by P. N. Elrod
“Tony . . . .”
“No!”
Nora dropped back a step, clearly surprised. This instantly transmuted into anger, but Warburton was too engulfed by his own to care.
“Always taking, taking, taking. First our blood, then our money. Did you know that that’s how she makes her wage, Barrett? How she’s able to afford her houses, servants, and all the rest? She collects a little from each of us every time she does it. Only a little, mind you, so it’s not even missed. Gifts, she calls ’em. Well, no matter the name she chooses to put on the payment, a whore’s still a whore whether she spreads her legs for it or not.”
I started forward to knock him flat, but Nora was ahead of me. Her open hand lashed out faster than my eye could follow. Warburton grunted and staggered from what must have been a fearsome blow. The whites of his eyes flashed briefly before he shook it off. I made toward him, but Nora imperiously and inarguably signed for me to hold back.
“Mr. Warburton, I see no reason for you to remain any longer or to ever return once you’ve left,” she said evenly.
Warburton blinked a few times as her words penetrated. His long face crumbled in on itself as he comprehended what he’d done. “Nora, forgive me. I didn’t mean . . . it’s just that I . . . .”
“Get out of here.” She glided past him to open the front door herself. Spatters of rain and a wave of cold air tore through the hall.
For a long moment he made no move. I hoped Nora would ask me to force him out, though it would certainly end in a challenge and a duel. There was no reason to think that it might end otherwise, anyway. Nora coming between us had only postponed the formalities. I wanted to break his neck.
He finally stirred, started to speak, then aborted because of the venomous look she had for him. He winced as though from another blow and turned from her, eventually striding away into the pouring darkness of the street. Only when he was lost from sight in the misery of the rain did Nora close the door.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Was his jealousy your fault?” she demanded. She visibly trembled.
“This was ill-timed. I should have waited elsewhere, or first sent a note.”
“You know you’re welcome here anytime. So do they.” She waved a hand to indicate her other courtiers. “So did he. I’m the one to apologize to you, Jonathan. I should have seen this coming. Prevented it.”
“How? By talking to him?”
“In my way.”
“I thought you’d already done so.”
“I have. It just never seems to work as well with him. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s his drinking.” She shook off her speculations and came to me, her hands outstretched. “I’ll try again, but later, when we’ve both cooled down.”
“But, Nora . . . . ”
“ ‘A wholesome tongue is a tree of life, but perverseness is a breach in the spirit,’ ” she said, quoting from Proverbs. “There is something wrong in Tony’s spirit.”
“He mortally insulted you!”
“He told the truth and you know it. Granted, by the manner in which he told it, he meant to hurt me.”
“For which I’ll repay him handsomely when the chance comes.”
Then she went still and distant and I felt the wash of her anger flow over me like an icy wave. “This is not your concern, but mine, Jonathan.”
I was unable look at her or say what I’d been about to say. My outraged objections died unspoken, not out of fear of offending her, but from the tardy admission to myself that she was right.
“Please, leave it to me.”
Had she ordered or demanded I might have ignored it, but she gave this as a request, and that steadied me down. Much as I wanted to play the knight-errant and avenge the insults thrown at her, it was for her to resolve things her own way. Interfere, and I would be no better than Warburton.
“Very well,” I conceded.
Her face softened. I’d said nothing specific, but it was as good as a promise. She knew I would keep it. “Thank you.” The strain that had pushed between us vanished. “Come in by the fire. Would you like some tea?”
I declined, but let her guide me into the drawing room to the settee by the fireplace. “What will you do about him?”
“Whatever I can, if I can. I think it was a mistake for me to have continued with him after I’d met you.”
Cousin Oliver had also expressed a similar opinion. Often.
Nora’s face suddenly twisted. With a shock, I realized she was crying. She was not a woman to give in to tears and disliked doing so. I quickly stood and gathered her in my arms, giving her the comfort of soaking my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“It’s all right to cry when you’re hurt.”
“It’s just . . . oh, God, but I hate losing a friend.”
Whatever his faults, Warburton did have looks and no small portion of charm. Beyond the necessities of nourishment, she had enjoyed his company and counted upon him as a friend as I had. No more, alas.
The storm gradually passed and she pulled herself in to once more resume her usual air of self-possession. I started to offer her a handkerchief, but she’d brought her own out. It was spotted with a small amount of blood. Warburton’s. I looked away as she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.
“Please don’t tell me there are others to take his place. I’m not like that, Jonathan. I can’t just engage any young man for what I do. It’s not a matter of having to take whoever comes my way because they’re handy. If it were for the blood alone it would be different. But there’s more to it for me than mere feeding. I have to at least like the man to touch him in that way, and I do like Tony. Or I did.”
“You need their love as well,” I whispered.
“Yes. And more. It’s so easy for men to love me, but for them to accept what I am . . . . Even after I’ve talked to them, influenced them . . . it’s not always there. Those are the ones I have to let go, and it’s never easy”
“Like Oliver?”
