Disclaimer: i totes own hellsign I have since lyk 5ever.
Lol just kidding.
I really don't own Hellsing. I just wanted to use the word 5ever today.
VIII.
There was a brisk knock at her door that served as forewarning, but otherwise Seras was unprepared.
Seras stood in the middle of her bedroom, practically swimming in the twenty pounds of petticoats and corsets her mother had shoved in her arms. Mrs. Victoria and Elizabeth scampered back and forth as they tried to separate bonnets and gloves into this pile and that. Two large trunks lie open at the foot of the bed, surrounded by piles of patiently waiting folded clothing. The women had barely heard the knock, let alone processed just who Nora hastily tried to introduce before their guest went in on her own.
"Might I announce Sir Hellsing!" Nora hurriedly called over the murmers of what bonnet went with which pair of gloves, and whether or not a formal evening gown would be necessary. For a moment, Sir Hellsing found herself unacknowledged by the women of the room who were too caught up in their own business to realize.
It was Seras who first fully recognized the aristocrat's presence right as she set her pile of undergarments on a whitewashed dresser, though she at first looked through instead of at the woman. Sir Integra curtly nodded to Seras, apparently able to overlook such a terrible disregard of courtesy and indecent exposure of under-things. The aristocrat took a few more steps into the mundane bedroom, her icy eyes roaming over every pastel detail.
"Sir-Sir Hellsing!" Seras sputtered, jumping in front of the dresser with her cheeks burning. Sir Hellsing nodded, appraising the eldest Victoria sister.
Good God, Sir Hellsing was in her bedroom! Why was she in her bedroom? Good grief, her corsets were on her dresser and in plain sight! Nora should have seated her in the sitting room or the drawing room like she had for all their other guests! Seras threw a questioning look at the maid, who could only offer a nervous shrug and pitiable smile. Sir Hellsing was apparently not one to leave in wait.
Mrs. Victoria and the other in-house maid, Elizabeth, paused in their argument over whether wearing silk slippers made Seras look presumptuous to finally take notice of the noble in their presence. Mrs. Victoria's eyes widened, though she found she could no longer summon the panic and horror she once could in the face of a possible social blunder.
"Oh, Sir Hellsing, I do apologize." Mrs. Victoria offered a wan smile and quickly pushed the green silk slippers in to Elizabeth's hands. "Our household has been quite out of sort in light of previous…" she paused, "events, and I am afraid you have caught us at a particularly chaotic moment. Do forgive us for any lack of formalities." Mrs. Victoria bent in to a little curtsy. Seras and Elizabeth followed her lead, only standing up again when Sir Hellsing waved her hand impatiently.
"I have never followed our society's civilities to a tee, madam." Sir Hellsing's eyes gleamed in mirth as she reached in to the pocket of her suit jacket to pull out a Cuban cigar. Seras bit back her frown; she hoped Sir Hellsing didn't plan on smoking in her bedroom.
"I see." Mrs. Victoria nodded, brushing her hands on her skirts before politely bringing her attention back to Sir Hellsing.
Sir Hellsing laughed dryly at Mrs. Victoria's comment, although it was obvious that Mrs. Victoria hadn't meant a thing by it.
"Indeed. I have intruded upon you this afternoon to have a conversation with your daughter regarding her sister." Sir Hellsing paused, seeing the sudden change in everyone's expressions, and added: "In confidence."
They all were all so disappointed. Sir Hellsing looked as if she were trying not to laugh as Mrs. Victoria, Elizabeth, and Nora slowly shuffled out of the bedroom with dejected faces akin to punished children. In their defense it was cruel of her to leave them out of what they thought to be new information regarding the lost Victoria sister, but it would have been even crueler of her to take away their blissful ignorance – a luxury Seras could no longer afford. Things had snowballed far faster than she would have liked.
Sir Hellsing sighed slightly and looked around, hoping to find a lighter among the frills and ribbons that she too had been subjected to several decades ago. Ah yes, they had always wanted her to be a proper lady, hadn't they? She glanced at the piles of pinks and blues. Unlike this infamous Seras Victoria, instead of embracing such a role, Integra had grown to dislike and defy it. She stuffed the cigar back in to her pocket. Sir Hellsing doubted there was going to even be a damn match in here.
