her dark red curls were covered and obscured by a sheer veil. Like the Muslim women of the East, it wrapped around her body. The fabric was silken and clung to her body in quite a shocking way. On her feet were leather sandals, exposing each toe immodestly. Her skin was pale, almost flawless. She looked as though she were made of marble, or wax. It was an odd sight. Nielson cleared his throat and the woman looked up from her writing through heavily lined eyes. She did not rise, however. She was, of course, being insolent, but she only thought it her due.
"My dear, this is the Viscount Balinbrock, one of my dear acquaintances. Henry, this is Madame Margaret Larousse." Marguerite looked up at the two gentlemen, an eyebrow raised.
"Monsieur, if you please, it is Marguerite rather than Margaret. You know I am not English." For a moment she was irritable, but then she laughed. "He is forever wanting to anglofy me, monsieur." It was only then that she rose, with the grace of one practiced in such things, offering her shapely hand to the apparently older man.
Henry had plenty of experience with the French, so Marguerite's correction came to no surprise to the scholar at all. The garb may have been shocking to someone who rarely traveled from Britain's shores but not to Henry, who had spent more of his time the past three decades away from the mother country than inside her borders. The sight of it here in London was surprising though, did cause the scholar to quirk an eyebrow in curiosity.
"A lost cause I'm sure, mademoiselle." Henry took the offered hand and brought it to his lips, politeness demanded he do no less. "Trying to change the French is impossible, Charles should know better. A pleasure to meet so prized an actress."
"I am sure you flatter me, monsieur le viscomte," she replied conventionally. "Monsieur Charles is a kind man. But he, like most of your race, knows little of the customs beyond the realm of your most honoured Queen." She laughed sharply, but smiled indulgently on Mr. Nielson, as though he were a child. Nielson himself looked a bit abashed, and excused himself, making an excuse of wanting to be sure that people weren't killing themselves with the set pieces. What a humane man.
Marguerite made her way slowly toward her dressing table. On it were placed some elegant bottles and a few glasses. She looked at herself in the mirror, a slow smile curving her lips. "I beg pardon that our illustrious host has departed. Might I interest you in something to quench your thirst?" She gestured to the bottles on the table. Internally she was pondering the situation. Her tongue brushed her elongated canines beneath her lips. A Viscount. The mechanisms in her brain started to turn. She was in need of a patron. Indeed, she had not had one since her days in France and, well, that had not ended up too well, alas.
Henry nodded at Charles's departure, a bit surprised that the other man would make his escape so quickly. Perhaps there was more going on than met the eye, but a theater was a harmless enough place for one such as himself and he was well aware of the type of person who chose to make acting their profession. "Our customs have served us well over the centuries, mademoiselle, not everyone feels the need to study those different from ourselves."
The noble found a wooden chair by the door and sat, seeing no need to keep himself standing unnecessarily. "I'm not especially thirsty, but a light drink would be welcome, thank you." He would have one or two sips at most and set it down. Years of experience had told him to always accept hospitality when offered, even if only for formality's sake.
She poured a rich, amber brandy, swirling it around in a glass before handing it to him. "I never drink," she admitted. She always felt mirthful when she said this, knowing that she did indeed drink and vigorously. But that was another thing entirely. "But I find it pleasing to offer my guests what comforts I can provide." She reclined again on her couch, having set down the script. Her eyes focused on the gentleman. He would, she thought, be easily swayed. Most of the elderly sort were.
"Tell me, Vicomte," she said, trying to converse politely. "Do you have a fondness for the theatre? Indeed, I should be very embarrassed if you did not. I hope I may beg your pardon in greeting you like this." She gestured to her strange garments. "Perhaps Monsieur Nielson told you that we are doing one of Racine's Greek tragedies. It will be exciting to perform in English for the first time, I think." She continued to weigh him in her mind. She was not sure what type he was yet. He had made no advances on her. Indeed, he was too polite and it grated on her nerves.
"Indeed he has," Henry once again wondered if Charles's departure served an ulterior motive, was he seeking to have Henry become the girl's patron? The lass was pretty enough to be sure, but his patronage strictly was kept to business ventures and not people. He accepted the glass with a smile and took a polite sip. "I've not seen Phèdre in many years, it should be quite interesting to see how the playwright has adapted it to the English tongue."
"Don't worry about your appearance too much, mademoiselle. I've traveled the world and seen women dressed in all manner of costume." And some who wore no costume at all but that which had been given them by their birth. "I must confess that my theatrical tastes run the gambit from Shakespeare, to Persian theater all the way to the Oriental Operas of China and Japan. Of course, the others are a bit harder to come by in London than in Tehran or Peking." He smiled slightly self deprecatingly.
"And what possessed you to take Mr. Neilson's offer to come perform in London, if I might ask? Surely Paris would be more an attraction for one such as yourself?"
