Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “I thought you had needlework to keep you busy.”

  “But the play is most excellent, all about Perseus, I mean Pericles, and how he solved a riddle, but had to run away because the king who posed the riddle was afraid his secret might be revealed.”

  I choked and tried to catch Ann’s eye.

  “And what secret would that be?”

  My cousin noticed me shaking my head in silent warning. Ann’s mouth opened, but no sound issued forth. She went sheet-white. Though the family did not speak of such things openly, she’d seen and overheard enough to know she’d strayed into a forbidden area. One more word could set Mother off into one of her distracted rages.

  “Well? Speak, girl.”

  “The language is convoluted,” I said, stepping in before things turned awkward. Time to play the talkative ass since Mother tended to dismiss my musings as blather beneath her notice. I’d used the ploy before. “We’re trying to work out the meaning. Really now, he uses fifty words where one would suit just as well. I wish the Bard had set things down more plainly, but then he wouldn’t be nearly as interesting. I don’t know how Anne does it; she’s uncommonly excellent at the stuff, but it makes my head spin right around and no mistake.”

  Anne shut her mouth and gave me a grateful look. Shakespeare spoke much of noble virtues, but, being a wily fellow, knew that base vices were of far greater interest to his varied audience. Sweet Cousin Anne was no exception to that rule. She’d belatedly realized that a revelation of the ancient king’s incest with his daughter was not exactly a fit topic for parlor conversation, especially here. We were on dangerous ground, considering Mother’s foul delusions. Father, who was not immune to her accusations, had gone still when Anne had floundered for an answer. He’d read the play and knew the dreadful answer. Beldon also, for he lifted his head, listening and tense while pretending to study his hand. He must have been prepared to rush upstairs for his medicine box if things got out of hand.

  Mother sniffed. To everyone’s relief, she turned back to her game. “It’s your time to waste, I suppose. If your head spins so much, then find better things to do with it.”

  And just how is card play especially better? I thought. For a moment I was glad to preclude a problem by shifting her attention to me. But Mother’s dismissive comment and insulting tone kindled a sudden white hot resentment. I hated that we had to tread softly and constantly be on guard in her presence. One misplaced word or an innocent glance could be enough to set her off, and it was nearly impossible to avoid, for her sickness twisted things to her whim. It held dark sway over us all, like a tangible shadow.

  My face felt brittle under the skin, and all I wanted was to get out of there before anything shattered. Excusing myself to Ann, I took my leave, hoping it did not appear too hasty.

  Sanctuary awaited in the library. It was without light, but I had no need for a candle. The curtains were wide. I eased the door shut against the rest of the house and, free of observation, gave silent vent to my agitation. How dare Mother deride our little pleasures when her own were so empty? I suppose she’d prefer it if all the world spent its day in idle gossip and whiled away the night playing cards. It would bloody well serve her right if that happened. . ..

  It was childish, perhaps, to mouth curses, grimace, make fists, and shake them at Mother’s portrait over the fireplace, but I felt better for it. I could not, at that moment, tell myself she was a wounded and generally ignorant soul, for the anger was too strong to respond to reason; perhaps it was my Fonteyn blood making itself felt. Happily, the Barrett side had had enough control to remove me from the source of my pique. To directly express it to Mother would have been most unwise (and a waste of effort), but here I was free to indulge my temper.

  God, but I would be glad to leave her behind. Even Mrs. Hardinbrook, a dull, toad-eating gossip if ever one was born, was better company than Mother, if only for being infinitely more polite.

  My fit had almost subsided when the door was opened and Father looked in.

  “Jonathan?” He peered around doubtfully in what to him was a dark chamber.

  “Here, sir,” I responded, forcefully composing myself and stepping forward so he might see.

  “Whatever are you doing here in the . . . oh. Never mind, then.” He came in, memory and habit guiding him across the floor toward the long windows where some light seeped through. “There, that’s better.”

  “I’ll go fetch a candle.”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself, this is fine. I can more or less see you now. There’s enough moon for it.”

  “Is the card game ended?”

  “It has for me. I wanted to speak to you.”

  “I am sorry about the banging door, sir,” I said, anticipating him.

  “What?”

  “When I came home this morning. Jericho gave me to understand how unsettling it was to the household. I apologize.”

  “Accepted, laddie. It did startle us a bit, but once we’d worked out that it was you, things were all right. Come tomorrow it’ll be quiet enough ’round here.”

  Not as quiet as one might wish, I thought, grinding my teeth. I’d be leaving Father behind. He’d made no complaint, understanding how important it was that I go find Nora again, but it wasn’t fair to him. I had asked him to come along, but he said he must remain to look after things and I was not to worry.

  Father unlocked and opened the window to bring in the night air. We’d gotten into the habit of locking them before quitting a room. The greater conflict outside of our little part of the world had also thrown its shadow upon us. Times had changed . . . for the worse.

  “I saw how upset you were when you left,” he said, looking directly at me.

  Putting my hands in my pockets, I leaned against the wall next to the window frame. “I should not have let myself be overcome by such a trifle.”

