Sympathy for the Devil
Disclaimer: The novel "The Woman in White" is copyright Wilkie Collins and/or its respective authors. Most of the material contained within is loosely based around that of the new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical starring Michael Crawford and Maria Friedman, again copyright its respective owners. I own neither Count Fosco nor Marian Halcombe (though I'm not sure I would want to own the Count in any case…) – lamentably they are the original creations of Mr Collins.
A/N: This is, to my knowledge, one of the few pieces of "Woman in White" fan fiction out there. Written in the two week period after I had the privilege of attending an evening performance of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, I was completely bowled over by the performances of Michael Crawford and Maria Friedman in the roles of Count Fosco and Marian Halcombe. This is my tribute to their wonderful interpretation of the characters. I have, however, tried to keep the nature of Count more in line with Collins' original villain than his theatrical counterpart; although Mr Crawford was excellent in the role, the sinister and manipulative side to Fosco was somewhat lost under the guise of a loveable rogue, something which, for the purposes of this fanfic, I have altered slightly.
That said, this is my take on a sequence from the musical that I believe shows the chemistry between the two characters at its very best. If anyone is at all familiar with the musical production then this scene features directly prior to Marian's nightmare in Act Two. I have taken some liberties with the dialogue and changed a few things around (some events differ in order from those in the libretto), but essentially the key elements still remain true to the storyline of the musical.
"He whose firm faith no reason could remove, Will melt
before that soft seducer, love." -- Dryden.
She would fall.
It was inevitable since the moment she had first deigned to eavesdrop on the clandestine conservation in the library; from the moment her anxious, seeking fingers had sought the heavy, wrought iron latch on her chamber window and stepped out, across the sill, into the swirling, dizzy heights of blackness beyond. She had been forced to change apparel of course, necessity had demanded it; her customary blue gown was sodden through and she soaked to the skin, trembling in a mixture of fear and anticipation as she listened conspiratorially to the workings of their plot.
The details were few and far between, their voices too low and the roar of the thunder too great to discern their apparent course of action … but she had heard enough. Laura - dear, sweet Laura - was the sticking point, though indeed she, Marian Halcombe, was not without fault. Her own Christian name, intoned with a pointed and barbed fury by Sir Percival, had risen shrilly over the sound of the storm, and was carried on the rushing wind to Marian's ears, a perfect exclamation of impotent rage. The Count - for those mellifluous tones could belong to no other - merely murmured some placating remark in response, drawing the conversation back into those hushed, furtive tones so familiar to gentlemen's clubs and billiard rooms.
And she had leaned over, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, straining to hear the words so softly spoken. So utterly absorbed in their whispered machinations was she, that Marian had failed to notice the precarious position in which she had placed herself, had failed to notice the unsteady rock, weakened by age, underfoot.
With a yelp of pained surprise she had her lost footing, swallowed up by the darkness as the ground gave way beneath her. And she had fallen hard and fast, whilst her frenzied fingers scrabbled desperately for a hidden crevice, a secret cavity, anything at all with which to prevent her fall! Frantically Marian had dug her nails into the stonework so hard that her fingers almost bled, grappling one of the stone titivations that lovingly kissed the border between the slate roof and the parapet with all the fervent persistence of a drowning swimmer sucked beneath the surface of the unforgiving tide.
She had tasted blood under her tongue, but had ceased to think, ceased even to breathe, convinced that Sir Percival - or worse the Count! - would draw back the wainscoting and expose her treachery.
"What was that?"
The Count's voice, edged with dark suspicion, did at last pierce the silence. There was long, strenuous pause before Sir Percival, profoundly irritated it seemed, by what he must have considered a highly irrelevant remark, let out a deep, frustrated sigh.
"Nothing … its nothing … merely the rain that's all. Come Fosco, you were saying…"
Presently the resonance of his tone died away, only to be replaced by what it seemed to Marian to be habitual whispers. She, conscious then of both death and discovery, had managed to hoist herself up onto her forearms, using the length of the stone protrusion for support. As soon as she was able to regain her footing on another, more stable part of the ledge, she had instinctively flattened herself against the wall, determined that her faux pas would not hinder her plan.
In a moment of spineless self doubt, Marian had considered abandoning her quest in order that she might return to the safety and the shelter of her chamber. It, she had surmised, was not yet too late to turn back, to crawl beneath her coverlet and confront the pair of them in the morning, in the daylight. For a instant she had been tempted, bitterly tempted, but the image of Laura's tear stained visage had risen in her mind, along with the painful memory of the ugly welts and bruises her sister had suffered at Sir Percival's hand, and had swallowed her fear.
