Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,31

there was only Oscar.

“I must be off, Florrie,” he said.

“What? You’re not attending the service?” I heard my voice as if from a distance. Who is asking this question? I wondered. And who pretends to care for the answer?

“I have other plans. Permit me, though, to call on you this week.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but more of a statement he made. And before I could respond, he turned and was gone.

I know that Reverend Manchester’s sermon focused on the devil, finding him here and there, and being on guard, but I could only concentrate on snatches of what was said. You see, I was already in love. At least, I called it love then, but I have since learned to identify it as indenture. Bits of my soul were siphoned from me that day and what would occur afterwards would make a normal woman grieve for a lifetime. But already I had ceased to be normal and even my gender became inconsequential to me. And I was incapable of grief.

Oscar visited my home twice a week for two weeks. After that, he became a permanent fixture in our parlor. Nightly, mother or my auntie chaperoned, as was the custom then. Neither approved of him—Oscar was not an ordinary man. I was only too eager to assure them that he was, in fact, a genius, destined for great things. They would have none of it.

“You can’t be serious!” Auntie chided me. “What kind of a husband do you think a man wearing a purple great coat would make!”

“Style,” I informed her, “is not a paramount concern, although his dress is avant garde, in my opinion.”

“Your opinion,” Mother said, “hardly matters here. You’re but seventeen years of age. Need I remind you that your father and I make your decisions as long as you reside under our roof? This is not a match made in heaven.”

“But it is not made in that other place either, Mother. Were you never young once? Did your heart not rule you when Father was near?”

“My head superseded my heart, or at least the heads of your maternal grandparents. Fortunately, their clearer minds prevailed. You are seeing entirely too much of Mister Wilde.”

“You’re young, child,” Auntie declared. “There are other suitors, more worthy.”

In the way of youth, I created a scene, as they say, and left them both standing there speechless. But it was as though I watched my antics, disconnected. Then, of course, I interpreted my reaction to being overly intimidated at vexing my elders with my disrespectful behavior.

Time has proven auntie’s word both right and wrong—incorrect in the context of her meaning, but correct in a broader meaning, for I have been loved by at least one other man, much to his detriment.

Mother remained adamant, but Father, however, admired Oscar, and could see that his name would be remembered through the ages. Although, being my father, and concerned with my interests, he was not particularly comfortable with Oscar’s financial situation. Unfortunately our family fortunes had taken a turn for the worse—I was dowerless and, in Mother’s words, must count on a “strong pecuniary match.” Oscar, you see, was a spendthrift. His inheritances and endowments were few and far between, and his wants exceeded his resources throughout his life. He spent much too freely, on both himself and his friends. And on me. At Christmas of that year, Oscar presented me with a token of his affections.

Inside the exquisite sculpted shell box of ivory I found a tiny cross. I held it up by the chain and the illumination from the gas lamp seemed to make the gold sparkle. I became mesmerized by that sparkle, and only Oscar’s voice returned me to the room.

“Wear this in memory of me,” he said, as though he were dying.

On one side was an inscription, uniting our names. My eyes must have shown what was in my heart.

“Florrie,” he said ardently, grasping both my hands, falling to one knee before me, in the presence of Auntie, who instantly paused in her needlework.

“I am too happy to speak,” I told him. “You must speak for both of us.”

I expected a proposal of marriage, although I knew that while he was still a student, marriage was forbidden him. I would have been satisfied with a profession of undying love. But Oscar, in his theatrical manner, while Auntie gazed on, said something entirely unexpected.

“The worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so … unromantic. You have,