"Well…?" Seras began, bouncing on her heels among piles of stockings. She knew that she was being horribly informal, but she had no idea what this could be about and was nervous and excited to hear it all the same. Perhaps she'd found a lead on Edith!
Sir Hellsing elegantly pulled the small, white-painted farm chair out from under Seras' writing desk and sat down. She, in her dark navy pant suit and polished black shoes, looked quite out of place in Seras' white, girlish bedroom. Seras closed one of the trunks at the foot of her bed and took a seat on it, now opposite Sir Hellsing.
"Have you any, any word at all, regarding my sister?" Seras couldn't help the desperate edge that crept in to her voice.
Sir Hellsing frowned and gave Seras a good, long look before glancing at the door. Seras followed her gaze, confused, and furrowed her brow when Sir Hellsing stood and went to the door to open it and look about outside. Seras stared when the aristocrat pulled a silver crucifix from her pocket, quite a bit larger and more ornate than any of Edith's, and hung it on the doorknob. It was only when she returned to her seat, satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, did she speak.
"My organization works under the Queen, and is charged with cases rather… similar to that of your sister's. We have rather different and more radical hypotheses than the Force for certain situations." Sir Hellsing explained, watching Seras' reaction carefully. The girl was definitely alarmed, on edge. Good.
Seras' eyes widened. "Radical?" She whispered, feeling her heart sink. "What on earth do you mean by that?"
"Probably not at all what you believe it to be at the moment." Sir Hellsing replied smoothly.
"Please… please just tell me." Seras folded her hands and bent in to herself, preparing for the worst. Sir Hellsing observed her for a moment before speaking.
"Very well." She sighed, almost sounding reluctant. "My organization has reason to believe that due to your affiliation with Count Vlad Dracul V, you sister was attacked by a vampire." Seras' eyes widened, and she searched Sir Hellsing's face for any sort of sign that she was joking. She found none.
"Vampire?" Seras asked, flabbergasted at the absurdity of such a thought. "You believe Edith was taken by a vampire, of all things?" She stopped and thought for a moment. "Is that what was so secret about your meetings with Edith? But what did Edith, let alone the Count, have to do with your so-called vampires?"
Good God, this woman was crazy. All that money and solitude had gotten to her. Everyone knew that vampires didn't exist… but Sir Hellsing looked so perturbed at the moment that Seras didn't have the guts to outright question her. That woman was a brute, even if she wasn't right in the head.
"As I stated previously," Sir Hellsing's voice was cool and could no longer bothered to be cordial, "due to your affiliation with the Count, we believe Edith to have become a target in an attack, or less likely, to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."
"And what does the Count have to do with it?" Seras was getting slightly impatient. Sir Hellsing seemed to only be repeating the same insane nonsense over and over.
Sir Hellsing's glasses flashed in the sunlight. "We believe the Count to have instigated, allowed, or… performed the attack, Miss." There. It had been said. Sir Hellsing neatly folded her gloved hands over one knee, waiting for the young lady's undeniably negative reaction.
Seras gaffed, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. Did this intelligent, high-ranking, unabashed Valkyrie of a woman really just accuse someone of being a vampire and then involve him with Edith's disappearance? Seras felt like laughing at the absurdity! But Sir Hellsing really was perfectly serious about it, wasn't she? Sir Hellsing really believed what she had to say. It sent a sudden shiver up Seras' spine, but she refused to acknowledge it any more than that.
"You believe the Count is a vampire?" Seras asked dubiously, hoping that somehow she had just misinterpreted their entire conversation. Not very likely, but still a minute possibility.
"Yes." Sir Hellsing didn't even bat an eye.
Seras couldn't help it – she laughed, albeit dryly. What the hell? What was wrong with this woman? And what right did she have to say such awful things about the man who had been such a help to her family? Who'd held her and comforted her in her lowest moments? The ill-feelings of her last meeting with the Count were all but forgotten.
"How can you say such a thing, Sir Hellsing?" Seras questioned, clenching her fists as she remembered the night of Edith's disappearance. "The Count was speaking to me when we heard Edith's… cry. He could never have attacked Edith, nor would he have regardless!"