Noiselessly she had crept to the very edge of the ledge and pressed her ear against the wall, close to the corner of the library window.
There she had heard Sir Percival grow quite agitated in reference to some twenty thousand pounds, but the Count's reply was, as ever, curiously cryptic. He had spoken only of patience, of a 'right time' to proceed. These words were, evidently, not what Sir Percival had wanted to hear; he had at once launched into a violent tirade of curses and accusations, directed at the Count himself, to which the latter merely greeted with that same, uncharacteristic silence – as cold and as unyielding as a stone wall.
Of what happened next, Marian could not be entirely certain.
Heart hammering against her ribcage and chilled to the bone, she had listened as attentively as any pupil to the insidious nature of their plans, but though Sir Percival was comfortable with raising his voice loud enough for all the heavens to hear, the Count on the other hand was not. He had insisted on their keeping their voices as low as possible, lest some inquisitive individual with a mind to tittle-tattle happen upon their conversation.
And then – then, before she could grasp the full, unspeakable extent of their plot, lightening had streaked across the sky, followed by a harsh crack of thunder in the distance. So startlingly unexpected was the sound that Marian had fallen back against the surface of the wall with an involuntary cry, hand pressed tightly against her mouth in horror, more to will herself into silence than to ease her shock. She had needed no observer then, to tell her that her startled outcry had drawn the attention of the two men; Sir Percival's colourful range of expletives alone was enough to alert her to discovery.
Hastily, she had picked her way across the slippery surface of the ledge, careful to put one foot in front of the other, and reached with outstretched arms towards her open window, clambering for the space beyond. Once inside she had frantically stripped off her gown, torn in several different places and steeped in rainwater, and slipped into an austere, white flannel nightdress, shivering from head to toe.
Now, as she reflected on her actions, she could hear the terrible commotion across the hall; there could be no doubt that her presence outside the library window had been detected by the Count and Sir Percival, for already the sound of hurried footsteps were advancing towards her chamber. She briefly considered turning the key in the lock, and then just as abruptly dismissed the idea. If she were simply to ignore them then they might very well use Laura against her. No, far better that she face them herself without the need to endanger Laura.
As an after thought, she reached for the simple woollen shawl that hung over the back of her vanity and drew it tight about her shoulders. The footsteps were moving closer and closer still; the crack underneath her door betrayed the candle light that flickered in the hall, lit by some unseen hand. Swiftly, and with great care, she moved to sit at her vanity, feigning cool indifference. The footsteps in the hall reached the threshold of her room. There was a pause, as if her pursuer were waiting for some masterly signal from a secondary party, and then a sharp, perfunctory knock resounded on her door.
"Come in."
She tried to disguise the trembling in her voice, attempted to sound clear and confident and as though she wasn't in the slightest bit afraid, but still she was unable to conceal the faint tremor that had managed to creep into her tone, rendering it unsteady.
"A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe…"
Her heart sank; she had expected Glyde, not him of all people … Sir Percival was so much easier to confound, so much easier to dissuade. But him! God in Heaven! Ever since she had first arrived at Blackwater House she had felt his eyes on her – observing her, scrutinizing her, burning irrepressibly into her memory. And the way he looked at her … as if he were studying a fine, exotic flower or a rich, continental delicacy of some kind…
She recalled their first encounter with absolute clarity; the way he had let his lips deliberately linger upon her skin, tasting each and every inch of her, before she was forced to pry her hand from his for the sake of propriety. Yet even as he had released her hand she could sense him laughing at her from behind those unearthly grey eyes of his, eyes that snapped and darted with positively feline curiosity. At the time she had thought nothing of it. He was a foreign gentleman, an Italian Count, and his ways were unfamiliar to her, but now – now she saw him for what he truly was! And it seemed that the more she refused his heated advances, the more she resisted him, the more persistent he became in his pursuit of her.
"… I wondered if perhaps you were having trouble sleeping."
Marian grimaced inwardly at his honeyed tone, dripping with false sentimentality; the man was relentless! Somehow or other she managed to force her lips into a fairly pleasant, but rather artificial, smile and left her seated position at her vanity to address him directly, twisting her shaking hands into the material of her nightgown.
"Oh no, no," she responded with the same, sugary sweetness, "I am really quite, quite well thank you Count."
She demurely lowered her eyes to the floor, an action she hoped he would interpret as a lady's modest appraisal of his gallant concern for her well being. After a time Marian became distinctly aware that he was watching her; could feel his own eyes upon her, boring down into her very soul.
