Happy Halloween!
I wrote this for a challenge on the Writers Anonymous forum on this site.
I'm not an expert on the Regency/Victorian era, but I had fun researching it for this. As usual, * indicates a footnote.
For anyone looking in from WA: Welcome! There's a note at the bottom for fandom blind readers, but dive right into the story if you want. Btw as my entry is about a long as it could get if anyone wants to leave concrit, an overall impression is fine or just pick a section to do in detail. Maybe the one you found weakest. I can take it ;)
Hell for Leather
Belgrave Road, Pimlico, London, 1852
Whistling softly at his reflection, Eric knotted his cravat with a flourish. A rush in his blood informed him Pamela was rising. He smiled in anticipation and watched the door between their bed-chambers in the mirror.
She appeared a moment later wearing a blue silk robe, her ash-blonde hair loose over her shoulders. In the candlelight she could pass for human; it leant warmth to her death-pale complexion. She held up the breeches and striped waistcoat he'd laid out for her. "What the devil are these for?"
"Put them on. We're going out." Eric tugged his jacket smooth and turned in front of the mirror, admiring the cut of his suit and pleased long trousers were once again fashionable. That tailor on Jermyn Street had lived up to his reputation.
"I haven't eaten," Pamela said, pouting.
"Get dressed, or we will be late." His hair stood out against the dark blue suit. It might be remarked on, remembered. He braided it with unnaturally quick fingers and tied it with a ribbon.
"Late for what?" she asked, cautious and curious in equal measures.
"Pamela," he chided, hiding his smile by turning to pick up his gloves and top-hat. "You wound me. Forgetting the most significant date in your existence."
"Date? Oh. The night you turned me." She frowned at the clothes she was holding. "Are we celebrating?"
"Yes."
"We've never celebrated before."
"Not many newborns survive this long." He shrugged carelessly. "It seemed unwise to tempt fate. But it has been ten years, and—"
"Will there be gifts?" she interrupted, her eyes glittering.
"If you hurry," he said, laughing when the door banged shut behind her.
Her enthusiasm bubbled in his blood. Good.
Last night had been a mistake. He had thought contact with her family would please her, but the sight of her mother and sisters across the crowded ballroom had only provoked anger and sadness in his child.
Eric cursed the servant he'd sent to spy on them again. The fool hadn't thought to mention how badly the mother had aged, or that the older sister was a shrew with obnoxious manners. And even Eric could see how miserable the younger one was with that dolt of a husband; the man must have tripped half a dozen times in one set.
Eric had intended to follow the family home and allow Pamela some time with them. He would have glamoured the memory from them afterwards, naturally. Their beloved Pamela had been dead these last ten years; it wouldn't do to start rumours of a resurrection.
He had quietly forgotten that plan when it became clear Pamela wanted nothing to do with her human kin. At least he'd had the wit not to mention them beforehand, that would have only increased her disappointment.
She knew they were still breathing. That would have to be enough. It was more than his Maker had allowed him.
Tonight's gift would be better appreciated, or he didn't know his newest child.
~~OO~~
Eric had rented a three-story terrace house, white-fronted and elegant. The numerous sash windows were somewhat inconvenient for those who did not tolerate sunlight, but thick velvet curtains had been hung in the bedrooms. Keeping them drawn from dawn to dusk was a foible forgiven them as eccentric foreigners from the continent. The housekeeper and butler were ready to defend them should they be disturbed in the day, but to date the household had escaped suspicion.
As Eric and Pamela emerged from the house, a lamplighter lit the gas lamp on the street corner, creating a pool of yellow light in the darkness. Pamela had her hair tucked under a fur hat and wore a long, brown, ruffled coat that hid her shape. A carriage with a closed cab waited by the railings — a growler the street urchins called them, for the noise they made on the cobbles.
When Eric, who looked every inch the dashing young gentleman about the ton, handed what appeared to be a working class lad into the carriage, the coachman stared but didn't comment. As well he shouldn't; he'd been paid handsomely to keep his mouth shut.
Once they were inside Eric knocked on the roof and closed the window curtains as the driver set off at a brisk trot. A ruddy young man sat opposite them, dressed in rough working clothes that smelt of the docks.
Pamela wrinkled her nose at their unexpected companion. "What's the werewolf here for?"
"Dinner," Eric said. "Feed well. You will need strength."
The man gave Pamela an insolent tip of his head and pulled off his neckerchief.
"Why, thank you for the kind invitation, good sir," she said, smiling and bowing from the waist.
When she straightened, her expression was predatory and her fangs glistened in the light from the oil lamp that none of them needed. She was on the werewolf in a flash, and Eric smelt his musky blood an instant later. The wolf's eyes glowed as they rolled back and he moaned as she drank.
Eric was proud of her control. When she let the docker drop to the seat, there wasn't a speck of blood on her and the neat punctures in his neck were already healing, freshly salved with her blood just as Eric had taught her.
"Mm. Burns like my father's brandy going down," she said, jumping lightly to her feet, perfectly balanced despite the swaying carriage. She stared down at the limp body sprawled across the velvet seat. "Should we let sleeping dogs lie?"
Eric laughed. "Yes, let the mutt be."
Pamela sat down, pulled a small mirror out of her coat and licked her lips and teeth clean of blood. Eric admired the pink flush feeding brought to her skin. It would make it easier for her to pass as human.
She put the mirror away and asked, "For what do I need to be strong, Maker?"
"Your gift." He twitched the curtain aside and peered out. They were making good time.
She opened her coat and gestured at her outfit: plush dark blue breeches with white rosettes at the knee, white stockings, black riding boots, a white linen shirt, and a yellow and blue striped waistcoat. "Am I to perform at a circus?"
"Ah-ah. All in good time. It is a surprise."
She narrowed her eyes, but she didn't ask again. After a decade she had finally learnt that pushing him wouldn't get her anywhere. He rarely had to command her to be silent these nights. As the carriage drove on, out of the city, they talked of the places she wanted to visit while they were in England.
They passed the barracks on Hounslow Heath and the gunpowder mill that had exploded two years earlier, the sharp stink of chemicals hanging in the air. A short time later they drew up at a white-washed inn in the village of East Bedfont.
"The Black Dog," Pam said, reading the sign. "A werewolf establishment?"
