Subj: Dark Shadows: Mirror/Mirror Chapter 5
Date: 12/21/98 1:36:30 PM Central Standard Time
From: erulon

Chapter Five

Cyrus and Julia worked in companionable silence in the laboratory. Cyrus was working on a new combination of extracts and compounds, some of which he had gotten from the unwitting Marissa. She had no idea that Cyrus was using the plant extracts to try and find a cure for her husband. Julia, meantime, was studying the sample of Quentin’s blood to see how the last serum had affected it. She sighed.

Cyrus looked over at her. “Nothing?” he asked, dispiritedly.

“I’m afraid not,” Julia said with a sigh. “Quentin’s blood is just not responding to the last serum we tried.”

“We need a different combination, then—damn!” Cyrus muttered, frustrated. He was really hoping to have good news for his best friend—that he could go home for the holidays. He hated to think how depressed Quentin was going to be.

Julia seemed to be reading his mind. “This is going to be very difficult for Quentin—and Marissa.”

Cyrus nodded gloomily. A soft rapping at the door distracted them from their work. Cyrus, ever the gentleman, got up to answer the door. A strange man stood there, of medium height. His weathered face looked bronzed by the sun—a fisherman, perhaps, Cyrus guessed. He had surprisingly soft warm brown eyes for such a rugged face. His thinning blonde hair showed some streaks of gray. “May I help you?”

Julia looked over and stood up, smiling. “Mr. Jennings!”

“Oh, excuse me, Dr. Hoffman,” the man said, shifting his feet uncomfortably. “They told me I could find you here. May I speak to you a minute?”

“Certainly!” Julia answered brightly. “Excuse me, Cyrus,” she said. She went into the hall and shut the door behind herself.

Cyrus watched her going, his mouth turning up in a smile of amusement.

It made him think of Clarice—beautiful woman! He wondered how he could win her over. He frowned suddenly. Thinking of Clarice made him think of Collinwood. Mr. Jennings. Was it possible he was Liz’ ex-husband? He made a mental note to ask Julia and then went back to thinking about the beautiful but elusive Clarice.

If Cyrus could have seen the face of the person he knew as Clarice Malone at this moment, he would have been frightened by the intensity of hatred on it. She looked out of the window, down into the lovely garden of Collinwood. Marissa was down there—with some attractive, tall man. Vicki was intrigued—so, her hated enemy had a good looking male friend! She wondered who he might be.

“Clarice! Please close the window!” her charge cried out querulously from her wheelchair. “I am quite cold!”

Vicki rolled her eyes in exasperation. She’d been hoping to hear what the two were talking about; they seemed to be headed toward the garden’s entrance to the drawing room. I could go down there and accidentally “walk in”, she thought. But not while this old biddy is awake! She closed the window, resentfully, thinking. She put a smile on her face and turned to face the elderly lady. “Mrs. Beacham,” she began respectfully, “I have some nice hot tea. That would help warm you, wouldn’t it?”

“I like tea made in the English way, you know,” Nora stated.

“Yes, ma’am,” Vicki said with all the respect she could muster. Mrs. Jennings had explained all about her charge, the reclusive and tragic Mrs. Beacham. She had travelled extensively as a young woman, falling in love with and marrying a dashing English flier in London before the United States had entered the second World War. She lived with her husband in a walk-up flat (whenever he was on leave) for the duration of the war. She had just found out that she was expecting a baby when Herr Hitler began to fire V-2 rockets over the city. There would be a loud shrieking sound just before the deadly silence signalling the bomb was about to hit and explode. Mrs. Beacham heard that frightening sound and then the silence, bolting out the door and down the stairs toward safety when the bomb exploding, sending her tumbling down the rest of the stairs with bricks and other rubble crashing down on her. Mrs. Beacham had internal injuries and was taken to the hospital. The doctors were able to save her, but not the baby. She was still recovering in the hospital when an RAF chaplain came to see her, bringing the devastating news that her beloved husband had been killed in a dogfight over the English Channel.

Liz had told her the story in a straight forward, no-nonsense manner. Vicki had examined her thoughts to see if there was any feeling in this seemingly cold woman and found an untapped well of emotion, hiding a shocking amount of secrets. She listened with half an ear while Liz explained that Nora preferred her tea steeped in the English manner. That’s what Vicki did now—adding a little sleeping aid to the drink. That would effectively take care of the old crow so that she could go and investigate this stranger.

Nora pronounced the tea satisfactory. “Do have some, Miss Drummond,” she urged.

“Malone,” Vicki corrected. The old fool was wandering again.