"But my dear Miss Halcombe," he breathed silkily, caressing each syllable with that strange Italian lilt of his, "you are shivering…"
It was true – it seemed fruitless to deny it. She was shivering. A small sob escaped her throat, whether from sheer exhaustion or stark terror she could not say, but in two effortless steps he was beside her, drawing her back against his chest with ease, weaving an affectionate arm about her shoulders with an almost paternal fondness. Marian meanwhile stood stock-still in his embrace, wooden and entirely too pliant within the tight circle of his arms. Oh, how she longed to fight those encroaching fingertips! But she was so very tired, so very weary of fighting; each and every day she had spent at Blackwater House she had spent fighting, first for Laura's sake then for her own peace of mind … would she now be obliged to exchange blows with the Count himself?
Her internal musings went unanswered for the moment; the Count turned her in his embrace until she was facing him and then, without apology or preamble, cupped Marian's right cheek in one strong, proprietary palm, stroking the smooth, alabaster skin beneath his fat fingers before trailing ever so delicately downwards to caress the line of her jaw. She might have succumbed to his attentions then; it would have been so dreadfully easy to simply 'give up the ghost' as it were, guide his hand to her breast and offer him her lips…
Fortunately Marian came to her senses quickly enough to extricate herself from the embrace, thrusting herself from him with a strangled cry. She babbled some incoherent nonsense about being caught in an English shower and retreated to a far corner of the room, wrapping her arms defensively about herself. The Count, for his part, permitted her to withdraw from him, releasing his grip on her chin where he might so naturally, in any other circumstance, have shared a kiss. And though he betrayed no outward signs of displeasure, voiced no frustration, she saw his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, saw them at once assume their customary coldness.
Her proud courage fled.
"Count Fosco," she entreated him hastily, aware that her façade of nonchalance was slipping rapidly in the face of his sudden anger, "pray don't let me keep you up. I assure you that I am in perfect health … there is no need to trouble yourself with –"
He promptly held up a solemn hand, checking her immediately, "It is certainly no trouble, Miss Halcombe."
Marian baulked; he had resumed that familiar, sickly sweet air of affability and her skin prickled at the unpleasant sensation it evoked within her. How like him to cause even my flesh to crawl…
"If you will permit me," he continued in dulcet tones, ruthless to the last, "I should like to give you a little something to help you sleep."
She paled instantly; the blood fled from her cheeks, leaving her complexion quite ashen. She did not trust him – could not trust him. To an accept a sleeping draught from the hand of the man, who only a few days ago had condemned Anne Catherick to a soulless, Godless existence within an Asylum - whom had engineered the desperate woman's acquiescence to the wishes of Sir Percival - would be folly.
"No!" The word had escaped her lips before she could stop herself. The Count, regarding her steadily from beneath hooded eyes, only smiled. Not the cordial, civil smile she had welcomed during the long summer days at Limmeridge, but a poisonous, bloated smile as if he had known all along that he would be the victor in their little game of cat and mouse.
"I mean no, no that is quite unnecessary …" Marian persisted vehemently, shaking her head in a gesture of polite, but resolute, dismissal, "Surely there are far more deserving patients than myself?"
She shaking violently, visibly trembling under the force of his gaze. Dear God in Heaven, she pleaded inwardly, sure that he too had noticed by now the way she shook beneath that all encompassing stare of his, please, please let him be satisfied … for I cannot do this! I cannot!
"Perhaps," he remarked with the utmost sincerity, hand on his heart, "but you are a most admirable woman, Miss Halcombe, with many excellent qualities. To ruin your health in such a way – it is unforgivable."
She wanted to shut out his words, wanted silence his insufferable flattery forever; it was all too much … far too much for her to bear. She could not stand by and listen with so treacherous an ear to such glowing praises - false though they were - for she possessed no such qualities! Laura - Lady Glyde - embodied those virtues, not she – not Marian Halcombe! Not Marian Halcombe – the ruin of her beloved sister's happiness! Unbidden, she felt silent, self deprecating tears begin to slip slowly down her cheeks and miserably turned away from the Count, ashamed of her own weakness.
"But what is this?"
His voice was aghast, astonished even, as if he had not expected quite such an outburst of emotion. In an instant his hands were upon her shoulders once more, guiding her towards the chair by her vanity; fingers delving deep into the breast pocket of his waistcoat to produce a fine lace handkerchief. He bent down, until he was level with her face, and shook his head.
"Come now cara," he crooned softly, dabbing tenderly at Marian's tear stained features, "there is no need to be brave. My bark is, as you say, far worse than my bite. Is that not how your English proverb go?"
In any other circumstance his cheerful banter might have earned him an appreciative smile, a teasing word or two, but Marian was in no mood for his good humour. She began to rise, attempting to place some distance between the two of them, only to have herself firmly, but not in any way viciously, propelled back into her seat. The Count, whom looked as though he was enjoying himself immensely, merely placed both his hands on either side of the chair, effectively trapping Marian.