"No. We are meeting an old friend here." Old meant another vampire. "And family."
"The Slaughterer," she breathed. "Is that her I feel in the blood?"
"Yes." His tie to his eldest child Karin was faint, but Pamela paid attention. She was quick-witted too. Yes, there was much to be proud of in her.
Eric had told her little about Karin beyond her memorable nickname, and he was eager for their meeting. He kicked the sleeping werewolf.
The mutt started awake, and had the temerity to growl.
Eric dropped his fangs and said lazily, "Get out." The werewolf scrambled out of the carriage and Eric tossed a coin purse after him in payment for his blood.
"Come, Pamela. They will be waiting."
~~OO~~
Oskar had hired a private room. The dark-haired vampire rose to his feet when Eric and Pamela entered. All the better to show off his elegant dove-grey suit, its clean lines in the Brummell style.*
Just the thing to impress Pamela, Eric thought wryly, as he and the shorter vampire exchanged nods of precisely the same depth. He turned to his child. "Pamela, this is Oskar Ashwyn, Sheriff of the Port of Liverpool."
Pamela bowed deeply and said, "Good evening, Sheriff."
Oskar examined her minutely, but Eric had no fear she would embarrass him. Vampire protocol had come easily to her after her childhood training in drawing room etiquette.
Nor was he much surprised when she broke that protocol and boldly addressed the vampire standing by the window. Pamela wouldn't be his child if she let rules restrict her. In point of fact, if she hadn't snuck out after dark ten years ago for a tryst with that boy…
"Karin the Slaughterer I assume," Pamela said, watching with frank interest as the third blonde turned to face them.
"I go by Slater here," Karin replied in a neutral voice. The two females exchanged cautious nods, and Karin bowed deeply to Eric. "Maker, it is good to see you."
He smiled at her. "And I you, Karin."
Taking in Karin's attire — men's riding boots, grey breeches and a matching jacket –- Pamela held her heavy coat open and said: "Be thankful you escaped the circus clothes."
A flicker of amusement lit Karin's flat expression. "I see Eric still has a wicked streak."
Pamela laughed. "He does indeed."
"I like her," Oskar announced, as if his opinion was the one that mattered. "Northman, shall we begin the night's entertainment?"
"Is it in all hand?" Eric asked.
"It is," Oskar said. He picked up a coat that matched his suit. "I only pray you brought enough coin."
~~OO~~
With hair tucked under hats, gloved hands and coats to their ankles, the ladies disguised themselves as humble jarveys.* The party repaired to the yard behind the inn, Oskar leading the way through a narrow passage. Eric followed, his height blocking Pamela's view until he stepped aside and gave her a flourishing bow. "Your carriage awaits, milady."
Pamela gasped, but the lapse could be forgiven. The young always retained some human mannerisms. Besides, it was a clear October night and the air was cold. An occasional puff of breath would make them appear alive.
"A high-flyer? For me?" Pamela asked eagerly, already past him and looking the phaeton over.*
The four-wheeled carriage was light and built for speed. Eric had had it painted black and yellow, but she ignored that and went to the back, examining the springs with a critical eye and giving the carriage a tug to test them.
"Swan-necks. She'll be easy to tip."
"All the better to test your skill," Eric said. Pamela had taken to driving during their recent spell in Paris, and she handled the ribbons well.*
"She's beautiful. May I keep her?"
"If she survives the night," Eric said, amused.
He turned his attention to the horses, four handsome bays already in harness. A stable lad was talking softly to the leaders.* Eric had ridden from young age as a breathing man, and he could still appraise a horse by eye. Once a rider, always a rider.
They were well-matched pairs. Eric ran a cautious gloved hand over hindquarters and withers, watching for tossed heads or rolling eyes. Nothing. Trained to tolerate the undead. Oskar had done well.
"Fresh from Antwerp," Oskar said, appearing at Eric's shoulder. "Do they meet with your approval?"
"They are adequate for our purpose."
"Still care for that wager?"
Eric chuckled as he checked the bits and the harnesses. "Last minute doubts, Oskar? I warn you, Pamela has driven before."
The stable lad was paying too much attention to their conversation. Oskar switched to German. "Pamela is still wet behind the fang, barely more than newborn. Karen is almost five hundred."
"Ah, but it takes skill to drive one of these, not just strength. That is why I chose this."
"We're competing?" Pamela called eagerly. Either she'd overheard them or she'd stopped admiring her carriage long enough to notice that Karin was looking over a second one. Karin's was entirely black.
Oskar remarked, "She's quite excitable."
"She is only twenty-nine," Eric said. "All told."
"Hm. If you wish to back out of our wager, I won't call you out."*
"You will," Eric said, giving him a sharp smile, "and I do not."
"It's your gold." Oskar turned to the lad and said in English. "Bring the map."
"And a light," Eric added, amused that Oskar had forgotten that in his quest for sport. Yes, they saw perfectly well in the dark but it was not wise to let humans know that.
"Thank you," Oskar said, vampire-quiet. "One has to be so careful these nights."
"That dreadful Varney business still giving you grief?"*
"All of London expects our hair to be as black as our hearts. You are lucky to be blond."
Eric laughed and plucked gently on the ties in his blood, calling his daughters. He watched fondly as two blonde heads rose in unison. Yes, a race was a wonderful idea. He would enjoy it immensely, whoever won, and it was the perfect way to introduce them.
The ostler* brought out a folding table and they gathered around it. Oskar spread out the map, setting the lamp on the corner to hold it down. "As you have doubtless surmised, we propose a race."
"And if you have not guessed from your attire," Eric said, "one in honour of the London driving clubs."
"The ones that only allowed men?" Pamela asked him.
"The very same."
Karin sniffed. "Every new pleasure is barred to our sex this century."
"Bloody unfair, that." Pamela looked down at herself. "Although I am considerably less envious now I know they wore such ridiculous clothes under their coats."
"So," Eric said sternly, hiding his amusement at their back-and-forth, "we race between two inns that give the Black and White Club* its nickname. We begin at this humble establishment, the Black Dog" — he put his finger on the map and traced the route — "and we end three dozen miles hence, at the White Hart in Bensington, Oxfordshire. Three stages, stopping for fresh horses here and here." Eric indicated Salt Hill and Henley. "Best of three wins. I decide any ties."