“Ah, forgive me. Irish, then, are you?”

Vicki gave her a brilliant smile. “Yes, ma’am. Black Irish!”

“Yes, I do see a Spanish look about you, then,” the old lady responded with a friendly tone to her voice.

Vicki smiled and wished she’d hurry up and fall asleep. Presently, the old dowager began to doze in her chair. Vicki was tempted to just leave her but it would be just her luck that the old bat would fall out of her chair and injure herself. Vicki swung her into her arms easily and carried her to the bed, depositing her not-so-gently upon it. She covered Mrs. Beacham up with a quilt. She should be out of it for several hours, at least.

She ran trippingly down the steps and was dismayed to see her just shutting the door behind the handsome man. “Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Collins!” she exclaimed, feeling very annoyed. Well, perhaps she could make the best of things and get the insipid little wife to talk. How such a completely dull scientist like Marissa could possibly know one good looking man let alone two was positively astounding! Vicki was well aware of Marissa’s brilliance and accomplishments as a plant scientist (or whatever that fancy term was for them) but happened to think that she was screamingly tedious exactly because she was so intelligent and competent.

Marissa turned and began to speak. She stopped short, giving Vicki a very odd look. Vicki immediately shielded her thoughts. She didn’t trust this woman; sometimes she thought that Marissa knew or suspected what she was if not who she really was. “Miss Malone, how is Aunt Nora?”

“Sleeping for the moment,” Vicki answered brightly. “I thought I would come down for a book. Was that Mr. Collins?”

Again, Marissa gave her a searching look before replying slowly, “No, that was an old friend of mine, Claudius Trask.”

“Oh! It’s just that I’ve never met Mr. Collins,” Vicki said, still smiling brightly. “Is Mr. Trask an old friend of Mr. Collins, too?”

“No, Claudius and I knew each other in high school. We dated, in fact. He was selected to be a Rhodes scholar.”

Marissa got a far off look in her eyes, as if remembering something. Vicki tentatively probed a little and was shocked to find a barrier—one that had been put up deliberately. She retreated quickly. Oho, a secret to be learned! “Is this the first time you’ve seen him since then?” Vicki asked. She put images of innocent curiosity into her mind, feeling the probing tendrils of the other woman’s mind.

“I saw him once—in England. I didn’t think I’d see him again. Excuse me, please.” Marissa turned abruptly and headed toward the kitchen. Vicki nearly collapsed with relief. She’d had no idea that Marissa had any powers herself! Oh, I’ll have to be very careful around that one, Vicki thought. Still, powers or not, she is not a match for me!

“Dr. Hoffman, I just wanted to thank you for all that you’ve done for my Heather,” Tom Jennings said to Julia.

“I’m sorry that I can’t offer you much hope beyond what we’re doing for her,” Julia answered gently. “The research on medications to treat schizophrenia is promising—there is always something new to try in addition to the therapy.”

Jennings nodded. “I know you’re doing the best you can.” He hesitated a moment. “Doctor, may I say that you have a direct approach that I really admire? May I ask you a question?”

“Please do,” Julia said encouragingly.

“Would you come and have dinner with me?”

“Now?”

“I understand if you can’t. I’m a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy—“

“One moment, Mr. Jennings. Let me get my bag.” Jennings' ruggedly handsome face creased in a broad smile as Julia opened the door and went back into the office. Cyrus looked up. “I’m going to get a bite to eat, Cyrus. I’ll be back—later.”

Cyrus smiled and waved. “Enjoy! I’ll be here!”

“I hope I’m not keeping you from anything too important, Dr. Hoffman,” Jennings said.

“Well, we’ve run into a bit of a roadblock anyway, and I really could use the break,” Julia answered. She smiled teasingly at him. “Didn’t I ask you to call me Julia?”

They went to a restaurant on the next bar. Jennings ordered a wine spritzer for Julia and a scotch straight-up for himself. At that, Julia gave him a questioning look. “Don’t worry, doctor, I’ll be a gentleman. I won’t drink too much this time,” he said pleasantly.

Julia flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—“

“Maybe I’m just sensitive. It’s the time of the year that does it to me,” Jennings interrupted kindly. His smile had become sad.

Julia knew the story; Elizabeth had told her shortly after she moved to Rockport to take over as the director of Windcliffe. Elizabeth had held a reception in her honor, and the two had become friends and confidantes. Julia knew almost everything there was to know about the Collins family. She knew all the details about the divorce and why it happened. She looked at the man before her and felt compassion for him. He still suffered—as she was sure that Elizabeth did, too. Tom was talking now about a new project he was working on. He and Julia had discovered a shared interest in old houses. Julia’s interest extended beyond houses into genealogy; Tom’s extended to restoration.