"Kindly allow me to rise, sir."
She was curter than she had intended, her words edged with a hint of animosity, but Marian would not relent; she would not be made to feel a prisoner by this man of all men!
"You must forgive me Miss Halcombe, but I cannot permit such a thing."
The Count's words when he spoke were as chill as the North Sea – all former warmth and joviality in his tone had dissipated entirely; he was ordering her and she would obey regardless of her desire to the contrary. She stared at him, incredulous, before her own anger rose to the surface, her own eyes challenging his. How dare he forbid her to rise! The man had no right, Count or no, to insist that she remain seated against her wishes! Then, as if he somehow sensed her fury, his frostiness was gone and he spread his arms wide in a gesture of seemingly embarrassed supplication.
"Miss Halcombe, on this matter you must trust me. You will do neither yourself nor the lovely Lady Glyde an ounce of good by denying yourself a proper night's rest when you are in such a way as this. I take it you would not want Lady Glyde to contract this highly unfortunate ailment, no?"
At the mention of Laura's name Marian tensed, his meaning quite clear. He wouldn't! She reasoned inwardly, Not to Laura! She has done nothing to deserve such cruelty! Then: yes he would, of course he would; do you think him so utterly unaware of intrigue that he himself would hesitate before threatening the lives of those nearest and dearest to you? She doubted he would – oh, the brute! She wanted to scream and scream until her voice was hoarse, wanted to yell that if he so much as touched Laura she would kill him, then and there, without one jot of remorse… But the words would not come and even if they had, she knew that would be no use to her in any case.
"No." She whispered in unhappy agreement, tearing her gaze from his.
The Count smirked - a smug, salacious smirk - and reached towards her chin with the fingers of his right hand. She complied, remaining seated, if only to keep Laura out of harm's way, but on the inside she was no longer Marian Halcombe, she was someone else … someone who did not have to invite the favour of an aging bounder in order to protect her younger sister from the wrath of her husband.
"There, you see," he purred lasciviously, "that was not so hard, yes?"
She started as his fingers neared her chin but she did not recoil from him, even now that he had removed his hands from either side of the chair and she was no longer his captive. He had won her obedience with the price of the silent promise that Laura would not be harmed in any way, and that, for the moment, was all that kept Marian from bolting in his presence. Neatly he caught her chin once more, only this time his fingers did not stray towards the neckline of her gown or attempt to fondle her supple skin, they simply rested there, chastely, on the elegant curve of her jaw.
The air throbbed between, taunt as a bowstring, and Marian squirmed, repulsed at his nearness. He bent his head, lowering until it was level with hers, a queer, sultry smile upon his lips.
Only then did she realise what he intended.
Affecting a mask of perfect innocence, she turned her head coyly away from his. To refuse his attentions, even this state, was to court the promise of death, but she would she herself damned before she sacrificed her virtue to a mistaken sense of duty!
His fingers fell away abruptly, leaving her with nothing save for a pounding heart and the sensation of the air quivering expectantly about her cheek. She dared not look at him; one did not make an enemy of Count Fosco. Presently she heard rustling, as though he were fingering something within the folds of his dinner jacket, and then with a flourish drew out a shining, silver hip flask.
"To ease your chill, Miss Halcombe."
Marian knew she had not imagined the extra emphasis he placed on that fourth word, as though it were a sour tasting sweetmeat of some kind. She shuddered. Dare she drink this … this concoction of his? Could she put her trust in a man of so dubious a nature? What if Sir Percival had instructed the Count to poison her whilst she slept?
Yet it did not seem so very terrible; perhaps it was only brandy or a spirit of some kind … after all that was common enough, wasn't it? Don't be a fool! Her inner voice screamed desperately. The man is an unethical monster! You accept this now and you as good as seal your own death warrant! Remember Anne! Remember what he did to Anne!
Alas, was she likely to forget!
"Now, do be a good girl – drink this down."
She looked up at him, eyes burning full of hatred for this man whom she had once claimed as her greatest of friends; she had no choice, she realised bitterly, no choice now but to drink his potion. To refuse him now, at the precipice of the world, would be to condemn Laura to almost certain death. But if she drank it … what horrors lay in store for her? Could she willingly become the Count's prey; sacrifice her body and her soul to this beast?
I must be strong for Laura.
"I have no choice." She whispered brokenly, reaching out to take the flask from his outstretched hand with trembling fingers.
All for Laura.
She tipped it upwards, towards her lips.
All for Laura.
And drank deeply.
All for Laura.