That startled her. “You knew?”
“I suspected. He’s never said anything, of course, only acted a bit reserved about you.”
She nodded. “He’s a very sweet young man, and I dearly enjoyed listening to his prattle, but it became obvious that he was uncomfortable about my needs. I made him forget all that happened, though some ghost of that memory may still remain. He is reserved, he just doesn’t know why.”
“I can see that such power of influence that you have is a great help in avoiding unwanted complications.”
“A help or a bad habit. I’m glad there are no such things between us anymore.”
“Mmm.” We sat close together on her settee and stared into the fire. Concerns over Warburton faded as I remembered what had brought me here. My heart began to ache.
Though she could not see my expression, she was quick to sense the change in my mood. “What is it, Jonathan?”
“I have some bad news.” God, was that all I could say about it?
But she heard the pain in my voice and turned around to face me.
I fumbled out the letter with some idea that she could read it for herself, but changed my mind. A summation was enough. More than enough. “My family. They want me to come home.”
Now she did take the paper from me and read it through. She said nothing.
Words were inadequate.
“It’s Father’s writing, but I know it must be my mother’s idea. Only she would be fool enough to tear me out of here before my studies were complete. It’s so utterly witless! How could she do this to me?”
“Are you unhappy only about your studies?”
“Of course not! I hope you don’t think—”
“No, Jonathan,” she said gravely “I know you better than that.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“From what you’ve told me of your father he would be most reluctant to have you break off your education here . . . unless they really need you as he says.”
“Our home is hardly in the thick of things. As far as anyone’s concerned all the turmoil is in Boston, Philadelphia, and Virginia. We’re miles and miles from those places, surrounded by British troops and other Tories, why should they need me?”
“It might be a case of want, rather than need,” she gently pointed out. “I think that your father is afraid.”
A bitter retort to gainsay that almost burst from me, but died when I saw her sad look. I took back the letter and read it again. The truth, as seen from this view, seemed to jump out and strike me right in the heart. I hadn’t wanted to see it before.
“But I can’t leave you, Nora,” I said, tears creeping into my own voice now. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“Hush,” was all she said. She pulled me close, until my head rested on her breast, and wrapped her arms around me, comforting and warm. Part of me wanted to weep, but I did not. What would be the use?
* * *
I all but crawled back to my room some hours later, dejected and hopeless and with no idea of how to avoid my duty to my father. I’d asked Nora if she’d be willing to come to Long Island with me, but she would not give an answer. That had hurt, for I’d wanted her to immediately say yes. She was honest, though. She did not know what to tell me.
“There is so much to think about,” she said. “Give me the time to think it.”
Pressing her for a decision would be importune. All I could do was accept and await. At least she’d not given a flat-out refusal.
The last person I wanted to see was Tony Warburton, but there he was lolling in his chair in the sitting room we shared, apparently waiting for me. Two empty wine bottles stood on the table next to him and he was in the process of draining away a third as I walked in. Nora’s intervention had only postponed the inevitable. Somehow, I would have to resolve things with him in a way that would not result in a duel.
“Barrett,” he said. He looked embarrassed and shy and his gaze did not quite meet mine. His anger was gone.
I hadn’t known what to expect: a challenge, censure, insults—anything but remorse. My own anger magically evaporated. I was sorry for him, but did not feel up to more talk, especially since he was drunk. I made to go past to my own room, but he lurched from his chair to head me off.
“Please . . . Barrett, please hear me out. I just wanted to apologize.” His words were slurred, but sincere. A drunkard’s sincerity, I thought. Oh, well, forgiveness was easy enough to find in my present mood. I had other things on my mind now.
“It’s all right. I shouldn’t worry about it anymore if I were you.”
His slack jaw waggled a bit. “Oh, I say, you are such a decent man. I’m . . .I’ve been so wretched since . . . I said a lot that I don’t mean, and I’m truly sorry.”
“Yes, well, it’s past, don’t worry about it.”
“But I—”
“Get some sleep, Warburton.”
“No, I need . . . I must apologize to Nora as well. I was too horrible to her. I won’t ask her to forgive me, but I will apologize. I only want to do that and then I shan’t bother her again. On my honor.” He spread his hand over his heart.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tonight! It must be tonight.”
“No, you’re much too . . . tired.” I nearly said “drunk.”
“Tonight,” he insisted and pushed away from me. He found his cloak and dragged it over his shoulders. “You must come. She won’t see me unless you’re there.”
I thought of trying again to persuade him to sleep, but knew it wouldn’t work. He’d had just enough to be unreasonable and need watching, but not so much as to be incapable. He would go, with or without me, and in his condition he’d probably fall and drown in a gutter. Perhaps the cold air would clear his head and I could talk him out of it for the moment. I hoped Nora would understand if I could not.
The weather hadn’t improved; we were soaked when we reached her house. Warburton had forgotten his stick, so I lent him mine to steady his steps. He leaned on it and bleated on about what a thoughtless oaf he was. I shivered and silently agreed with him as we tottered over the last few yards.
