Leonora - Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

The milky-white glow from the street lamp shone through the sash window, Vladimir could have closed the curtains but he preferred to watch the soft shadows of the bedroom. Emily was in a deep sleep, he wouldn't hear from her until the morning light. He enjoyed those rare moments of peace, they could allow his mind to wander onto more delicate matters. He didn't speak much about his family back in Russia, for he had left them long ago, but his heart still held a fondness that he quietly treasured.

Tension, poverty, corrupt imperial rule, and harsh winters made life extremely difficult in St. Petersburg. His mother and father owned a baker's shop, but that wasn't their sole occupation. In the back rooms of an apartment on Nevsky Avenue, they printed a monthly magazine which supported the proletariat movement, they like millions of others wanted a fairer system, they wanted to break free from the tsarist stranglehold.

Vladimir remembered those back rooms vividly, a printing press, a few chairs and a desk occupied one, while a couple of mattresses lay in another. For the Banovski family, this was home. Their source of heating was a metal rubbish bin which was constantly fuelled by broken furniture and anything combustible.

One mattress was reserved for Natasha, she was Vlad's younger sister. Cholera destroyed her once beautiful features and she slowly wasted away before his eyes. Her demise was unbearable to witness, diarrhoea, sickness and dehydration made her death a cruel, painful departure. Although he didn't mention it, he was hoping to make contact with her at the séance, just to know that she was happy and safe.

He left Russia the day after her funeral, there was nothing left for him any more. The casual relationships weren't worth the emotional investment and any sense of loyalty soon turned to self-preservation. Natasha had taught him that life was too short to waste.

With a kit bag over his shoulder, he travelled down to the docks and boarded a cargo ship, for the price of a few roubles, the captain allowed him to settle in the hold. He made his bed on a few sacks of grain and the ship transported him to his new life in London. At first, times were tough, but he worked hard and found lodgings in Whitechapel. It was an unsavoury part of the city, but it was a start.

He befriended the local prostitutes, and they found his accent endearing, his broken English was hilarious, but they soon taught him their native language. He was rather fond of one particular lady of the night, her name was Charlotte and she would spend many hours in his digs, talking, laughing and drinking. He helped her get out of a few tricky scrapes, her line of work sometimes attracted difficult customers and Vladimir kept her safe. Whether or not they had ever slept with each other was nobody's business, but he called her his adopted sister and they spent many happy hours together.

After two years in Whitechapel, the Russian immigrant found his break, an opportunity arose at a publishing house. The wage was generous and he could afford to rent a property in affluent Knightsbridge, that was when he moved into 18 Montpelier Square. He had saved his hard earned money and invested in a housekeeper, that was when Mrs Bainbridge came onto the scene. The position was initially offered to Charlotte, but she turned it down and did what she did best, she disappeared into the night. Vladimir never saw sight of her again.

Emily groaned in her sleep and turned around to cuddle into her beloved husband, she distracted his thoughts and he was brought back to the present moment. It was then that he sensed a movement from the dark side of the wardrobe, he heard a rustling sound. He looked in that general direction but saw nothing, and then, the sound came again. From the shadows, a form began to appear and he realised that the rustling was that of a woman's gown. He sat up in bed and carefully observed the gradual movement, it was a woman, a veiled woman and she was dressed all in black. Her appearance suggested that she was definitely in mourning. As surprised as Vlad was, he remained silent and just watched in awe. Where did she come from? She wasn't there before.

Her gown rustled some more as she stepped into the light of the street lamp, she was now standing by the window. Vlad was about to speak, but she raised her finger to her lips beckoning him to remain silent. Shocked by the visitation, he did as he was requested.

She wore black fishnet gloves which matched her veil and gown. The tips of her fingers were decorated with black nail polish, and her heavy coated lips were painted with thick black lipstick. Her eyes were decorated with a dark charcoal.

With the same finger that she called for silence, she invited Vlad to come closer. She wanted him to come to the window. Dressed only in his shorts, he walked barefoot across the floorboards. As he approached the mysterious woman, there was a sudden chill in the air, and it surrounded his whole being. Deep feelings of grief and loss fell upon him.

He reached out his hand to touch her shoulder, but it went straight through the apparition, he felt an extreme shudder and mentally asked himself, “Is this but a dream?” As if to answer his silent question, she gave a loud primeval snarl and scraped her black fingernails down his bare, naked chest. He yelped out in pain and five long scratches gradually appeared on his smooth skin. Thick red blood trickled down his torso.

In total disbelief, he looked into her dark eyes and she returned a chilling stare. She slowly licked her lips with a sheer delight, as if raw, bloody meat was on today's menu. With a sinister smile, she flaunted her sharp canine teeth and Vladimir froze on the spot. The Edwardian gentleman was spellbound.