Before Marian had even fully drained the flask she felt light headed, disorientated, as though she were set apart from her body. She had the oddest sense that she was floating, gliding effortlessly across the ground, weightless. Then the world began to recede and advance, spinning dangerously before her eyes, blurring her line of vision. Her skin felt as though it was on fire; a blistering, blazing heat that scorched her body from the inside out. The nightdress tightened inexorably about her skin, constricting her air, suffocating her.
"What have you -?"
Her words died in her throat with a choked gasp; her limbs grew heavy and inept, no longer able to support themselves. Deep within the prison of her mind, Marian cried out against this newest betrayal, battling with some unseen force as the blackness threatened to close in about her from all sides. Beseechingly, she turned her bleary eyes upon the Count; she blinked: once, twice, three times … but all to no avail. His features, so like her surroundings, were strewn about in a whirlwind of strange, myriad images.
"Hush bella – I am the doctor, I know best."
His voice was soft, deliberately so, so that he might lull her in quiet oblivion. She did not understand his native language, of that he was glad; like an automaton, she mechanically lifted the flask to her lips, poised to drink, but the Count, unsatisfied that Marian had finished the liquid in its entirety, tipped it upwards, forcing her to swallow until every last drop was consumed.
"That's it … there we are …"
He watched her body visibly slacken beneath this final onslaught, leaving her as limp as a child's rag doll; observed the slight moment of her exquisite head as it fell forward, sending chestnut brown locks sliding to shield her pretty face. The Count caught her before she could slip from the chair entirely, bringing his arms about Marian's lifeless form with all the gentle tenderness of a lover. She crumpled gladly into his embrace, now quite insensible to his touch, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to hold her; concerned lest he should crush his song-bird's fragile spirit.
Of course, he understood keenly that her outward fragility was merely a disguise, a mask that veiled her true nature, and yet … he was loathe to hurt the girl, even more so now when she was at his mercy – a pale imitation of the wilful and stubborn Marian Halcombe whom had fascinated him from the very first moment of their meeting. In truth, he had expected only another meek, unassuming young woman - much like Glyde's poor, flimsy blonde wife - who would either comply with their scheme or, far more lamentably, be removed from the picture entirely.
What he had discovered on his arrival at Blackwater House, however, was a very different story. Marian Halcombe was like no woman he had envisaged – spirited, defiant, headstrong… Regrettably he had learned that she possessed no wealth, nor that she was likely to ever come into any immediate money, but nonetheless he was entranced by her; she had passed above and beyond his expectations. So unlike the women of his country was she – her pale complexion and maiden's blush so wonderfully delectable to his continental senses.
How tired he had grown of lavishing compliments upon raven haired, bronze skinned goddesses with an eye to his own fortune! But this English rose, so rare and captivating, had no such designs upon his person; had accepted his honest admiration and compliments willingly; had even, on some occasions, reciprocated them!
Naturally she was a danger, as all curious women were, plotting insatiably with that delicate half-sister of hers, and unsurprisingly enough, Percival had felt threatened by her supreme excellence, her cunning intellect. He feared all women – save for his wife whom he was able to oppress readily enough – and especially that woman above any other. The Count recalled how he had raged over Marian's interference, first with the document and second in her contact with the mysterious Anne Catherick. He had wanted something done about 'that Miss Halcombe' directly.
Now the Count knew himself to be no fool; he knew that Percival intended to have Marian silenced, so to speak, as soon as humanly possible … and the incident earlier in the evening had done little to improve the fate of his beloved temptress.
But what a clever minx Marian Halcombe turned out to be!
Stealing out of her own chamber in the dead of night only to eavesdrop on the conversation between Glyde and himself! What ingenuity! What originality! Certainly they had never made to check the window ledges, in order to assure themselves that no spettatrice lurked outside. And the darling lady had gotten herself soaked to the skin for her pains – what a despicable waste of a fine gown! They had discussed nothing of consequence, Percival and himself, and fortunately she had betrayed her presence long before they had buckled down to the specifics.
Needless to say, Percival had wanted to kill her – had wanted to end her life that very minute and worry about the details of her untimely demise at a far later date. But Fosco could not have permitted such a shameful, cowardly act against an unarmed woman, and indeed, certainly not her – his desired aficionado.
What then, Glyde had thundered, was to be done? If they could not dispatch Marian Halcombe with the flick of a knife, how was their plot to succeed? The Count, unwilling to be drawn into discussing the death of his would-be lover, had devised another plan of sorts, one that would ensure the removal of Miss Halcombe from the picture without resorting to violence and thereby culminating in her death. They would temporarily subdue her. Percival, consequently, had been absolutely livid. The woman was a liability, one that needed to be taken in hand immediately.
