P N Elrod - Barrett 1 - Red Death

by Red Death(Lit)

  Right again. Perhaps he did have hidden powers of divination.

  He held Roily's head as I swung up to the saddle and helped with the stirrups. "I'll tell Miss Elizabeth where you are," he said before I could ask him to do exactly that.

  I laughed again, not at him but at the wonderful normality he represented, and took up the reins. Knowing what was to come next and how eager I was to get started, Roily danced away and sprang forward with hardly a signal from me. Doing something that Mother would disapprove of was what I needed most, and leaving the stable yard at a full gallop to jump over a wall into the fields beyond was a most satisfying form of revenge.

  Roily was almost as perceptive as Jericho and seemed to sense that I wanted to fly as fast and as far as possible. The cold wind roaring past us deafened me to the strident echoes of her voice and blinded me to the memory of her distorted face. She shrank away to less than nothing and was lost amid the joy I now felt clinging to the back of the best horse in the world as he carried me to the edge of that world... or at least to the cliffs overlooking the Sound.

  We slowed at last, though for a moment I thought that if Roily decided to leap out toward the sea instead of turning to trot parallel to it he would easily sprout the necessary wings to send us soaring into the sky like some latter-day Pegasus and Bellerophon. What a ride that might be, and I would certainly know better than to try flying him to Mount Olympus to seek out the gods. They could wait for their own turn... if I ever let them have one.

  The air cutting over us was clean with the sea smell and starting to warm up as the sun climbed higher. I drank it in like a true-born hedonist until my lungs ached and my throat burned. Roily picked his own path and I let him, content enough with the privilege of being on his back. We went east, into the wind, him stretching his neck, his ears up with interest, me busy holding my balance over the uneven ground. The trot sped up to

  a canter and he shook his head once as though to free himself of the bridle as we approached another fence.

  The property it marked belonged to a farmer named Finch who kept a few horses of his own. His lands were smaller than Father's and he could not afford to have riding animals, but the rough look of the mares on that side made no difference to Roily, aristocrat though he was. In his eyes a female was a female and to hell with her looks and age as long as she was ready for a good mounting. I barely had time to turn him and keep him from sailing over the fence right into the middle of them all.

  Roily snorted and neighed out a protest. One of the other horses answered and I had to work hard at getting him out of there.

  "Sorry, old man," I told him. "You may have an excellent bloodline, but I don't think Mr. Finch would thank you for passing it on through his mares."

  He stamped and tried to rear, but I pulled him in, not letting him get away with it.

  "If it's any consolation, I know just how you feel," 1 confided.

  I was seventeen and still a virgin... of sorts. I'd long since worked out ways around certain inevitable frustrations that come from being a healthy young man, but instinctively knew they could hardly be as gratifying as actual experience with an equally healthy young woman. Damn. Now, why did I have to start thinking along those paths again? An idiotic question; better to frame it as a syllogism of logic. Premise one: I was, indeed, healthy; premise two: I was, indeed, young. Combine those and I rarely failed to come to a pleasurable conclusion. However, I was not prepared to come to any such conclusions here in the open while on horseback. Talk about doing something to garner maternal disapproval... and I'd probably fall out of the saddle.

  The true loss of my virginity was another goal in my personal education I'd planned to achieve at Harvard-if I ever got there, since Mother had said that everything was settled about Cambridge. I wondered if they had girls at Cambridge. Oh, God, this wasn't helping at all. I kicked Roily into a jarring trot, hoping that it would distract me. The last thing I needed was to return home with any telltale stain on my light-colored

  breeches. Perhaps if I found a quiet spot in the woods...

  I knew just the one.

  As children, Elizabeth, Jericho, and I had gone adventuring, or what we called adventuring, for we really knew the area quite well. Usually our games involved a treasure hunt, for everyone on the island knew that Captain Kidd had come here to bury his booty. It didn't matter to us that such riches were more likely to be fifty miles east of us on the south end of the island; the hunting was more important than the finding. But instead of treasure that day, I'd found a kettle, or a sharpish depression gouged into the earth by some ancient glacier, according to my schoolmaster. Trees and other vegetation concealed its edge. My foot slipped on some wet leaves and down I tumbled into a typical specimen of Long Island's geography.

  Jericho came pelting after me, fearful that I had broken my neck. Elizabeth, though hampered by her skirts, followed almost as quickly, shouting tear-choked questions after him. I was almost trampled by their combined concern and inability to stop fast enough.

  The wind had certainly been knocked from me, but I'd suffered nothing worse than some scrapes and bruises. After that initial fright passed we took stock of our surroundings and claimed it for our own. It became our pirate's cave (albeit open to the sky and to any cattle that wandered in to graze), banditti's lair, and general sanctuary from tiresome adults wanting us to do something more constructive with our time.