Oskar took over. "Thanks to the engineering work of Messrs MacAdam and Telford* the roads are in excellent condition, and thanks to the new railway we will meet with fewer carriages on them. I had a detailed map of the first stage drawn up. We finish at The Windmill in Salt Hill, as frequented by the rival Four Horse Club*, who favoured the circus attire. Here." He pulled two folded maps out of his coat and held them out.
Pamela and Karin spread the smaller maps out on either side of the lantern. Pamela scrutinised hers, and then Karin's.
Oskar drawled, "They are identical, I assure you."
Eric sent Pamela a pulse of approval through their tie. It never paid to trust another vampire.
"This stage will test patience and cunning," Oskar continued. "The fastest route is back to Hounslow, then out of London on the Bath Road. Hounslow is London territory. Do nothing there that may bring us into conflict with the Council."
The vampire council, naturally, who did not look kindly on high-spirited mischief that risked exposing their secret existence. London was currently under the thumb of a particularly unforgiving cabal with a tendency to stake first and ask questions … never.
"That 's why we came so far out of town," Pamela said.
"Yes," Oskar said. "I don't possess enough influence to race in London itself. Hounslow is also within reach of the Peelers*. If you come to the attention of a constable it is your task to deal with that. Eric and I are only along for the ride."
"Yes," Eric put in, "Oskar hasn't dared race me on horseback since the last time I beat him."
Oskar growled softly. One of the horses neighed nervously and stamped.
"See?" Eric said, winking at the women. "That is how you got thrown, Oskar. You simply do not have the knack for soothing a filly."
Oskar cursed him in German.
That only made Eric laugh and he said, "Let us begin."
Pamela got on the box and Eric swung up besides her, nodding approvingly as she took the reins and whip. She had never, to his knowledge, driven a four horse team, but there was only naked enthusiasm in her eyes. No anxiety coming through their blood tie either, only eagerness.
Karin waved them ahead. Pamela gave the reins a flick and the horses walked on.
"Oskar is old," Pamela said, under the clatter "Your age?"
"Thereabouts." Eric had walked the night for eight centuries. That Oskar was a few decades older hardly mattered.
"Karin is old too," she mused as they pulled around the inn.
"How old, would you say?" She was still learning to estimate ages, and he wanted to test her.
"Half your age."
"Close enough." He sent her his pride as she pulled on the reins and the carriage came to a gentle stop.
Karin and Oskar came alongside them, their carriage jerking abruptly and the horses whinnying in complaint.
"I'm going to win," Pam said as the ostler raised his handkerchief.
~~OO~~
True to her word, Pamela took an early lead. They made good time along the Staines Road. Originally a Roman road far older than Eric, it cut dead straight across Hounslow heath and made for easy driving.
"There were highwaymen here two centuries ago," Eric remarked casually.
Pamela cast a suspicious glance over the moonlit heath. "Wasn't there some Frenchman who danced with the ladies he robbed?"
"Duval. Women swooned at his hanging."
She side-eyed him. "You knew him?"
"Oh yes." He launched into a tale of his adventures as a highwayman, pointing out where gallows he'd narrowly escaped had stood as they passed the spot.
The horses slowed to a walk as they came into Hounslow, and then to a stop as they met a snarl of carriages and carts at the turnpike, which they had to pass to make the sharp left turn onto the Bath Road.
A fair few gentlemen were attempting to escape the capital for the evening. Worse, it seemed as if every man and his dog — and his chickens too, judging by the raucous squawking — were ferrying goods into London for the markets on the morrow. One cart had split its load of cabbages, and two men looked to be squaring off for a round of fisticuffs over it.
It was, in short, chaos.
Pamela cursed softly as a crowded omnibus* pulled up behind them, hemming them in. She stood up and craned to peer past it, back down the road. "Hell fire. She's turning back. There must be another route."
She sized up the disorder in front of them, eyes narrowing. Two lads were leaning against a nearby wall, discussing the proceedings with some animation. They looked to be placing bets on the impending fistfight.
"Right. Wait here." She tossed the reins at Eric and jumped lightly to the ground. Pulling a purse of coins out of her coat — it pleased Eric that she came prepared and wasn't relying on him for everything — she called out in a rough accent: "Oi! You fine pair of gents want to earn yourselves 'alf a guinea?
"Each, Miss? It is Miss, ain't it?" the taller one said uncertainly, looking her over.
Pamela beckoned him closer, looking over her shoulder as if the Devil himself might overhear. It worked like a charm. Curiosity won out and hobnail boots clacked across the cobbles as both lads trotted over to her.
Vampire hearing was a blessing. Even over the cacophony Eric heard every word.
"What is it, Miss?" the taller lad said. "You in trouble with Peelers?"
"Lawks a-mercy, I hope not. See that tall gent with me? I'm his aunt's housemaid, but he's taken a shine to me. Promised to marry me. Imagine, me wed to a gentleman. I'll never 'ave to scrub another floor."
His friend said, "You jammy baggage!"*
"Don't I know it." She turned to wink at Eric, who leaned forward and affected a concerned look. "He's a good'un, ain't he? He's got one of them special licences but his pa's hot on our heels. If we don't get into town sharpish, I just know he'll catch us and ruin everything." She showed them the colour of the coins in her hand. "Will you clear a path for us, kind sirs?"
"'Course we will, Miss." The taller lad grinned and held out a grubby hand. "Can't let spilt cabbages stand in the way of a girl's 'appiness, can we?"
Pamela dropped the coins into his palm. Eric didn't think she'd used even a touch of glamour.
"The others are around somewhere. Give 'em a shout, Fred."
The shorter boy gave a piercing whistle. After a moment three more lads appeared, darting between the obstacles on the crowded street like fish between rocks.
Pamela climbed up beside Eric as the lad marshalled his troops. Eric doffed his hat to them, squeezing his child's hand and kissing her on the cheek.
She slapped his arm. "None of that until the ring's on my finger, sir!"
Eric, playing his part, rubbed his arm and put on a rueful expression. A laugh went up from their new associates.
It took the best part of ten minutes, but damn him if the street gang didn't earn every twenty-one shillings of their guinea.
