by Alma Katsu
“You’re right to be afraid of dying. Death has taken everyone I’ve known. I’ve held them in my arms up to their last moment, comforted them, cried when they’ve gone. Loneliness is a terrible thing.” The words are incongruous coming from this young woman, but her sadness is palpable. “I can be here for you always, Luke. I won’t go away. I’ll be with you for the rest of your life, if you want me to be.”
Luke doesn’t pull away, but he thinks about her words. She’s not proposing love—is she?—no, Luke knows that, he’s no fool. Though it’s not exactly friendship, either. He doesn’t flatter himself into thinking that they have taken to each other like kindred souls: they’ve known each other for less than thirty-six hours. He thinks he understands what this pretty young woman is offering. She needs a companion. Luke has followed an instinct he didn’t know he had and has done well by her. She sees it can work. And in exchange, he can walk away from his old, complicated life without having to do so much as cancel his account with the electric company. And, Luke won’t ever be alone again.
He remains in Lanny’s arms, letting her stroke his back, enjoying the feel of her hand. It clears his mind and brings Luke peace for the first time since the sheriff escorted her into the emergency room.
He knows that if he thinks too hard, the fog will roll back in. He feels like a character in the middle of a fairy tale, but if he stops to think about what is happening, if he resists the gentle tug of her story, confusion will set in. He’s tempted not to question Lanny’s unseen world. If he accepts what she says as true, then what he believes about death is a lie. But, as a doctor, Luke has witnessed the end of life, stood by as life dribbled out of a patient. He accepted death as one of his world’s absolutes and now he’s being told that it’s not. Exigencies have been written into the coda of life in invisible ink. If death isn’t an absolute, then of the thousands of facts and faiths he’s been fed in his life, which other ones might be a lie?
That is, if this girl’s story is true. Even though he’s been following her in a compliant fog, Luke still can’t shake the suspicion that he’s being deceived. She is obviously skilled in manipulation, like many a psychopath. Now is not the time for such thoughts, however. She’s right: he is tired and overwhelmed and afraid of coming to the wrong conclusion, making the wrong decision.
He leans back into the pillow, faintly scented of lavender, and nestles against Lanny’s warm body. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going anywhere just yet. For one thing, you haven’t told me the rest of your story. I want to hear what happened next.”
FORTY
BOSTON, 1819
We went out that night, Jonathan’s first night in Boston. The event was a sedate one—a musicale, with a piano and a singer of no renown—but still I wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to take him out while he was in shock and his mind too unsettled. Secrecy was Adair’s byword—he’d impressed that on us all with tales of being suspected of witchcraft and barely escaping violent mobs, fleeing on horseback by moonlight, leaving behind a fortune that had taken decades to amass—and who knew what Jonathan might say in the state he was in. Adair would not be dissuaded, however, and we were dispatched to search through the trunks for a suite of evening clothes for Jonathan. In the end, Adair commandeered Dona’s gorgeous French frock coat (Jonathan being as tall as Dona but broader through the shoulders) and had one of the maids slave for a few hours on alterations as the rest of us powdered, perfumed, and dressed to introduce Jonathan to the city.
Only he couldn’t go forth as Jonathan, could he? “You must remember to introduce yourself by another name,” Adair explained, as servants helped us don capes and hats under the chandelier in the foyer. “We cannot have word getting back to your little hamlet that Jonathan St. Andrew has been seen in Boston.”
The reason was obvious: Jonathan’s family would be looking for him. Ruth St. Andrew would refuse to accept that her son had simply disappeared. She’d have the entire town searched, the woods and river, too. When the snow melted in the spring and still no body was found, she would deduce that Jonathan had left on his own and she might cast an even wider net in an attempt to find him. We couldn’t leave a trail of crumbs behind, clues that could bring someone to our door.
“Why do you insist on taking him out tonight? Why not let him recover first?” I asked Adair as we clambered into the carriage. He regarded me as he might a simpleton or a noisome child.
“Because I don’t want him cloistered in his room, brooding over what he has left behind. I want him to enjoy what the world has to offer.” He smiled at Jonathan, though Jonathan only stared moodily out the carriage window, oblivious even to Tilde’s hand playing provocatively with his knee. Something about Adair’s answer didn’t sit right with me, and I’d learned to trust my instincts about when Adair was lying. Adair wanted Jonathan to be seen in public, but for what reason, I couldn’t determine.
The carriage took us to a tall, stately house not far off the Boston Common, the home of a councilman and attorney whose wife had gone mad for Adair, or I should say, had gone mad for what he represented: European aristocracy and sophistication (if she only knew that, in truth, she was entertaining the son of an itinerant field hand, a peasant with blood as well as mud on his hands). The husband left for their farm to the west of the city whenever the wife hosted one of these parties and it was just as well, as he would have died of apoplexy if he’d known what went on at these events and how she spent his money.