"Ah, this is all so very exciting!" Marguerite replied, her curiosity truly piqued by the Viscount's hints of his own travels. "I was in love with the Paris theatre at one time. And it was in love with me, if I may be so bold. But times change and so must we." She knew more of such things than he could imagine. "Let us say I have decided to make a new venture out of an exile. And besides, monsieur, you of all people must know the excitement of the journey. I daresay you have in your life been restless, longing to seek greener fields. Well, so it is with me. And London has accepted me. Though Monsieur Nielson may only speak three words of French (and very badly), he has been nothing but kindness to me."
Though she had been used to charming men at will, a part of her liked the Viscount's nonchalance, the way he spoke of the costume of women as though it were but a food staple he had seen. It only served to make her desire for conquest increase. Surely such a man must be a man of means. He was older, but why should that matter? Besides, if truth be told she was certainly his senior at least by ten years. If other women but knew the secret to youth!
"So monsieur is well traveled?" she asked, toying idly with some fabric from her costume. "If you do not mind, I should like to hear some stories of these strange lands. I am sure you will agree that there are few things better than a truly good story. And those come from experience."
"Indeed, I've been traveling the world since before you were born. I've probably spent more time away from the mother country than in it." Henry smiled genuinely at what his eyes told him was a girl of maybe twenty years. "My first ocean voyage was at ten years of age to attend school in England, my father served in India you see."
He leaned back in his chair and brought a hand to his beard, stroking it slowly as he thought of a story to tell. "A story you say? They tend to improve in the telling, but direct experiences do tend to be the most colorful." He regarded the young woman thoughtfully, wondering what tale to tell.
"Perhaps a tale of the Bedouin?"
"Oh yes," Marguerite replied eagerly. She actually sat up on the little couch, an interested look on her face. "I should like very much to hear about these people. Are they all sheiks with three or more wives and many riches?" When it came to this, she really only knew about what she had performed as an actress. And she had several times performed as an odalisque, a slave of the harem. Even as scheming and dastardly as she was, the childlike part of her could never resist a good tale. "You see, monsieur, I know very little. But I am dreadfully interested and hope that you might yet sate my curiosity." She lowered her eyes modestly, though she was anything but modest.
Henry couldn't help but laugh at her eagerness, he found it infectious and his smile broadened. "Some are quite rich yes, maybe not the way we are in the west, but wealthy nonetheless. Sheiks are the leaders of their extended families or clans, similar in a way to Scottish clan chiefs. They're all Mohammedans of course, and can have as many wives as they can support. Some have harems of more than a dozen wives or concubines, which I must say I've never understood. We Christians have enough trouble with one wife, let alone a dozen!" The scholar chuckled and winked at the young woman.
Still, he'd promised a story, and a story he would tell. "Twenty years ago I was traveling in the Levant between Jerusalem and Damascus, to begin a journey along the ancient Silk Road. A sandstorm scattered my party and I must admit I was in dire straits, huddled against a ruined wall at some long abandoned settlement as my only protection against the howling winds. I thought it was time to meet my maker, but in my delirium I thought I saw a man walk through the storm, a man dressed in the robes of a Bedouin sheik with nothing visible but his eyes."
Marguerite pondered this as he paused. She was not at all familiar with the tradition of these foreign lands. "Was he wearing a scarf over his head?" she asked, not quite familiar with each word for the items of clothing. "How was it that he shifted through the storm so easily? Was it that he was used to such things?" She was childlike and eager, impatient for his reply. She was sitting now fully erect in her seat, and she had pushed back the hood of her robe, revealing curly auburn locks beneath.
She truly was a beauty, Henry had to acknowledge as the hood fell back to reveal that mass of auburn curls framing the porcelain skin and striking blue eyes. He was older, and his heart had never been the same since his wife and infant daughter passed into the next life, but he wasn't dead.
"He wore a keffiyeh, yes," he confirmed, giving the girl the correct term for the Arabic headdress. "I honestly can't say for sure, perhaps that is the case, for he was the age I am now and had spent his entire life in the desert." He would never forget the sight as long as he lived. Kamal had glided effortlessly across the sands, the winds parting around his person and his robes barely stirring from the breeze. It had been magic of course, the old Sheik could control the winds in such a limited manner as to allow himself to pass through without harm. "He looked down at me and shook his head as if I were a naughty child, then picked me up as if I were light as a feather and carried me back to his camp. I stayed as a guest with his tribe that entire winter after his women nursed me back to health. If not for him I would surely have died."
"A very honorable people, the Bedouin. You could be the most vile and evil creature on the face of the Earth, and they would not surrender you if you were a guest in their camp."
"They sound most kind indeed," replied Marguerite, wondering what would have been done if the Bedouin had taken her in. If they had known her nature. Surely there were others of her kind, even in far off lands. She had known what it was like to be hunted by those who had heretofore respected you. It was a very unpleasant feeling. She had been used to doing the hunting.