Seras felt her blood boiling as she went in to more detail. "The Count helped my father gather inspectors the night of her disappearance and helped with the search until four o'clock the morning next! How dare you try to slander such a man! He is valiant, he is noble, respectable! He may be eccentric, yes, but he is true!"
She paused to take a breath. "And vampires do not exist!" Seras stood from the trunk, feeling more and more righteous and justified as she spoke. How dare this woman try to besmirch the Count's good name!
"You fool!" Sir Hellsing snapped, leaping to her feet as well. "You play right in to his trap, just as your sister and I feared!"
Seras felt a flood of realization flow over her. "So it was as I thought… it was you who put such nonsense in to Edith's head!" She cried, pointing an accusing finger at Sir Hellsing. "How am I to know you and your organization were not involved in my sister's disappearance, Sir Hellsing?" Seras' voice dropped to a low whisper as she took a step closer to the aristocrat.
Sir Hellsing grit her teeth. "You know not the bridges you burn; your ignorance blinds you."
"I am perfectly aware of my actions, Sir Hellsing, and will hear no more lies about a good man!" Seras hissed, feeling quite indignant. "Now if you shall excuse me, I must continue to prepare for a journey." She said quietly, meeting the aristocrat's gaze evenly.
Sir Hellsing only shook her head. There was no getting through to the girl at this point, but she would have to try again. She wouldn't allow both sisters to disappear. She couldn't lose to that monster twice.
"May God have mercy on your soul, for your vampire shall not." The two woman stared at each for a long moment, neither daring to look away. Seras bit her lip, feeling terribly small and weak compared to this evil noblewoman. But then Sir Hellsing suddenly turned on her heel, opened the door and left, closing the door behind her without another word.
Alone in her bedroom, Seras felt vulnerable and wrapped her arms around her body, trying to fight off the sudden chill that floated through the air.
The Victorias had, for whatever reason, agreed quite easily with the Count's proposed plan with only a few tweaks here and there. Both parents were too tired, too drained, and too stuck in their own self-misery to worry too much when there would be Pip to look after her.
It was decided rather quickly that Seras, accompanied both by Pip and the Victorias' trusted housemaid Nora, would join the Count at his country estate in the West Country*, of all places. Pip hadn't been very pleased – the estate was a good four to five hours southwest of London! – to say the least, but Seras begged him to put up with it. In the end she won him over, as she always did.
After helping Seras pick her outfits and pack her things, Mrs. Victoria had returned to her previous business matters. She no longer made such a show of the Count's courtship, much to Seras' relief and worry. Perhaps her mother thought her to have it in the bag, but Seras personally thought it had to do with Edith. Mr. Victoria had only needed the knowledge that Pip would be by her side to be sated. After seeing that his wife had his daughter's affairs were settled, Mr. Victoria returned back to his previous work as well.
The Count and her father were apparently in touch through letter and messenger, as the Count had apparently already retreated to his estate, Cramer Hall*, soon after he'd met with her father the Sunday last. He had not written to Seras, and Seras did not write to him. She was still a little sore with him and his snarky remarks from their last meeting, and was sure that once she arrived at Cramer Hall she would be able to spend more than enough time with him.
"How does a Romanian noble only in town for half the season manage to put up an estate in the West Country?" Pip muttered to himself as he helped the coachman pile Seras' trunks on the coach. Seras sat inside the coach with the door open, peering out to watch Pip and the coachman hop on and off.
"You've solved your own mystery! He is royalty, you know, not nobility. I'm certain he merely bought the place with spare change not some time ago." Seras explained, setting her new copy of Jane Eyre under the picnic basket Nora had packed and placed on the seat.
Pip jumped down from the coach with a huff, flinging his braid over his shoulder. "Spare change, eh?" He shook his head with a dry laugh. "Where is the town nearest this Cramer Hall, Mignonette?" The whole thing just didn't sit right with him, and he'd be damned if he left Seras alone in the moors with Count Potential-Mass-Murderer with nothing but a sweet old lady as her only means of protection.
Seras clucked her tongue, thinking back to the geography lessons that her mother had made certain were shoved down her throat before she was introduced to the ton. "I believe it to be south of Yeovil, but north of Weymouth and Poole." She said, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
Pip sighed and climbed into the coach, taking a seat on the bench opposite to her. He was just itching to pull out a cigarette but knew that thanks to Nora's apparent allergies, they were safely tucked away in his own trunk. He stifled another sigh and glanced out the window, half-heartedly listening to the conversation Seras struck up with Nora when the older lady finally joined them in the coach.