In addition to hanging on Adair’s arm for much of the evening, the councilman’s wife also tried to interest him in her daughters. Despite the fact that America had recently won its independence and thrown off a monarchy in favor of democracy, some were still enamored of the idea of royalty, and the councilman’s wife probably secretly wished to have one of her daughters marry into a title. I expected that when we arrived, she would descend on Adair in a flurry of taffeta skirts and curtsies, ushering in her daughters to stand a little closer to the count, until he could peer down their décolleté with no trouble.
When Jonathan stepped into the ballroom, there was a hush and then a twitter ran through the gathering. It would not be an exaggeration to say all eyes turned to him. Tilde had taken his arm and now ushered him to where Adair stood, speaking with the hostess.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Adair began and then gave the councilman’s wife a name to remember Jonathan by, Jacob Moore, deceptively common. She looked up, momentarily speechless.
“He’s my American cousin, would you believe it?” Adair threw an arm affectionately around Jonathan’s neck. “Through family in England on both our mothers’ sides. A distant branch of my family …” Adair trailed off when it was apparent that no one—for the first time since he’d arrived in America—was listening to him.
“Are you new to Boston?” the hostess asked Jonathan, her eyes never leaving his face. “Because I would remember if I had seen you before.”
I stood by the punch table with Alejandro, watching Jonathan stumble through an explanation, needing Adair to rescue him. “I suspect we won’t be long here, tonight,” I said.
“This will not be as easy as Adair thinks.” Alejandro lifted his cup in their direction. “You cannot hide that face. Word will get around, maybe even to your wretched village.”
There was a more immediate concern, I thought, as I observed Jonathan and Adair together. The women flocked not around the European aristocrat but the tall stranger. They stared at him from behind their fans; they stood blushing at his elbow, waiting to be introduced. I’d seen those expressions before, and I realized at that moment that it would never change. Wherever Jonathan went, women would try to possess him. Even if he didn’t encourage it, they would always pursue him. As trying as the competition had been in St. Andrew, now Jonathan would never be mine alone. I would always have to share him.
Tonight, Adair seemed content to let Jonathan be the center of attention; indeed, he appeared to pay close attention to the partygoers’
reactions. But I wondered how long that would last. Adair did not seem the type to live in someone else’s shadow, and there never was any choice but to let him be the star. Jonathan himself had no choice.
“I fear there will be trouble before too long,” I murmured to Alejandro.
“With Adair, there is always trouble. It is just a matter of how bad.”
We stayed longer than I thought: the night was starting to surrender to the purple bloom of dawn when we returned to the mansion in quiet exhaustion. I saw that, despite himself, Jonathan appeared to have come out of his shell a little. High spots of color—an excess of drink?—spotted his cheeks and he was definitely less tense.
We climbed the stairs in silence, the sharp report of our heels on the marble floor echoing through the great, hollow house. Tilde tugged at Jonathan’s hand, trying to direct him to her room, but he slipped from her grasp with a shake of his head. One by one, the courtiers disappeared behind the gilded doors to their bedchambers until it was only Jonathan, Adair, and myself. I was about to escort Jonathan to his room, to share a few words of reassurance and, with any luck, be invited to keep him warm under the covers, when I was stopped by an arm thrown around my waist. Adair reeled me in close to him and, in full view of Jonathan, ran his free hand over my bodice and my derriere. He kicked open the door to his private chamber.
“Will you join us tonight?” he said with a wink. “We should make this a night to remember, to celebrate your arrival. Lanore is quite capable of pleasing both of us; she’s done it many times before. You should see for yourself: she has a gift for loving two men at the same time.”
Jonathan blanched and stepped back.
“No? Another time, then. Perhaps when you are more rested. Good night,” Adair said, as he pulled me in behind him. There was no mistaking his message: I was a common whore. This was how Adair meant to kill Jonathan’s affection for me, and I realized in that instant that I’d been a fool to doubt Adair’s ability to make good on it. I barely looked at Jonathan’s face—shocked, hurt—before the door slammed shut.
In the morning, I gathered my clothing in my arms, and in my shift and bare feet, stood outside Jonathan’s bedchamber, listening for signs that he was awake. I craved in the strongest way to hear the quotidian noises of his morning ritual—the rustle of bed linen, water splashing in the basin—thinking that would make everything right. I had no idea if I could face him. I wanted the kind of reassurance a child gets from a parent’s face after he’s been punished, but I lacked the courage to knock. It didn’t matter: it was completely still within, and given the long, complicated day he’d had, I shouldn’t have doubted he’d sleep a full twenty-four hours.
Instead, I washed in my room and dressed in fresh clothing, then made my way downstairs in the hope that, despite the early hour, the servants would have set a pan of coffee brewing. To my surprise, Jonathan sat in the small dining room, steaming milk and dry bread on the table before him. He looked up at me.
“You’ve risen,” I said.
He stood and pulled out the chair opposite his. “I’ve kept farmer’s hours my whole life. Surely you remember that about St. Andrew. If you slept past six in the morning, the entire town would be talking about you by noon. The only thing for it was to be on your deathbed,” he said wryly. A sleepy young man carried in a cup and saucer, splashing coffee clumsily over the edge, then set it at my left hand, nodded, and left.
