She smiled at Gaspar as she stepped past him. “It is much too warm in this tent, Gaspar!”
“Indeed, Lady Kent,” he acknowledged and held the gauze aside for her to exit. She ducked underneath and straightened up, looking around the busy lane where all the family tents were located. It was an hour past sunset and long past siesta time. Everyone was strolling around the fair, taking in the cooler evening air.
Natália breathed in as deeply as her corset would allow, rallying her determination.
Hamilton stepped up beside her, settling his odd hat upon his head. “Where would you like to stroll, my lady?”
“To the nearest dark alley between tents,” she told him shortly. “We must talk, you and I, and not about the quality of the fair. Follow me.”
She saw his face sag in surprise as she stepped quickly along the road to where Francesca’s tent ended and the next tent began. It was a shadowed area about five feet wide, and a tangle of tent ropes and stakes. Natália lifted her hems and stepped over the ropes and stakes carefully, until she had worked her way deep into the narrow alley. Then she turned to face Hamilton.
He stepped over the last rope and tilted his head to look at her. “You are wonderfully eccentric, for a duchess,” he remarked.
“Are you a complete imbecile?” she snapped.
He grew very still. Despite the dark, she could see his expression grow just as cautious. His green eyes in this light were almost colorless as he watched her.
“Do you not know anything?” she railed. “Blood does not approach blood openly. You don’t…pursue them. It raises questions we cannot answer!”
He held still for a moment longer, then seemed to relax. “Then you are a vampire,” he said very softly.
“Of course I am, you daft bugger! You knew that at the arena. Your instincts told you I was, just as mine marked you.”
He blinked, the beginnings of a scowl forming. “I may have transgressed in this small matter of protocol,” he said stiffly, “but I assure you, madam, that I am not, nor have I ever been, a bugger.”
“Then you’re missing out on a lot of enjoyment, Mr. Hamilton,” she shot back.
His eyes widened almost comically and his lips parted.
Natália relented. “How old are you?” she asked, forcing a more reasonable tone.
“Three years,” he said flatly, pushing his hands into his pockets. His answer proved he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew enough to know she wasn’t asking for his age in human years.
“Most vampires are offended by that question,” she pointed out. “You really are inexperienced.”
“Apparently, yes,” he said flatly and his tone told her he was not referring to his youth as a vampire, but to her earlier remark about enjoyment.
Her smile formed despite Natália wanting to stay angry. “You do have a lot to learn, don’t you?”
He cocked his head. “You could teach me,” he suggested and she knew from the glint in his eyes that he was once more referring to enjoyment.
“I don’t know you nearly well enough to agree to that.”
“You know I’m…like you,” he said, a tinge of awkwardness in his voice. “What else do you need to know?”
She drew in a breath and let it out, staring at him, wondering how she could encompass years of hard experience in a single answer. “This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Hamilton, but there are just as many bastards, thieves and evil men among the blood as there are among humans. “ She waved to indicate the street behind him. “I could walk more freely among human men, unescorted and completely without fear, for none of them could harm me, even if they wanted to. But vampires…” She grimaced. “I am old enough to be cautious, especially with my own kind. Most especially with those I do not know.”
He studied her soberly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted. “Where I come from, women are more cloistered than you seem to be. They are protected in that way.”
She smiled. “You forget. I no longer have a virtue to protect.”
He smiled. A little. She had troubled him. Feeling a touch of guilt, she stepped closer to him and looked up. “Perhaps you would do me the kindness of escorting me through the fair, Mr. Hamilton? While we stroll, we can talk.” She grinned. “Very quietly.”
He turned and held out his elbow to her, then hesitated. “Is this too bold?” he asked.
She slid her fingers inside the crook of his elbow. “For a real duchess, yes, it is much too bold. But I am wonderfully eccentric, am I not?”
* * * * *
The sun had fully risen, touching the river in front of them with gold and making them both wince with the direct brightness, but neither of them moved from the bench they had been sitting upon for several hours already.
“Taken as a whole,” Christian said, “West Point was a good experience. I learned a great deal. But the entire time I was there, I was…uneasy.”
Natália – for she had asked him to call her that – straightened even more from her absolutely correct posture and raised her hand to shade her eyes. “It seems to me, from what you have told me about your training there, that they are far too rigid in their adherence to form over effectiveness. Perhaps that was what troubled you.”
Christian considered it and realized he was nodding. “Yes, you may be right. The school here in Seville prides itself on its traditions, but they will consider different techniques and tactics if they prove to be effective. They work towards improving your fencing skills, not simply to instill rote movements. My training at West Point was not mocked or decried. They were interested in what I had learned. West Point would not be so receptive, I know.”
“But I can also see why West Point might insist upon its traditions,” she said. “America is still considered by many to be a small country of little military might. By adhering to their own personal code, they are building pride in their cadets and a heritage for them to be proud of.”
“You do have an odd way of looking at things,” he told her. “It’s very….” He cast about, looking for the correct description.