But then when was the infallible Fosco ever known to rely upon the word of a gambling man?
And how importunately Percival had fumed, calling him - Fosco of all mortals! - all the foul curses under the sun! Glyde, evidently, had not failed to notice his attraction to the ravishing Marian and had subsequently played upon it in his own idiotic way. If Marian Halcombe was indeed all that Fosco cared about, Percival had bellowed furiously, then he could have her – she was of no use to him. Once Lady Glyde's identity was switched with that of Anne Catherick in the asylum and the twenty thousand pounds deposited in his account, then, Glyde had snapped brutishly, he was quite welcome to the girl.
Initially he had been repulsed by Glyde's suggestion; certainly, he had been privy to some minor indiscretions in his time - that was only natural - but the very idea that Percival would actually presume him capable of the rape of one he esteemed and admired so highly, was abhorrent to his mind. Fosco was an honourable gentleman after all, and he had his integrity to preserve. He could not, however, deny that the prospect of taming Marian Halcombe was foolishly tempting… He had always had a penchant for a challenge, and that, coupled with the innocence of inexperience on her part, proved for him an irresistible aphrodisiac.
These, however, were thoughts that were best left unvoiced … at least for the time being. For now, Marian would remain a beautiful but untouchable object of his devotion, and he could consider other, more pressing, concerns.
Thus the Count, instead of rising to Glyde's bait, merely sat the latter down, poured him another glass of Claret, and instructed him in his own alternate plan. He would place a little brandy in the silver decanter he always carried about on his person and lace it with laudanum, effectively resulting in a loss of conscious. He would ply Marian with enough of the substance to ensure that she slept the clock around. It would also ensure that they would have enough time to quietly dispatch Anne Catherick and place Lady Glyde in the asylum under the dead woman's name. When Marian awoke, he would simply inform her that while she had been most grievously ill, suffering from a variant of Typhus fever, her sister had - in her sleep - thrown herself from the window and died instantaneously.
The only conceivable obstacle lay in convincing the ever astute Miss Halcombe to take the 'sleeping tonic' he had so lovingly procured for her. Yet, as soon as he had seen her - shivering from head to toe in that thin cotton nightgown and her lovely, willowy hair sopping wet - he had found the reason he so desperately craved.
And he had succeeded.
Marian - the wondrous, valiant Marian! - had succumbed to his tonic with very little persuasion needed on his part; a few well timed bluffs, the 'threat' of infection and what little remained of her endearing trust in him, tenuous though it was, had all contributed in the end to her submission to his will.
He knew that in all probability he should disappear at once, sidle back to Glyde -whom had most likely given himself apoplexy by this time - and not care tuppence for her well-being. After all the unfortunate girl had opposed his interests, had she not? Well then … what care had he for her welfare? But looking down on her, his resolve to abandon her to a cold, sterile bed and an equally cold and sterile room wavered. It would be appallingly bad form to simply discard her as if she were of no more value than a tarnished penny, and with her faculties dulled by the drug … who was to say what manner of danger he was exposing her to?
In the end, he was still only a doctor.
Rather than simply leave her to be discovered in her insentient condition by one of the maids - sprawled ungainly across the floor in a most unladylike fashion - he made to move her to her own bed; ensure that she was quite comfortably tucked in before putting out the light. In order to do so however, Marian would be required to lean on him for support; the laudanum had robbed all strength from her body and to therefore expect her walk but even a few yards was exceedingly unreasonable in his eyes. Of course, it was not merely his honourable intentions that wished to see Marian comfortable and secure, a deeper, more selfish part of him acknowledged that since his support was so vital a necessity, he would have to touch her, have to allow his hand linger upon her alabaster skin.
The Count shifted Marian's body until he was able to slip one of his great arms about her shoulders, propping her up with one hand. This inadvertently resulted in the girl's head falling back, across his supporting arm, baring the hollow of her throat to his greedy gaze. The simple woollen shawl she had worn to prevent a chill slid downwards, ever so slightly, revealing her bosom, which rose and fell with regular breaths. For a moment he was stunned into breathlessness by the sight; resisted the urge to reach out and fondly trace the perfect curve of her breast with his large, plump fingers.
He drew in a sharp breath and dropped his hand hurriedly; though he burned inwardly, the Count's inhibitions stood firm as steel, unwilling to stray from the task at hand. Once Lady Glyde was disposed of, his inner voice reasoned insistently, Marian would be entirely on her own, seeking the solace of those nearest to her…
With any luck, the voice hissed malevolently in his ear, she might even come to you willingly.
Silently he peeled away the remaining part of the shawl, careful not to rouse her into wakefulness. He was well aware - though she was not - that the full effects of the draught he had administered would not come into effect for some time yet. Drowsiness at first, combined with loss of coherent thought, was to be expected. Soon, however, she would be unconscious – unreachable in her state of slumber.
