Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  He nodded at my reaction. “This won’t be arguing the ownership of a stray sheep, or who’s the rightful master of what parcel of land, or anything like that. This will be the trying of traitors, the confiscation of their property, jailings, floggings, hangings. Some have used the cloak of patriotism to cover their thefts and murders, and they will get all that they deserve, in this world or the next, but what of the others whose only crime may have been to read the wrong newspaper? I will not be a party to that, to punishing a man just because he thinks differently from me.”

  “You won’t have to do any such thing, sir.”

  “Won’t I? If I do not fulfill the duties thrust upon me by the court, then might I not also be a traitor to the Crown?” He waved his hand against my protest and I fell silent, for I knew that he was right.

  “What’s to be done, then?”

  He gave no answer, but sat on the grass, still facing the house. I sat next to him, plucking up a loose stone to play with. His somber mood had transferred onto me and I wanted distraction for my hands.

  “What’s to be done,” he finally said in a heavy voice, “is to move back to England.”

  Had he picked up a stone himself and lobbed it square between my eyes, I could not have been more stunned.

  He continued, “And before you say aught else, remember that I’ve first put much hard thought into my decision.”

  In truth, I could not bring myself to say a damned thing for a considerable period. It seemed too much an effort even to think, but think I must if I was to understand.

  He seemed to anticipate the questions taking form in my mind. “You know why we came here all those years ago? Your mother and I?”

  “To put distance between yourself and her father, you told us,” I mumbled, too shaken yet to raise my voice. I made a fist around the little piece of rock and the edges dug into my palm.

  “Exactly. Old Judge Fonteyn was a monster and no mistake. He did all he could to make our lives miserable, using his influence to intimidate your mother into obedience to his will long after she was a settled matron with a home of her own. How that old sinner could howl and rage, but I had thought that would end once I’d put an ocean between us. And it worked, for a time.”

  Until things had gone wrong between Father and Mother and she’d left him on Long Island to live a separate life in Philadelphia.

  He grimaced. “I won’t repeat what you already know. What it has come to is this: the judge is long dead, and his threat upon my marriage fulfilled itself long ago, so my reason for staying on here has quite vanished. Combine that with the fact that you and Elizabeth are grown adults and more than capable of being on your own, an endeavor you’re about to undertake, anyway. Combine it again with the fact that the conflicts taking place around us have made this a most hazardous place in which to live. I’ve no sane reason to remain.”

  “But this is our home,” I said, aware of the plaintive whine in my voice, but not caring.

  “Only for as long as no one takes it from us. The rebels have confiscated property before, you’ve read the accounts and heard them at The Oak. If there should be an unforeseen setback and our army is forced from this island, those bastards from Connecticut will be over here with the next turn of the tide ready to pick us clean in the name of their precious Continental Congress.”

  It was impossible to conceive of that ever happening, but the raids from across the Sound were real enough. We’d been watchful of our own and had been lucky, but many of our friends had not been so blessed. The story was still fresh of how two of the DeQuincey daughters had been burned out of their house and forced into the woods, barefoot, with only their nightdresses to protect them from the March cold. They’d managed to reach the safety of their uncle’s home some miles away, but not without great suffering and terror. Their attackers had even chased them for a goodly distance, hooting after them like schoolboys on a lark. The great Sons of Liberty had given up the hunt, fortunately, wanting to return to their booty-laden whaleboat before the coming of dawn.

  That could happen to us, I thought. We were not immune. No one could be so long as such men roamed free who were base enough to think that two helpless girls were such a grave threat to their miserable cause. I now understood Father’s worry, but that understanding did not make his words easier to accept.

  He plucked a blade of grass and began to shred it, still looking at the house. At our house.

  “This is different for you, laddie, I know that, for you were bred and born here. For myself, it has been a home, but never really mine. The lands, the house, all that belongs to your mother because of the agreement I’d signed before our marriage. I’ve done well enough in my life. I’ve a few pennies scraped together from my practice and that’s all I need for my comfort, but not here, not anymore. I’ve lived through one war and count myself blessed that Providence saw fit to spare me, but I’ve no desire to go through another, nor do I want my children to endure any part of what’s likely to come. You’ve had more than your portion of grief already, as we all have.” He let the remains of the grass blade slip away unheeded. “Dear Lord, but we don’t need more. Had it not been for your Miss Jones, we’d have lost you last year. For a hellish time I thought we had. . . .”

  His voice caught and I put my hand on his shoulder. My own throat had gone tight in reaction. “It’s all right, Father.”

  He sniffed and laughed a little. “Yes, by God it is, laddie. I just want to keep it so.”

  “Are you saying that you’re coming with us?”

  He gave a thick cough and impatiently rubbed his nose. “Not this voyage, there’s too much preparation to do first. But soon. That’s the worry I was meaning and I’m sorry to thrust it upon you the night before you leave, but it wanted saying while there was still time to say it. Better now than later in a letter sent to England that will be months out of date by the time you get it.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize, sir.”

  “Well, I thought I should try to be polite about it, considering what a shock this is.”