“The word you are looking for is perspective, Mr. Hamilton.” She had refused to call him Christian. “Once you have lived through enough lives, you will find yourself seeing the long term view, too.”
There was an odd note in her voice and he studied her. “That sounded sour.”
She looked out upon the river. “Did you know that the Guadalquivir River is the only river in Spain that great ships can navigate? They can reach all the way to Seville but in Roman times, they could reach as far north as Córdoba.”
“What did I say?” he asked gently.
She gave him a small smile. “It isn’t you, Mr. Hamilton. Well, perhaps it is. You speak so longingly of America. There is a yearning in your voice, and the picture you have painted makes me feel almost homesick for a place I’ve never seen.”
Christian spun his hat in his hands. “That place, the place I call home -- it doesn’t exist anymore.”
“But America does sound wonderful,” she said. “I confess, Mr. Hamilton, that I have been looking for a direction for several years now. I believe I may have found it.”
“America?” he asked. “But your life here—”
“Is nearly over,” she finished. “I married Richard fifteen years ago, and all too soon his family and friends will begin to wonder about my extended youth.”
“Is that why you linger outdoors with a gentleman while the night has died around us? You gave me the impression you cared about your reputation, but this is not a way to enhance it.”
“I have a reputation for odd and fast behavior. But yes, it is time for Lady Kent to meet her end.” She gave him a warm smile. “You, too, will soon have to consider your next life. But you have time yet, especially if you keep moving, and mix only with relative strangers.”
“I already know I cannot return home,” he said.
“You’re too young,” she agreed. “You still have family that knows
you there.”
He shook his head. “I would not wish to return, even if they were not there. This journey to Spain has been very illuminating.”
“Where will you go next?” she asked.
He put his hat on, suddenly uncomfortable. “What makes you think I have decided that?” he asked.
“Because you would have told me you don’t know if you had not.” She smiled again. “Come, I have shared my next life with you. It is only fair you tell me yours.”
“Very well.” He sat up as straight as she. “Have you heard of the Samurai?”
“The Japanese warriors?” she asked. “Yes, a little. Is that where you want to go next? To learn from them?”
He shrugged. “It is a direction, and I have decided I like travelling.”
“Travelling does broaden the mind, but halting the journey and living in strange places expands one’s mind even more.” She paused. “Will you travel under your own name?”
Christian grimaced. “I do not think I am quite ready to give up the last vestige of my human life, yet.”
“But you are not human. Not anymore.” She turned on the seat to face him. “Please let me offer you a little advice. Those friends and family you left behind after your making…they are still able to trace your movements because you are using your real name. You would be wise to invent another persona now and make the cut complete and final. It is hard, but it is part of the life we get to lead. Trust me, Mr. Hamilton, you do not want to come face to face with your sister or brother, and look upon an old, frail person who stares back at you in horror.”
He did not ask if that was something she had faced, for the pain in her voice told him she had. Cold fingers walked their way up his spine. “Very well,” he said softly. “I will take your advice and thank you, Natália.”
She got to her feet. “I should return before Francesca sends up an alarm about my disappearance. There are still a few things I must prepare before the Duchess dies.” She stood with the sun behind her, her shadow falling over him. She was a slim, tall figure, but she no longer looked delicate in his eyes.
Natália held out her hand. “It has been a wonderful night, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you for your company.”
He got to his feet and picked up her offered hand. “Will we meet again?” he asked.
“I consider that most unlikely,” she said gently. “You are heading for the far East. I am heading in the opposite direction.”
Disappointment touched him. “Is this the way it must always be?” he asked. “We of the blood all must sail past each other like ships on an ocean – just spotting sails on the horizon before they disappear?”
“It is safest this way.”
“It is lonely, this way,” he countered.
She gave him a small smile. “Three years, and already you discount the company of humans. Do not dismiss humans altogether, Christian. Their companionship is what gives meaning to life.”
“You called me Christian,” he said, delighted.
She smiled, her honey brown eyes lighting up. “That was a mistake,” she assured him. “Try to enjoy life, Mr. Hamilton. You have a lot of it to live.”
Chapter Two
World War I Victory Parade, New York City, 1918 – 20 Years Later.
The ticker tape was as thick as a blizzard as the parade wound on and on. Natália was overwhelmed by the sheer number of soldiers parading down Fifth Avenue. There seemed to be no end to the crisply formed lines of khaki and rifles.
Then there were the lines of actual motor cars, driving by at the same speed as the foot soldiers, with wounded men and generals all waving and smiling as they went past.
When the parade had begun, she had been holding an armload of carnations that was nearly too big to contain with one arm. Now, almost an hour later, the bundle had dwindled to posy size.
She couldn’t give a flower to every single soldier that passed her by. Instead, she had quickly learned to find a soldier approaching her, from perhaps five yards away, and look him in the eye as he approached. Her smile would always produce an answering smile, and she would hold up the flower for him. Once he drew level, he reached for the flower himself, instead of her having to thrust it into his hand.