Three lads formed a chain and got the cabbages off the highway, while the other two talked the irate men out of their fight. Then the lot of them ran from carriage to coach to cart telling the drivers such tall tales — first it was a sister in labour, then it was a message for Queen, then Prince Albert himself in disguise — that Eric was holding his sides and almost crying bloody tears by the end of it.
The lads were so earnest in their appeals that the carriages parted like the proverbial Red Sea and Pamela inched them forwards to the turnpike. Eric flipped a guinea to the turnpike man and they were waved through.
A chorus of shouts went up as they made the sharp left onto the Bath Road, and two of the lads ran after them.
"Hey, Miss! Miss! Ain't yer off to town to get 'itched?"
Pamela called back in a cut-glass accent: "Never trust a pretty face with a sad story, boys."
"Thank you for the entertainment, gentlemen," Eric called, throwing a handful of coins behind the carriage. The lads scrambled to pick them up, and waved them off with a cheer and their hats held aloft.
"Coin, the language of good humour," Pamela commented as the cheers faded into the distance. She set the horses to a swift trot and passed two slow carts. By the time they cleared the last houses of Hounslow the carriage was fairly flying and the road was clear.
"Think we'll catch them?" she called over the noise, her eyes fixed on the road and her face shining.
"Depends how far they doubled back." Eric was leaning forward, wind in his face.
She urged the horses on. They passed a side road, then a farm. Still no sign of them.
Another road was coming up on the left and there was a blur of movement behind the hedge. There they were! Karin was coming up fast, speeding towards the Bath Road. The breeze carried Oskar's shouts of encouragement.
"Yah! Yah!" Pamela cried, flicking the reins lightly against the horses' backs, sparing them the whip. Their hooves thundered against the road and the carriage lurched forward at bone-rattling speed.
They shot past the break in the hedges that marked the side road a scant second before Karin reached it. Eric shouted a taunt at Oskar as they hurtled past, and Karin yelled in frustration. She had to slow her team to make the sharp turn or risk tipping and disaster.
"Tally ho!" Pamela yelled, her fangs down in triumph as they left them in the dust.
It was a straight race from then on. Village and fields passed in a whirl, Karin keeping pace but not gaining ground until they slowed for Colnbrook, but there they were lucky and the tollgate was clear. Pamela pulled ahead, but the gate at Slough was busy and the delay meant Karin was breathing down their necks as they drove out of town.
Salt Hill and the finish was only a mile away, but the horses were tiring.
A railway bridge came into view, one that carried the road over the new Windsor branch-line. The one the masters at Eton made such a fuss about, as if frequent trains to London would corrupt their already spoilt young charges.
The horses laboured up the bridge. Karin gained on them, right behind them at the apex. Only an omnibus coming the other way at precisely the right moment prevented her from overtaking.
The descent was a boon for the tired horses. On the flat, Pamela cajoled and coaxed and finally whipped her horses into gallop. Karin fell behind.
A red lantern swung back and forth in the distance, at the side of the road.
"The Windmill," Eric shouted, letting go of his seat to point at the three-story building with its stripe awnings. "We're almost there."
A good five yards separated the two carriages when they passed the building.
"Yes!" Pamela cried and tugged on the reins. Once the horses slowed to a walk, she leapt down and lead them in a circle, turning the carriage back. Karin, blank-faced, did the same.
~~OO~~
In the yard behind the Windmill, clouds of steam rose from the horses. Hooves stamped on cobbles and the stable lads yelled cheerfully to each other as they rubbed the bays down briskly with handfuls of straw.
Eight magnificent dappled greys that must have cost Oskar a pretty penny were being hitched to the carriages. Pamela and Karin were overseeing proceedings. Oskar had dubbed the second stage a test of daring and strategy. They would follow the Bath Road past Maidenhead, then take the turning for Oxford. First to the Red Lion at Henley would win.
Eric and Oskar were in front of the Windmill smoking cigars, another affectation to make them appear human as they admired a view of Windsor that only vampires could appreciate after sunset.
"You took care of the tollgates?" Eric asked, inhaling the smoke and rolling the taste around his mouth. It played havoc with his sense of smell, but then he didn't particularly relish the odour of horseshit and unwashed stable boys.
"Yes, after the two at Maidenhead. The Henley Road will be plain sailing."
The ladies joined them. "Whose castle is that?" Karin said, looking towards Windsor and avoiding the touchy subject of her loss.
"The Queen's," Oskar said. He cast a side-long look at Eric. "I hear the interior is impressive."
"You've been inside?" Pamela asked her Maker.
"Some time ago." Eric shrugged. "A wager involving some ladies-in-waiting."
Pamela and Karin laughed.
Oskar waved his cigar at the building behind them. "The poet Shelley frequented this place, you know."
"Not Lord Ruthven?"* Eric said, winking at Pamela. Once she joined the ranks of the undead she'd been disappointed to learn Ruthven was entirely fiction.
"Alas," Oskar said, picking up on the wink. "Lord Byron was a missed opportunity."
"A vegetarian?" Eric scoffed. "You jest. He would not have lasted a year as one of us."
"Shelley might have," Karin said thoughtfully. "He was bold enough to go against Oxford and his father."
"I'm surprised he stayed here, so close to Eton," Pamela said. The school was a stone's throw away, and the poet had had a miserable time there by all accounts. "Will the Radicals succeed in their reforms, do you think?"*
Eric shrugged as a church bell rang out eleven o'clock. "Change is the only constant, I find."
"Good," Pamela replied. "I wouldn't want to be bored for eternity."
"Change is certainly coming," Oskar agreed. "I smell it in the air."
"That's the railway." Eric gestured in the direction of Windsor. "Steam is beating the horse."
"Not tonight," Karin said. A feral expression flashed across her face. "Let's be off. I thirst for victory."
~~OO~~
Karin was dangerous when she was resolute. She took the lead from the off.
Pamela overtook at the four-mile mark, right before the narrow bridge that carried the Great Western Railway over the road. Her whooping yell of triumph echoed off the red brick arch, louder than the noise of the horses' hooves.
Karin, stuck behind, was so furious that Eric felt her anger flare hot in his blood. Pamela had woken the sleeping bear. This should prove interesting.
They kept the lead to the Thames. The long, wide Maidenhead bridge had seven arches and its elegant stone balustrades were lined with gas lamps that set the mist rising from the river aglow. Pamela barely slowed the carriage as Eric flipped a guinea to the startled man taking tolls at the far side.