  “Fleabites, laddie. Get enough of them and the best of us can lose control. You did well by yourself to leave.”

  “Has something else happened?” I was concerned for Ann.

  “No. Your mother’s quiet enough. She behaves herself more or less when Beldon or Mrs. Hardinbrook are with her.”

  And around Father. Sometimes. Months back I’d taken it upon myself to influence Mother into a kinder attitude toward him. My admonishment to her to refrain from hurting or harming him in any way had worked well at first, but her natural inclination for inflicting little (and great) cruelties upon others had gradually eroded the suggestion. Of late I’d been debating whether or not to risk a repetition of my action. I say risk, because Father had no knowledge of what I’d done. It was not something of which I was proud, and I was certain he would forbid it.

  “I wish she would show as much restraint with Ann,” I said. “It’s sinful how she berates that girl for nothing. Our little cousin really should come with us to England.”

  “They had a difficult enough time getting her to take the ferry from New York to Brooklyn. She’s no sailor and more’s the pity.”

  Indeed. A trip to England would do her great good, but Anne was genuinely frightened and made ill by water travel, and had firmly declined the invitation to come with me and Elizabeth.

  “What about yourself?” asked Father, referring to my own problem with water.

  “I shall be all right.”

  At least I hoped so. the streams that flowed through our lands had come to be something of a barrier to me, a fact that I’d discovered the first time I’d tried crossing one on my own after my change. What had once been an easily forded rivulet had become a near impassable torrent as far as I was concerned. My feet dragged like iron weights over the streambed and the water felt so chill as to burn me to the bone, or so it seemed to my exaggerated senses. Father and I investigated the phenomenon at length, but could make no sense of this strange limitation I’d acquired. Like my ability to vanish, we connect
ed it to my condition and had as yet found no cure.

  Yet another question for Nora.

  Thankfully, I was able to manage water crossings on horseback or in a wagon, though it was hard going. I’d reasoned that taking a ship would entail about the same level of difficulty and was prepared to tolerate the inconvenience. It could be no worse than the bout of seasickness I’d suffered during my initial voyage to England four years ago. That had worn off as my body got used to the motion of the ship, and in this coming voyage I counted on a similar recovery.

  Not that I was giving myself much of a choice. If I had to put up with the discomfort for the next two months or more, then so be it. To England I would go.

  “Your livestock were sent ahead to the ship this morning,” said Father. “I hope to God it arrives safely.”

  “I’m certain it will.”

  His eyes gleamed with amusement. “You spoke to Lieutenant Nash?”

  “At length. He’ll provide as safe an escort as any might hope for in these times.”

  “My thought is that you’ve gotten a fox to guard your henhouse.”

  “This fox is well trained, sir.”

  Nash, the officer in charge of the profitable work of collecting supplies for the commissary, possessed the soul of a rapacious vulture, but early in our acquaintance I’d been able to successfully curb his greedy nature to something more moderate. On more than one occasion, I’d been able to put the fear of God into him by means of my unnatural influence, and he took care to pay attention to any little requests we might present to him as though they were written orders from the King himself. In turn, we were most careful not to abuse our advantage lest it draw unwelcome notice upon us.

  In this instance, the request was to provide a safe escort for the cattle I would be taking to England. Nash was to make sure that all of them were put aboard without incident. Such an undertaking was highly unusual, but my need was great enough that I had no heavy weight on my conscience suborning one of the King’s officers to be my private agent for such a task. Only Nash had sufficient authority to protect the stock and see that they and their fodder for the trip were safely delivered.

  Also, with the British army and the Hessians on one side and the rebels on the other, and all of them hungry as wolves for fresh beef, the idea of taking good cattle out of the country bordered on madness. But I would need to feed myself on the voyage, and for that I required a ready supply of animal blood. I hoped a dozen would be more than sufficient for my modest appetite, since I had no plans for indulging in any unnatural exertions like flying or vanishing while aboard. My only real worry was that the animals might not survive an ocean voyage. Well, if they all died, then so be it. I was not adverse to drinking human blood for food if necessity forced me to such an extreme. My power of influence would help there.

  Father and I had devoted much thought to the framing of just how to ship the beasts and had planned things carefully. Between us, fees (and bribes) were paid, documents were issued, stamped and made inarguably legal in ways that only an experienced lawyer could devise. In the end, we’d obtained permission from His Majesty’s servants in charge of hindering honest travelers to ship one dozen heifers to England ostensibly for the purpose of breeding them to superior stock owned by the Fonteyn side of the family. The logical thing to do, as was pointed out to us by the first official we’d encountered, would be to purchase a bull in England and bring it here, thus reducing our expenses on the venture. I’d “persuaded” the fellow and all the others that came after not to argue, but to simply make the arrangements as we desired, without question.

  None of it had been easy, but there is a great satisfaction to be derived from the accomplishment of a difficult endeavor. Perhaps I would feel this particular satisfaction again once we made landfall in England, God willing.

