Remembering Humphrey

As I first stepped onto the train to London in the hazy summer afternoon of 1890, the cumbersome emotions of dread and longing were what welcomed me. I was on my way to live with my parents, far from the old manor I stayed in for the past two years. Far from the cliffs that overlooked the serene beauty of the sea. Far from the mingled scent of earth, stone, and wet grass. Far from the most charming gentleman I was so inexorably drawn to.

The moment I took my seat in one of the train's private quarters, I immediately took out my journal—this journal—and wrote the whispers of my heart. It has been my only companion over the past days, and today, as I ink my fountain-pen and place it over the parchment, I close my eyes to recall in vivid detail how I first met him. Baron Humphrey von Gikkingen.

29 June 1887

The wind was blowing briskly as I traversed up the cobblestone path, past the massive churchyard and flower garden washed clean by the night's rain. I inhaled deeply, finding pleasure in the amalgamate fragrance of wet gravel, fresh grass, and summer zinnias in bloom. Town inhabitants of all ages and descriptions were strolling about as usual, chatting and smiling. Were it not for the multitude of mud puddles which had gathered in the low spots along the path edges, there would be nothing to indicate that a storm of the most spectacular nature had blown through only the night before.

I was pleased to see that my preferred bench by the cliff was empty. I sat down and inhaled, revelling in the beauty of the scene below me. Sunlight danced on the ever-shifting, dark blue sea, and the waves crashed up in great, foaming, white crests against the beaches, sea-walls, and distant headlands.

Just as I took out my fountain-pen and was about to begin my journal entry, the wind suddenly and unceremoniously picked up and took off with my hat. One moment, my bonnet was secured to my head; the next, it was airborne and rolling away in frantic circles across the pathway.

I leaped up in dismay and dashed after my retreating bonnet. Despite my most earnest attempts to retrieve it, however, it maddeningly remained just a few inches out of my reach. It was making a bee-line for the most dangerous section of the cliff—that part where the sustaining bank had fallen away, and some of the pointed rocks actually projected out over the sands far below. I stopped a few feet from the cliff edge, certain that my hat was lost to me; for it would be only seconds now before it rashly flung itself out into open space and sailed to its doom below in the depths of the sea.

Out of the blue, a tall form rushed past me and grabbed my hat at the very brink of the cliff, just as it was about to hurl itself into oblivion. I had never seen someone move with such speed; but then, with calm assurance and a panther-like grace, the gentleman returned to my side and presented me with his spoils.

"Is this your hat, miss?" he enquired in a deep, rich voice, enlivened by a heavy, distinct English accent.

I stared at him, suddenly speechless. He was a young gentleman—not much older than thirty, I supposed. He was tall, thin, and extremely attractive, with a handsome nose, perfectly white teeth, and marmalade fur that glistened under the late morning sunlight. As he smiled down at me, I was captivated by the force of his jade green eyes, which were at once intense and compelling. He was impeccably dressed in a knee-length brown frock coat, blue tie, beige vest, and trousers, and a crisp white shirt, which were perfectly tailored to fit his fine figure, and whose materials and workmanship immediately announced his affluent status. His complexion glowed with good health; his entire face and form, in fact, so embodied the very model of masculine beauty and charm that for a breathless moment, I wondered if I had conjured him from my imagination.

As our gazes met, an expression crossed his face which I had never before seen directed at me—not from any man, especially. It was an expression of such immediate, profound, and undisguised interest, it caused my heart to flutter.

"Thank you, sir," I said, when at last I found my voice. "I am very much obliged to you."

"I am pleased to have been of service." He bowed, briefly removing his beige top hat, still staring at me intently with those fascinating eyes as if taken aback by the force of unexpected feelings.

I knew I should not engage in further conversation with him. He was a stranger, and I was a single woman, here without a chaperone. Only one proper course of action was open to me, and I was well aware of it: I must curtsey silently and be on my way. And yet…I could not bring myself to do it. Instead, I studied the cotton bonnet in my hands, a simple affair, unadorned except for a white ribbon and a small cluster of flowers, and said: "You were very brave, sir, to—to rush so close to the cliff edge like that, just for a hat. It was quite dangerous."

He seemed to collect himself and gave me a warm smile. "It appeared to be an article that you wished very much to rescue. I did not think of the danger."

There was, I decided (darting another glance in his direction) an inexplicable hint of "danger" in everything about him, which made him seem at once extraordinary and mysterious—but which, I told myself, had more to do with the fact that he was so very attractive that I could not take my eyes off him, than it did with anything particular about the man himself.

"It is not an expensive hat by any means, as you can see," I replied, "but I have had it a long while, and I have grown attached to it. And it is all the more valuable, in that it—it is was given to me by my favourite aunt." Good Lord, I thought, why was I babbling on like an idiot about my hat?

"Ah," he said, as we started back in the direction from which I had come, "then I take it you do not live in Whitby?"

"No. I, um, have been here but a fortnight. I am on holiday with a friend and her mother."