Few townsfolk were abroad at this hour. The streets were quiet, but a public house was discharging revellers who burst into song as the carriage passed them.
One of the horses startled, shying sideways, forcing Pamela to swing wide.
Karin made her move, coming up fast and scattering drunken pedestrians like skittles. Pamela cursed like a sailor, but the deed was done. Karin gave no quarter and beat them to the second tollgate.
When they turned onto the Henley Road, Karin had a lead of a hundred yards.
The tollkeeper at Hurley had been bribed. The gate was wide open when they thundered past, Eric relishing the wind in his face and Pamela glaring ahead at her vanishing rival. Then came hills and bends and they played catch-up all the way, thrice failing to overtake, Pamela swearing more inventively each time.
The climb up Rose Hill taxed the tired greys, but she made good use of them once they gained the summit. They were only a dozen yards behind Karin as they began the final descent down Remenham Hill to Henley and the river Thames.
Pamela yelled encouragement. The horses' hooves splashed up muddy water. The gap closed.
At the bottom of the hill, they were within touching distance, hoof-beats drumming loud in the night. Eric, leaning forward in his seat, willed the horses on and added his voice to Pamela's. Oskar was shouting too.
A square church tower came into sight over the trees.
Henley and the finish.
Karin took the centre of the road, blocking them until her horses abruptly pulled to the right. Pamela, rising to her feet and snapping the reins, took a risky line to the left.
They drew level at the bridge.
Karin's carriage swerved dangerously towards them. Pamela reacted with lightning speed, steering sharply to the left.
Too sharply and — disaster! — the carriage swung too far.
The back wheel clipped the stone balustrade of the bridge with a splintering crash. The carriage bucked, two wheels leaping off the ground.
Eric slung all his weight to that side vampire fast and barely prevented a tip. The wheels slammed back down and the carriage bounced alarmingly, tormented springs squeaking. They careened across the bridge and missed the back of Karin's carriage by a hair as Pamela, cursing in a steady stream, hauled on the reins.
The horses reared and plunged and finally slowed.
Pamela flung the reins at Eric as they came to a halt and leapt down to inspect the damage.
"She bloody planned that," Pamela growled, kicking at the cracked wheel.
Karin was over the bridge, already drawing up beside the Red Lion, her horses four grey phantoms in the river-mist. Oskar's shout of triumph carried in the still air.
"Yes, she used your quick reflexes against you," Eric said on his way to calm the horses. "An excellent strategy."
~~OO~~
The dramatic events on the bridge hadn't passed unnoticed. Four stable lads from the Red Lion had witnessed the whole thing.
They'd been watching from the other end of the bridge, eager to meet the gentlemen who kept them from their beds and charged them with changing two sets of horses in the middle of the night. Doubtless they suspected some young Corinthian* was racing a friend and hoped to see some excitement.
They got more excitement than they expected when they pounded up to the carriage.
Pamela, her hat lost in the upset and her hair free, was cursing steadily.
"'Ere. You're a lass," one of them blurted out.
"Really? What gave it away?" Pamela snapped, still furious. One look from Eric, and she calmed herself. Good. He didn't want her dropping fang in front of a crowd.
Two ostlers came up at a more sedate pace. The skinnier of them cuffed the lad who'd spoken, saying, "Mind yer manners, Charlie."
The brawny one whistled at the damage. "You got the luck of the Devil himself, Miss. Thought you were going to tip this beauty for sure," he said. "What happened?"
"I feathered it. Hit the bridge." Pamela pointed, and they all turned to look at a chunk of stone sitting on the carriageway. "Can you fix it?"
He crouched to examine the wheel and sucked his teeth.
"I'll make it worth your while," Eric called, waving the tallest lad over to take hold of the horses. He warned him, "Look sharp. They're still skittish."
"Right you are, sir." The lad fished an apple out of his pocket and went about breaking it apart. "This'll settle them."
The ostler straightened up to give his verdict. "We've another wheel that'll do in a pinch. Might take an hour to switch it."
"There's a guinea in it for you if you manage it in half that," Eric offered. They had to finish before dawn.
The skinny one had beady eyes. He'd been looking over the carriage and Eric's clothes. "Ought to report you to the constable on a charge of furious driving," he said, folding his arms and spitting casually to the side. "Ought to. By rights."
Pamela stepped forwards to catch his eye, but Eric shook his head and jangled the coins in his pocket. Too many eyes watching. Someone might be sharp enough to notice a glamouring. No need for it when greed would do the trick.
"'Course it don't have to come to that," said the skinny one, eyes on Eric's pocket. "It's not like there's any other bugger on the road this late. Let's get 'er to the yard, lads."
~~OO~~
"Such a shame," Oskar said, feigning disappointment as the losing party entered the yard. "Will you retire from the competition?"
"Not a chance," Eric said firmly, striding past him to congratulate Karin. She was admiring the fresh horses: eight noble specimens, jet black and seventeen and a half generous hands a piece.
"There's a spare wheel," Pamela told Oskar as the stable lads hauled the damaged phaeton into the yard. "We'll have to wait while they switch it."
The stable lads set about unhitching the spent horses, and the two ostlers began work on the carriage. The noise fetched the proprietor and some inebriated guests outside. They stood around a brazier sipping brandy as the proprietor, who was quite proud of his establishment, recounted a memorable visit by the Prince Regent some decades past at which the Prince devoured fourteen chops at one sitting.
Pamela remarked quietly to Eric that it was no wonder George the Fourth got so fat before he died.
The ostlers were wrestling with the wheel, but once the spent horses had been rubbed down, the stable lads were at a loose end.
Karin was leaning on a wall near the stables, on her own.
Charlie called out to her. "Miss, where did yer learn to drive a team of four?"
Karin blinked at him, and the lads crowded round and peppered her with impertinent questions.
"Wot yer racing for? A wager?" — "You married to one of the gents?" — "What's the prize?" — "If she ain't married, maybe the prize is a husband." — "Charlie, you dolt, that don't make no sense. The gent wins the lady's hand. That's how it goes." — "Yeah. Who wouldn't fight over a lovely flower like her."
Meanwhile, two older gentlemen at the brazier were remarking on the wisdom of allowing women to drive, and the dangers of carriage racing, and the neccessity of obeying the law. And perhaps fetching a constable to put a stop to this nonsense.
