Resurrected Hearts Read online

  To his relief, Arthur merely smiled and held out his hand. Perhaps he did not know about Gray’s snooping after all, or was unbothered by it.

  “Nothing to worry about. Veronique is my housekeeper. I’ve never forbidden her to speak her mind, but she is not actually upset. It is simply her way.”

  Gray seized the opportunity to learn more about Arthur and his household. “Veronique? An unusual name. French, obviously.”

  “Yes—she is an islander, as I am in a way. She has been with my family since I was a small child on my father’s plantation. She raised me, you might say.”

  “I see.” Gray thought it remarkable that a servant would speak so harshly to her employer, for her tone had been critical whatever the words might have meant. However, he concluded it was none of his business. No doubt she had a sort of maternal hold over Arthur if she had been his nursemaid.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “I fear I chose a poor time to call.”

  “Nonsense. I’m glad you came.” Arthur held the door open wider. “Enter.”

  “Thank you.” Nervously Gray stepped inside, and Arthur motioned him into a small room near the door. This one did not contain a piano, for Gray could see that it was a sort of consulting room, such as any practicing physician might have. Tables and chairs were arranged in a way clearly meant to provide a home-like atmosphere to set potential patients at ease.

  “Will you be comfortable here while I get us some tea?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes, of course—thank you.” When he was alone again, Gray looked around the room. He saw medical books and journals on a shelf, certificates in Latin verifying Arthur’s credentials, a small framed picture of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and a chart of the human body without any skin, tastefully drawn so as not to offend any ladies or the faint of heart. Though it still made Gray squeamish, he supposed Arthur used it to help pinpoint the source of an ailing visitor’s complaint. A few unusual objects lay on a small round display table—a necklace made of what appeared to be seashells and carved bits of wood, along with brightly colored feathers and an array of handmade pottery and what looked like a sort of pipe.

  “Mementoes of my time on the island,” Arthur said when he came back with a pot of tea and two cups on a tray. Again Gray wondered why his housekeeper didn’t handle that duty, even if no other servants shared the house.

  “Most interesting,” he agreed. “Were you fond of that part of the world?”

  “Not at all, I’m afraid.” Arthur arranged the tea things and poured some out without looking at him. “As I mentioned, my father managed a plantation for a time during my youth. My memories are not especially happy.”

  “Their way of life is quite different from ours, I expect.”

  “To say the least. I saw much I disapproved of, but I could not hope to change it. I returned to England as soon as I could.”

  “Where you received your medical training?”

  Arthur flinched but recovered himself and motioned Gray into an armchair. “Yes.” He pulled up another chair so they faced each other.

  “I’ve read they have unusual methods of healing on the islands. Using venom from deadly spiders, the extracts of exotic plants, and all manner of things like that.” Gray shuddered at the thought of handling a large, squirming insect and attempting to draw out its poison. “I would not care to live among such creatures, either.”

  “Understandable, though one adjusts in time. For my part, I do not plan to leave England again.”

  “Your parents returned also?”

  Arthur’s face clouded over briefly. “Alas, I fear they are no longer among the living. Warm climates bring with them not only a variety of unfamiliar plants and creatures, but diseases as well. Lifespans are shorter there than they are even among the less fortunate members of our own society.”

  “I’m sorry. You are without family, then?”

  “I made the best of things. What of your parents? They are alive, I hope?”

  “Indeed they are.” Gray briefly described his father’s parish, where he and Gray’s mother tended to their flock with great devotion, and how he had a sister who was still at home but who hoped to find a suitable husband soon. He thought it best not to mention how glad he was to get away from all of them, even if he did miss them at times. Arthur listened attentively, nodding and murmuring, but asked no questions. Gray decided to inquire about his practice instead. “Do you have many patients who call on you here?”

  “Actually, I have no regular patients at the moment, though I would not turn away the odd emergency should one arise,” he replied, and Gray wondered if he might be referring to the madman from the graveyard. “I have not forsaken medicine. Instead, I have taken some time to do research. I needed to perfect some tonics I invented. It is my hope that my discoveries will benefit more people than just those who come to me. Many more, in fact.”

  “I see. That sounds like a most worthy pursuit.”

  “I assure you it is. You see, the preservation of life matters to me more than any other aspect of medicine. I am not content merely to ease aches and pains and clear up what we might call inconvenient skin aberrations. What is the purpose of studying disease and decay if we cannot find a way to conquer both?” Arthur’s expression grew intense, and his blue eyes actually seemed to flash. Gray stared, mesmerized by his passion. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Langley—do you believe death is the end of us? I mean the absolute, final end?”

  “I—I could not presume to know. It is a difficult problem, to say the least.” Startled by the question, and afraid of offending Arthur with any layman’s answer he could sputter out, Gray tried to avoid giving a direct response. His father, the vicar, would have had one kind of response and his professors at the college, especially those skilled in philosophical argument, would provide something quite different. Yet Arthur seemed pleased with his reply.

  “Exactly!” He thumped his palm on the table, making the teaspoons clatter against the china saucers. “We don’t know a thing about it, yet we act as though we do. Why should physical death be the end? We should not simply accept it, as though there is no way to circumvent or even reverse it. This is the age of the steam locomotive and the gas light. Those inventions alone should tell us anything is possible!”

