Glasses were distributed. Penelope managed to accept hers without for a moment leaving go of his hand. She had her prize and would not let it escape.
The toast fell, of course, to Godalming. He raised his glass, bubbles catching the light, and said, ‘for me this is a sad moment, as I experience a loss. I’ve been beaten out again, by my good friend Charles Beauregard. I shall never recover, but I acknowledge Charles as the better man. I trust he will serve my dearest Penny as a good husband should.’
Beauregard, cynosure of all eyes, experienced discomfort. He did not like to be looked at. In his profession, it was unwise to attract notice of any kind.
‘To the beautiful Penelope,’ Godalming toasted, ‘and the admirable Charles...’
‘Penelope and Charles,’ came the echo.
Penelope giggled like a cat as the bubbles tickled her nose, and Beauregard took an unexpectedly healthy swig. Everyone drank except Godalming, who set his glass down untouched on the tray.
‘I am so sorry,’ Florence said, ‘I was forgetting myself.’
The hostess summoned Bessie again.
‘Lord Godalming does not drink champagne,’ she explained to the girl. Bessie understood and unbuttoned her blouse at the wrist.
‘Thank you, Bessie,’ Godalming said. He took her hand as if to kiss it, then turned it over as if to read her palm.
Beauregard could not help but feel slightly sickened, but no one else even made mention of the matter. He wondered how many were assuming a pose of indifference, and how many were genuinely accustomed to the habits of the thing Arthur Holmwood had become.
‘Penelope, Charles,’ Godalming said, ‘I drink to you...’
Opening his mouth wide on jaw-hinges like a cobra’s, Godalming fastened on to Bessie’s wrist, lightly puncturing the skin with his pointed incisors. Godalming licked away a trickle of blood. The company were fascinated. Penelope shrank closer to Beauregard’s side. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder but did not look away from Godalming and the maid. Either she was affecting cool or the vampire’s feeding did not bother her. As Godalming lapped, Bessie swayed unsteadily on her ankles. Her eyes fluttered with something between pain and pleasure. Finally, the maid quietly fainted and Godalming, letting her wrist go, caught her deftly like a devoted Don Juan, holding her upright.
‘I have this effect on women,’ he said, teeth blood-rimmed, ‘it is most inconvenient.’
He found a divan and deposited the unconscious Bessie on it. The girl’s wound did not bleed. Godalming did not appear to have taken much from her. Beauregard thought she must have been bled before to take it so calmly. Florence, who had so easily offered Godalming the hospitality of her maid, sat beside Bessie and bound a handkerchief around her wrist. She performed the operation as if tying a ribbon to a horse, with kindness but no especial concern.
For a moment, Beauregard was dizzy.
‘What is it, dear-heart,’ Penelope asked, arm sliding around him.
‘The champagne,’ he lied.
‘Will we always have champagne?’
‘As long as it is what you wish to drink.’
‘You’re so good to me, Charles.’
‘Perhaps.’
Florence, her nursing done, was swarming around them again.
‘Now, now,’ she said, ‘there’ll be plenty of time for that after the wedding. In the meantime, you must be unselfish and share yourselves with the rest of us.’
‘Indeed,’ said Godalming. ‘For a start, I must claim my right as the vanquished sir knight.’
Beauregard was puzzled. Godalming had blotted the blood from his lips with a handkerchief, but his mouth still shone, and there was a pinkish tinge to his upper teeth.
‘A kiss,’ Godalming explained, taking Penelope’s hands in his own, ‘I claim a kiss from the bride.’
Beauregard’s hand, fortunately out of Godalming’s view, made a fist, as if grasping the handle of his sword-stick. He sensed danger, as surely as in the Natal when a black mamba, the deadliest reptile on earth, was close by his unprotected leg. A discreet cut with a blade had separated the snake’s venomous head from the remainder of its length before harm could come to him. Then he had good cause to be thankful for his nerves; now, he told himself he was overreacting.
Godalming drew Penelope close and she turned her cheek to his mouth. For a long second, he pressed his lips to her face. Then, he released her.
The others, men and women, gathered around, offering more kisses. Penelope was almost swamped with adoration. She wore it well. He had never seen her prettier, or more like Pamela.
‘Charles,’ said Kate Reed, approaching him, ‘you know... um, congratulations... that sort of thing. Excellent news.’
The poor girl was blushing scarlet, forehead completely damp.
‘Katie, thank you.’
He kissed her cheek, and she said ‘gosh’.
Half-grinning, she indicated Penelope. ‘Must go, Charles. Penny wants...’
She was summoned over to examine the marvellous ring upon Penelope’s dainty finger.
Beauregard and Godalming were by the window, apart from the group. Outside, the moon was up, a faint glow above the fog. Beauregard could see the railings of the Stoker house, but little else. His own home was further down Cheyne Walk; a swirling yellow wall obscured it as if it no longer existed.
‘Sincerely, Charles,’ Godalming said, ‘my congratulations. You and Penny must be happy. It is an order.’
‘Art, thank you.’
‘We need more like you,’ the vampire said. ‘You must turn soon. Things are just getting exciting.’
This had been raised before. Beauregard held back.
‘And Penny too,’ Godalming insisted. ‘She is lovely. Loveliness should not be permitted to fade. That would be criminal.’
‘We shall think about it.’
‘Do not think too long. The years fly.’
Beauregard wished he had a drink stronger than champagne. Close to Godalming, he could almost taste the new-born’s breath. It was untrue that vampires exhaled a stinking cloud. But there was something in the air, at once sweet and sharp. And in the centres of Godalming’s eyes, red points sometimes appeared like tiny drops of blood.
‘Penelope would like a family.’ Vampires, Beauregard knew, could not give birth in the conventional manner.
‘Children?’ Godalming said, fixing his gaze on Beauregard. ‘If you can live forever, surely children are superfluous to requirements.’
Beauregard was uncomfortable now. In truth, he was unsure about a family. His profession was uncertain, and after what had happened with Pamela...
He was tired in his head, as if Godalming were leeching his vitality. Some vampires could take sustenance without drinking blood, absorbing the energies of others through psychical osmosis.
‘We need men of your sort, Charles. We have an opportunity to make the country strong. Your skills will be needed.’
If Lord Godalming had an idea of the skills he had developed in the service of the Crown, Beauregard supposed the vampire would be surprised. Since India, he had been in Shanghai, at the International Settlement, and in Egypt, working under Lord Cromer. The new-born laid a hand upon his arm, and gripped almost fiercely. He could hardly feel his own fingers.
‘There will never be slaves in Britain,’ Godalming continued, ‘but those who stay warm will naturally serve us, as the excellent Bessie has just served me. Have a care, lest you wind up the equivalent of some damned regimental water-bearer.’
‘In India, I knew a water-bearer who was a better man than most.’
Florence came to his rescue, and guided them back into the mainstream. Whistler was recounting the latest instalment of his continuing feud with John Ruskin, savagely lampooning the critic. Grateful to be eclipsed, Beauregard stood near a wall and watched the painter perform. Whistler, accustomed to being the ‘star’ of Florence’s after-darks, was obviously happy the distraction of Beauregard’s announcement had passed. Penelope was lost somewhere in the crowd.