Eric and Oskar, who could hear the quiet conversation perfectly, exchanged a glance.
Too much attention was dangerous to all concerned. And Karin looked ready to break some necks. She'd never been one to suffer fools.
It was Pamela who came to her rescue. She crossed the yard and leapt nimbly onto the mounting block and said in a clear voice, "You honourable young coves want to know why we're racing?"
As the lads drifted over, she struck a pose, arms akimbo and coat thrown back. "You see my handsome togs?" There was a round of catcalls and whistles. "These are the fine colours of the Four Horse. My esteemed rival over there is in the colours of the Black and White."
"The driving clubs in London?" Charlie called out.
"Exactly," she said. "We're racing for club and honour."
"The Four Horse Club folded an age ago," the proprietor said, puffing up with self-importance. "And the Black and White hain't been out this far in years."
"'Course not," scoffed a young gentlemen at the brazier. "Tommy Onslow's cold in his grave and the rest of 'em are too long in the tooth to go haring about the countryside."*
His companion, deep in his cups, nudged him and said loudly, "See the quiet filly's carriage? All black. Earl Onslow drove a black cab. Black horses too. Like a hearse, they used to say."
Eric and Oskar exchanged another look. This could take a nasty turn.
"That's right," Pamela called. "My esteemed opponent is riding for the late Earl. She's a cousin. Twice removed."
Everyone looked at Karin with renewed interest. Karin stared back, which rather reinforced the lie as it gave an impression of haughtiness.
"And who you riding for, Miss?" one of the lads asked Pamela.
"My father the Duke, of course. So you see, winning is a matter of family pride."
Murmurs spread around the yard and someone called out, "Which Duke?"
"Beaufort, who else?"* Pamela slapped her thigh. "Driving four-in-hand runs in these veins."
"Ain't there a verse about him?" Charlie called out.
A gentleman by the brazier cleared his throat, struck a pose and recited: "Some scratch their panels, some their horse's knees. Beaufort and Payne, I class you not with these. For who so smartly skims along the plain – as Beaufort's Duke? What whip can equal Payne?"*
Pamela laughed, delighted, and applauded him. "Well done, sir."
"Didn't yer father put on his own coaches?" a lad asked.
"Why yes, he did," she said. "London to Brighton. After Goodman's jarveys wouldn't take his money and let him handle the ribbons. He set up his own line so he could drive whenever the fancy took him."*
"Which daughter are you?"
That came from the brazier, followed by laughter and a shout of: "Careful, Jack's after a wife."
Pamela winked broadly. "I might be Lady Emily. Or Lady Rose. Or Lady Pamela. I couldn't possibly say. Think of the scandal."
There was a clamour from the floor: "How many stages?" — "Who's winning, Lady Rose?" —"Where did yer get them fine horses?"
"One at a time, boys. Shall I tell you about the race?"
The lads, all moon-eyed now, gave a chorus of approval. So did the gents at the brazier. Eric leaned over to Oskar and said, "She has them all eating out of her hand."
"She does indeed. I see why you picked her. She's brazen." He looked at Eric and grinned broadly. "As are you."
Karin emerged out of the shadows behind them as Pamela was enthralling her audience with tales of daring-do spun out of the night's events. No-one paid the three of them any mind, and they watched in peace as the young vampire played the crowd like a fiddle.
The swagger Pamela had when she joined them was definitely all Eric.
"Why help me after I tricked you?" Karin asked her.
Pamela shrugged. "You may be a bitch, but you're our bitch. Blood comes first."
Eric smiled. He had a feeling Pamela wouldn't miss her human sisters much at all after tonight.
~~OO~~
Oskar described the third stage as a test of valour and endurance. The Henley Road was the quieter of the two routes to Oxford so it was narrow, but the tollgate at Bix would be open and it would be a straight run over the rolling hills of the Chiltern Downs to Bensington.
As Pamela and Karin looked over the route, Eric was careful to keep all hints of the little surprise he and Oskar had arranged for them out of his blood.
The wheel was fixed in record time, and Eric left the Red Lion considerably lighter of pocket. Pamela had done such a bang-up job of distracting everyone, Eric was certain no-one had noticed that the vampires took no refreshment during their wait.
The small crowd came out on the road to see them off, the stable lads cheering for their new darling, Lady Beaufort.
Carried forward on a wave of enthusiasm, Pamela took the lead as they left Henley, springing the team to a canter. Out in the countryside, the night seemed to dissipated the noise of the carriage. The puddles on the road gleamed silver in the moonlight and the fresh horses performed as magnificently as they looked, muscles bunching as long easy strides ate the miles.
They reached the chalk downs and the horses made short work of the steep climb up Bix Hill to the village of Bix itself. The road widened by the tollgate to allow for two-way passage and Karin overtook.
To Eric's surprise Pamela grinned and cheerfully tipped her hat to Oskar. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I thought she'd gone soft on us."
"She is the Slaughterer," Eric said. "Soft is not in her nature. You underestimated her once. It would be a mistake to do so again."
"Oh, take that stick out of your arse. Birthdays are meant to be fun." She flicked the reins and the horses stepped up to a gallop. She laughed fiercely as the carriage began to bounce. "Let's test the new wheel, shall we?"
Eric laughed too. He wedged his top-hat into the corner of the seat and reached up to pull his braid free. "Yes, let's."
They made good time over the rolling hills to Nettlebed. There, neat red brick houses crowded them on both sides, funnelling the clatter of hooves and the rattles and creaks of the carriage back at them. Sounds and their echoes merged into what was a cacophony to sensitive ears.
One of Karin's horses spooked, her carriage lurching sideways. Pamela's horses held fast and she took advantage of that, daring to pass close to the houses, barely a foot to spare. She took back the lead with a whoop.
"Well played, my lovely!" Oskar called as they passed, doffing his hat with an elaborate flourish despite his rocking perch.
Not to be outdone Eric, pale hair loose and shining in the moonlight, sprang lithely to his feet and gave an elaborate bow in return. "Deuced bad luck, Karin," he called. "Catch us if you can!"
The horses settled into a steady rhythm as the road climbed to Nuffield. The village was unlit as they passed through it, and they entered a wood. Trees grew tall and close packed on either side of them, blocking out the moon.
