Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “Have you letters? She would send letters with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I had a thick packet of them folded in oil cloth in one pocket, hastily retrieved from my boxes on the ride over. I held them out.

  “There.” She pointed the scratching stick to a small table to my right.

  I placed them on top as though they were a fragile treasure. Mother had strictly charged me with their care and delivery. She gave me to understand that should the ship sink I was to save them before saving myself. They’d spent the entire crossing in the small chest where I kept my more treasured valuables. In all that time I wondered what was in them, but honor prevented me from breaking any of their wax seals and reading the contents. Intuition told me I wouldn’t have liked what was there, anyway.

  “You, boy,” she said, addressing Oliver as though he were a servant of the lowest order. He seemed to be staring hard at some invisible object just off her left ear. “Get out of here. Have Meg bring tea. Mind that she has it hot this time if she knows what’s good for her.”

  He fled.

  She turned her gaze back upon me, and I strove to find whatever it was that Oliver had seen. There was nothing, of course, but it was better than trying to face down her basilisk glare.

  “Naught to say for yourself, boy?” she demanded.

  “I deemed it best to wait upon your pleasure, Aunt Fonteyn.”

  “Ha! Talk like your father, do you? He could make a pretty speech twenty-odd years ago. Does he still have that sly and easy tongue?”

  “He enjoys a convivial, intelligent conversation, ma’am,” I said, trying to be neutral.

  That stayed her a moment. Perhaps she was considering whether or not I was making an impertinence about our own exchange. My voice and expression were all innocence, though. Mother might have pounced upon it, but Aunt Fonteyn let it pass. Probably waiting for a more vulnerable opening. The checkered black and white marble pattern served as a floor here, too, a continuance of the likeness to a chess game. Though we were on a level to each other, this queen seemed to loom over me, ready to strike me from the board.

  “What about that sister of yours? How is Elizabeth Antoinette?”

  Elizabeth, God bless her, hated her middle name as much as I did mine. I was glad she wasn’t present for she might not have been able to hold on to a bland face. “She was well when I last saw her.”

  “She look much like your mother?”

  “Many have remarked on the resemblance, ma’am, and say that they are very alike.”

  “In looks only, I’m sure,” she sniffed, as though it were a crime rather than a blessing not to share the same temperament. “The Barrett blood, no doubt. Anyone to marry her, yet?”

  “No, ma’am. Not before I left.”

  “She’s past twenty, isn’t she?”

  “Nineteen, ma’am.”

  “She’ll be a spinster for life if she doesn’t hurry along, but I suppose there’s nothing suitable on that miserable island of yours.”

  She made my beautiful home sound like a barren rock barely able to stand clear of a high tide. What had Mother been writing to her?

  “And you? Any prospects?”

  Nora’s sweet face flashed across my mind’s eye. I would not defile that private delight by mentioning her existence to this creature. “No, ma’am.”

  “And just as well. You’re to have none, y’hear? Not without my approval. “

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll see how you settle in. If you behave yourself we just might be able to find some wench who’ll put up with you, providing she’s got decent money and a name.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Until then you’ll keep your attention on your studies. There are no wastrels in this family, y’hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Going to practice law, eh? Then I hope to God you do better at it than your father.”

  I’d expected a taunt like that and did not react. For the next two hours and thirty-two minutes I stood statue-like before her doing my level best not to react to anything she said.

  She lashed me with close questioning about my life and future and meted out summary judgments, all severe, of my answers. I recall the passage of the time very well because of the presence of a clock on the mantel. It was clearly ticking, but I grew certain that the mechanism of the minute hand was defective, for the damned thing hardly seemed to move. I could have sworn days had passed rather than hours before she finally, finally dismissed me.

  I reeled out the door, exhausted, yet horribly stirred up inside, and sweating like a blacksmith. It was a nasty, familiar feeling; one I’d thought I’d left behind with Mother. Here it seemed doubled, for it was doubly undeserved. Mother was full of bitterness and reprisal for imagined slights; Aunt Fonteyn had no such delusions. She enjoyed inflicting pain for its own sake. She was worse than Mother, for Mother’s graceless treatment of people might possibly be excused by her unstable mind; Aunt Fonteyn had no such defense for her behavior. Mother could not help herself, but my aunt was very much in control of her conduct.

  Oliver met me in the hall with a full-to-the-brim cup of the promised brandy I was in such haste to drink, the first gulp left me choking.

  “Steady, now, Cousin. Give it a chance to work,” he cautioned.

  His sympathetic concern made me smile in spite of my red-faced anger. “You’ve done this before, have you?”

  “Far too often.”

  “How do you bear it?” I asked, meaning to make it light, but it did not come out that way

  In response to my tone, his eyes flashed at the solidly shut door to his mother’s lair. “By knowing that if God has any mercy, I’ll live to dance on her grave,” he whispered with a raw vehemence that made me blink. He seemed to realize that he had perhaps shown too much honesty and made an effort to cover with a careless gesture at my cup. “Come, finish that off and I’ll show you around the old ruin, introduce you to some of the ancestors we’ve got framed on the walls. They’re a dull and dusty lot, but quiet company. Your duty’s done until supper.”

