“Who could it have been?” My every muscle was tense in anticipation of the answer.
Uncle Ernest shook his head wearily. “In all the years I have had to ponder these things, I have concluded that my brother had a powerful enemy who dogged his every step and preyed on his loved ones.”
“Who would be so vengeful?”
“I don’t know, but Victor must have greatly wronged this person.”
“Could that be why he went to the Arctic, to draw this enemy away from those he loved?” I asked, knowing full well that those he loved included my sister and me.
“Very possibly. There have been no more murders in the last ten years.”
Three murders in such a short period of time. It was indeed suspicious. Who was this powerful enemy? Did he live still? If so, was his vengeance spent?
“There is one man who might be able to shed some light on this mystery,” Uncle Ernest added as he rose from the table and lifted the lantern. “About ten years ago, a Captain Robert Walton contacted me by mail, saying he had seen Victor stranded on an ice floe in Arctic waters. Apparently Victor had confided things to him that he only wished to speak of face-to-face. He suggested that we should meet to talk further. I immediately traveled to his widowed sister’s house in London, as he suggested, but upon my arrival the sister informed me that Captain Walton had just set sail for St. Petersburg in Russia to sign onto another Arctic expedition of exploration.”
“You never heard from him again?”
“I tried to contact the sister some years later, but was told by her landlady that she had remarried and moved away. Not knowing how else to proceed, I let the trail grow cold.”
“I could try to find her,” I suggested. “I plan to make trips to mainland Scotland and England. I could search for her while I’m there.”
“Be careful, Ingrid,” Uncle Ernest counseled. “Some secrets are best left buried.”
“I don’t agree,” I countered. “It is always better to know the truth.”
“Spoken like a truly deep thinker,” he said with a faint and somewhat sad smile. “But I am not convinced.”
FROM THE DIARY OF
GISELLE VON DER WIEN,
HENCEFORTH TO BE KNOWN AS BARONESS FRANKENSTEIN
June 10, 1815
Frankenstein is my name, so why shouldn’t I use it? Baron Frankenstein assures me it is an old and venerable name of which I have every reason to be proud. I am my father’s legitimate heir and am now the lady of Castle Frankenstein. Like my uncle, my father, Victor, was also a baron and this makes me, legitimately, Baroness Frankenstein, a title that I rather like and fully intend to embrace, especially as I will very soon be seventeen and ready to take my role in the adult world with money, property, and a title.
You’re just a child, Johann said. And he might as well have added, And you’re a nobody, with nothing.
How wrong I shall prove him.
I have decided to begin my renovation on the open and cavernous first floor, undertaking to begin with the most challenging and public space first. The ceilings of the entire ground level are at least twenty feet high, and to the left of the front entranceway is an immense room that would lend itself most excellently to grand dinners and balls.
It was while I was standing in the middle of the gigantic space, contemplating where to begin my renovation, that Ingrid and Baron Frankenstein came in. With them was a tall woman covered in a gray woolen cape. She had a chiseled angular face and her bright carrot-colored hair was caught in a severe bun.
Baron Frankenstein introduced us. “Giselle, meet Agnes Flett, who has agreed to be our housekeeper.”
“We have just now hired her,” Ingrid added.
“Welcome, Mrs. Flett,” I said cordially. “I suppose the first order of things is to get you set up in a room.”
I believe she said, “I suppose so,” though it sounded more like “Ay sipasesi.” Understanding the people on these islands is going to be a great challenge even more difficult than comprehending the Scots of the mainland, especially in the northern highlands where I found it all but impossible. Although I did well in language studies in Germany and am considered fluent in English, I never anticipated having to understand such a heavy dialect as this.
“We all must get set up with proper accommodations,” Ingrid said. “I propose a trip to Edinburgh to purchase some furniture.”
“Yes, the sooner the better,” I agreed, already looking forward to the journey. I knew we’d have to settle in first and see what furniture could be salvaged from the castle as it stood. But eventually, we’d bring some newness to this very old place.
June 13, 1815
Mrs. Flett has turned out to be a wonder of industry, and set to work on the rooms almost immediately using what furniture we could scrape together. For the last few days, Ingrid and I worked with her until we were fairly exhausted from knocking down cobwebs and scrubbing floors. I fear we were more in the way than helpful, and today, after four hours, the indefatigable Mrs. Flett finally shooed us off to be out of her way. “Girls,” she said before we left, “what do you say about letting me hire some of my kinsmen who live on the island to move things along?”
Ingrid and I looked to each other and then down at our work-weary hands. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Mrs. Flett,” I agreed, hoping I had understood her correctly. We certainly had the money for it now, so it seemed only sensible. “Hire whomever you’d like.”
Glad to be set free, we walked out onto the property in front of the castle. Arm in arm, we strolled almost to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean, each holding a novel we were reading. I was in the midst of the gloriously amusing Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, but I couldn’t see what book Ingrid had with her.
