Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  There was a bowl and a pitcher on a table across the room. The idea occurred to me that splashing water on the back of my neck might be of restorative value. I managed to get to my knees and crawled over. The pitcher was empty. It. seemed pointless to exert effort to return to bed, so I gave up and sat with my back to the wall, waiting for the man to reappear with the promised tea.

  He must have been distracted by other duties. The whole long dizzy morning seemed to pass before he pounded on the door again and came in with his tray.

  “Yer lucky, sir. Cook just had fresh made, ’ot ’n’ strong.” He put the tray on another table, poured out a cup, and brought it over. I held it tenderly with trembling fingers and sipped. “That’ll set yer right as rain. Now what ’bout this ’un?” He indicated Oliver, who had not yet moved.

  “Leave him,” I whispered.

  “Shouldn’t leave ’is arm draggin’ on the floor like that. ’E’ll lose feelin’ in it.” He helpfully pulled Oliver’s arm up, but it dropped down again. A second attempt got the same result, so he lightly flipped Oliver over on his back. Bidding us both a good morning, he left, thundering down the hall and stairs like a plow horse with eight legs.

  I drained the cup, waited a few minutes, and decided the stuff would stay down. Pushing against the wall, I stood, staggered to the table, and poured another, but drank it more slowly. Bit by bit, my brain began to cool and a few of the more alarming symptoms subsided. The chance that I would ultimately recover seemed more likely now.

  On his back, his mouth sagging wide, Oliver began to snore. There was an almost soothing note to it, though it gradually increased in loudness. To take my mind from my own miseries, I waited, interested to learn just how loud he could get. When one is in the throes of a terrible recuperation, the oddest details are welcome distractions from the pain.

  My interest soon waned as the very blood under my hair began to throb in time to his rumblings. It was a wonder he did not wake himself from the noise. He snorted and snarled, gave out a gasp as though he’d inhaled an insect, and suddenly a prodigious sneeze exploded from his slack lips. It was enough to stir the cobwebs in the far corners. This did succeed in waking him, poor man. He stared at the ceiling with the same kind of glazed stupefaction as I must have shown earlier.

  Still whispering, out of respect to his heightened senses, I said, “It’s just under the bed on this side.”

  He didn’t take my meaning at first, but gradually his face turned a predictable green, and with the color came comprehension. He floundered onto his stomach, clawed for the chamber pot, and made his own contribution to it.

  “Oh, God,” he moaned pitifully afterward, quite unable to move. With a cautious toe, I shoved the pot and its offensive contents back under the bed. Oliver put his hands over his ears and moaned again as it scraped over the bare wood of the floor.

  I was merciful and kept quiet, pouring him half a cup of tea. His hands were unsteady. Still lying on his stomach, partly off the bed, he drank, and I caught the cup before he could drop it.

  “Well-a-day” he murmured, his head hanging down and his mouth muffled by the bedding. “We must have had a magnificent time last night.”

  “Indeed we did. We may never survive another. Was it you or that other chap who poured wine on the fiddler?”

  “What other chap?”

  “The little round fellow who lost his wig in the fire.”

  “He didn’t lose it, you threw it there.”

  I took a moment to recollect the incident. “Oh, yes. The fool was bothering the serving maid and I thought he needed a lesson.”

  “Good thing for you he wasn’t the sort to demand satisfaction or you’d have had to be up at dawn.”

  So terrible was the idea of getting up that early with such a pain in my head that it hardly bore thinking about. “Was it you or did he?”

  “What?”

  “That poured the wine on the—”

  “Oh. Him. Definitely him. Fellow had too much to drink, y’know. Disgraceful. What did you think you were doing defending that wench’s honor, anyway?”

  “I just can’t abide a man forcing his attentions on a woman.”

  “Didn’t know they raised knight-errants in the colonies. Have to be cafrill . . . I mean, careful. The next man might press the issue, then you’d have to kill him and marry the girl.”

  “Why should I have to marry the girl?”

  He paused in thought. “Damned if I know. What time is it? What day is it? Is there any more tea?”

  There was and I gave it to him. Neither of us were ready for even the simplest of food, so we left the bread alone. When we each became more certain of our improvement, I slowly opened the shutters to bring in fresher air. The chamber pot was a nuisance.

  Oliver managed to leave the bed and join me at the table. He surveyed his own dishevelment, peered closely at my face, and shook his head.

  “This won’t do. Can’t go home looking like this. Mother would burst a blood vessel if she knew about this drunken debauch and we’d never hear the end of it.”

  In our rambling talk last night, he’d made frequent mention of his mother. His descriptions bore a remarkable similarity to my own parent. “Won’t she be just as angry if we’re late?”

  “Oh, I can say your ship was held up or something. We needn’t worry about that. A day’s rest will do us a world of good, but I don’t fancy spending it cooped up here. What we want is a bit of activity to sweat the wine out.”

  He lapsed into a silence so lengthy that I wondered if he wanted me to take on the responsibility of finding a solution. Being an utter stranger to London, not to mention the rest of the country, the odds against my being of help in the matter seemed poor.

