Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

The black London cab took a circuitous journey from Heathrow Airport toward the city center. The sun had just set, the last of its red and yellow ribbons reflecting off low-hanging clouds. Rachel was familiar enough to know where she was and to trust the cabby’s judgment. They coursed along the southern boundary of Hyde Park, then the tree-lined avenue between Green Park and the Queen’s private gardens of Buckingham Palace. They slowed to a stop at a traffic light, and a crowd of tourists crossed the road, snapping photos. Doctor Polidori would have recognized these grand avenues, malls, and parklands. Many of the Georgian buildings of his time still defined the majestic streetscape. He might have been taken aback by the new façade of Buckingham Palace, with its now-famous balcony and the understated moments of affection it had hosted. But unless he’d have lifted his gaze toward the gleaming glass pinnacles farther down the River Thames, he might not have noticed such a great time had passed.

Rachel checked her phone, anxious to call Adam and Henny before her meeting. Anxious about the meeting itself. And the man whom it was with.

As the cab rolled along the Mall, Henny’s face flashed up on the phone screen, a profusion of Titian red curls and giggles. Their conversation was punctuated by Adam’s kisses on Henny’s cheeks and Henny’s kisses on the camera. By the time the hackney was circling Trafalgar Square, Rachel felt flushed and happy. And ready to meet him.

The cab pulled to the curb on Charing Cross Road, and Rachel grabbed her bag and slid across the seat. “I should be about twenty minutes,” she said.

“That’s okay, luv. I’m due for a tea break anyway. I’ll just be over the street.” The cabby flicked off his meter and pointed to where half a dozen black hackneys were parked in the deepening shadows of an immense London planetree.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Rachel realized how much she’d missed London. Granted, she’d spent much of her time here researching the Romantics in archives and reading rooms, but there was something about the city itself that made her feel more connected to her subjects than New York ever could. The breeze was cool against her skin, a faint smell of bergamot drifting.

The bells of St. Martin-in-the-Fields began to peel. Tourists stopped to listen. Rachel stopped, too, recalling her research, the many meandering threads of study considering whether the church could be in any way relevant to her research. The foundation stone for the current church was laid almost one hundred years before Polidori’s death. His home was not far from here. She wasn’t certain of the timeline, but he may have been present for the demolition of the surrounding areas for the creation of Trafalgar Square. Perhaps for the removal of the bodies buried in the original churchyard.

The bells’ frenetic peeling escalated. She wondered for whom they tolled.

Perhaps a wedding.

Perhaps not.

Rachel sidestepped a dawdling group of tourists and entered the National Portrait Gallery. She knew exactly where she was going: room 18. A room where she’d spent many an evening on the stiff, green leather benches, formulating her chapters and pondering the portraits of those she now considered some of her greatest friends. The mosaic floor, classic columns, and a barrel-vaulted ceiling of the gallery’s entrance gave way to a modern interior. She stepped onto the escalator that would take her up to room 18.

She wondered what he would be like. Whether she could trust him. His voice on the phone had been pleasant enough. Articulate. He knew well the subject she’d come to study. But that voice had conveyed more—a familiarity. A warmth. A discrete sensuality. Perhaps it was because he shared a deep love of the Romantics.

Mary Shelley was the first to catch her eye. An enigmatic smile in oils and brush strokes. To her left was Percy Shelley, to her right Lord Byron, both relatively handsome. Young. Taken by fate not long after their portraits were completed, never to grow old.

Doctor John Polidori’s canvas was the smallest, relegated to the far corner of the portrait gallery where the light was dim. And yet it had always entranced Rachel even more than those of his famous male contemporaries. The elegance of his couture. The youth and innocence of his face. The unruly curl of his hair. But beyond anything else, Rachel always wondered what he was looking at. Something off-frame, with a yearning, a sadness, for something so close yet unattainable. His eyes glistened in reverie.

Aubrey Polidori sat on the bench in the middle of the gallery, his feet flat on the parquetry floor, elbows on his knees, chin resting atop his fists. He was the epitome of London’s fashionable youth in tailored tweed slacks, a crisp white linen shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket, very old and torn at the elbow, though Rachel sensed not by design. He stared not at the painting of his ancestor, but at the Shelleys and Lord Byron. Rachel couldn’t help comparing the younger to the older, though she guessed they were both in their early twenties, just in different centuries. There was no doubt of their relation, with a shared translucent complexion and roguishly handsome features, the same longing and tear-glistened eyes. Both men were beautiful. No, handsome. No, beautiful.

Rachel cleared her throat and Aubrey shook himself from his trance.

He rose and held out a hand. “Hello, Ms. Walton. A pleasure to meet you in person.” His words were measured, his voice deep and gentle with a masculine resonance that made Rachel aware they were alone in the gallery. He bowed his head slightly as he gripped her fingers. For an instant she thought he was going to kiss her hand, as old-worldly and ridiculous as that might have seemed, but he didn’t. She blushed anyway, then chuckled at her foolishness.

“Mr. Polidori—”

“Please call me Aubrey.”

“Aubrey.” Rachel glanced at the painting of the doctor over his shoulder. “Thank you for meeting me here. Even though your letters of recommendation are impeccable, it seemed best to meet in a public space.”

“I understand. A beautiful young woman cannot be too careful, in this day and age or any other.” He gestured for her to sit. “Have you considered my offer?”

“I don’t wish to impose. I’ve been offered accommodation in Wembley.”

He sat down beside her. “Rachel, I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s only fitting you stay at Great Pulteney Street while you complete your research. The estate still has many of the doctor’s papers and notebooks. Several of his samples. As well as his last diaries.”

“He had more diaries?” Rachel slumped back, dumbfounded. “Surely the British Library should have them, or at least copies in their catalog.”

Aubrey smiled and brushed his fingers through his hair. An errant curl fell across his forehead. “Every family has its secrets.”

Rachel’s stunned gaze landed on Mary Shelley’s portrait. The delicate warmth of her smile. The doe-like eyes open to the world, to her own and her close confidant’s imaginations, which had created creatures feared and loved by generations.

Her Frankenstein’s Wretch.

His Vampyre.

“Such a wonderful friend,” Aubrey muttered. His eyes glistened.

Rachel nodded.