‘This would be a nice place for an ice cream parlour,’ Lydia remarked, walking around the dock pensively.
‘You want an ice cream?’ Damon asked, as if to a four-year-old.
If being with Bridget was bad enough, with me constantly cringing at the things that came out of her mouth, the nervous tension of waiting for Damon to say or do something horrible was even worse. I was on tenterhooks the entire day. Because Damon would say something horrible, at some point, to Lydia, as soon as he tired of playing the game of attentive suitor. His attention span for games – other than ones he was betting on – was incredibly limited.
‘Yes,’ Lydia said. ‘And there’s no ice cream here. And there should be.’
‘Won’t matter,’ Bridget said, trying to add something useful to the conversation. ‘Soon there’s going to be a giant bridge and this will all be shaded off and there won’t be anything except for loud carriages and the stink of horses.’
Bram, the original source of this information, shook his head. ‘No, Bridgey, the angle is fine. Look where the sun is…’
I leaned on a dock railing, surveying our little party. The girls in this setting looked like a scene from a painting, the four ladies’ cheeks rosy with sunlight and the exertion of the day, the long ribbons from their straw hats blowing in the wind, their fluffy walking skirts swept up against their legs by the sea breeze. They were all beautiful, and for just a moment I could forget my present situation.
Margaret bought a paper from a newsboy to read on the trip over. It was a fine day for a boat ride and strangely the East River didn’t repel me the way fresh running water usually did. Bridget went to sit down inside the ferry, not wanting any more sun on her skin, which was ironic and hilarious considering my own situation. I was relaxing for the first time that day, my face up to the sun, letting my Mediterranean skin take on a bronzed, healthy glow.
And then Margaret plopped down in the seat next to me.
‘You seem to be at least a bit more reasonable than the other fiancé,’ she snapped. ‘Tell me. What do you want with my family. Money? The business? What?’
I groaned inwardly. ‘You have to believe me,’ I said, fixing her blue eyes with my own hazel ones. Without compelling her, I willed my voice to sound as genuine as I could. I took her arms in my hands, which was bold, but I needed her to understand. ‘I am not after Bridget’s wealth. All I want is your family’s safety and happiness. I swear to you by whatever you want.’
‘That’s just the problem. I don’t know what your word is worth. I don’t know you. Nobody knows you,’ Margaret said. Sighing, she took off her hat. ‘It’s just…so…odd. I can see why Bridget likes you, you’re certainly handsome and well-mannered…’
I cast my eyes down, embarrassed.
‘But really – no papers, no history, just an escapee of the South? This is Bridget we’re talking about. She wanted Papa to take us all on a tour of Europe so she could capture the heart of a king, or prince, or at least a duke. Nothing less than royalty for her. And no offense, you’re about as far from royalty as one can get.’
‘Well, and Lydia got her count, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ Margaret said thoughtfully. She eyed me, pushing a black tendril of hair back behind her ear. ‘And what about Damon DeSangue…’
I shrugged, trying to look innocent.
‘What do you think of him? The two of you have been . . unusually close since your double declarations of love.’
I stared into the distance south, where the mighty Hudson and East rivers joined and became the sea. I shaded the city from my eyes, blocking it out, and the sun was bright white and rose over ancient, exotic waters.
How much could I tell her without endangering her? She seemed to be the only one in the family with a sensible head on her shoulders. I thought once more about Katherine and whether my family would have been better prepared with some warning.
‘Don’t trust him,’ I finally admitted, hoping I wasn’t putting her at greater risk. ‘I don’t.’
‘Hm.’ She looked over at Damon, who was talking animatedly with Bram and Winfield. ‘Neither do I.’
Bridget had chosen the next few venues to visit as far away as it was possible to get from where we were. The mansion of the Richards was near Fort Tryon on the northern tip of Manhattan, while the Fulton Ferry dock was at the southeastern end.
The slow ride in our carriages from downtown gave me an almost panopticon’s view of city life. Slowly going up Fifth Avenue, I was amazed by the sheer difference in fortune of the people who made their home in New York – from the often shoeless newsboys and schmatta, or rag-sellers, to people like Winfield, who sat in his gilded private carriage, puffing on a cigar.
We stopped for lunch about halfway there at the Mount Vernon Hotel on Sixty-first Street, where Bridget continued to discuss her outfit for the wedding.
‘…and Darla had her dress in muslin, out of respect for the war, but it’s almost over, and I think I should have a new pair of earrings, don’t you, Papa? Stefan, darling, there is the most fantastic pair of pearl earrings…’
Damon cleared his throat. ‘Bridget, you should absolutely have new earrings. And your outfit sounds good enough to eat, don’t you agree, Stefan?’
I stood up from the table, unable to enjoy the nice repast of cold chicken, fresh bread, fish and tea that had been set before us, and unable to listen to another word of my fiancée’s mindless prattling or my brother’s endless teasing.
‘I must go and take some air,’ I excused myself, and would have stumbled over the bench on my speedy way out if I didn’t have the grace of a vampire. I should not have been exhausted; I’d endured far worse. Living hungry in the middle of Central Park and hunting small prey was far more physically demanding than sitting in a carriage, looking at houses, and listening to the youngest member of the Sutherland family babble on about meaningless things. But as I had not fed since the squirrel the day before, I was famished and weak, as if I was enduring a transatlantic journey.
A quick, silent trip to the kitchens revealed exactly what I had hoped – rats, of course. Not too many, and mostly in the breezeway between the cold house and the pantry. With a flash of my hand I grabbed one and broke its neck, sucking the poor thing dry, all without losing control. It was easy, with such disgusting fare.
A low noise, a muffled sigh, made me turn and look up guiltily, rat blood leaking down my lips.
Damon stood there holding a waitress around her throat, fangs out and ready to feast. She had the dumb, slightly breathless look of someone who was under a spell.
‘I see we both slipped out for the same thing,’ he said, pleased. He raised a lip in disgust at the rat in my hand. ‘Although, really, you can do better.’
He lifted his head back, ready to tear –
‘Please – don’t…’ I put up my hand helplessly. ‘Please don’t kill her,’ I begged.
Damon paused. ‘All right,’ he said gamely. ‘I won’t kill her. As an early wedding present! Just for you.’
I closed my eyes, seeing the horror of the future before me. By implying he wasn’t going to kill this girl, as a present, there was the assumption that there would of course be other murders, later on.
The following morning, I clutched the soft linen sheets up to my neck, as I had when I was a child. With my eyes squeezed shut, I could almost pretend I was home again. That Damon and I were still human and having our usual brotherly quarrels. That our father was somewhere on the plantation, working. That Katherine was alive.