  I groaned at the thought of actually sharing a meal with my aunt.

  “It won’t be too bad,” he said with a kindly assurance that reminded me achingly of Elizabeth. “Just agree with everything she says and afterward we can get properly drunk. We’ll leave for Cambridge at first light. My word of honor on it.”

  * * *

  With much relief, we did indeed depart, and well before dawn. Though still sickly from too much wine and another dose of Aunt Fonteyn, it was preferable to recover in a lurching coach than under that woman’s roof. I don’t remember much of the last part of my long journey from Long island, just hanging out the coach window to be sick a few times, moping for Nora, and gaping with unhappy shock at the dreary monotony of the countryside as we got closer to our goal.

  The thoughts of Nora were the best and worst part of the ride. I had no word from her, of course, but hoped for some. Several times I entertained the happy fantasy that she was well ahead of us and already waiting for my arrival or perhaps she might even catch up with us in her own coach.

  I was in love, a state that does not lend itself to logical thought. Eventually I stopped looking out the window and filled the time by speculating how long it would really take her.

  Too long, I concluded, shifting restlessly in my seat while Oliver sensibly snored away the hours.

  We arrived in Cambridge the next day, choosing to spend the night at an inn to give ourselves and the horses a rest rather than pushing on into exhaustion. Had we known how black the sheets were we’d have made other, cleaner sleeping arrangements, such as the stables. Certainly they would have had fewer fleas than the ones we endured.

  Nora had expressed a low opinion of the place that was to be my home for the next few years. True, there was little enoug
h in the countryside around Cambridge to draw my interest, but the many buildings comprising the university were no less than magnificent. Oliver was familiar with the area and I was glad to have him as guide, else I would have soon lost myself amongst the various colleges. He knew his business and with a surprising lack of confusion led me through the intricacies of where to go, which tutor to see, and finding a place to live.

  The last was the easiest, for I was to share rooms in a house with Oliver and Tony Warburton, taking over one previously occupied by a friend who had passed his examines at the last term and left. With hope pulsing through my brain, I immediately wrote a loving note to Nora to inform her of my new address and posted it to London. Cambridge wasn’t very large, but I wanted to take no chance on our missing one another.

  One day succeeded the next, and I was kept extremely busy, for there were a thousand new things to learn before the start of the term. Between them, Oliver and Warburton had a number of friends who drifted in and out of the rooms to talk, share a drink, or take a nap. Not surprisingly, many of them were also studying medicine, though there were a few reading law like myself. A sharp contrast to the placid pace I’d known on Long Island, I readily embraced the variety of this hectic new life fully and strove to enjoy every stimulating moment.

  But Nora was always in my head, and though fully occupied, my hours were frequently far too long. I worried, fretted, and kept a lookout for her all the time that I was awake and dreamed about her when I was not.

  Each time I saw a coach and four—and there weren’t that many in Cambridge—my heart leaped, only to drop heavily back into place from disappointment when it turned out not to be her.

  One drizzling evening almost a week later Oliver and I were returning from a dinner with some other scholars. A coach waited on the street outside our house. I recognized it instantly, swiftly discounted the recognition, for I’d grown used to having my expectations dashed, then threw aside my doubts once I saw the driver’s livery. I rushed forward, leaving Oliver flat-footed in the thin mist calling an annoyed question after me.

  The coachman knew me—fortunate, since I had forgotten his face—and had a folded bit of paper ready to hand over as I approached. It was an invitation. I gave it only a quick glance, enough to pick out the words I wanted most to see, before hauling myself into the coach, too impatient to wait for the footman’s assistance.

  Oliver trotted up, his mouth wide and eyes popping. I waved the paper at him. “She’s here!” I cried from the window as we pulled away. He did not find it necessary to ask who and waved back with his walking stick to wish me luck. Just before I withdrew inside, I caught a glimpse of a man emerging from our house. Tony Warburton. He paused to stare for a moment, then turned to Oliver, obviously with a question to ask. It looked like my poor cousin would be caught in the middle of things after all.

  Heartlessly, I left him to it. Any guilt I might have felt in taking the place Warburton desired for himself simply did not exist. I was going to see Nora and that’s all that mattered.

  She lived surprisingly close, and I speculated that she’d arranged it so on purpose, for surely she could have afforded something more fashionable elsewhere. Not that the house we stopped at was a hovel. It proved comfortable enough once I was ushered inside, but it was smaller than her London residence, and bore signs that the unpacking was still in progress.

  “Why, Mr. Barrett! How nice to see you again!” Mrs. Poole rustled down a steep stairway. “You’re looking very well. Does the academic life suit you?”

  Though I wanted to see Nora more than anyone or anything else, I was moved to patience by the sincere goodness of the woman’s manner. “I believe so, ma’am, but I have not yet begun my studies.”

  “I am sure that you will do well once you start. Nora tells me that you have a fine mind.”