  Gray felt the flesh at the back of his neck prickle. Of course, he had heard similar arguments bandied around at the college, but usually in a hypothetical way or as part of a discussion on ethics or the relationship between religion and science. Never had he encountered anyone who wanted to put such peculiar ideas into practice.

  “Surely we must be cautious in such matters,” he said after a moment of fumbling with his tea. “The idea that we might one day be able to control nature is intoxicating, I grant you, but the potential for disaster exists as well.”

  “Does it? I cannot image how gaining mastery over death could be anything but beneficial to humankind.” Arthur’s voice had risen in excitement. He seemed about to say more, but abruptly closed his mouth and took a long, calming swallow of tea. Afterward he became quite casual again, as though they had been discussing nothing more controversial than a cricket match. “However, it is simply a theory at present. We shall see what, if anything, comes of it.”

  When the tea ran out after a few more awkward minutes, Gray thanked him and stood to go. Arthur accompanied him to the front door with obvious reluctance.

  “Will you come again, Mr. Langley? I enjoyed our talk.” Arthur paused to rub his forehead. “I fear I spend too much time alone. It is a relief to discuss my work.”

  “If you want me to. But please, call me Gray. I think of Mr. Langley as my father.”

  “Of course. And I must be Arthur to you. A bit unconventional, perhaps, but I have never been a stickler for ceremony. Will you come for dinner tomorrow…if the college can spare you?”

  “Very well. Perhaps afterward, we might enjoy some music together. You may find your work less of a burden if you spent more ti
me on leisurely pursuits like the piano. Such things have a habit of clearing the mind—much as I find sketching does for me.”

  “The piano?” Arthur paused, his expression alarmed. “I’m afraid I play hardly at all, and not well.”

  “I beg to differ. I confess heard you playing as I came up the walk.” Gray strategically omitted the fact that he had been staring in the window. However, he felt sure Veronique had seen him, so he thought it best to make at least a partial admission. “You’re quite skilled—from what little I could hear, I mean.”

  “No, no. Not I. Your ears were playing tricks.” Arthur’s confident smile returned. “The walls and windows distorted the sound of my bashings. In any case, come tomorrow at six. I look forward to it.”

  Gray did not care to argue the point, but he found himself puzzled as he walked off again. Arthur’s attitude was peculiar Perhaps he didn’t care to play in front of people. And he would not be the first artist of any sort to think less of his talents than others did.

  When he had gone a short distance from the house, he again heard a few notes on the piano. This time, they came out slow and disconnected, as though someone were practicing instead of playing. The sound was as cacophonous as it had previously been melodic.

  The music soon stopped again, and Gray glanced back at the house. This time he spotted Arthur in an upstairs window, standing as still as a statue. At least, he presumed it was Arthur. The distance and shadows made it impossible to tell. Then he saw a smaller figure—Veronique, no doubt—push Arthur out of the way and pull the curtains shut.

  He spent the rest of his long walk home worrying about Arthur. Clearly, he was dedicated and no doubt brilliant in his chosen vocation, but his overt zeal made Gray nervous. He had heard tales of professors at his college, some of them geniuses or nearly so, who had driven themselves mad with odd fancies and bizarre types of research.

  Another unpleasant thought struck him, too. Arthur had mentioned that he worked with potions—was he trying them out on himself? That seemed unsafe in the extreme and might seem to support Lucien’s theory that Arthur had been stumbling about intoxicated.

  That night Gray’s dreams troubled him. He twisted and turned, sweating and gasping for air. In his nightmare, he was standing not outside the window, but inside the tiny parlor with the piano. One minute, Arthur was playing and smiling normally. In the next, he took his hands from the keys and swiveled around on the stool. Gray saw that Arthur was wearing the necklace made of shells from the consulting room. He was about to ask why when Arthur’s his eyes turned dark and cold—as though he had gone soulless. Then he parted his lips to reveal sharp, beastlike teeth smeared with blood.

  Chapter 3

  The dinner turned out to be delicious, unlike anything Gray had ever tasted before. The tangy spices and exotic flavors sizzled against his tongue and made the blood rush hot and fast to his head. Though Veronique did not appear to serve them, she had no doubt prepared the various dishes. No one from England, or even the Continent, could have manufactured such a startling concoction.

  “Do you like it?” Arthur gestured toward Gray’s plate, looking worried. “I asked Veronique to go lightly on the seasonings, knowing you are not used to them. I fear her definition of ‘light’ differs from mine, however.”

  “I like it immensely. If this was your daily fare on the island, I marvel you could bring yourself to leave.”

  “Well, I did invite Veronique back with me for more than one reason,” Arthur said with a smile. Gray’s enjoyment of the food clearly pleased him. He lifted his wine in a mock toast and drank deeply. “You know, Gray, I do not have many visitors by choice. However, I wanted you to be my first in a very long while. I’m glad you agreed.”

  “Your company is delightful. Why would you deprive others of it?”