"I am a visitor here as well. I arrived in Whitby only yesterday."

"Where are you from, sir?"

He looked at me, then replied, "Austria."

"I have seen pictures of Austria, and from all accounts, it is a lovely country."

"It is indeed; but this is also a lovely place, is it not? There is such a marvellous view from these cliffs. The sea is so beautiful, so restless, and so endless. I never tire of looking at it. We do not have such sights back home."

"I have always loved the sea-side, at any time of year. Although, if you arrived in Whitby only yesterday, you must have found last night's storm a rather rude welcoming.

"The storm—yes. It was, rather, fearsome." As we passed a cliff-side artist who was painting the broken ship on the sands below, the gentleman paused briefly to admire the work. "Your perspective is very interesting," he told the painter, "and your choice of colours is very pleasing to the eye."

The artist acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a nod. Just then, I noticed my errant hat-pin lying on the cobblestone pathway by the bench where I had been sitting. I quickly retrieved it and stopped to refasten my hat.

"Are these yours as well?" the gentleman asked, referring to my book and journal, which were lying on the path a few feet away, their pages fluttering in the breeze.

"Yes, they are."

He retrieved them. As he dusted off my journal, his attention was drawn to the open page and the loops, squiggles, and other strange symbols inscribed there. I was a little embarrassed that a stranger's eye had fallen on my private diary, but at the same time relieved by the unusual method I had employed in writing it.

"Forgive me if I enquire too freely," he said, "but is this written in some new form of shorthand—or as I think you call it—stenography?"

"It...is," I replied, surprised that he was familiar with this abbreviated, symbolic writing method.

"A fascinating system, is it not? As old as the Acropolis stone from Ancient Greece. The way it allows one to write with increased speed and brevity, as quickly as people speak."

"Yes, and at the same time it achieves total privacy, for it makes that writing unintelligible to most others—which is ideal for keeping a diary."

He smiled. "I am familiar with a number of methods, but this one I do not recognise."

"It is called Gregg's shorthand. It was published two years ago and is not yet commonly employed. I have only just learned the art, so that I might be able to—" I hesitated. To go on with my thought would, I considered, put me in a position where I would be opening much about my life. I was always so reserved; told it was improper to engage in conversation with a man outside formal social affairs. A lady of your stature and background, as mother always lectured, must take into account what she ought to say about her character, her family, and—

"Are you all right? You have suddenly paused in the middle of your sentence." At my brooding, the gentleman's smile briefly faded.

My cheeks grew warm, not only from my embarrassment but from his words of concern. "Forgive me, sir. I was just pondering. It is just that I—my family, especially my mother, never fails to remind me how I should not speak of any aspect of my life to those who I am not well-acquainted with."

He did not comment on that but only paused and glanced about us, saying, "Then, perhaps, is it not best that we get acquainted as soon as this present moment? In the meantime, you are quite at leisure, yes?" Before I could reply, he added, "I have not yet had an opportunity to explore the area. The ruined abbey looks most intriguing. Would you do me the honour of joining me on a tour about the grounds?"

As he looked down at me, my heart began to pound in a strange, frenzied cadence. We had been conversing a few minutes only, yet there was something about this gentleman, about his eyes, that was so mesmerising, I could hardly bear to tear my gaze from his. I could not deny it: I was very attracted to him, and he seemed to be attracted to me. Oh! I thought, these new-found feelings which were coursing through me—although undeniably thrilling—felt very wrong.

He must have read my thoughts on my face, for he said, "There is nothing improper about our walking and talking together. We are simply two modern people, conversing in broad daylight, and there are plenty of others about."

I opened my mouth to decline—but, instead, I heard myself say, "I would be delighted to accompany you," and before I knew it, I was falling in step with him along the stone path.

"I could not help but notice the title of your book." He nodded towards the tome I was carrying. "On the Origin of Species. A most interesting choice."

"Are you familiar with it?"

"I am indeed. It is a seminal work in scientific literature."

"I find Darwin's theory of evolution most interesting. The idea that populations evolve over the course of generations, through a process of natural selection—"

"—And that only the fittest survive—"

"—And form new species—"

"Yes!" he returned, with animation. "The ideas have been around long before Charles Darwin published his book; some have traced the concept as far back as Aristotle. But Darwin's theories have at last brought it to the attention of the general public."

"The book has aroused such heated debate!"

"Which is not surprising. Darwin's theory has called into question the validity of many long-held religious doctrines—"

"—Such as Creationism—"

"—And the much-cherished hierarchy of man over beast."

"I suppose it does come as a great shock to some," I said with a smile, "to consider that humans are no longer the undisputed crown of creation."

"Indeed, yes. We are merely another link in a great chain." He returned my smile, adding, "Your taste in reading intrigues me. I would have expected a young lady like yourself to be more interested in popular novels than the theories of evolution."

"Oh, but I do love novels! I have read nearly everything by Dickens, George Eliot, and Jane Austen, and I must have read Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre a dozen times."