Somehow the two interests overlapped and enhanced each other. Julia listened with interest at Tom described the house to her. She was familiar with it—the old Magruder mansion. “Are you going to talk to Elizabeth about restoring it?” Julia asked.

“Thought about it,” Tom said, nodding. “After the holidays, though—not now.” The unspoken thought was in the air: this will be the first holiday season without Chris.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tom,” Julia said softly.

“Thanks, Julia, but I can’t accept that,” Tom answered. “I had no business having a drink—I should have known better.”

“You had had a shock yourself,” Julia replied. She didn’t feel disloyal to Liz saying this. She genuinely liked and respected Tom. She knew that he was interested in her, too, but as long as he grieved for his dead son by going on drinking binges she would have to hold him at arm’s length.

Six months ago, Chris had gotten the happiest news of his young life so far. The girlfriend he hoped to marry, Sabrina, had just found out that she was pregnant. On the same day, Tom was having divorce papers served to his wife of over 30 years. He couldn’t live with her deceit anymore—she had another son somewhere. One that she had kept hidden and a secret—she became involved with another man during the time he was wandering around the jungles of Laos and had born his son, going away on an extended trip to have the baby and then give it up for adoption. It was a secret she would have gone on keeping had he not eventually stumbled onto a discrepancy in the books. Just who was Fiona McCleary? He’d demanded to know, and the truth had come out. Liz tried to explain how lonely and desperate she had been during those months he’d been listed missing in action. He tried—but he just couldn’t live with the idea that she’d betrayed him over and over again—not only by having an affair but by hiding that fact and the fact that she’d had a baby.

Chris didn’t know when he called Tom, totally excited about the prospect of becoming a father. He wanted to go and celebrate. Tom didn’t really feel like it, but how could he burst his son’s bubble? He couldn’t bring himself to tell Chris what he’d done that day—this was Chris’ day. Besides, he was to be a grandfather for the first time. Perhaps it really was something to look forward to! The bar was filled with friends who congratulated Chris and treated him to drink after drink. Brooding, Tom had had several drinks himself before he realized that his son was really becoming snockered. Better stop, he thought. He switched to cokes the last hour at the bar. Chris handed his keys to his father, admitting he was too drunk to drive. “Y’bedder drive us home, Dad,” he said, slurring his words. Tom sighed. He would take his son home safely to his wife and then he’d leave. Chris would be too drunk to know what was going on.

Now Tom looked at Julia again, pain in his eyes. “Yes, I’d had a shock,” he said bitterly. “I should’ve known better than to try and drive. I should’ve gotten someone else to drive him home.” It was raining lightly as Tom drove the car back toward Collinwood. There was one sharp turn in the road, and he suddenly felt the car sliding. He tried to go into the skid but found himself overcompensating instead. Chris had already passed out and never saw the tree the car slammed into. Tom walked away from the accident with nothing other than a bruise on his chest from the steering wheel. Chris died within a few hours. The doctors were unable to stop the massive internal hemorrhaging. At the emergency room, Tom got up silently, walking away from Liz’ accusing eyes. He walked out of the hospital and down to the train station. He had arrived back in town only a month ago, and that was only to check on their daughter.

"Tell me, Julia,” he said a little bitterly. “Has Liz been to see Heather since she put her bastard up at Collinwood?”

Julia shuddered a little at the intensity of his anger. “Did she go to see Heather before the accident?”

Tom laughed. “Nope. Okay.” His face darkened momentarily, and then he looked up into her eyes.

Julia urged, “Don’t let your anger poison whatever friendship you can still have with Liz, Tom. As for Quentin—he’s a very level-headed, nice young man. Please don’t hold Liz’ error in judgement against him.”

Tom nodded. “Seems like the boy has some of me in him, intentional or not. I hear he’s left home, too.”

Julia cleared her throat uncomfortably. “On business, yes.”

Tom sensed her discomfort, misunderstanding the reason for it. “I don’t want to talk about them anymore, Julia. I want to talk about you.”

Barnabas came into the foyer of the Old House, handing his cape to Willie. He looked for Sabrina and found her in the kitchen, fixing a tray for Quentin. He smiled at her gently. She was very pregnant and complained that she was ungainly and fat; he thought she carried herself with grace and was beautiful—like a Madonna. He walked over and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Oh, Barnabas!” she exclaimed. “I was about to take this to Quentin.”