"Why, then," she said lightly, a coy smile on her lips, "Does monsieur decide to return to England? If I had the ability to travel as you do, if I could roam the world like that, I think I should never want to go home. Indeed, I should call every place I went home, even if I were there for but a week." She was lively and engaging. She was pretty sure this was what would please him. But in addition, she was truly interested.
A laugh escaped his lips once again, despite himself. "I return periodically, mademoiselle. To teach, to interact with my colleagues, make sure the family lands are well managed. I am not as young as I used to be, I'm afraid." He shrugged and smiled ruefully at the girl. "These days my responsibilities keep me closer to Britannia's shores than would typically have been the case a few years ago." There, a polite and careful way to explain why he was staying in the Isles rather than continue his traveling ways. Given his druthers he would probably winter in Cairo or Delhi, but his responsibility to the Crown outweighed such petty concerns.
"Well," she replied, returning to her lounging position on the couch. "I think it a pity indeed. Such freedom ought never to be despoiled by petty 'duties.'" She grimaced at the thought. "I am sure it must be bothersome. Particularly if one is in want of good company." She smiled at this, pushing her auburn curls off of her cheek. "Alas, I haven't the benefit of many acquaintances here. It is uncomfortable sometimes to be a stranger in a strange land, is it not?" In truth, such things benefited her, for she might kill or drink with ease. Something that had been a problem in her last days in France. But it was always nice to play the sentimental fool, she knew.
Henry couldn't help but feel a slight pang of sympathy at the girl's situation. Alone in a foreign land, belonging to a profession that wasn't highly regarded in terms of social status. If he had known any women her age that might make good friends for her, he wouldn't hesitate to introduce them, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. There was Lady Kirmasov but Henry doubted there would be a good fit between the two women.
She was very pretty, but was young enough to be his daughter. The man dismissed any thoughts of a more personal involvement, though he would be happy to converse with her if they happened to cross paths.
"It is sometimes, but there is also the thrill of discovery." Where the devil was Charles? Surely he hadn't forgotten him?
Marguerite rose again from her seat and paced the room restlessly. As an actress, she was forever using her body to communicate, was forever wanting to move hither and thither. She was interested in the Viscount. Indeed, he had been the first titled person she had encountered. She doubted he would make a decent meal, though he was certainly well constituted for his age. But one ought not to put one's hopes on such things. She forced out a sigh.
"I am sure monsieur fancies me dreadfully young," she said finally, looking in the mirror reflectively. "Indeed, it is often that the young are full of fancy and silly ideas. But I believe--and I hope you will indulge me in this--that there are those who have hearts which are far more advanced than their actual age. I have experienced much in my rather short life. I have not at all had the benefit of far flung travel, but I have experienced the thought of great minds, the bustle of the streets of Paris, the amorous embrace. Through the plays themselves, I have been throughout the world. I have been to Seville, to China, to England, to the Americas, even. They say the actress is false, that she pretends, but she knows the human heart." She returned to her seat at this speech, having paced throughout. She wondered if perhaps this was what was holding the Viscount back from further seeking her acquaintance.
Henry raised an eyebrow at her protestations, not entirely convinced. It was a noble thought that she was transported by the material, there were times when he found himself in the Roman Senate or on ancient battlefields when reading the classics. But he knew it wasn't the same as experiencing things first hand, no matter what she might have thought.
The girl's not so subtle hints of hopes for a deeper connection with him were beginning to irritate the scholar just a bit. Who did she think she was? Henry liked to consider himself an enlightened and open person, someone willing to overlook the conventions of society, but what she was insinuating was ridiculous. He was an Armitage and a member of the aristocracy, he wasn't going to abandon all sanity for the sake of a pretty actress.
It was time to nip this in the bud and depart the location, Charles or no Charles.
Henry stood and brought himself to his full height. "Mademoiselle, I am truly flattered that a pretty and vivacious woman such as yourself shows interest in an old man, but I am afraid I have wasted enough of your time. You have a rehearsal to join and I have other business I must attend to. I hope to see you perform on the stage if time permits, I'm certain you have a bright future there."
"Hein, I have too much time," Marguerite murmured. Her eyes flashed for but a second. She was irritable. If a man did not fall to her feet within the first day of making her acquaintance--well, she had few experiences of this exceptionable and unacceptable behavior. But she would not beat a dead horse, so to speak. Instead, she would have her revenge on this humiliation. Of that she could be absolutely certain. She opened the door of her dressing room for him, ushering him out with a nonchalant smile on her face.
"I wish you the best in your endeavors, Vicomte. Perhaps our paths may cross again someday." Oh, and on that day she would be more than pleased to drain him, but slowly and painfully. "As you say, I've my rehearsal to attend to. Lines, lines, lines." With that, she nodded her head and closed the door. She waited a while until she could be certain that the seemingly older man had made his way away from the room. She took the crystal glass he had been using and threw it with violence against the wall opposite. Oh, that calmed her nerves indeed. As her maid cleaned up the mess in silence, Marguerite resumed looking through the script as though nothing at all had occurred.