The shawl fell noiselessly to the ground, forgotten.
His eyes roved the entire length of her form; she was exquisite, flawless, unparalleled in her magnificence. What an intoxicating creature! Enamoured by the sight of her lovely, lithe body nestled so innocently against his chest, he lowered his head to affectionately nuzzle the crook of her neck with his cheek, drinking in the rich, sweet scent of her skin as a dying man would his final few drops of water.
Dio…!
She stirred restlessly beneath his fervent caresses, lips parting in a drowsy moan. Startled, he drew back, hastily releasing her, and moved to stand, pulling her body up against his; draping one of her slender arms about his shoulders and guiding one of his own hands to her waist, he was able, with very little effort, to help her across the wide expanse of the room, towards the bed. The Count paused for a moment, unsure of his next move. By now, he surmised, Percival would be in a foul mood, drunk as a skunk and twice as irritable. That little image brought a malicious smile to his lips; well, if Glyde was determined to let himself be pushed over the edge by a group of women, then he deserved to work himself into an inebriated frenzy.
Weary of hurting her, he stooped, hooking an arm under the back of Marian's legs, lifting her with ease into his embrace. She moaned again, disturbed by the suddenness of the movement; her beautiful jade eyes fluttering open a mere fraction of an inch, before slipping back under a blanket of darkness once more. Her head buried itself in his shoulder, pressed up against his starched shirt front; her little fingers latching on to the sumptuous silk of his waistcoat. Satisfied that she would not wake, the Count, cradling her slight body within his arms, strode towards the bed. Gently, he pried her tiny fingers away from his attire, one hand moving to support her head, lest it should fall back at an awkward angle and cause her undue injury.
Turning back the sheets and the heavy brocade coverlet trimmed with Oriental silks, he gently lowered Marian's inert form onto the mattress, taking care not to trap her tangled limbs in the process. This proved more than a little difficult to accomplish; Marian, being of slight weight, slipped quite naturally from the circle of his arms onto the cool, crisp linen bed sheets with effortless grace, but the Count, being a far stouter gentleman, lost his balance. He managed, with some struggle, to catch himself with his hands before he was able to essentially crush Marian beneath the great weight of his body. Much to his displeasure, this only succeeded in pinning his ingenuous flower beneath his rotund form.
Marian, however, did not stir at this new violation of her solitude, her breathing even and unencumbered; the Count meanwhile, poised scant inches from her face, braced his weight on his hands, either side of Marian's chest, his own breathing laboured and unsteady. A lock of her hair had escaped over her shoulders, and the Count, with eyes feverishly bright, lightly lifted one hand, winding the strand adoringly around his fingers, before tucking it tenderly behind the back of her ear. She was so beautiful - straordinaria bellezza; lying there, motionless beneath him, shrouded in the purest white … it was enough to drive a man mad…
Well, almost any man … there was that devil Hartright to consider. Oh yes, Fosco was all too aware of a Mr Walter Hartright – the great thorn in Percival's side. Glyde's precious wife had dearly loved the man once, and he, as far as the Count was able to discern, had whole-heartedly returned her fervent adoration, until, that was, he had discovered that she was indeed spoken for.
Hartright, by all accounts, was a lost man and had subsequently left for London the following day – heartbroken and inconsolable at the prospect of Lady Glyde's engagement to another. Percival had chuckled good-humouredly as he described Hartright's object despair and had even ventured to imply that his - Fosco's -beloved Marian had had a hand in the young man's departure. The Count had naturally requested that he elaborate on his line of thought, and Percival, all too happy to oblige, had gaily recounted the servants' speculation that Miss Halcombe secretly carried a torch for the drawing master all this long while, and that she had in fact sent him away as a result of her own selfish wants – namely that she had feared rivalry in the form of Lady Glyde.
Obviously, Percival was quick to point out that there existed no real rivalry from the first – Lady Glyde's beauty was quite beyond compare, whilst Marian Halcombe was both plain of face and of feature. It was not surprising, he had added nastily, that Hartright had chosen his wife over Marian – there was simply no comparison between the two women, they were as different as night and day. This Walter Hartright then, the Count surmised privately, had clearly broken his beloved Marian's heart. Foolish, impudent boy! The woman was so much more worthy of Fosco's affection; to give her heart to such a callous youth had been grave misjudgement on her part and one that had, by the looks of things, cost her dearly.