In the distance a dog howled. Then another. Pamela stiffened in her seat, a difficult feat for a mortal with the swaying, but not for a vampire. Her eyes glittered in the dark. "Those aren't dogs, are they?"
"No," Eric said, smiling wickedly as his fangs descended. "That, dearest Pamela, is your final test."
She whipped her head around to the left, where a four-legged shadow considerably bigger than a hound flickered behind the trees. Loping with an easy gait, it kept pace with them for a moment and then disappeared into the gloom.
They had a roughly straight descent of four miles to go, only the hills of Gangsdown and then Beggarsbush standing between them and Bensington.
Two hills and a pack of werewolves.
"They will not set foot on the road," Eric said, leaning lazily back in his seat. "But they will do their utmost to distract you."
Oskar had called in a debt owed him by one of the Chiltern packs. This deserted stretch of road was perfect for what they had planned: no witnesses to report howling or wolf sightings.
Howling came from all directions as they came out of the wood. The lead horse's ears pricked. Pamela tugged on the reins, pulling harshly on the bit to remind the horse of its duty.
Karin swore behind them and yelled, "Eric! You bastard! This is your doing!"
Eric threw his head back and laughed.
The werewolf pack harried them for a mile, coming close then vanishing, the intermittent torment unsettling the horses more than a constant barrage would have done. Pamela threw off her heavy coat, and let the horses have their head.
Their hooves tossed up clods of mud every time their headlong rush brought them too close to edge of the road and the ditch. Karin's team was right behind them, and at intervals Eric could hear her cursing as she struggled to control her horses.
They came to another heavily wooded stretch and the werewolves became bolder. One of the wheelers* shied away from a chorus of howls, and the carriage veered to the right. A huge grey wolf loomed on the verge in front of them, growling. Saliva dripped from its mouth as it bared yellowed teeth.
The horses reared. The carriage skittered sideways. Eric grasped tight hold of the frame and used his weight to help steady them as Pamela wrestled to keep them on the road, snarling almost as loudly as the wolf.
They slowed a canter and Karin thundered past, her horses neighing and whickering.
"The Devil take them!" Pamela hissed, all good humour gone. "Bloody werewolves."
She flicked of the reins violently and the horses built up to a gallop again.
At bone-shaking speed, they crossed an open area with fields to either side. Two black werewolves kept pace with them and the horses tossed their heads, eyes rolling. They were gaining on Karin but only because the horses were close to bolting.
They entered another copse. With a deep, rumbling growl, the grey wolf leaped out of the undergrowth and sailed over the terrified horses.
Eric snarled at the creative interpretation of his rule: put no foot on the road.
"Hell fire!" Pamela yelled, pulling hard on the reins to no avail. The horses flew recklessly ahead, straight at the other carriage.
A sandy wolf leapt out from behind a tree, its muzzle bloodied and gore dripping from its mouth as it howled. It was that that saved them from a crash, because the sight and smell sent Karin's horses bolting forwards in a frenzy.
In the head-long rattling, bouncing, jarring rush that followed, Eric seriously considered leaping from the carriage to teach the werewolves a lesson in how to follow instructions. A bloody one. With broken bones.
But he would not abandon the race — or his wager with Oskar — until Pamela did.
Pamela rose to the occasion. "Eric," she yelled over the noise. "Do I have to stay on the box?"
"No," he said. "But I cannot take the reins."
"You won't have to. Sit tight." She handed him the whip, slipped a knife out of her boot, put it between her teeth and rose to her feet.
Swiftly, as only a vampire could, she ran out between the wheelers, balancing lightly on the pole between the straining horses and shortening the reins by winding them around her hand as she went. She reached the end of the pole and the knife flashed in the moonlight.
Two quick slashes severed the reins from the wheelers. Eric, literally clinging to the edge of his seat, felt his blood leap with her as she crouched and sprang onto the left-side leader.
She was going to ride postilion.
Eric shifted to sit in the middle of the carriage, using his weight as ballast to keep them on an even keel. Gripping the horse with her thighs, Pamela took up the slack in the reins and leaned perilously over to the other leader. Two more slashes and the reins were gone, thrown into the woods.
She leaned forwards, flat against her mount, murmuring in his ears and rubbing his neck with a gloved hand. The horse calmed somewhat, and that calmed the others in turn.
Eric was thoroughly impressed.
She was watching the trees, he realised, the knife held loose and low in her right hand. Behind the horse, where the wolves couldn't see.
Eric began to smile.
The wolves howled, a half dozen of them dodging in and out of the undergrowth beside the road. Then the grey wolf launched himself over the horses again. Pamela thrust herself up from the horse, twisting and arching backwards with inhuman flexibility.
Her right arm whipped upwards and the knife raked the wolf's underbelly. Hot blood sprayed in an arc as the wolf turned in mid-air. Momentum carried it over the horses to land in a ditch, a crumpled heap of bloodied fur.
The pack was baying, gathering around their fallen leader. Eric craned his neck. Good. Only wounded, otherwise the mangy mutt would be shifting back to human. Oskar shouldn't have to pay much in weregeld.*
There was a tremendous crash some way ahead.
Pamela laughed as they rounded a slight bend and she saw what had happened. "We're not stopping, are we?"
"We're vampires, Pamela," Eric said. And he had a not inconsiderable sum riding on this. "Don't be ridiculous."
Karin's carriage was in the ditch. Oskar, caked in mud, was dragging it back on to the road while Karin, equally besmirched, calmed the panicked horses.
Pamela waved at them as they passed and was rewarded with curses in five different languages.
The exhausted horses settled into a comfortable canter. Eric looked back as they entered Bensington and made out Karin and Oskar a few minutes behind them. Fishing a ribbon out of a pocket, he re-braided his hair and checked his clothing for mud. All clear. He still looked the dashing young whip.
A red lantern marked the finish, along with a gaggle of guests from the White Hart —a large, white-plastered building with lights still blazed despite the early morning hour. They'd held one of their all-night dances. Eric smiled. Perhaps Oskar could soothe the sting of his defeat in the gaming rooms.
The small crowd cheered as they came to a halt.
Pamela dismounted, bowed to her audience and handed the exhausted, sweat-drenched horses over to a stable lad. Eric passed her her coat, and retrieved his battered top-hat from the carriage before it disappeared into the yard.