“It’s called The Devil’s Elixirs,” she revealed when I questioned her about it. “It’s a new publication by a man calling himself E. T. A. Hoffmann.”
“It sounds frightening,” I remarked.
“It is,” Ingrid admitted. “Very frightening. And scandalous too! I’m sure Grandfather would never allow me to read it, but here we are on our own, and who’s to stop me? It’s the story of a monk who drinks the devil’s special brew and then takes on the personality of his lunatic double, who is a prince. He winds up murdering his stepmother, and all manner of awful things happen.”
I shivered, holding on to my bonnet to keep it from blowing off into the wind. “Why would you want to read such a thing?”
“Why not?” Ingrid countered. “It’s exciting.”
Laughing, I opened my novel, searching for the spot where I’d left off reading. “One would scarcely believe we were twins, we are so different,” I commented.
With a shrug, Ingrid settled on the grass beside me and also opened her novel. I read for nearly fifteen minutes before looking up to discover that Ingrid had put her book aside and was instead gazing over at a white, one-story cottage about a half mile to our right.
“Bored with my company already?” I asked, teasing. “Looking for new friends?”
Ingrid smiled sheepishly, embarrassed at my observation. “Of course not — you know better than that,” she chided. “I’m only wondering who lives over there.”
“Just one of the simple folk of the island,” I remarked with disinterest. “Hardly worth your time.”
Ingrid raised her eyebrows and looked askance at me. “Isn’t that rather snobbish of you?”
“Oh, please, Ingrid, don’t be so false. Do you really want to strike up a friendship with some farmers with no education or culture? How much will you really have in common with them? If you open that door, you’ll be ducking them at every turn before you know it.” It may not have sounded warmhearted, but at least it was honest.
“We could be neighborly,” Ingrid insisted.
The absurdity of that made me laugh. I imagined how that scene might unravel. “‘Oh, hello, I’m Ingrid from the monstrously huge castle next door. What a cozy little hovel you have,’” I s
aid, playing Ingrid’s part.
“I wouldn’t call that a hovel,” Ingrid insisted as she stood, brushing grass from her skirt. She stepped toward the edge of the cliff and pointed down. “That hut on the small island down there — that’s a hovel. The place to our right is a cottage. And you’re right. It does look cozy.”
“Have it your way,” I conceded, not thinking the subject worth arguing about.
“I’m going over there to introduce myself,” Ingrid stated firmly. “We have been here nearly a week, and I think it’s rude of us not to say hello.”
“Isn’t it customary for the neighbors to come over to welcome us?” I countered. “Isn’t it they who have been rude?”
“Aren’t you always saying that we are nobles now? We should act like nobles.”
“Oh, really, Ingrid!” I cried, exasperated by her stubbornness. “You couldn’t care less about royalty, and are just using my interest in our new royal station to get your own way. They’re probably not even there. Most likely they’re out shearing the sheep or milking the goats or some such thing.”
“There’s smoke coming from the chimney.”
“It’s just your endless curiosity, you know.”
“So what if it is?” Ingrid challenged. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious about things.”
“It’s going to get you into trouble someday,” I cautioned.
“It won’t,” Ingrid maintained as she straightened her bonnet, preparing to depart.
“It will.” I watched Ingrid’s determined stride as she walked away from me. “Ingrid, come back!” I shouted, but the wind snapped up my words and blew them out to sea.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
INGRID VDW FRANKENSTEIN
June 13, 1815
(Giselle has convinced me to adopt the name but I am most definitely not going to call myself Baroness F. I would feel ridiculous.)
Today I met the most remarkable person.
Normally I might have felt shy about simply showing up at a stranger’s door and introducing myself. But I had a few words with Giselle in which she admonished me not to bother meeting our only neighbor. This brought out the stubborn streak in my character as only my sister can, and I was determined to go.
Admittedly, a certain nervousness returned as I neared the cottage. The place was surrounded by a waist-high wall made from stones and gave the impression of being extremely neat and well-tended. The white smoke puffing from the chimney told me that someone was home. Passing through the opening in the wall, I stepped up to the thick wooden door and knocked, fully expecting the woman of the house to answer.
After waiting for some minutes with no response, I walked around to the side. An all-white mare roamed freely, grazing. It whinnied when I appeared and then returned to its grassy meal. It wasn’t fenced in, so I assumed the owner had no fear of it wandering off.
I tried to see in the windows, but the curtains were drawn, so I went back to rap on the door once more. This time I thought I detected the sound of someone shuffling about inside, which prompted me to bang on the door with more force.
Still, no one came.
I was on the verge of leaving when I saw movement at the window nearest the door. From behind the curtain, someone was sneaking a peek at the front door. Encouraged, I pushed stray wisps of hair back in my bonnet and waited. Soon the door pulled slowly inward.
“Hello?” I called after a moment of further waiting. When no one replied, I stood closer to the opening and called again, leaning into the warm, darkened room.