After final goodbyes were exchanged with the Victorias, and Seras and Pip had been hugged and kissed far too much for even their liking, the coach the Count sent for them lurched forward in to the streets of London. The Count had unsurprisingly opted to send for them in a shiny new, top of the line coach that Pip had only read about in the Times but had never actually seen. The seats were padded with an extra layer of thick cushioning, the interior was lined with tasteful colors and carpets. Even though he hated the guy, Pip had to admit that it was nice to be riding in the lap of luxury.
The majority of the ride saw Seras reading, Nora knitting, and Pip dozing in and out of consciousness. After they had gotten out of London around noon and into the countryside, the ride became more amiable and beautiful than anyone had expected it would. After several hours in to their journey, green grasslands dotted with sheep and stone villages were exchanged for the rolling hills of the moors and the occasional heather field and peat pile.
Towns, villages, and really any source of human life came between increasingly longer intervals, and it became apparent just how far out into the moors they would be going. It was far. Seras didn't mind; she thought the moors to have a sort of thoughtful, melancholy beauty. On the other hand, the fact that they were so separated from other people (and the authorities) scared the living shit out of Pip.
He unconsciously stroked the side of his jacket where a revolver lay hidden in an inner pocket. Whatever the Count might be planning, Pip had come prepared. He smiled grimly to himself. Oh yes, he had most definitely come prepared. He mightn't have been a cautious man by nature, but in his line of work failure to prepare meant failure to live to see the next day. He had more where that came from, stashed away in a secret compartment in his trunk.
After several hours of watching isolated stretches of moorland roll by, their carriage made a wide right turn on to a long, winding pressed dirt road up a hill. They passed through a short copse of tall, spindly trees at the base of the hill before remerging at the top and in front of a three-story, sprawling gray stone mansion. It was designed in the Tudor Gothic style complete with crenelated parapets, large mullions, and an octagonal tower sandwiched between the two sections of the estate.
"My goodness…" Nora murmured from her place beside Seras, who could only manage to nod in agreement. Aside from Buckingham Palace, the Count's Cramer Hall was by far the most beautiful building she had ever laid eyes on.
Pip felt his mouth go dry as they entered the looping drive and stopped just in front of the main entrance, the late afternoon sun casting a warm, friendly glow on an otherwise foreboding place. It was so large, and it he wasn't careful he and Seras could easily be separated. He cast a covert glance at Seras, who was busy trying to straighten out wrinkles in her skirts, and then back at the mansion.
He would have to be careful.
The four-centered-arch door swung open to reveal a single, well-kept butler – the same butler the Count had kept in Lodon, Seras and Pip noted – who gracefully made his way to their coach. After exchanging a few quick words with the coachman, the butler opened the door and stepped aside for Pip to leap down, and then assisted Seras and Nora in stepping down.
"I do hope your journey was comfortable and uneventful." The butler, as emotionless as ever, greeted them once the ladies were safely on the ground. With a quick flick of the wrist he waved the coachman off, who started the horses off toward the back of the estate. "Your luggage shall be brought to your chambers." The butler explained as he turned to lead them through the front door.
Pip and Seras followed the butler arm-in-arm while Nora trailed politely behind them, wicker basket still in hand. The butler lead them right in to the formal foyer, and Seras thought it strange that there were no other visible servants in the foyer to receive them. That, and the Count was nowhere to be seen.
Regardless, the foyer was nothing if not more grand than the exterior of the mansion. Cream French paneling lined by large, elegant mullions and gabled windows would've given the room a sort of simplistic beauty had it not been for the overzealous array of gilded Versailles furniture, oriental art work, Persian rugs, vases with suffocating flower arrangements, and priceless pieces placed here and there. Two beautiful chestnut grand staircases that surrounded a shimmering, brightly lit crystal chandelier only added to the over-done atmosphere. Seras had to restrain herself from spinning around to take it all in, and lightly swatted Pip's arm when she saw him blatantly staring.*
She couldn't help but feel disappointed. She had taken such time at her vanity that morning to tie her hair into the perfect chignon, make sure her white gloves remained unblemished, and match her powder blue dress with a humble, unobtrusive pearlescent necklace. She had labored over her appearance for quite some time in the anticipation of being received by the Count, and felt slighted when he was nowhere in sight.