Although I’d thought all evening of how I might explain myself to Jonathan, I’d come up at a loss. I had no idea how to start, so I fumbled with the delicate handle of the cup. “What you saw last night …”
Jonathan held up a hand, a strangled look on his face, as though he didn’t wish to speak but knew he had to. “I don’t know why I reacted the way I did last night … You’d told me your circumstances plainly in St. Andrew. If I seemed shocked, it’s because, well, I didn’t expect this Adair to make the offer he did.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “You’ve always been a good friend to me, Lanny …”
“That hasn’t changed,” I said.
“… but I would not be speaking the truth if I said his words didn’t shake me. He doesn’t seem the sort of man a woman should allow herself to love.” It seemed to bother him greatly, to say that much to me. He kept his gaze on the table. “Do you love him?”
Could Jonathan think I could love anyone but him? He didn’t sound jealous, though; he was worried. “It’s not about love,” I said grimly. “You must understand that.”
His face shifted, as though a thought had just come to him. “Tell me that he doesn’t—force—you to do these things.”
I blushed. “Not exactly.”
“Then you want to be with him?”
“Not now that you’re here,” I said, and he squirmed, though I wasn’t sure why. At that moment, I wanted to warn Jonathan about Adair’s possible intentions toward him. “Look, there’s one thing I must tell you about Adair, though you may have guessed it now that you’ve met Dona and Alejandro. They’re—” I hesitated, unsure how much of a shock Jonathan could take after all he’d been through in twenty-four hours.
“They’re sodomites,” he said plainly. “One doesn’t spend one’s life around men like the axmen, who have only other men for company, without picking up something about it.”
“They consort with Adair. You’ll see, Adair has a most peculiar nature,” I said. “He is mad for fornication in any form. But there is nothing loving about it, or tender.” I stopped short of telling him that Adair used sex as punishment, to exert his will over us, to make us obey him. I said nothing because I was afraid to, just as Alejandro had been afraid to make me aware of the truth.
Jonathan looked at me directly, a frown firmly creased across his mouth. “What have you gotten me into, Lanny?”
I reached for his hand. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, I truly am. You must believe me. But … though you may not wish for me to say this, it is a comfort to have you with me. I’ve been so alone. I’ve needed you.”
He squeezed my hand, though reluctantly.
“Besides,” I continued, “what was I to do? Kolsted had shot you. You were bleeding to death in my arms. If I didn’t act, you’d be—”
“Dead, I know. It’s only that … I hope not to be in the position, one day, of wishing that were so.”
That morning, Adair sent for the tailor. Jonathan needed a wardrobe, Adair decreed; his new guest could not continue to be seen in public in mismatched, ill-fitting costumes. As every member of the household was a clotheshorse and had enriched the tailor greatly, Mr. Drake rushed over before the breakfast things were even cleared away, bringing with him a train of assistants carrying bolts of fabric. The latest woolens and velvets, silks and brocades, from European warehouses. Tea chests filled with expensive buttons made of mother-of-pearl and bone, pewter buckles for a pair of slippers. I sensed Jonathan did not approve and didn’t want to be indebted to Adair for an extravagant wardrobe, but he said nothing. I sat on a stool at the fringes of the activity, ogling the lovely fabrics, hoping to get a dress or two out of the fitting.
“You know, I could use a few new things,” I said to Adair, holding a strip of pink satin to my cheek to see if it suited my complexion. “I left my entire wardrobe behind in St. Andrew when we fled. I had to sell my last piece of jewelry to make passage on the ship to Boston.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said drily.
Mr. Drake had Jonathan stand on his tailor’s box in front of the biggest mirror in the house and began taking his measurements with a length of string, clucking to himself over Jonathan’s impressive proportions. “My, my, you are a tall one,” he said, running his hands up the length of Jonathan’s back, then over his hips, and finally—nearly causing me to swoon—up his leg to measure an inseam. “The gentleman dresses left,” Drake murmured, almost lovingly, to the assistant scribbling down the numbers.
The order for the tailor was long: three frock coats and a half dozen pairs of breeches, including a pa
ir of the finest doeskin for riding; a dozen shirts, including a very fancy one with lace for gala events; four waistcoats; at least a dozen cravats. A new pair of field boots. Silk and woolen stockings and garters, three pairs of each. And that was just to meet the immediate need; more would be ordered when new shipments of fabric arrived. Mr. Drake was still writing up the order when Adair placed a huge ruby on the table in front of the tailor; not a word was spoken but, by the smile on Drake’s face, he was more than happy with his compensation. What he didn’t know was that the gem was a mere bauble, plucked from a box containing many more, the box itself only one among many. Adair had treasure dating back to the sacking of Vienna. A gemstone that size was as common as a field mushroom to Adair.
“A cloak, too, I think, for my associate. Lined with heavy satin,” Adair added, spinning the ruby on its faceted end like a child’s wooden top.
The ruby attracted everyone’s eye, and I was the only one to see Adair take a long, appraising look at Jonathan, from his shoulders down to the graceful dip at the small of his back and over his trim buttocks. The look was so naked and heavy with intent that it froze my heart in fear for what lay ahead for my Jonathan.