A large stone fireplace glowed in the center of the main room where I stood. Heavy timbers connected uneven walls with a wide planked wooden floor. On two walls, floor-to-ceiling shelves housed many books. This private library did not seem in keeping with such a rough-hewn cottage.
“Can I help you?”
I couldn’t tell where the rich, low male voice had come from. The speaker was male and British. A certain strength in the resonant tone told me that he was not old.
“Over here.” In a shadowed corner I finally saw the man who had spoken. Though I couldn’t gauge his height while seated, he had broad shoulders and a head of luxuriant, nearly black curls that fell around his ears and neck. The fire sparked and lit half his face. Piercing amber eyes studied me. They were set beneath straight dark brows. His lips were full and his jaw square.
Summoning my nerve, I stepped more fully into the room, though I took the precaution of leaving the door slightly ajar. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I began, and was dismayed to hear an uneasy scratchiness in my voice. “I am Ingrid Von … a … well, Ingrid will do —”
“Not sure of your own last name?” he interrupted.
An embarrassed smile formed on my lips. “No. I assure you I know my own name. It’s … a long story.”
“What isn’t?” he remarked with an air of bitter irony.
“Ah, yes. I know what you mean,” I replied, feeling idiotic, since I had no idea what he meant.
“What brings you here, Ingrid?” he asked. His voice was neutral.
“Nothing, really, except my sister and I just moved into the castle next door and —”
“‘The castle next door’?” he echoed mockingly.
“Yes.”
“The ancient, sprawling edifice of stone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that castle. Now that you mention it, I think I’ve noticed it.”
I was sure my cheeks were burning red, which only added to my mortification. Hopefully they were masked by the jumping shadows. “We have just now inherited it,” I explained.
“Then your last name must be Frankenstein.”
“Yes.” Though it was still too soon for me to think of it as my own name yet
“No wonder you stammered over it.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked. Maybe he could tell me something about my father. Perhaps he would reveal more about why the local people were frightened of the castle.
“Nothing. I meant nothing at all.”
With hands on hips, I eyed him with unabashed skepticism. “Tell me, please,” I requested.
“It was nothing but boorishness on my part. I am unaccustomed to having pretty young women visit me in the middle of the day. I have been reclusive for so long I’ve quite lost all sense of civility.”
“So I see,” I allowed reluctantly, for I still did not believe there was nothing behind his comment. Why would someone say such a thing if he did not have a reason?
An awkward moment stretched between us. “Well, I am Ingrid Frankenstein, and I simply came over to introduce myself,” I said to break the silence. I extended my hand to shake his. (I know this is not ordinarily the custom, but there was something straightforward about him that made it seem the right thing to do.) When he didn’t rise to shake my hand, I realized he was fumbling with an ebony cane by the side of his chair. “Please don’t get up,” I urged, realizing that he was not having an easy time of it.
He grumbled angrily under his breath and continued his struggle. By gripping the chair with one hand and balancing on his cane with the other, he slowly came to stand. His rise went on longer than I’d have anticipated. By the time he was fully upright, he towered over me, possibly the tallest man I’d ever seen. He leaned so heavily on the cane that I realized he would have been taller still if he were not stooped by his disability.
“I am Walter Hammersmith,” he said, leaning the cane against the table and taking my hand to shake. He used his left hand and I saw that his right arm hung limply at his side. But his left hand was strong and so massive that mine disappeared into his firm grip. I imagined this was what it might be like to shake hands with a bear. “To be more precise,” he added, “I am Lieutenant Walter Hammersmith of the Royal British Army, retired.”
Gazing up into those burning eyes, I saw that he was somewhere in his early twenties, possibly a little younger. “Aren’t you young to be —”
“Retired?” he anticipated my ques
tion.
“A lieutenant,” I said.
Walter looked back at his chair. “You’ll forgive me if I sit. Standing tires me.”
“Let me help you,” I offered, taking his elbow. He fairly collapsed into the chair.
When he was seated, he bade me take my place in another nearby chair. “I am young to have been a lieutenant and I am young to be in this wretched condition you find me in, as well. We can thank Napoleon Bonaparte for both.”
“Why Napoleon?”
“I owe both my rank and ill health to Napoleon, since one is often promoted more quickly in wartime and one also ages more rapidly in wartime due to stress, illness, and injury. If one is lucky enough to age at all, of course.”
I have lived a sheltered life, but I have not been so protected that I did not know that Napoleon’s French troops had been wreaking havoc across Europe, Russia, and even Egypt. “You fought the French troops?” I assumed.
“The Danes and Norwegians,” Walter corrected me. “They were fighting against England as conquered nations under French control. I was in Lyngør, not very far from here. Three years ago, I was promoted and assigned to a gunboat.”
“And that’s where you were injured,” I conjectured.
“It’s a long story,” he said dismissively.
This made me smile. “What isn’t?” I said.
Recognizing he’d been caught, his face lit up, and for the first time I thought him quite handsome.
“There’s no place I have to be and I’d love to hear your long story if you feel like telling it,” I said sincerely.
“It’s not a happy story,” he warned.