  Now it seemed that it was still a sanctuary, not from adults, but for adults. Just as I'd guided Roily down to the easy way into the kettle, I noticed two people far ahead near the line of trees marking the entry. A man and woman walked arm in arm there, obviously on the friendliest of terms. Even at that distance I abruptly recognized my father. The woman with him was Mrs. Montagu. She was a sweet-faced, sweet-tempered widow who had always been kind to me and Elizabeth, everything that Mother was not. Mother, thank God, knew nothing about her, or life for all of us would truly become a living hell.

  It was a quietly acknowledged fact in our household that most of Father's business trips took him no more than three miles away so that he might visit Matilda Montagu. Their relationship was hardly a secret, but not something to bring up in open conversation. They had not asked for this privacy, but got it,

  anyway, for both were liked and respected hereabouts.

  I'd pulled Roily to a stop and now almost urged him in their direction. No. Not fair. Father had little enough happiness of his own since Mother's return; I would not intrude upon him with my present troubles. We could talk later. Besides, I had no wish to embarrass him by bringing up the disagreeable details of his wife's latest offenses before his mistress.

  Father and Mrs. Montagu continued their leisurely walk, unaware of me, which was just as well. It was interesting to watch them together, for this was a side of Father that I'd never really seen. I was somewhat ashamed of my curiosity, but not so much that I was willing to move on. Not that I expected them to suddenly seize each other and start rolling on the cold damp ground in a frenzy of passion. Nor would I have stayed to watch, my curiosity being limited by the discretions of good taste. But between the demands of my preparatory education and all the other distractions of life, I'd had few opportunities to observe the rules of courtship in the upper classes. So far it hardly looked different from the servants', for I'd occasionally seen them strolling about with one another making similar displays of affection.

  He had one arm around her waist, one hand, rather. Her wide skirts kept him from getting much closer. He also leaned his head down toward her so as to miss nothing of whatever she was saying. And he was laughing. That was good to see. He had not done much of that in the last month. What about his other hand? Occupied with carrying a bundle or basket. Full of food, probably. It was hardly the best weather for eating comfortably out of doors, but they seemed content to ignore it as long as they were together.

  Interesting. Now they paused to face each other. Father stooped slightly and kissed her on the lips for a v
ery long time. My own mouth went dry. Perhaps it was time to leave. As I dithered with indecision their kiss ended and they turned to walk into the shadow of the trees. They did not come out again.

  Roily snorted impatiently and dropped his head to snatch a mouthful of new grass just peeping through last year's dead layer. At some point my fleshly cravings had also altered so that carnality had been supplanted with extreme hunger. The sun was high and far over; I'd been out for hours and had long since digested my breakfast. And there was Elizabeth, who would be

  wondering whether I'd been thrown. She loved horses too, but didn't trust Roily to behave himself.

  I turned him back up the rise leading around the kettle, heading home.

  The horse being more valuable than its rider, I took care of Roily myself when we reached the stables. As a menial job, I could have easily left it for one of the lads to do and no one would have thought twice about it. Especially Mother. I was raised to be a gentleman and could clearly imagine her disapproval while going about my caretaking tasks. But where horses were concerned, such work was no work at all for me. Defiance doubled, I thought, humming with pleasure. Jericho wasn't there or he might have willingly helped out-if I'd invited him. I made a fast job of it, though, and before long was marching up to the kitchen to wheedle a meal from the cook.

  Then someone hissed from the corner of the house. Elizabeth stood there, eyes comically wide and lips compressed, urgently waving at me to come over. Curiosity won out over hunger.

  "What is it?" I asked, trotting up.

  "Not so loud," she insisted, grabbing my arm and dragging me around the corner. She visibly relaxed once we were out of sight from the kitchen.

  "What is it?" I repeated, now mimicking her hoarse whisper.

  "Mother was furious that you missed lunch."

  I gave vent to an exasperated sigh and raised my voice back to normal. "Damnation, but I'm an adult and my time is my own. She's never minded before."

  "Yes, but she wanted to talk to you about Cambridge."

  "She told you all that nonsense?"

  "In extraordinary detail. She seems to have decided how you're to spend your next few years down to the last minute."

  "How very kind of her."

  "She's in the kitchen with Mrs. Nooth planning out meals, and I didn't think you'd want to run into her."

  I took one of Elizabeth's hands and solemnly bowed over it. "For that, dear sister, you have my undying gratitude, but I am famished and must eat. A fellow can hardly spend his life going about in fear of his own mother."

  "Ha! It's not fear, it's only avoiding unnecessary unpleasantness."

  She was quite right. I really didn't want to face the woman on an empty stomach; some alternative needed to be thought up, but not out here. The day had warmed a little, but Elizabeth's hand was icy. "Let's go inside, you're freezing. Where's your shawl?"

  She shrugged indifferently. "Upstairs someplace. You should be the one to talk; look at yourself, riding all morning without hat or even gloves. It will serve you right if you get the rheumatics, God forbid."