  I smiled and eased my grasp upon the rock. How appropriate. What matter if I never returned to this place again if Father moved to England? Home was where we were all together, not any plot of land.

  “When will you tell Elizabeth?”

  “Tomorrow. Before we take the carriage to the harbor.”

  “Why did you not tell us together?”

  “I’d not planned to say anything, but I realized the time had come. Besides, giving the news to one of you is formidable enough, but both at once . . . .” He shook his head as though my sister and I could have overwhelmed him in some way, as we had done in play as children when trying to wheedle a special favor from him. But then as now, we knew when he could be persuaded and when he could not. Father had made up his mind, and it was not for me to question his judgment, though I yet had questions on other things.

  “Sir, you had me look at the others through the parlor window, but I still do not quite have the purpose of it.”

  “I wanted you to see how things are for us when compared to the rest of the world. There is a kind of peace here, but it’s so damnably fragile. Any banditti claiming to be part of Washington’s army can come day or night and shatter it forever. This is your home, but would you rather say good-bye to it now of your own volition and remember it as it is or wait, and live with the possibility that someone will come along to take it all away? If that were to happen, then nothing would ever be the same. This sanctuary and any others replacing it would ever and always be tainted by such an invasion.”

  And in that I could hear echoes of what his mistress, Mrs. Montagu, had frequently said to him on the subject. Last December her house had been broken into by rebels and thoroughly looted. Despite the repairs made and support he had given her over the months, she was still subject to distress in her own home and, though better prepared than
before, was ever in fear of another attack. I asked after her.

  “She’s well enough.”

  “What I mean is, if you’re planning a return to England, what will happen to her? Have you told her?”

  “Laddie,” he said, sounding amused, “it was her suggestion that gave me the idea.”

  Well-a-day. Mrs. Montagu was a kind woman, for whom I had a great fondness. As I had lacked a mother for the greater part of my life, she had filled that need in me to a goodly degree. “Then she’s preparing to leave as well? When?”

  “Soon. That’s all I can say. There’s much that must be done first . . . like dealing with your mother.”

  Good God. My face fell at the thought of her. She almost surely promised to be as fell an obstacle as any in Father’s path. “What will you do?”

  “I . . . haven’t quite worked that out,” he confessed. “I’m of a divided mind on whether to present it to her as a concluded arrangement, or to find a way for her to come up with the idea herself. The latter is more appealing to me as it is bound to be quieter.”

  “It would certainly appeal to Mother’s nature, especially if she thought you might not—” I cut off what was to come next, realizing how it would sound, but Father only smiled.

  “Thought I might not like it? I know you meant no disrespect, only that you understand how her mind works. Then so be it. That shall be my strategy, though I doubt it will take much to put her onto the business. She has family in England she hasn’t seen for decades, like that harpy of a sister who runs things.”

  And people, too. Aunt Fonteyn, as she chose to call herself. Horrible woman. In some ways worse than Mother. At least I wouldn’t be dependent upon her as were so many of her other relatives. I could thank my inheritance from Grandfather Fonteyn for that blessing.

  “What about Dr. Beldon?” I asked. If Father intended to take Mother on a long voyage, Beldon and certainly Mrs. Hardinbrook would be necessary to help maintain his treasured peace.

  “Gotten to like him, have you?” His eyes twinkled. We all knew that Beldon preferred the company of men and that he was fond of me in that manner. Happily, being a well-mannered sort, he’d not acted upon those inclinations.

  “When he’s not playing the toady, he’s witty enough company,” I conceded.

  “First I’ll see about persuading your mother. Then I’ll worry about the others.”

  I did not ask if he had thought of simply leaving on his own, for that would have been an unforgivable insult to his honor. He was a good and decent man, laboring to keep firm to the vow he’d made on his wedding day. No matter that their love had died: his promise to care for and protect his wife was to be observed. To ignore that promise for his own convenience would violate all that he held sacred. He would sooner hang himself in church during Sunday services than forget it.

  Many another man would not have put up with such a wife, but my father was of a different heart than they. I was glad of him and proud of him, and sorry for the pain he’d endured and hopeful that the future might somehow be easier for him. For us all.

  All. Thus was I reminded to speak on another’s behalf.

  “I must ask one thing of you, sir. Please don’t wait until the morrow to tell Elizabeth. It wouldn’t be fair to her. She needs . . . the time.”

  “Time?”

  “So she can say good-bye.”

  He saw my point, nodding. We’d already made our partings with our friends, but not with the land itself. We might never see our beautiful house again, or the fields around it, or the thousand treasured places we’d explored while growing up. Certainly I’d said farewell before when I’d been packed off to Cambridge, but my home had ever been secure in mind and memory, waiting to welcome me back again upon my return.

  No more. And that was a heavy sadness to carry along when, after quite a lot more talk and questions, I took my leave from Father and began walking. Aimless at first, I’d intended to wander the estate and simply stroll the night away. It seemed the best manner in which to bid farewell to my favorite haunts, but I found myself going instead to a place I’d shunned for far too long. Just over a year had passed since I’d last been there, and throughout that time the mere thought of it never failed to make me physically ill.