  “Got it!” he said, animation returning to his vacuous face. “We’ll go over to Tony Warburton’s. You’ll want to meet him, so it may as well be now. “

  “Won’t we be an intrusion?”

  “Hardly. Tony’s used to my turning up at odd times. He’s part of our circle, you know, and since you’re with me, that means you’re in, too. He’s studying medicine as well, but I’ll see to it that he doesn’t bore you with it.”

  Oliver assured me his friend would not only welcome our visit, but insist that we stay the night. With this in mind I gladly settled things with the landlord and saw to it my baggage was brought down. It took a surprising number of servants for this task, and several more turned up to receive their vails for services rendered during my overnight stay, including many that I’d never seen before. Perhaps they’d been on duty when I had not been in a condition to remember them later. It sufficed that some of the shillings I’d won from Oliver magically vanished in much less time than it had taken to win them.

  In the courtyard, Oliver stood ready by his horse, a big bay mare with long, solid legs and clear, bright eyes. I couldn’t help but express my admiration for the animal and in turn received a list of famous names in her pedigree. None of them meant anything to me, but they sounded impressive, nonetheless.

  He had hired an open pony cart for our conveyance, meaning to lead the mare rather than ride her. The cart’s inward-facing benches would allow us to enjoy conversation, yet there was enough space to stow my luggage. Another advantage was that the cart was narrow enough to navigate London’s crowded streets with reasonable efficiency.

  I say reasonable, because once we left the inn and were well on our way, the noise and crowds of the city were nearly overwhelming to my country-bred senses. Everywhere I looked were people of all shapes, classes and colors, with as many occupations as could ever be imagined, plus a few beyond imagining. My long-ago visit to Philadelphia had not prepared me for such numbers or variety. Even the busy colonial city of New York, which I had glimpsed on my way to the ship that carried me here, was a bumpkin’s muddy backwater village compared to this.

  The air humme
d with a thousand different voices, each calling their wares or services, begging or just shouting for no other purpose than to make noise. Soldiers and sailors, chimney sweeps and their boys, panders and prostitutes, well-dressed ladies and their maids, men of fashion and threadbare clerics all jostled, laughed, argued, screeched, or sang with no regard for anyone but themselves and their business. I forgot my aching head and fairly gaped at the show.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked Oliver, raising my voice as well so he could hear me, though he was hardly an arm’s length away.

  “Oh, no,” he bellowed back. “Sometimes it’s much worse!”

  I thought he was having a joke on me, but he’d taken the question quite seriously and expanded on his answer. “This is a normal working day in the city, y’know. You should be here on a holiday or when there’s a hanging or two at Tyburn, then things really liven up!”

  Oliver drew my attention to various places of interest whenever possible. The buildings loomed so high in spots that it was apparent that the sun even at its summer zenith was an infrequent visitor to the streets between. In one patch of open area, though, he was able to point out the masts of a ship standing improbably among the buildings and trees.

  “That’s Tower Hill, of course, and the ship itself is on perfectly dry land.”

  “What good is that, then?”

  “Oh, it’s done no end of good for the navy. If some unwary soul has the bad luck to stop for a look at it he has to pay dearly for his curiosity.”

  “What? You mean they offer a tour of the place?”

  “For a very costly price.”

  “Is the fee so great?”

  “Great enough for most. The fellow offering to show them around is part of a press gang. More than one hapless lad fresh in from the country has been trapped that way and may never set foot on land again. Foreigners are fairly safe, and so are gentlemen, and since you’re both in one, you’ve nothing to fear from them. Still, I can’t help but pity the poor men who wander into that pretty snare.” He gave a sincere shudder and by a leap of thought I got the idea that he may have had some personal experience in the matter.

  We jolted and wove our way through the many streets for over an hour, though the distance we traveled could not have been more than a couple of miles. The views and distractions were many, and Oliver was pleased with my reactions to them, enjoying his role of playing the guide as much as I played the sightseer.

  Presently, Oliver gave the cart man more specific directions and we stopped before a tall and broad house of fine white stone with black paint trimming the proportionately broad windows. Because Oliver had mentioned the tax upon windows, I could see that the owner of this place was in such a position as to be untroubled by the added expense. This looked to be a highly favorable exchange for the mean little room I’d had at the inn.

  We left the cart under guard by the driver, mounted the front steps, and Oliver gave the bell a vigorous pull. A servant soon opened the door and welcomed us inside. He was well acquainted with Oliver and, after sending a footman off to inform the master of the house, showed us to a parlor and inquired how best to provide for our immediate comfort.

  “Barley water, if you please,” said Oliver, after a brief consultation with me. “And biscuits if you have ’em and some ass’s milk if it’s fresh.”

  The butler appeared to be somewhat puzzled. “Nothing else, sir?”

  “Crispin, if you’d drunk all that we had last night and woke up with all the agonies of perdition we had this morning . . .”

  Abrupt understanding dawned upon Crispin’s face, and he vanished to see to things, including off-loading the cart waiting outside. He soon returned with another fellow carrying a large tray and made us feel at home, explaining that his master would be delayed from joining us immediately. Apparently we’d arrived a bit earlier than Mr. Tony Warburton was accustomed to rising, so he had to dress. In the meantime, the barley water, though not as good as beer, quenched our thirst, and the biscuits settled the rumblings in our stomachs.