  In the short time we’d spent together, Nora and I had hardly concerned ourselves with intellectual pursuits. I searched Mrs. Poole’s face for the least hint of a false note or derisive humor and found none. She was about the same age as my mother and aunt, but there was a universe of difference between their temperaments. She guided me to a room just off the entry and saw that I was comfortable. A fire blazed against the damp, and hot tea, cakes and brandy were at hand. Candles burned in every sconce and in the many holders scattered throughout the room as though for a party. I could not help but be reminded of that first night. My heart began to pound.

  Mrs. Poole excused herself with a fond smile. She was hardly out of the room before Nora swept in.

  My memory had played tricks with me in her absence. The face and form I’d carried in my head differed slightly from the reality. I’d made her taller and set her eyes closer together, forgotten the fine texture of her skin, the graceful shape of her arms. Seeing her now was like meeting her anew all over again and feeling that perfect, most enchanting shock as time stopped for me. My heart strained against the pause as though it alone could start everything up once more. It needed help, though, and that could come only from Nora.

  Her eyes alight, she rushed toward me. All the clocks in the world resumed ticking even as the blood began to swiftly pulse within my whirling brain.

  The next few minutes were a blur of light, of joy, of holding her fast while trying to whisper out my love in broken words. Broken, for I was constantly interrupted as she pressed her mouth upon mine. I finally gave up talking altogether for a while, which really was the best course of action to take, considering.

  “I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” I said, finally breaking off to breathe.

  “Never. It took more time than I’d expected to ready everything for the journey.”

  “Can you stay?”

  “For as long as I like.” She smoothed my hair back with her fingers. “That shall be for a very long time, I think.” My heart soared.

  Further talk could wait. We were too hungry for one another and climbed the stairs to go straight to her room. As before, Mrs. Poole and the servants were nowhere to be seen.

  The bed was different, but the silk sheets and feather pillows were there, along with her portrait and dozens of candles. I helped her from her clothes, my hands clumsy as I tried to recall how I’d done it before. Nora chuckled at my puzzlement, but encouraged me as well. My turn to laugh came when she tried to undo the buttons of my breeches. I had grown decidedly inspired while undressing her, and they’d become rather a tight fit. She had trouble finding enough slack to accomplish her task.

  “There!” she crowed finally “Isn’t that much better?”

  My back to the bed, I teetered unsteadily on one leg as she worked to pull my breeches down. “Indeed, but I think that things might be improved if we . . .” Giving in to a second’s loss of balance, I toppled onto the mattress, dragging her down on top of me, laughing. The bedclothes and pillows billowed around us like clouds.

  My heart was flying.

  Thus began my real education at Cambridge.

  * * *

  Nora taught me much about love, ever interested in helping me explore and develop my blooming skills. While others might revile her experience, I reveled in it. She filled my life, my thoughts, the food I ate, and the very air I breathed. The whole world seemed to sing from her presence.

  Not without interruption, though.

  Once the term started I had to face the necessity of more mundane learning. But for her gentle urging to begin the work, then finish what I’d started, I might have abandoned the university completely to spend all my time with her.

  My activities were—to my mind—unevenly divided between study, socializing with my friends, and Nora. I wanted to be with her constantly, but yielded to her sweet insistence that she had to have some hours apart for herself and other friends. Soon we settled into a pattern that suited us both. I visited her several evenings a week as my studies permitted. Unless I had to get up early the next day, I wo
uld stay quite late, and occasionally the whole night. Her only irritating custom was to always wake first and leave me to sleep in. Irritating to me, for I would have liked to have the opportunity to love her once more before departing. I chided her on it, for at the very least she could stay for breakfast.

  “I am not at my best in the morning, Jonathan,” she replied. “So do not ask me to remain with you.”

  “The afternoons, then,” I said.

  “No.” She was firm, but kind about it. “Your days are your own as are mine. This has always been my way. I love you dearly, but please do not ask me to change myself. That is the one thing I will not do for you.”

  Put in that context, I could hardly refuse her, though it troubled me at the time.

  Not for long. After a time it did not seem important.

  Of her other friends I saw little and we did not socialize. If I arrived too early, I either waited in the street or Mrs. Poole would chat with me until whatever visitor there departed. Many were fellow students, Tony Warburton being in their number. They were young, of course, invariably handsome, fit, and moneyed. None ever stayed long, hardly more than five minutes, as though they had only called to pay their respects before going on to some other errand. They gave scant attention to me or even to one another, which struck me as odd. Whenever we met elsewhere her name never came up in conversation.

  Oddly, I had no jealousy for them and though they were aware of me, sensed none directed at myself. Tony Warburton seemed to be the exception to this, though much of what I observed had to come from my own imaginings. Now and then I’d feel a sharp pinch of guilt in my vitals, and doubtless the feeling would show on my face in his presence. In turn, I was prone to interpret any odd look or comment from him as part of the resentment he should have for my taking the special place in Nora’s heart he’d ardently hoped to achieve for himself. As the weeks passed I wondered whether I should talk to him about her, but when I raised the subject with Nora, she resolutely discouraged it, telling me not to worry.