Hartright was a mere whelp; a worthless, feckless dandy whose love for Lady Glyde was borne of the shallowness of youth. How it paled in comparison to the passionate ardour the Count – a full blooded man with an advantage of years – bore Marian! Still, the boy was of little concern to him now; he was adamant that Marian had put her love for the youth out of heart and out of mind, and should Mr Hartright ever deem it necessary to return to Blackwater well … he might very well find his brains smeared about the entrance vestibule should he ever presume to cross Fosco's path!
Though perhaps he ought to profess his thanks to Walter Hartright, the man had, in spite of everything, made it impossibly easy to both secure his share of Lady Glyde's fortune and, most importantly, Marian herself in one fell swoop. In a perverse way the thought rather pleased him. She was, after all, a woman who refused to be chained and fettered to a man's will – had proved that on more than one occasion. How very fitting then that she should now find herself his prisoner, their strange game of wits reversed and the tables turned upon her.
In fact, had it not been for Hartright's inference in her life, had it not been for his rejection of her love in favour of another, the Count doubted that she would be laid before him in her current state – hair wonderfully dishevelled and splayed haphazardly upon the pillow, a testament to her midnight excursions.
And yet … for all her charms, he knew he could not linger.
Percival would come looking for him and what then would become of Marian? His mind instinctively shied away from the many horrors Glyde might choose to inflict upon his più amato while she lay in gentle slumber; for the time being he had convinced the man that Marian was most useful to them alive, but Percival was not a man to be taken for a fool, and, the Count suspected, was never one truly inclined to listen to the voice of reason. He must therefore be prudent in his actions; he should leave now before footsteps sounded in the hall or one of the house servants came creeping along the corridor, a result of the ungodly storm raging outside.
With this new resolution firmly in mind, the Count straightened, hauling himself with immense effort into an upright position. Only his invading fingers maintained contact with her warm frame, wistfully caressing the divide between brocade and skin with a dexterity that belied his sixty years of age. For an instant he allowed himself to experience the fleeting pleasure of her fingertips against his own, before drawing the rich coverlet over her supine form, shielding his better sensibilities from temptation. Turning swiftly upon his heel, he spun away from Marian, intent on putting out the light by her writing desk.
But where the spirit was willing, the flesh was, it appeared, not.
The Count hesitated, his concrete resolve wavering. Never in all his years had he once found himself at the mercy of any woman – it was unthinkable! Impossible! Women were fascinating creatures, of that there was little doubt, but they proved, for the most part, an inevitable distraction; pleasure should never come before business, that was his philosophy. But now this woman - this maddening slip of a girl - had reduced him to absurdity in his quest to please her!
He clenched his fist convulsively; the more he considered Marian Halcombe's chilly indifference to his attentions, the more frustrated the Count became. Surely it was not so very unreasonable of him to expect a little something in return – a modest token of appreciation perhaps? After all he was asking for so little, a small thing really, compared with what he might ask of her were he not painfully conscious of his honour as a gentleman.
Such a little thing…
The Count found himself stealing one last, licentious glance at Marian's inviting form and then another and another, till his senses stung from the sight of her and his fingers curled like curved talons into the palms of his hands. He moved to stand over Marian once more, delaying the moment when he would have been forced to bid her buona notte; unwittingly, his burning gaze fell upon her lips – lips the colour of red wine that begged for kisses.
Oh, but to taste those lips!
He leaned down slowly, savouring the sight of his exquisite beauty, before inclining his head towards her lips. Still she made neither movement nor sound, and so he pressed on, boldly, with little regard for her virtue; his mouth claimed hers possessively, the pressure of his kiss coaxing her lips to part a fraction under his.
Marian's unwilling body complied, if only for a moment, drawing a murmur of approval from the Count before he was forced to relinquish the exceptionally pleasant sensation in order that he might recover his composure.
"Sogni d'oro mia carina," He whispered softly, bending forward briefly to place a chaste kiss upon her forehead, "sweet dreams my dear."
Marian's body twisted and turned fretfully beneath the caress, her conscious thoughts lost in a sea of troubled memories and the all enveloping darkness behind her closed lids. She saw not the villain's wolfish leer, nor the tell-tale flush that coloured his fleshy cheeks; heard no words on parting save for a hushed promise that echoed faintly in the farthest corners of her mind, words that - try though she might - she could not place.
"Sweet dreams…"
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Italian translations:
Cara - Dear
Sogni d'oro – Sweet dreams
Bella - Beautiful
Mia carina – My beauty
Mia cara – My dear
Spettatrice – Spy/spectator
Straordinaria bellezza – Great beauty
Dio - God
Piú amato – Best-beloved
Buano notte – Good night
Apologies if I have usedincorrect Italian phrasing in the text – I have done my best to ensure that it is accurate, but my own knowledge of the language is shaky at best.