  “I took the liberty,” said Crispin as he poured the milk from a silver pitcher, “of adding eggs and honey to this. Mr. Warburton swears by its restorative powers.”

  “Lord, is he studying to be a physician or an apothecary? Never mind answering that. If old Tony has frequent occasion to turn to this for relief, then he’s going to be a drunkard. Oh, it’s all right, Jonathan, no need to look shocked. Tony knows it’s all in jest. He’s really a frightfully keen student, but like the rest of us, enjoys having a good time when he can.”

  The mixture in the ass’s milk was more than palatable and after seeing to Crispin’s vail and to the footmen for fetching my luggage in we were left on our own.

  Our room was decorated in excellent taste, though a bit stuffy. I suggested opening a window, but Oliver pointed out that the close air within was preferable to the noisome odors without. Sensing my restlessness, he tossed me a copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine. Father subscribed to it himself, but the issues we received were necessarily out of date by at least two months owing to the long ocean crossing. This one was only a month old and I welcomed the somewhat fresher news.

  I flipped idly through the pages, taking note of an article about a comet that on my voyage had caused much excitement and interest back in the middle of June. It was fascinating to me that the same object I’d seen on the other side of the ocean, was—that same night—also seen in England. How high had it been? How fast had it been going to have hurtled itself over such a vast distance?

  Owing to clouds, the writer was unable to add to what I had been able to see trailing across the southern sky from shipboard. My chief memory was not so much of the comet, but the superstitious reaction the sailors had had to it. During the time that it was visible, there had been much muttering, praying, and wearing of charms against any evil it might bring. Though our captain was a man of solid sense, he let them have their way in this, but saw to it that they were kept busy lest they brood upon their fears and get up to mischief.

  I moved on to another article describing the bloody war raging between the Turks and Russians. There was an annex page that folded out into a very excellent map of Greece, and from it I was able to pick out some of the famous cities that had been mentioned in my study of the language with Rapelji. The many details delighted me, and I hoped that my father would share it with him when his issue arrived. I was about to comment to Oliver about it when the young master of the house chose that moment to make his entrance.

  He was a bit haggard in his appearance, a match to our own, no doubt, and despite the amount of time he’d had to ready himself, he was clad informally in a sweeping mustard-colored dressing gown, plain cotton stockings and bright red slippers. An elaborate turban covered much of his head, though it was askew, showing the light, shaven scalp beneath. His eyes were a bit sunken and his flesh pale, but his manner was hearty as he came forward to greet us. Oliver introduced us and we made our bows to one another. Tony Warburton just managed to catch the turban in time to prevent it from dropping off at our feet.

  “I hope this is no imposition,” said Oliver. “That is, us turning up on the doorstep like peddlers?”

  “My dear fellow, I am delighted you’ve come,” Warburton said, righting the turban and himself. He fell wearily into a chair. “The truth is something’s happened and if I don’t tell someone, I’m certain to burst.”

  Oliver threw me an amused glance to assure me his friend’s somewhat theatrical attitude was normal. “What has happened? You’re looking a bit done in.”

  “Really? I feel wonderful.”

  “Not some calamity, I hope?”

  “Hardly that. It’s truly the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life.”

  My cousin now gave me a quick wink, which Tony missed, for he stared wistfully at the ceiling. “If it is good news, then by all means, pl
ease share it.”

  “The greatest news possible for any man.” He tugged absently at his indifferently knotted neckcloth. “Oliver, my best friend, the best of all my friends, I’m in love!”

  Oliver clasped his hands around one knee, pursed his lips, and leaned forward with polite interest. “What? Again?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tony was oblivious to his friend’s skepticism.

  “This is well and truly real love,” he continued. “This is what I’ve awaited my whole life. Until last night all my existence has been a wasteland, a wilderness of nothing, a desert. . ..”

  He went on like that for quite some time until Oliver managed to get in another question.

  “Who is this girl?”

  “She’s not a girl; she’s a fairy princess come from A Midsummer Night’s what-you-call-it. No, she’s more than that; she is a goddess. She makes all other women look like . . . like. . . “

  “Mortals, I suppose. What’s her name, Tony?”

  “Nora. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s like some rare flower on a moonlit hill side. Oh, wait ’til you meet her and you’ll see what I mean. My words fall utterly short of the reality.”

  Oliver doggedly went on. “Nora who?”

  “Jones. Miss Nora Jones.”

  The name was still unfamiliar to Oliver. “She sounds wonderful. Where does she trade?”

  Tony snapped his head ’round, full of outrage. “Good God, man! She’s a respectable lady. How dare you?”

  Oliver made an about-face of his own toward true contrition. “I do beg your pardon, I’m sure. I had no idea. My most humble apologies, to you, to her. and to her family. Who are they, anyway?”

  Tony settled back and after a moment’s consideration, accepted the apology “The Jones family, I suppose.”

  “From Wales, are they?”

  “France, actually.”

  “France? How can someone named Jones be from France?”