The supernatural entity stepped away from the window and pointed into the square, Vlad looked down and saw a figure beneath the street lamp. A midnight fog restricted his view but beneath the misty glow he could see that it was a woman. He concentrated his gaze and as the fog drifted he could see that it was Natasha, his long lost sister. His beating heart raced at the sight of her. He rushed to put on a shirt and a pair of trousers. Leading the way, the widow walked out of the bedroom and walked down the stairs. With one glance at the sleeping Emily, Vladimir followed.

Once outside, he quietly called out his sister's name, she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she walked away from the street lamp and headed out of the square. Moments later, she turned the corner and was gone. Looking for some kind of understanding, he turned to the mysterious widow and she held out her hand. Vlad took hold of it and felt her icy cold skin. In those few moments, the world around him became distorted, reality shattered into fragmented pieces, like ice cracking on a frozen pond. His head felt like it was spinning. Seconds later, he had lost consciousness.

The gentle tinkling of a soft piano was the first sound that he heard as he eased back to reality, or what appeared to be reality. He recognised the piece as Debussy and it's melody cradled him as he focused on his new surroundings. The warm scent of cinnamon and ginger filled the room. Yes, it was a large room, he was no longer in a fog covered street. Did some Christian soul find him laid out on the pavement and take him inside? He was laid on a chaise lounge and a welcoming fire blazed in the hearth. Coming to his senses, he sat up and the piano playing ceased. With the rustle of a gown, a woman turned on her stool and said, “Welcome back my dear, you've been away for a couple of hours. I was beginning to worry.

Scratching his head, Vlad asked, “Where am I?”

The woman replied, “Nowhere in particular, but you must beware of my sister. She wanders these rooms and she isn't very sociable.” With a slight hesitation, she added, “She's in mourning.”

Vlad looked down at his open shirt and saw the scratches on his chest. On doing so, he remarked, “Yes, I've already met her.”

The woman picked up a small jar of ointment and walked over to where Vlad was sitting. She sat beside him and said, “Excuse me.” At that, she dipped her fingers into the ointment and gently rubbed it into his chest. The balm slightly stung at first, but it's healing qualities soon took over. As if to answer his unspoken question, she smiled and said, “You can call me Cammy, for I am to Chamomile as my sister is to Hemlock.” As she concentrated on her nursing skills, she remarked, “Her scratches can become rather septic if left untreated.”

It suddenly occurred to Vladimir that daylight was shining through the window, concerned about Emily, he exclaimed, “My wife! She will be wondering where I am!”

Cammy gave a gentle smile and replied, “Your wife will be fast asleep in her bed, time moves differently here. You have no need to be worried. Relax.” With the ointment administered, she asked, “Would you like a hot drink? You must be thirsty?”

Vlad smiled and politely replied, “A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.” With those words, her gown rustled as she left the room. He went to check his pocket watch, but of course, he had left it at home. All that he had was his shirt and a pair of trousers, there wasn't even a pair of shoes on his feet. He was somewhat undressed for any occasion, especially when entertaining ladies.

Whilst waiting for his tea, he casually looked around the room. He observed the family photograph on the mantelpiece, two young sisters sat at the feet of their parents. It wasn't unlike many family portraits of that time, but the two sisters had definitely matured since then. Probably by about fifteen years, but he could still distinguish between the two, one had dark hair, and the other's was fair. Clearly, one was an angel, whilst the other... well, to say, demonic was too strong a word, but it had certainly crossed Vlad's mind. After admiring a few household trinkets, he heard the rustling of the gown return. Swiftly, he sat back down on the chaise lounge.

To his surprise, it was her, the widow had returned. There was no sign of her angelic sister, but in her hand was a cup of freshly brewed tea. She placed it on a small side table and went over to the piano. In stark contrast to Cammy's Debussy, she began to play Mozart's Requiem, a fitting piece for a woman so obsessed with death. Vlad sipped his tea and asked, “Have you any word on my sister? The lady beneath the street lamp. Do you know where she is?”

The sun shone through the sash window and Emily greeted her husband with a freshly brewed cup of tea. Seeing that he was back in his familiar bedroom, Vlad breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was all but a dream.

Emily bounced on the bed and said, “Thank you for last night. You were amazing.” She ran her fingers down his bare chest and became alarmed when she saw the scratches. She loudly exclaimed, “Oh my word! I must have got rather carried away.” She softly kissed his wounds, and with a playful expression, she added, “It was a little naughty of me. Will you promise to punish me later?” She gave an inviting grin. Vlad laughed at his wife's mischievous nature, but secretly thought about the mysterious widow. Logic declared that the scratch marks came from their passionate love-making, but his paranormal encounter suggested otherwise. He didn't know what to believe. Either way, he was keeping silent about the whole matter. Instead, he indulged in Emily's morning kisses and drank his tea before it went cold.