"My Lord regrets that previous obligations regarding his occupation prevent him from properly receiving his guests, and offers his most sincere of apologies." The butler's voice was slow and melodic, and if Seras had been still reading her mother's trashy penny-novels she'd described it as hypnotic.
"My Lord highly anticipates dining with his guests at seven o'clock this evening in the Red Room." The butler intoned, turning on his heel and making his way between the grand twin chestnut staircases that gracefully lead to the second floor. The group took the unspoken and rather rude cue and followed after him.
The butler, whose name Seras later learned to be Renfield, gave the group an impromptu tour of the mansion and the grounds. He covered such things as the drawing room, the sitting room, the billiards room, the foyer, the formal dining room, the informal dining room - also known as the Red Room "for its red wallpaper," Renfield explained – the library, the balcony, the garden, the stables, and then finally their separate bed chambers. Seras and Nora were located side-by-side on one end of the second floor, and Pip's situation was (of course) on the first floor.
The third floor, they were told, was made up of the Count's private chambers and study. He was not to be disturbed by any one of them at any time.
Renfield wished them goodbye and left them to rest and prepare for the evening meal, and informed them that before-dinner drinks would be served in the drawing room at a quarter before eight o'clock in the evening. Then he left, Pip followed him to the first floor, Nora went to unpack, and Seras was left with the acute feeling of just how empty the mansion really was.
The Count did, however, join Seras and Pip for dinner once the sun had just set over the horizon. Nora was to dine in her room or with the other servants.
"Whichever suites her fancy," The Count intoned with a sly smile when Seras asked.
They were seated in the Red Room, whose brilliant red wallpaper lived up to its namesake. The walls were decorated with bright oil paintings of children having picnics in heather fields, gilded mirrors, and lined with expensive dark oak china cabinets. Pip squirmed a bit in his large, uncomfortable dark oak dinner chair. It had been a while since he'd partaken in such blatant luxury, and was vaguely worried about inadvertently breaking some priceless artifact.
They were served potato bisque (Seras had never experienced a cold soup before), followed by poached quail eggs with some sort of rice pilaf, sides of roast sweet potato and asparagus, citrus ice, fresh dinner rolls with sweet cream butter, preserved fruit, and finally hot coffee in the drawing room. Seras couldn't remember having ever eaten so well or so much at a dinner party, but unlike most other men the Count had absolutely insisted she finish everything on her plate. She needed to regain her strength, or something along those lines.
Seras would've liked to tell the Count the same thing, though. He barely touched his meal and instead paid more attention to his wine than anything else – much to Pip's apparent disapproval. But, no matter. He was master of the manor and could do what he saw fit.
She sat back into one of the luxurious, comfortable chairs looking into the fire, nursing a hot mug of coffee and a bout of encroaching lethargy. The leather was soft to the touch and enveloped her. Twilight had taken over the moors, casting a low glow through the ceiling-high windows of the sitting room. The Count sat to her left and Pip to her right, the former seeming much more relaxed than the later.
She sighed happily, dreamily. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so warm and care free.
A gloved hand rested gently on her arm. She turned to address the Count, who was observing her from behind his strange eyeglasses with another clever smile. "Have you ever heard the story of Cramer Hall, Police Girl?" His thumb massaged circles in to her forearm, and she unconsciously relaxed further.
"N-no, My Lord." The Count's smile grew slightly.
"Well my dear, they say this very Hall is haunted." Pip raised an eye brow, looking over Seras' shoulder.
"What? You don't say!" Seras gasped. She had never been good with ghost stories. Edith used to tell her ones that would keep her up all hours of the night, keeping watch for the monster that were going to crawl out from under their bed. At the time, she had never understood how Edith had been able to just fall asleep in the face of danger like that. She tried not to wilt at the inadvertent thought of her sister.
"Oh yes, Police Girl." The Count's grin grew wicked. "They say that the Hall's original owner, Lord Cramer, was a cold-hearted man with a horrific temper and a young, pretty wife. The wife was alleged to have kept a great black hound as a pet. The hound was very faithful to his mistress and never once failed to answer her call." He paused when the door was pushed in and Baskerville padded in unannounced, his smile obtaining a sinister edge.