“Allow me, please. I want you to go and put your feet up.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “That would feel wonderful.” She watched him carry the tray away. Suddenly, she felt overcome and covered her mouth with her hands. She was afraid she’d start sobbing and he would hear. Oh Chris, Chris! She thought, her heart breaking. I miss you so! In the short time she’d been married to Barnabas, she’d grown to love him in her own way but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to have relations with him. The pregnancy was a convenient excuse to not…but what would happen once she was born? We should’ve married when we wanted, Chris, she thought, grieving. Your child would’ve carried your name then.

Barnabas carried the tray all the way up to the attic room where Quentin’s “guest quarters” were located. He could hear Quentin’s voice softly through the door. He unlocked the door and realized his cousin was on the phone with his wife. “I know, I wish I could be with you, too, David,” Quentin said. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry I can’t get back in time. Look, I can’t help it, please don’t be angry—hello?”

Quentin’s back was to Barnabas and the door. Barnabas set the tray down, trying not to listen. He looked around the room, his attention suddenly attracted to a page from a sketch pad taped to the wall over his cousin’s bed. Barnabas took a closer look and saw that it was a pencil drawing of Marissa—it was quite good. Barnabas was surprised. He’d had no idea Quentin was remotely interested in art or that he possessed such abilities.

Quentin had carried the cell phone over to the window, his shoulders slumping. “Marissa? Honey, I’m sorry, too. I miss you so much—“ his voice began to break. “Give Kate and Toby a kiss for me, willya? And a big hug? Tell them Daddy loves them. And tell David I’m sorry. Marissa? I miss you—I need you. I wish—look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again tomorrow.” He hung up quickly, his body shaking with sobs.

Barnabas set the tray down gently. He pulled on a pair of gloves and walked to his cousin, putting his arms around him. Quentin pulled away, wiping tears from his eyes. “Don’t! Don’t touch me!”

“Quentin,” Barnabas said gently. “If I hug you, it won’t harm me.”

Quentin continued to back away. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

His tears continued to flow. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face again, throwing it on the floor. “Maybe you can take that to Cyrus and have it analyzed as well—see if the poison’s in my tear ducts, too!”

Barnabas picked up the handkerchief in his gloved hand. With his other hand, he reached out and gripped Quentin’s shoulder. “I know how hard this is for you. I wish I knew what incantation to use to make this spell go away. Please—don’t lose hope Quentin, especially not now—at this time of the year.”

“How can I not lose hope? Especially at this time of the year?”

“Because the birth of that child in Bethlehem was a miracle. His life and his death was a miracle. And during his lifetime, he cured people of all kinds of afflictions, Quentin. And his healing touch lives on in other people—like Julia and Cyrus. They were able to help me. Please—you must have faith.”

Quentin bowed his head, sighed, and nodded. He knew he had to try—if he gave up trying, he’d kill himself and then there’d be no hope at all. Barnabas cleared his throat and said, “Quentin, the drawing of Marissa is quite good. I didn’t know you were interested in drawing.”

“Well, I kind of dabbled in it before. I’ve been busy with other things, but right now I don’t seem to have much to do.”

“Can I get you anything else? Would you like some charcoal perhaps or—more pencils?”

Quentin brightened a little. “Would you bring me some oil pastels? And a laptop computer?”

Odd combination, Barnabas thought. “Certainly, I would be glad to.” He was gratified to see that his cousin didn’t look as despondent as he had a moment ago.

Tom had been as good as his word—he’d not had another drink. Julia allowed him to slip his arm around her waist, walking her back to the hospital. He escorted her to the research lab. They walked into the room and stopped short.

Cyrus, exhausted, was dozing. His notebook was open on the desk before him, the compounds and extracts arranged neatly on his desktop. An ethereal woman bent over the notebook writing. Julia drew her breath in sharply. The woman looked around and their eyes met. Julia felt an electrical crackling move through the air between them. The woman’s hair was blonde like the sun and her eyes were large, a brilliant crystal blue.

“I mean no harm,” the woman said softly. “I want to help you. Please. Let me help you.”

“Who are you?” Julia asked softly, but the woman vanished.

“Julia?” Tom asked, puzzled.

“Did you see her?” Julia had become very pale. Her eyes were huge, the freckles on her face noticeable as her face blanched of color.

“You saw too?” Tom sounded relieved. “I thought maybe I was drunk again—“

“No,” Julia said softly. “You aren’t drunk, Tom.” She crossed over to Cyrus’ desk, looking at the notebook and at the words written there.

To be continued