  “It’s nothing I can put into words.” Arthur seemed uncomfortable with that topic and instead talked of his time on the island—the food, the birds and reptiles, the style of the houses, the dialect of French everyone spoke there. He had learned the language from Veronique herself, he said, starting as a young boy, and Gray recalled how the two had communicated in their own private manner the day before. He wondered if Veronique could understand English as well, or if she confined herself to her native tongue.

  Though he spoke freely of the island and its features, Arthur was careful about mentioning any specifics pertaining to his family. Clearly their deaths still pained him. He mentioned no siblings, so Gray assumed he had been a lonely child, perhaps with only Veronique for company. That explained a lot.

  In turn, Gray told Arthur about his own home in a modest midland village, and how his father wanted him to go into the church as he had. His college education was intended to be a step in that very direction, but Gray preferred law and hoped his parents would not be too disappointed by his choice of a more secular career.

  “You can’t see yourself settling down in some cozy country vicarage, then?” Arthur asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. “Or even becoming a chaplain at a college like your own? It can be a peaceful existence, from what I have observed.”

  Gray stiffened in his chair. “I could never be a vicar. There are…obstacles.”

  “A crisis of faith, you mean? I can sympathize. Men of science struggle with that, too. It is for each of us to reconcile the traditional with the modern in our own way, I suppose.”

  “Agreed…but there is a bit more to it in my case.” Gray took a deep breath. He’d probably said too much, but for some reason he needed to let Arthur know the truth about him. Not that he had anything to hide, at present, except his thoughts…but sometimes thoughts were enough to cause irreparable harm. He pushed on, his hands shaking as he tried to contain his emotions. “The simple fact is…I cannot live as a hypocrite or pretend to condemn beliefs and acts that my heart insists cannot be wrong.”

  “But what of the law? Plenty of corruption and hypocrisy there, too.”

  “True. It is the human condition. Still…I cannot help but hope that one day I might be able to make some contribution, or perhaps even introduce reform, to make the laws more equitable. Some of those on the books now are nothing less than unconscionable. I would like to change that…if I can.”

  For one long, agonizing moment, Arthur kept his head down and stroked his fingertips up and down his wineglass. At last, his lifted his chin and their eyes met with a directness—and a frankness— Gray had not sensed before. “Yes…I think I understand.”

  “I’m…I’m glad to hear it,” Gray stammered. He had no way of knowing if Arthur really did grasp his full meaning or had misconstrued it in some way. There was no way of asking directly. Not only would that be a shocking breach of propriety, but it skirted dangerous close to breaking the law of the land. Even though no one could hear them, the very thought made Gray faint with anxiety. Spouting platitudes from the pulpit of a church would have been nothing compared to what he felt now, he supposed.

  Arthur seemed inclined to change the subject, too. “Shall we retire to the smoking room?” he suggested, rising. “Not that I plan to smoke, though if you wish to, I have no objection.”

  “I feel no pressing need to smoke, either,” Gray said, standing as well. “However, your suggestion is most welcome.”

  “We’ll make do with brandy, then,” Arthur said. He led Gray into the room that held the piano. Gray stared at the instrument while Arthur opened a liquor cabinet and poured them both strong after-dinner drinks. When he noticed Gray’s interest in the instrument, he raised his brows. “I hope you’re not going to ask me to play,” he said in a light voice that nonetheless struck Gray as a bit nervous.

  “And why not? Arthur, I heard you play, and it was perfection. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Arthur squirmed a bit and downed his drink a bit too quickly. “I dabble, nothing more, the result of childhood lessons intended as a diversion from tedium above all else.”

  “Then
there can be no cause for disappointment. After all, I seek nothing more than entertainment.”

  “Very well. Consider yourself amply warned.” Arthur put down his glass and stretched his fingers, scowled with great concentration, and began to play.

  Within minutes, Gray found himself biting back a smile. Arthur hadn’t exaggerated. His performance, was, in a word, terrible. What had been so different that day when Gray had listened to him in secret? The lack of an audience, he supposed. Or perhaps Arthur was deliberately playing poorly so he wouldn’t be asked again.

  “I told you I am useless,” Arthur said when he stopped. He grinned.

  “Not at all,” Gray said. “I’m sure you are an outstanding physician.”

  Arthur tipped his head and laughed—a genuine, full-throated laugh that got Gray smiling too. Then Arthur pushed back the piano stool, stood, and faced him. Gray started to ask about the piece he had played the other day, but never got the chance. Arthur took him by the shoulders, pulled him in so that their chests touched, and then bent down and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Gray had never been kissed like that before—not by a man, certainly, outside of his most secret dreams. The closest he had ever come was at the age of 13, when the daughter of one of his father’s parishioners had pecked him on the cheek at Christmas. That kiss had not moved him or even struck him as worth remembering in detail—but he knew he would remember every detail of this one for the rest of his life.

  Arthur’s enthusiasm deepened along with the pressure of his lips. Gray had no idea how to kiss back, so he tried to mimic what Arthur was doing to him. He was so nervous about doing something wrong and looking foolish that he almost forgot to relax and enjoy the longed-for sensations curling through his body.