“At least knock first,” I admonished, but he opened the door himself and walked right in.
“Shh,” he said, finger to his lips. “Don’t want to wake anyone. Only Nora, but she’ll be awake. Keeps late hours, y’know. Very, very late hours.” He broke off in a sodden grin.
“What is this?” Nora emerged from the drawing room where I’d left her. “Jonathan, what is going on?”
I felt supremely foolish standing there holding Warburton up. “He wanted to apologize. I couldn’t stop him and thought it better to come along.”
Her exasperation never quite developed. She saw Warburton’s condition and how things stood. Or wobbled. “Very well.”
Oblivious to us, Warburton broke away from me to plow into the drawing room, muttering about the brandy there.
“One more drink and he’ll have to be carried home,” I said. “I’m sorry, Nora.”
She dismissed my contrition with a smile and a shake of her head. “Go take care of him. I’ll see if there’s hot tea or coffee left in the kitchen.”
As expected, Warburton poured brandy for himself. He looked up as I came in. “Where’s the beauteous Miss Jones?”
“She’ll be back.”
“No. I want her here. She must be here.” His sentimental repentance was rapidly vanishing, threatening to turn into belligerence.
I sighed. The tea would have to wait. “I’ll fetch her.”
He brightened. “You’re a true friend, Barrett.”
A patient one, I thought, turning away. Calling for Nora at the door, I only just caught her murmured acknowledgment from down the hall. Behind me, I heard two quick steps, but there was no time to look back to see what he was doing.
Something went crack. The room was engulfed in a dull white sheet and my legs collapsed. I didn’t see so much as feel the floor coming up.
When the white leached away I became acutely aware of a hideous knot of agony on the back of my head and my inability to move. I could breathe and suffer pain. That was all.
And see. Yes. That was Tony Warburton standing over me. Holding my stick. His movements were in control and quite steady. His face was no longer slack from drink.
His face . . .
Dear God.
“A true friend, Barrett,” he whispered.
I tried to speak. Nothing happened. Too much pain was in the way. Holding the cane in both hands, he gave it a twist. I’d shown him and others the trick of it during practice at the fencing gallery. The handle came free and out slid a yard of Spanish steel, sharp as a razor.
No . . .
I must have made some sound; he raised one booted foot above my belly and shoved down hard with all his weight. Air vomited from my lungs. No breath, no movement, no way to warn Nora—who was just coming in the door—but he was ready for that and whipped around in time with the blade level and his arm went straight and all she could do was give a little wondering gasp as the steel vanished into her breast.
She seemed to hang frozen in the air, held up by the thin blade alone. Her quivering hands hovered around it as though seeking a way to take hold and pull it out. Her eyes flashed first shock, pain, and more pain as she realized his betrayal. They flickered at me, fearful. I was able to open my hand toward her. Nothing more.
Blood appeared on the ivory satin of her bodice. Over her heart.
Warburton made a soft exhalation, like a laugh.
Nora swayed to one side and fell heavily against the wall, flinging her arms out for balance. Warburton, still holding the sword-stick, followed
her movement as though they were dancers.
Within my mind, I howled.
Without, silence.
Silence . . . until Nora slipped to the floor with a whisper of fabric and her lips forming a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. Her wide skirts floated around her like flower petals. She stared at him the whole time, eyes brimming with anguish and anger and sorrow and loathing; stared until her eyes became fixed and empty and all motion and feeling drained away.
Only then did Warburton draw the blade from her body. He swept it clear with savage efficiency. Drops of her blood spattered the flowered wallpaper.
He turned. Looked from her to me. He loomed tall as a giant and swung the sword so that the point lightly tapped, tapped, tapped just below my chin. He smiled at me. Cheerful, bright, interested, and utterly normal—the same smile I’d seen the day I first met him. The smile of a sane man who is not sane.
He reached down to tear open my neckcloth, the easier to draw the sword across, from ear to ear. Better to remove the impediment than to cut through it. It flashed through my mind that things might look as though I’d killed Nora and then myself. He couldn’t know about my letter from home, but it would inspire an explanation for this slaughter.
He placed the sword’s edge against my throat. I felt its hot pressure. Part of me would welcome what was to come for I would be with Nora, another part raged against it, denied it, fought it—
And could do nothing, nothing, to stop him. He batted my feeble hands away with no effort.
Useless. Useless.
If heaven were not my destination, then hell could offer no worse than the absolute helplessness I felt.
The blade pressed upon my naked skin. It was stained with her blood. He made that soft laughing sound again. All I could manage was a groan as his arm flexed to drive—
Something seized his wrist like a striking snake. The sword jerked up and away from my throat.
Astonishment froze Warburton for an instant. He stared, incredulous, before reason returned and told him that what he saw simply could not be possible. She had to be—must be—dead. The blood was yet there on her dress . . . God in heaven, I could smell it. No one could survive such an awful wound. . . . No one human, I wailed.