"Oh, hello pup!" Seras laughed at the timing and watched the dog come to lay at the edge of the roaring fireplace, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He certainly was a big fellow.
Pip felt remarkably uneasy in its presence.
"As I was saying," The Count cleared his throat and Seras blushed, "the hound was forever faithful to the wife. But one night, Lord Cramer got it in his mind that his innocent wife had been unfaithful and was struck with blind rage." The Count leaned back into his seat, his hands folded over his chest and he gazed into the flames. Seras sat ramrod straight, leaning in as if to hear better.
"He chased her on to the moors that night with a knife, and savagely murdered her in cold blood."
Seras gasped. "Good heavens!" The Count looked at her and then back to the flames, nodding in agreement.
"Indeed." He paused for a moment only to smile a terribly, dreadful smile. "As his wife lay dead before him, Lord Cramer heard a terrible, vicious growling from behind him and turned to behold his wife's hound – but it was larger, deadlier, more fearsome. The Hound attacked, and in turn killed Lord Kramer with ease. Some say the hound still lurks these moors, and that if you listen closely you can hear him howling in the dead of night." The Count sat up a little straighter, Seras giving him her rapt attention.
"Do you not speak of the legend of the Black Shuck, My Lord?" Pip asked skeptically. He'd heard this one before. "Is it not supposed to haunt the moors of East Anglia?" Never had he heard of it being spotted in the West Country. Though such a thing was "possible," he supposed – it was currently a very popular urban legend.
The Count's smile didn't waver at all, not in the slightest. "So they say, Mr. Berndaotte, but can one ever be too sure of such things?" It was so blatantly rhetorical Pip didn't try to justify a response. Seras had barely seemed to register his original question, anyway.
The clock rang nine.
The Count stood before offering his hand to Seras.
"Time seems to have escaped us, my dear. Please go to your chambers to rest. I shall be with you tomorrow. I beg you a good-night and a pleasant rest." He was too much the charmer, Pip thought with a frown. Really, Pip thought as he watched them, was brushing his hand through Seras' hair all that necessary or proper? He stiffened upon realizing that no, no it wasn't.
"I'll escort you to your chambers, ma cher." Pip made it a point to say it in front of the Count, grabbing Seras' other arm and pulling her away hard enough to cause her to stumble. The Count frowned slightly, but stood and finished begging his good nights none the less.
"I wish you the same, My Lord." Seras dipped into the proper curtsy with a happy little smile, averting her eyes. She didn't see the look on his face, but Pip did. "I assume to breakfast with you tomorrow?" It was a presumptuous question she knew, but she doubted the Count would mind. She had a suspicion that he was rather fond of her forwardness.
The Count offered a thin-lipped smile. "I am afraid not, Police Girl." Pip tried not to look so suddenly cheerful, and Seras tried to keep her smile from falling too abruptly. It had been a presumptuous question, after all.
"I must make you aware that I am unfortunately held by stately affairs for the majority of the daylight hours." The Count confessed with regret. "You may have my entire manor at your disposal, of course, and I beg you make the most of it. I will only be able to make your acquaintance during the evening hours once my affairs have been tended to."
Pip blinked, surprised. Perhaps it was possible that the Count had really invited them solely for Seras' sake. Perhaps Pip's own feelings had been misguided, and that he had allowed his jealousy to get the better of him. Pip glanced about the large room where the shadows played, lonely except for over-expensive haberdashery, and felt a pang of pity for the Count. He knew nothing about the man's personal life, but Pip would've gone stir crazy from being so secluded so far away from home in such a large and empty place.
"But, may I request that you leave the third floor undisturbed." It wasn't a request. The Count was suddenly quite a bite more serious. Seras nodded and Pip didn't really have a problem with it, but wasn't an entire floor rather overboard? Doubt crept in to his mind quickly, former thoughts and ideas trickling in.
Edith's disappearance, the boots….
"Of course, My Lord." Seras agreed. The Count smiled and offered his hand again, but when Seras took it he grabbed on to it with a vengeance and pulled her to him. His smile wasn't kind, and his eyes were focused on Pip.