She brushed the unlikely confetti off the top of her nurse’s cap and shook out her veil, then picked out her next victim. The small, dark-haired man was clearly of Italian descent, like so many New York citizens. She began to smile at him, but then her gaze was pulled toward the very blond hair of the man behind him. Blond hair...tall...his gaze was steady upon her. Frank and...happy.
Christian Hamilton.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, hiding her delight for he was supposed to be a stranger to her, in this life. But she held his gaze as he approached. She couldn’t smile.
Her mind raced. How could she speak to him? Among the millions of people lining Fifth Avenue, and the thousands of soldiers marching along it, how could two passing strangers legitimately decide to seek each other out among the millions?
With each step he drew nearer. Time was against her. She couldn’t think.
He reached for the flower, his gaze under the brim of his helmet steady. His hand curled around the stem, brushing her fingers.
One more step. He was level with her now. In a few seconds he would have passed her by.
Then he leaned a few inches toward her. “The Astoria,” he murmured. Anyone around them would not have heard it. It was far too noisy, with the cheering, the stomp of marching men, and the clop of horses from the cavalry units. Christian had not lifted his voice, but she heard him perfectly.
Then he had taken the next step and moved past her.
Natália made herself not turn her head to track him as he moved on. She took a few seconds, staring blindly at the pavement, then forced herself to lift her head and find another victim for her flowers. There were many more soldiers beside the one that had just passed her and it was her duty to welcome them all home.
The day suddenly seemed brighter.
* * * * *
Christian spotted the honey gold of her hair from across the crowded restaurant. She had removed the veil and cap. Her back was to him. “Never mind,” he told the waiter. “I see her now, thank you.”
“Not at all, Captain,” the waiter told him. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
He made his way over to Natália’s table and stopped by her side and drew a breath for courage. “Hello.”
She looked up from the book she was reading and put her tea cup down. Then she smiled and the expression made her rich brown eyes seem warm and welcoming. “You found me.” She closed the book and waved toward the chair on the other side of the tiny table. “Please, sit down.”
He folded his cap and put it in his coat pocket, then sat. He checked the level of the tea. It was half-empty. Puzzled, he glanced at her, then back at the cup.
She smiled and let her gaze flicker toward the potted palm that separated their table from the next. The soil was damp. That was where she was draining it.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, reaching for the pot. “It’s still hot.” She was still wearing the nurse’s uniform, with the starched white apron and the little red cross in the center of it. The grey-blue dress beneath was prim and neat, as were her shoes.
She poured him a cup, and he made a fuss of adding sugar and cream from the little dispenser.
“It’s so very good to see you,” she said. “I thought you might have been caught up in the war in the east.”
He pretended to sip the tea. “I left Japan nearly ten years ago, so no. I was in Norway while Europe was in the war and I could see America being pulled in, so I came back to enlist. I got back here a week before the Zimmerman telegraph became news. I’ve been decommissioned as of this morning.”
He looked at the cap and veil that lay neatly folded on the third chair at the table. “You did your part, too, I see.”
She glanced around the restaurant. It
was busy, as the Astoria usually was, but most tables were involved in their own conversation. She leaned forward anyway, which put her only a few inches away from him. “I spent thirteen years in Georgia. Then I died and came here to New York. A couple of years later, the war broke out, so I joined the Red Cross.” A shadow touched her face briefly, then was gone.
“It was a difficult service, I imagine,” Christian said carefully. He had seen first aid posts on the battlefield, and was grateful he had never needed to have an injury treated by the overworked, stressed doctors and nurses who had ministered the wounded. The amputations from mortars and the appalling wounds from machine gun fire and grenades…it made rifle wounds look like mere paper cuts.
Natália gave him another effortful smile. “Not nearly as difficult as fighting at the front would have been like, I’m sure. You were in France?”
“For most of it, yes.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m fairly fluent in French now.”
“Your Spanish was very good, if I remember correctly,” Natália pointed out. “Did you learn Japanese while you were there?”
“I did. Both hyōjungo and Osaka-ben, for I spent a good few years on Osaka.” He smiled. “I’ve also heard enough German over the last year that I can understand most of it. But I’m not going to tell anyone I know that one.”
Natália gave a soft laugh. “I imagine it would be misunderstood, especially with your coloring.”
He put the cup down, studying her. “Would you like to stroll the Avenue?” he asked.
“Just like last time?” She leaned over and picked up her cap and the handbag that lay beneath it. “That sounds perfect.”
* * * * *
“Where in Georgia did you go to?” Christian asked, glancing at her. Her hand was tucked under his elbow, bringing back pleasant memories of Seville, before the war. But her dress had brushed the ground then, while now he could see her trim ankles, covered in boot leather, and her stockings, just above. Her hair was still the rich honey-gold, and her eyes the same warm brown. The tiny little line between her brows was still there, too. That line was a reminder of the steel that made up her spine.
Wait (Beloved Bloody Time) Page 2