  I chuckled. The ailments of age were still very far away for me. My morning's ride was worth a spot of stiffness in the joints. We went in by the same side door I'd used to escape, and Elizabeth led me to the library. A good fire was blazing there now, and forgetting her lack of concern about the cool day, we rushed toward it like moths.

  "So you think your going to Cambridge is nonsense?" she asked, stretching out her hands and spreading her long fingers against the flames.

  "Mmm. The woman's mad. When I see Father I'll sort it out with him as you said.

  "She's very sure of herself. What if he's on her side?"

  "Why should he be?"

  "Because he usually does whatever she wants. It's not as noisy as arguing, you know."

  "I don't think he will for something as important as this. Besides, look at the impracticality of it all. Why send me all the way to England to read law? It may garner me some status, but what else?"

  "An education?" she suggested.

  "There's that, but everyone knows you really go to a university to make the kind of friends and acquaintances who can become useful later in life. I can do that in England, but they'll all be left behind when I return home."

  "You've become cynical already, little brother?" She was hardly a year older than me, but had always taken enjoyment from her position as the eldest.

  "Realistic. I've spent a lot of time in this room listening to Father and his cronies while they're sharing a bottle. I can practice law well enough, but I'll be better at it for having a few friends 'round me as he does. Which reminds me..." 1 quit the fireplace to open a nearby cupboard and poured out a

  bit of wine to keep my strength up. My stomach snarled with ingratitude at the thoughtful gesture.

  Elizabeth giggled at the noise. She looked remarkably like the portrait above her. Prettier, I thought. Livelier. Certainly saner.

  "What is it?" she asked, taking note of my distraction.

  "I was just thinking that you could have almost posed for that." I indicated the painting.

  She stood away for a better look. "Perhaps, but my face is longer. If it's all the same to you, I would prefer not to be compared to her at all."

  "She may have been different back then," I pointed out. "If not, then why did Father ever marry her and have us?"

  "That's hardly our business, Jonathan."

  "It certainly is since we're the living results of their... affection?... for one another."

  "Now you're being crude."

  "No I'm not. When I get crude, you'll know it, dear sister. Who do I look like?"

  She tilted her head, unknowingly copying Mother's affected mannerism, but in an unaffected way. "Father, of course, but younger and not as heavy."

  "Father's not fat," I protested.

  "You know what I mean. When men get older they either go to fat or put on another layer of muscle."

  "Or both."

  "Ugh. But not you. In a few years you'll get the muscle and look just like him."

  "That's reassuring." We had always regarded Father as being a very handsome man.

  "Peacock," said Elizabeth, reading my face and thus my thoughts. I grinned and saluted her with my glass. It was empty, but I soon corrected that. The wine tasted wonderful but with no food in my stomach it was shooting straight to my head.

  "Mother will burst a blood vessel if you turn up drunk in the kitchen," she observed without rancor.

  "If I really get drunk, then I shan't care. Would you like some?"

  "Yes," she said decisively, and got a glass. "She'll make drunkards of us all before she's finished. I'm surprised Father isn't...."

  "Father has other occupations," I said, pouring generously and thinking fondly of Mrs. Montagu.

  "I wish I did," she muttered, and drained off half her portion. "Father goes out, you have your riding and studies, but I'm expected to sit here all day and find contentment with needlework, household duties, and numbering out my prospects."

  "Prospects?"

  Elizabeth's mouth twisted in disgust. "After she finished going on about Cambridge, she started asking me about the unmarried men in the area."

  "Uh-oh."

  "All of them, including old Mr. Cadwallader. He must be seventy if he's a day."

  "But very rich."

  "Now who's taking sides?"

  "Not I. I was just thinking the way she would think."

  Elizabeth groaned and finished off her wine. I made to pour her another and she did not refuse it. "I hope things settle down quickly in Philadelphia so she can go back. I know that it's wicked, wishing one's mother away, but..."

  "She's only our mother by reason of birth," I said. "If it comes to it, Mrs. Nooth's been more of a mother to us than that other woman." I nodded at the portrait. "Or even Mrs. Montagu. I wish Father had married her instead."

  'Then neither of us would have been ourselves and we wouldn't be sittin
g here getting drunk."

  "It's something to think about, isn't it?"

  "Wicked," she concluded with an unrepentant grimace.

  "Yes, I'm born to be hanged for that one."

  "God forbid," she added.

  As one, we lifted our glasses in a silent toast to a lot of different things. I was feeling very muzzy now, with all ray limbs heavy and glowing with inner warmth. It was too nice a feeling to clutter up with the inevitable scolding that awaited me the moment I stepped into the kitchen.

  "P'haps," I speculated, "I should leave Mother and Mrs. Nooth to their work."

  Elizabeth instantly noted my change of mind and smiled, shaking her head in mock sadness for my lost bravado.

  "P'haps," I continued thoughtfully, "I could just borrow a loaf of bread from one of the lads, then pick up a small cheese