"M-my Lord…" Seras stuttered when she bumped into his chest and tried to jump back only to be grabbed and yanked back into place. What had gotten in to him? She struggled in his grasp, only to stop abruptly when he gently cupped her chin and tilted her face toward his own. She averted her gaze, suddenly shy.
"My Lord, this isn't proper!" Pip protested, stepping forward. Okay, so maybe his previous judgments hadn't been so misguided. But he didn't rush forward at pry Seras away because whether he liked it or not, they were going to be stuck in this man's home for an entire ten days' time. It wouldn't be a good idea to piss him off the first night.
But the Count ignored him, and placed a breathless kiss on Seras' cheek. "Good night, my Police Girl." He murmured, his lips tickling her delicate skin. Seras' heart was beating so fast she could barely breathe, but she still found the shame to break away and step back afterward. The Count did the same.
Pip grabbed Seras' and pulled her out of the room after fixing the Count with a fierce glare. It seemed he had been right, after all. The Count's intentions were not pure.
Oliver Crandall had been delivering milk for a good year now. It was his first real job outside the factory, and with the missus' new baby on the way he was sure thankful he had it. Oliver didn't particularly adore his occupation, but there was a certain satisfaction in providing for his family that he loved about it.
Besides, he was one of the lucky ones that had Kensington on his route. Life was so much easier when he didn't have to constantly look over his shoulder for muggers or pick-pockets, evade vandals or keep his eye on his cart. Even though a majority of the people in Kensington were what – on a bad day – he'd call entitled tossers*, they were prompt, thanked him for his delivery, and rarely tried to cheat him. Such small things made his job all the easier, and he was thankful for them.
So when he saw the milk curdled in the jugs he'd left under the stoop of the Victoria family's side door from his last delivery, he grew suspicious. He knew the Victorias to be well-off, but not terribly wealthy and not to have a country estate. They hadn't just left London and forgotten to cancel their order, and he greatly doubted that harpy of a matriarch would've allowed her servants to let her family's perfectly good milk to sour in the milk chute outside when they were one of the families to have one of those strange new American ice boxes.
That meant the milk had just sat forgotten outside for three days, the time when he had made his last delivery. Oliver frowned. Something didn't feel right.
He replaced the spoiled bottles with fresh ones, set the spoiled ones into his cart, and made his way up the front staircase. Oliver hoped he wouldn't be getting some poor little servant girl fired. He sighed, but knocked on the door and then waited. And waited.
And waited. He looked over his shoulder at his cart. He needed to get back to work soon to stay on schedule.
He knocked again without an anwser, and against his better judgment tried the door knob. To his surprise it was open, and without thinking twice about such a breach of privacy he opened the door. He was met with the foulest, most awful odor he had ever endured. Dear God, just what was that?
"Hello?" Oliver called out again, taking a step in to the house. Everything was silent. There was not a soul in sight, yet there was a stack of letters with a letter opener still sitting on the side table matched with a glass of sherry. He walked to the side table, and then heard a moan.
Oliver looked up in the sound's direction, his stomach dropping. Hopefully the Victorias wouldn't feel the need to contact his supervisor for his rude invasion of their home.
"Oh, excuse me-" He stopped dead. The beautiful mahogany staircase showcased in the foyer was smattered and desecrated with blood, thick and dark and awful. As his eyes trailed up the bannister to the top of the stairs, he felt his mouth go dry. But the moan, the moan had come from…
Oliver didn't waste any time. He turned around and ran.
{A/N}
Notes:
- West Country is the term for the southwestern edge of England, and aside from several historic towns is a mostly rural region made up of farmland and moorland. It's surrounded by the Bristol Channel on the west and the English Channel on the east.
- Cromer Hall of East Anglia is the supposedly haunted manor that inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's novel, The Hound of the Baskervilles.
- According to Victorian etiquette for visiting, it is extremely rude to stare or look about a room.
- Lots of Jane Eyre shout-outs because it's my favorite book, could you pick them all out?
- Alucard did actually tell the legend of the Black Shuck, but like Pip said it does originate from East Anglia instead of West Country.
- Tossers = supreme assholes. Lol I'm American and had to look it up too.
Thank you all for your continued support! I love hearing from you all, and am so glad that you're enjoying it so far!
See you next time!
Della