  “Trained or not, I shan’t feel easy in my heart until I see the results of the lieutenant’s work for myself,” said Father.

  His voice did not sound right to me, having in it an odd note of strain that I did not like one whit. “What is it, sir?”

  He thought long before answering, or so it seemed to me as I waited. He gave a half shrug and nearly smiled, an expression remarkably similar to Elizabeth’s own subdued efforts of late. “I shall have to tell you, I see that well enough, and hope that you can forgive me for adding another worry to the others you carry.”

  “Worry?”

  His raised hand held back the formation of more specific questions from me. He pushed the window wide. “Come along, laddie,” he said and stepped over the low sill, quick as a thief.

  Too startled to comment at this unorthodox exit, I followed, recovering enough wit to remember to close my gaping mouth.

  Father led the way around toward the parlor window and stopped close enough that we might see those within, but yet be concealed from them by the darkness. He signed for me to look inside, and I obeyed. It was a cozy enough scene to behold: Anne read her book, and the others still played at their cards. All was peaceful. Normal. Familiar.

  I turned back to Father and indicated that I did not understand his reason for showing this. He moved back a little distance now, so there would be no chance of anyone overhearing us.

  “Is this what you thought might worry me?”

  “I’m coming to the worry, laddie.” He struck off slowly over the grounds, his gaze hardly leaving the house as we gradually began to pace around it. “It concerns the French,” he stated.

  Father had a manner about him when he was in a light mood and wanting to be humorous. That manner was lacking in him now, so I understood he was not trying to make some sort of an oblique jest. That was all I understood, though. “Sir?”

  “The damned French. You mark me, they’ll be coming into this war like wolves to a carcass. You’ve heard the news but have you worked out what it means?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that the French are sending ships loaded with holy water and rosaries and are determined to make us all Catholic.”

  Father paused and laughed at that one, just as I had done when I’d first caught wind of it at The Oak. Presumably, all good members of the English Church would be righteously horrified at the prospect of a forced conversion to an alien faith. Those who were less than firm in their loyalty to the King might then be persuaded to a more wholehearted support of his rule. It was an utterly ridiculous threat, of course, but some of our sovereign’s more excitable subjects were taking it seriously.

  “France will be sending shiploads of cargo,” said Father, “but it will be gunpowder, arms and money. Some of their young rascals have already come over to lend support to the rebel cause; it’s only a matter of time before their government officially follows. We slapped them hard fourteen years ago, and they’re still stinging from it. They want revenge against England and this damned rebellion is the means.”

  “But they’ll be risking another war.”

  “Possibly. My thought is that they’ll play the rebels against the Crown for as much as it’s worth. Wars are expensive, but this one won’t have a high price for them at all if they work it to their advantage. ’Tis a fine way to weaken both sides with little effort on their part. Gives them a chance to put themselves ahead.”

  “You’d think the Congress over here would see through the ploy.”

  “Some of the clever ones do, of that I have no doubt, but they’re so desperate for help they dare not say a word to the people they claim to represent. I’ve no trust for them. My God, barely a year before they came out with that damnable declaration against the King they were just as loudly voicing their undying loyalty to him. Bloody liars and rogues, the lot of them.”

  I made a noise to indicate my agreement with that sentiment. “And fools, if they will risk trusting the French.”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “But this worry you spoke of . . . .”

  Father
paused. We’d climbed a little rise and had the pleasure of viewing the house and much of its surrounding grounds. He glanced at me, then extended his arm to take in all that lay before us. “This,” he said, “won’t last.” It was a flat and inarguable statement.

  Inarguable, but needing an explanation. I asked for one.

  “We’ve been safe enough here almost from the start. There have been raids and outrages and theft, but nothing like real war, Jonathan. The west end of the Island saw that when General Howe’s men landed. Stock was killed, crops burned to the roots, houses looted and burned and the owners turned out to fend for themselves on what was left. ’Tis one thing to hear of it, but another to have the experience, and we were spared only by God’s grace and Washington’s prudence in running like a rabbit in another direction. I don’t think we can count on many more such miracles.”

  “But the fighting is over. Gone from here, anyway.”

  “Who’s to say it won’t return, though? This has become a civil war with Englishman against Englishman, with each side regarding the other as the worst kind of traitor. Those are the most evil and the bitterest of conflicts, and when peace finally comes it won’t matter which side you were on, for there will be reprisals for all.”

  “But the King must win. What else is possible? And I can’t believe that he would be so ignorant as to punish those who have remained loyal to him.”

  “Stranger things have happened. Oh, don’t be alarmed, I’m not speaking treason, I just want you to know that I’ve had some hard thought over how the world has changed for us and how it is likely to continue changing, and not necessarily to our favor or liking.”

  “How can it not be in our favor once the rebels are subdued?”

  “Reprisals, laddie. Not just in taxes to pay for the war, but court work and plenty of it. More than enough to keep me busy for the rest of my days . . . but I’ve no belly for it.”

  I couldn’t help but stare. Father loved his vocation, or so he’d always told me.