"I, too, have enjoyed the work of these authors. Do you read poetry as well?"

"I do. In fact, I believe there is a scene in Scott's Marmion that was set right here, at Whitby Abbey."

"Yes: a nun was walled up alive for breaking her vows."

"Exactly! Scott wrote with such verve, did he not?"

"And such wonderful use of language: 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave—'"

We finished the quotation together: "—'when first we practice to deceive!'"

We shared a laugh. As we talked on, discussing our favourite works by Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Byron, a little thrill raced up my spine. I could not recall the last time I had had such an interesting conversation with a man—or with any other person, for that matter. Mother had never been a great reader; my lady-in-waiting had generally been too tired and overworked to read for pleasure in her spare time; and although father had been well-schooled in literature and greatly enjoyed reading, he now mainly perused newspapers, magazines, and law journals.

As we walked on towards the abbey, he commented, "You seem very young to have had such a wide-ranging exposure to literature. Did you do all this reading at school?"

"Well, I...I am fortunate enough to have private tutors, and my father was an avid reader as well, hence I had access to his excellent library. What about you? Were you educated here in England?"

"Yes, actually, I was raised here in England."

"Remarkable, that explains your perfect English!"

"My family and I moved when I was about the tender age of seven. I have had several teachers to help me with my English…but I know that I still require improvement." He smiled modestly and added, "You said just now that you were homeschooled. Only a few are able to afford such luxury. Forgive my enquiry, but I take it that you are from a wealthy family?"

"Indeed," I replied, embarrassed to have been found out. "But I do love to read and write that I consider teaching in university a most noble profession. I find it more enjoyable speaking to inquisitive minds who are genuinely passionate about the complexities of the world, as opposed to those dull, pompous elites who only pontificate how much they had spent on their most recent purchases."

"I agree. Let us hope then that you can find a university of your liking, where you will be quite happy."

"Yet again, that would never do. Mother does not approve of the idea of my working. She believes I am to find a husband foremost—one whom I can simply assist in his daily state of affairs."

He regarded me with open surprise. "This is a very old-fashioned idea, for such a modern young woman."

"Is it not, sir? In any case, I have never really thought of myself as modern."

"And yet you are," he said, with an admiring smile. "You are intelligent, well-read, and well educated. You may not currently have a profession, but you have an aspiration. Beyond your family's wealth, you know you can achieve financial independence. You have mastered some of the newest inventions and skills. And you have, I assume, made your choice of husband entirely of your own free will?"

"I have," I replied with a laugh. "Though, I may have not met him yet."

"Furthermore, you have proven that you are willing daringly to defy certain established social conventions." At this, he made a silent gesture, which included himself, myself, and the abbey grounds, which we were passing through together. As I laughed again, he went on, "I would think that today's New Woman would give great thought to what she wants after marriage, and not just to what society dictates, or what her would-be husband expects."

"Sir, although I may appear to be an advocate of the New Woman's ideals, I have reached my situation in life more by necessity than design. All my life, I was dependent on the charity of my parents for my education and subsistence. Although I did not love it as much, I never had to work for a living to support myself because of my parents' terms. And I admit: I cringe a bit when I think that, in future, I shall have to ask my husband for every penny for even the smallest purchase. But I admire a man with a rigid sense of propriety. I look forward to being a wife, to managing a home, and—" I added with a blush "—to having a family. I want to make my husband, whoever he may be, happy."

An amused look crossed his countenance, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well. Your husband, whoever he may be, is a very lucky man indeed."

Just then, the church bells tolled the hour of one o'clock. I gave a sudden gasp. "Oh! I am so sorry. I forgot the time. I promised to meet my friends for luncheon at one—and now I am late."

"No worries. I, too, have some place I must be."

I held out my gloved hand to him. "It was a pleasure to meet you, sir. I very much enjoyed our conversation."

"As did I, Miss—?"

"Please call me Louise."

"Good day, Miss Louise." He took my hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. I shivered. Was that shiver induced by the pressure of his grip and the brief touch of his lips—which felt strangely cool, despite the fabric of my glove, which separated his flesh from mine? Or was that shiver the product of the confluence of emotions which continued to course through me? "I hope we will meet again," he said, releasing my hand with a bow.

"Good day." I hurried to the steps and started down, permitting myself only one brief, backwards glance. He was watching me. As our gazes touched, he smiled and bowed again.

It was only when I reached our lodgings at the Royal Crescent that I realised I had never asked him his name.

I closed the leather-bound cover and glanced out the window. No wonder my eyes had suddenly faltered, it was twilight and the light from the sun had been replaced with the glow of the cascading moonlight. It was beautiful.

I hid away my journal in one of my smaller suitcases, smiling to myself and musing over what I was to write about tomorrow. Our first dance, perhaps? Or that one exhilarating night he escaped me from my bedroom and we explored the desolate, silent streets of Colchester?

My decision may not matter now. For in my dreams, I know I would see him again.

A/N: Scene inspired by Syrie James' Dracula in Love