  Not without excellent reason.

  As children, Elizabeth, Jericho and I had played there. We called it the Captain’s Kettle, a deep arena gouged out by an ancient and long-vanished glacier. A special place, a magical place, protected by the innocence of young memory from the harsh assaults of adulthood. We pretended to be pirates hunting for Captain Kidd’s treasure, or scouts and Indians; we gamed and quarreled and laughed and sang as our mood dictated. At one time I’d regarded it as a refuge. Safe. But that illusion, like many others as my view of the world expanded, was gone.

  Now I stood close by one edge, on the very spot where the musket ball had slammed into my chest, where interminable seconds later I’d gasped out the last of the life I’d known to fall helplessly into what would be the first of my daytime sleeps. If dreams had come to me during that period or if I’d been somehow aware of the goings-on about me, it was just as well no memories lingered to sear my mind. Those I did possess were sufficiently wretched, so much so that I had to cling hard to a tree to keep from collapsing beneath their weight.

  My knees began quaking long before arrival to this ground, though I told myself that anticipation made the endeavor more difficult than the actuality. Only by this inner chiding was I able to goad myself into coming, to attempt to look upon the last place on earth where I’d felt the then-welcome blaze of sunlight and breathed the free air without conscious effort.

  Nothing had changed here, nor had I expected it to; only my perception of it had suffered for the worse. A childhood playground had been corrupted into a vile pit of black dread, and since the possibility that I might never see it again had become a surety, I’d convinced myself of the perverse necessity of coming here in the hope of ridding myself of the darkness by facing it. But as I held hard to the tree to keep steady, eyes squeezed tight against the view, the need was all but drowned by long-denied reaction. I hadn’t anticipated it being this bad; I felt smothered, cold . . . my hands, my whole body, shaking, shivering.

  This was a fool’s errand. An idiotic mistake. A disaster. A . . . .

  No. God give me strength to fight this. And I started to mutter a prayer, but could not finish it. No matter. The mere intent to pray was a calming influence, reminding me that I was yet in God’s hands.

  The experience of my death had been hideous, but it was past and done. Fool or no, idiot or no, I would not let myself be defeated by a mere memory. Back hunched as though bracing for a blow, I forced my eyes open.

  Grass, leaves, twigs and rock sorted themselves into recognizable shapes, no different from those cloaking the rest of our estate, to be walked over or kicked aside as needed. Trees emerged next, then a bit of sky. High above, the branches had laced themselves together. I stared at their canopy and felt my belly twisting in on itself, for they had been nearly my last view of the world as a living man.

  Not good. To look made me dizzy, not to look made me a coward. But a little illness was preferable now than to suffer lonely recriminations later; so I stared until my guts ceased to churn.

  Better. I straightened, discovering my legs were capable of supporting me unassisted. Releasing my grasp of the tree, I stepped unsteadily closer to the edge of the kettle and looked down. Looked across. Looked to the place where the Finch brothers had crouched, hiding from Hessian searchers. Looked to where I’d seen but not comprehended the meaning of a puff of smoke from a musket barrel aimed at my heart.

  I looked and waited for the next wave of illness to pass. It did not seem as severe as the others. The shakiness gradually subsided.

  Much better. I sat on the once bloodied patch of earth where I’d fallen. Cautiously. It
was impossible to rid myself of the notion that some trace of the agony I’d passed through might linger here to seize me once more.

  An abrupt twinge through my chest did make me wince, but that, as I well knew, originated in my mind. A memory of pain, but not pain itself. No need to fear. No need. Really.

  Father had taught us always to face our fears. Talk about them if need be, then look at them and decide if they’re worth further worry. That had ever and always worked in the past, and since my change I’d seen the need to face this one eventually. But I’d never once spoken of it; not even Jericho knew. Telling others meant I’d have to take action, and to come here was a labor I’d not yet been ready to take on, or so I told myself each time I put it off. But no longer. That luxury was no longer mine to have.

  Drawing my knees up enough that I might rest my arms across them, I waited to see if more illness might seize me.

  Not exactly comfortable, I thought some time later as a stone ground against my backside. I shifted enough to allow a brief search for the offending rock, prying it free. I half expected it to be stained with old blood, but its rough surface proved to be as unblemished and innocuous as the rest of the area. Eventually I tossed it into the kettle, listening to it rattle through the trees and the faint thump when it struck the ground far below.

  I looked and waited, taking in the night sounds as I’d done the previous evening on the banks of the stream, but it wasn’t the same. The peace I’d known then had been sweet; was it so far from me now?

  Yes, I grumbled, especially if I had to stay here much longer.

  The tedium of waiting for another adverse reaction now became my chief adversary, not the illness. I began to drum my fingers, whistle without mind to the tune, and by degrees I came to think that I had more interesting things to do than this. But if I left now, would that be giving in?

  Decidedly not.

  Instead, I gave in to something resembling a laugh. It was breathy and had a small share of unease and subsided too quickly, yet was an indication of barely realized triumph.