The guests were drifting back inside when a dispirited Karin drew up. She and Oskar dismounted and the carriage was taken away.
Oskar was stiff with mud and furious.
Eric was exceedingly amused. "Make the deposit to my London account, won't you?"
"Of course. Pamela." Oskar swept her a bow. "It was a pleasure meeting you." He stalked off towards the inn without a backward look.
"Will the wolves be a problem?" Eric asked Karin.
She shook her head, and a brief smile flickered across her face. "It's not that. His new suit is ruined. He rather liked it."
"A wild ride like that is worth a dozen suits," Pamela said, barely keeping a straight face.
"It is," Karin said solemnly. "You raced well. Sister."
Pamela smiled. "Likewise, sister."
~~OO~~
Karin followed Oskar into the White Hart.
Three ladies from the crowd had stayed outside. A blushing blonde and a redhead with a creamy complexion giggled behind their fans as their dark-haired companion looked Eric boldly up and down.
"Is it safe to rest here for the day?" Pamela asked in a low voice, smiling at the giggling ladies.
"There is somewhere nearby we can go to ground," Eric said, equally low and smiling his most charming smile at the women. "You have an hour or so to indulge."
"Which one is mine?"
"This is your night. Pick two." She had also just won him a rather tidy sum.
"The buxom redhead and the blonde. You take the dark one. She looks flexible, and more interested in your equipage than mine."
"Very generous of you."
The ladies giggled and fluttered, still watching them. Pamela raised her voice. "I stink of horse. Can a lady get a hot bath round here?"
The blonde, blushing darker, said, "There's a room waiting for you, Miss."
"Then shall we repair to the inn?" Eric said, offering the dark-haired one his arm.
"What lovely lace you have on your décolletage," Pamela said, linking arms with the other two. "Maybe one of you could scrub my back."
~~OO~~
Tales of a shocking carriage race between two high-born ladies spread like wildfire through the drawing rooms of the ton that season. The gossip scandalised ladies whose corsets could stand to be loosened, and clergymen whose wigs were too tight, and other self-appointed guardians of public morality.
Two years after the events related in these pages, the Bensington Driving Club, also known as the Black and White, shut up shop. Some speculated that the defeat suffered by the lady reputed to be the Earl's cousin had proven too shameful to be borne, triggering the dissolution of his former Club.
Four years after this by then legendary race, some were even so bold as to say that the win for Beaufort's mysterious daughter brought about the revival, some twenty years after it disbanded, of the famed Four Horse Club. It re-formed in 1856 as the Four-In-Hand Club.
It is not for your humble narrator to pass comment on the truth of those speculations, other than to say the Duke of Beaufort himself would have been extremely surprised to hear that he had sired a daughter, thought by some to be illegitimate, called Pamela.
The good Duke, however, would not have been at all ashamed of her win in his honour.
~~OO~~
Footnotes:
1. Brummell, trend-setter and famous dandy, said to have inspired the modern suit.
2. Jarvey — coachman
3. High-flyer — a style of phaeton favoured by the sporting gentleman, the carriage body mounted high and easy to tip.
4. Handling the ribbons — carriage driving, ribbons being the long reins.
5. Leaders — the lead pair of (usually) four carriage horses.
6. Call out – challenge to a duel.
7. Varney the Vampire, a popular Penny Dreadful (cheap comic) published in 1845-47.
8. Ostler — a groom employed at an inn, hostelry, etc.
9. Bensington Driving Club, 1807-1854. An exclusive London club with 25 members. Nicknamed the Black and White.
10. MacAdam and Telford — engineers who improved roads and 'macadamised' road surfaces.
11. Four Horse Club, 1808-1826. Similarly exclusive and nicknamed the Whip or Barouche Club.
12. Peelers — Bobbies, the London police, named after Sir Robert Peel.
13. Omnibus — a large horse-drawn carriage that carried paying passengers.
14. Jammy — lucky, as in you got the jam. Baggage — a woman.
15. Lord Ruthven — the vampire in The Vampyre, by Poldori, based on Byron himself.
16. Radicals — a political group pressing for, amongst other things, the right to vote. Shelley was a supporter.
17. Corinthian — a sporting gentleman who boxes, rides, gambles, etc. Also a blade, a whip.
18. Tommy Onslow — 2nd Earl of Onslow, leading light of the BDC.
19. Beaufort — Henry Somerset, 7th Duke of Beaufort.
20. A verse from a charming bit of doggerel, The Chaunt of Achilles, by Robert Smith Surtees.
21. Some gentlemen bribed coachmen for a turn at driving, usually to the other passengers dismay.
22. Wheelers — the pair of horses nearest the carriage.
23. Weregeld — blood money, literally man price in Old English.
Fandom Notes:
Vampires are vulnerable to stakes, sunlight and decapitation. Silver burns them. They die for the day, don't breathe and are cold. Stronger, faster, better senses. They get more powerful as they age. They don't have to kill those they drink from, but newly turned vampires have less control. Accidents happen. They have a secret society, with harsh laws, ruled by sheriffs and kings/queens. Think Mafia rather than evil demons; bloodthirsty, but not mindless.
A Maker and child are linked by blood and can feel emotions from each other. Their blood heals, they cry blood tears. 'Glamouring' wipes memories, or implants suggestions and works on humans.
Eric Northman, and his 'daughters' Pam Ravenscroft and Karin Slaughter are canon. Oskar is my invention. Eric is Norse, born circa 1100. Pam is from late Regency London. Karin was turned circa 1300s. (Named after the real-life author Karin Slaughter in canon. I changed the name slightly for this.)
Canon is also contemporary: when artificial blood is created, vampires go public. Eric drives a Corvette (license plate: BLDSKR). Pam drives a minivan, but she likes to run. Fast. That common love of speed and a canon mention that Pam saw her family briefly 10 years after she was turned inspired this story.
General note:
I swear I didn't find the Beaufort connection until I did the research.
The 7th Duke of Beaufort was a descendant of John Beaufort, 1st Earl of Somerset, whose mother was Katherine Swynford, Duchess of Lancaster. So this must be the family that inspired True Blood to rename Pam as Pamela Swynford de Beaufort. A very happy coincidence!