Free Descent Into Dust by Jacqueline Lepore Page A

And I would have enjoyed it.
    When I was a child, I would sneak into the spare bedroom to which my stepmother, Judith, had banished my mother’s portrait. I’d lie on the bed for hours and stare, trying to capture one small recollection of Laura’s face, her scent. One memory.
    As I studied her painted likeness, I had asked myself what would her laugh be like? Perhaps she might look down at me fondly, brush my hair with the palm of her hand, or lean in to whisper something secret into my ear, something for just us alone. I had no real memories, for I was only three when she died, and no one spoke of her. The only knowledge I had of her was the furtive gossip of the servants. That was how I learned of her madness—and I learned, too, that they all expected me to follow suit one day.
    In my room, where I was attempting to read in the middle of another dreary afternoon, I thought of the flash I’d gotten, the memory of my mother’s weeping. One precious memory at long last, but it was disturbing, not the kind of vision I’d longed for as a child. I wanted to know more. I deserved to know more of what had happened to her.
    The only other person who had known Laura then was leagues away. Uncle Peter, my father’s dear friend and my godfather, had known my mother; he’d visited frequently in my childhood and through my youth. He was a magical influence on me when I was a child, for he exuded old-world culture and a quiet air of wisdom. His accent and exaggerated manners—both a result of his Romanian birth—made him exotic and romantic. He had been my idol and my first infatuation, a dashingforeign-born man with heavy mustaches lying luxuriously over a smiling mouth, the crinkles in the corner of his eye sparkling with delight in me, for I had been his favorite.
    Had he been here, I would have laid my burdens on his capable shoulders and sighed with relief. I had his direction in London, where a letter would find him even if he were out of the country. As a member of Romania’s diplomatic delegation, he was meticulous about forwarding his correspondence.
    I put aside my book and took pen in hand. It was only a letter, but it provided catharsis, and my head felt clearer after writing that I was thinking of my mother of late and felt, as she had been particularly on my mind, that I should know more of her illness, and what had happened to her.
    It was a bold thing, but I was glad I did it. I instantly felt better. While I had my ink pot out, I attended to some other correspondence to old friends which I’d neglected, sealed the letters, and put them on the table to be taken to post. It was good medicine; for a moment I felt almost normal.
    It did not last. That evening, after dinner, Mary and Roger were summoned to the nurseries, for little Henrietta was inconsolable. It seemed that after a too-brief reunion, Victoria had gone missing again.
    I was awakened at dawn a few days later to the sound of church bells tolling in the distance. Hampered by the heavy mists, the low chime was dull and full of mourning. I knew what it meant. The strange illness in the village had claimed another, and the latest to die was to be interred.
    After checking on Henrietta and finding her sleeping safely and peacefully, I went straight to the library. The house wouldsleep in, for we had been up late last night playing parlor games, and I would have a good deal of time alone.
    I had been doing more reading of the sort Mr. Fox had directed. I had already discovered Keats’s “Lamia,” a dark tale of a female demon that repeated the misogynistic theme found in Keats’s other, more famous work, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” I also found an interesting short story, entitled “The Vampyre,” by an unknown author, one Dr. Polidori.
    I recalled Mr. Fox saying that unique and disturbing word: undead . I was convinced he knew something, and as I had no other avenues of investigation, I sat down to read it. Then I caught myself. How swiftly