The women on either side of Jane returned to their places. At the beginning of the next bar Katherine called out, “Even-numbered ladies!” and Jane willed herself to move. When she reached the center she gladly reached for Lucy on her left. She hesitated a moment and then extended her hand to Miriam on her right.
Miriam’s hand was cool and dry. But seconds after Jane grasped it she felt a wave of emotion wash over her, a sickening wall of fear and rage. Instinctively she dropped the woman’s hand and stepped away as if she’d been stung. Miriam stared at her, her eyes blazing.
“I’m sorry,” Jane said, letting go of Lucy’s hand. “I have to go.”
Turning, she ran toward Byron, pushed him aside, and ran as quickly as she could toward the door.
Chapter 26
“You could have mentioned that Jessica was dead,” Byron said. He sounded hurt.
“I’m not apologizing for that,” said Jane. “I didn’t know Our Gloomy Friend might have had something to do with it, not until Sherman told me at the dance. And anyway, I only found out this morning. I was still basking in the joyous news.”
They were in Jane’s living room. Jane was stretched out on the couch, an afghan covering her, and Byron was seated in one of the armchairs. He still wore his dancing clothes, but Jane had swapped her dress for a pair of pajamas made from lightweight pink flannel printed with images of small gray mice. They each had a glass of merlot, and the almost empty bottle sat on the coffee table.
“Does Sherman know who Violet Grey is?” asked Byron.
“I doubt it,” Jane answered. “I think he was just pleased to have more information about Jessica’s murder.”
“Being in possession of that information is very dangerous for him,” said Byron. “If Our Gloomy Friend really is responsible, she’s going to go after anyone who knows anything about her.”
“Including us,” Jane said.
“Especially us,” said Byron. He sighed and glanced at his watch. “It’s almost two,” he said. “Do you want to go over the rules of softball so you’re ready for tomorrow’s game?”
Jane groaned. She’d forgotten all about the big Janeites versus Brontëites ballgame. Having never played softball, she had only a vague idea of what was involved. Byron had volunteered to help her figure it out, and Jane had brought home a book on the subject from the store. She handed it to Byron. “Read,” she said.
Byron opened the book. “ ‘Softball is commonly mistaken for an easier version of baseball,’ ” he read. “ ‘In fact, it is just as interesting and just as complex a game. The fundamental difference between the sports is the size of the ball used and the style of pitching, which in baseball is overhand and in softball is underhand.’ ”
“I’m already bored,” said Jane. “Can you condense it all for me?”
Byron skimmed the page and turned to the next one. After flipping through perhaps a dozen or so he shut the book and sighed. “You stand on a plate, someone tosses a ball at you, and you try to hit it with a stick,” he said. “If you succeed in hitting it and no one catches it, you run. If you run far enough, you score a point for your team.”
“That sounds rather easy, really,” Jane said. “Surely there must be other rules?”
“Well, yes,” said Byron. “Quite a lot of them, actually. Do you really want to hear them all?”
“I don’t think I do,” Jane said. “I imagine if there’s anything I need to know they’ll explain it to me.”
“Pity they aren’t playing cricket,” said Byron. “That would be much easier. These American games make absolutely no sense.”
“Why do you think Miriam hasn’t made her move yet?” Jane asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Byron. “And Lilith hasn’t brought us any additional information. I’m beginning to think the little bitch is a liar.”
“Ned hasn’t been any more useful,” Jane said. “According to him, all Beverly talks about is how wonderful you are.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Byron. “Just between us, I think she had rather a crush on me.”
“She’s planning on murdering you,” Jane reminded him.
Byron waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “The two are hardly mutually exclusive,” he said. “There have been plenty of lovers I would gladly have murdered.”
“I’m sure there are one or two you actually have,” said Jane. She hesitated before asking her next question. “You’ve never told me: Why did you turn Char—Our Gloomy Friend?”
Byron sighed deeply. “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to ask,” he said.
Jane poured more wine into his glass. “It surprises me as well, and I really don’t know why I haven’t asked before. I suppose I didn’t really like to think of you with her.”
“Your jealousy is flattering,” said Byron, lifting his glass to her. “If I didn’t know you were in love with someone else, I might just try to seduce you again.”
Jane laughed. “And give up on Ted?” she asked.
“I fear that’s a lost cause,” Byron said. “Anyway, about Our Gloomy Friend. What do you know about her death?”
“Very little,” said Jane. “If I recall correctly, she died of typhus.”
Byron nodded. “That’s correct,” he said. “She contracted it from one of the family’s servants, an old woman called Tabitha Ackroyd. Did you also know that Our Gloomy Friend was pregnant at the time of her death?”
“No,” Jane said. “How awful.”
“It was,” said Byron. “But if it weren’t for the child, I might never have turned her.”
Jane sipped her wine. “How do you mean?”
“It was mine,” said Byron.
Jane gasped audibly. “It wasn’t!” she said.
“It was,” Byron said. “I wouldn’t marry her, and so she married her father’s curate. Arthur, his name was. A peculiar-looking fellow. He rather resembled Stephen King.” He paused for a moment. “Now that I think of it, I wonder … No, it couldn’t be. Could it?”
“Our Gloomy Friend,” Jane reminded him.
“Our Gloomy Friend,” said Byron. “Yes. Well, as I said, she was pregnant with my child.”
“And you refused to marry her,” Jane said. “Which was very gentlemanly of you, I must say.”
“I was young,” said Byron.
“You were sixty-seven,” Jane countered. “Did she know who you really were?”
“Not until later,” said Byron. “Anyway, she contracted typhus and was near death. Although I wouldn’t marry her, I did want the child. I had very little to do with my other children, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jane. “You weren’t exactly father of the year.”
“I wanted to try,” Byron said. “To be honest, I didn’t love Our Gloomy Friend. I never had. But the child was different.”
“So to save the baby you killed the mother,” Jane said. “Does it work that way?”
“As far as I knew, no one had ever tried it,” Byron answered. “She was going to die anyway, and the child with her, so there was nothing to lose.”
“For you,” said Jane. “Did you give her any say in the matter?”
Byron shook his head. “She was delirious with fever when I turned her. She thought it was all a nightmare.”
“And the child?”
“Stillborn,” said Byron. “I don’t know if the typhus killed it or if I did, but as I said, it hardly matters.”
Jane set her wineglass down. “Despite everything, I can’t help but feel sorry for Charlotte,” she said, momentarily forgetting her own rule against using her enemy’s real name. “First you get her pregnant and refuse to marry her, then you turn her into a vampire. And after all of that you don’t stay with her.”
“I couldn’t,” Byron said defensively. “She was half mad. All she did was scream at me and demand that I bring her victims to feed from. She wouldn’t hunt for herself. I endured it for half a year and then I left before I lost what was left of my humanity.”