by P. N. Elrod
For the sake of appearance and to discourage questions, I leaned heavily on his arm on our way out, keeping my head down. Not all of my weakness was a pose; I was enervated by the blood loss and would soon need to replace it. My energy came in fits and spurts; I’d have some vigorous moments, then sink into an abrupt lethargy as though my body was trying to conserve strength.
Though our concerned hosts were disappointed that I would not remain with them while I mended, they got us to the carriage without delay and we piled gratefully in.
“I’m sorry to have spoiled the party for you,” I said to Elizabeth as we settled ourselves.
She snorted. “After this kind of excitement, a masqued ball, no matter how elaborate, is but a tame occupation by comparison. I shall be in need of rest, anyway, for there will be a hundred callers coming ’round to the house tomorrow to see how things are with you. I hope Jericho and the staff will be up to the invasion. I’ll wager that most will be young ladies with their mothers, all hoping for a glimpse of you.”
My heart plummeted. “You can’t mean it—”
“I saw it in their faces before we left. There’s nothing so stirring to the feminine heart as watching a wounded duelist stoically dragging himself from the field of battle.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Indeed, many of the girls expressed disdain for any man unless he’s blazed away at another in the name of honor, or in your case taken up the sword to—”
“Enough, for heaven’s sake!” I moaned.
“No, little brother, I think this is but the beginning. Like it or not, you’ve become a hero. . . .”
“Oh, my God.”
Oliver’s gaze flicked back and forth between us and now came to rest on me. His mobile face twitched and heaved mightily with suppressed emotion for all of two seconds, then he burst forth with a roar of laughter.
Had Oliver not been in sore need of the distraction, I’d have objected to his finding humor in my situation, but I held my peace until he’d quite worked through it. By then we were home and trudging up to our respective rooms to prepare for bed, myself excepted, of course. I went to the parlor to rest a little while, until Jericho came in. Elizabeth had apparently told him about tonight’s adventure, for he raised no question concerning the bloodied bundle of clothes I handed him.
“Don’t know if you can mend ’em, but it might be a good idea not to let the servants see this lot. Might alarm them or something, and I’ve no wish to add to the gossip about this incident.”
“I shall be discreet, Mr. Jonathan. You’re certain that you are all right?”
“I think so, but for being wretchedly weak, and that will soon be remedied. Has the coachman finished with the horses?”
“He just came back from the stables and is having tea in the kitchen. The way is clear for you . . . unless you wish me to see to things?” he asked, obliquely referring to fetching the blood himself.
Tempting, but that would involve an additional wait. No, I was tired, but not that far gone. I told him as much and thanked him for the offer.
After he’d gone away to the kitchen, I traded the inadequate pirate cloak for my own heavy woolen one and slipped out the front door to walk unhurriedly around the house. The grounds of Oliver’s property were limited, with barely room for a small vegetable garden, now dormant, and the stables, but at least he had no need to board his carriage animals and hunter elsewhere. With Rolly added to this little herd, I had a more than adequate supply of nourishment for my needs, though other sources were available. London was positively bursting with horses, and should it have become necessary, I’d have been able to feed from them easily enough.
It was Rolly’s turn tonight. He’d filled out now that he was done with ocean voyaging. I’d been generous with his oats and had him groomed and walked every day to strengthen his legs, and the extra care showed in his bright eyes and shining coat. We’d lately been out for a sedate turn or two up and down the long street when the weather wasn’t too wet, so he wasn’t snappish for lack of exercise.
I offered him a lump of sugar as a bribe, soothed him down, and got on with my business. He held perfectly still even after I’d finished and wiped my lips clean. For that he got more sugar. Intelligent beast.
The blood granted its usual miracle of restoration on my battered body. I felt its heat spreading from the inside out, though it seemed particularly concentrated on my chest this night. The skin over my heart began to itch. Opening Brinsley’s shirt, I found the angry red patch around the fresh scar somewhat faded. Reassuring, that.
Since I was finally alone, though, I was free to take a shortcut to speed up my healing. I vanished.
Rolly didn’t like that much. Perhaps he could sense my presence in some way; perhaps it had to do with the cold I generated in this form. He stirred in his box, shying away in protest. To ease things for him, I quit the stables and floated through the doors into the yard, using memory to find the path leading to the house. Despite the buffeting of the wind, I was able to make my way back again to materialize in the parlor right before the fireplace.
Jericho, being extremely familiar with my habits, had built the fire into a fine big blaze during my absence and set out my slippers and dressing gown. I listened intently for a moment to the sounds of the house. Jericho was in the kitchen exchanging light conversation with the coachman and the cook. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the voices were calm, ordinary in tone, indicating that all was peaceful below-stairs. Just as well.
The itch in my chest was no more. A second look at the place of my wounding both reassured and astonished me. All trace of red was gone, and the scar appeared to be weeks old. In time, most probably after my next vanishing, it would disappear altogether.
Suddenly shivering, I pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat miserably huddled in my cloak.
I thought of Father, missing him and his sensible, comforting manner with me whenever life became troubling.
“You should be glad that you still have a life to be troubled about,” I muttered aloud. God knows with the times being what they were, had I not been cut down by that fool at the Captain’s Kettle over a year ago, I’d might well have met some other bad fate soon after.
And recovered from it. Because of my change.
A nasty bout of unease oozed through my belly as I pondered on how things might have been had I not met Nora. Without her, I’d have certainly stayed in my early grave; Elizabeth would be dead as well, foully and horribly murdered. That would have shattered Father, to lose us both.
I shivered again and told myself to stop being so morbid. It was because of that damned duel and that damned Thomas Ridley. The thought of him filled me with fury and disgust: the former for his picking the fight, the latter for his stupidity in continuing it. Blooding aside, I’d not enjoyed my revenge against him. My hand could still feel how my blade had stabbed into the tough resistance of his fleshy arm until it grated upon and was stopped by the bone beneath. A singularly unpleasant sensation, that. He’d be weeks healing, unless it became fevered, and then he’d either lose the arm or die.
Well, as with everything else, it was in God’s hands. No need for me to wallow in guilt for something not my fault. Yes, I had wanted to kill him for his insult to Elizabeth, but that desire had gone out of me after the first shock of my own wound had worn off. It was as though I’d seen just how foolish he was, like a child trying to threaten an adult with a twig. To be sure, he was a dangerous child, but he’d no idea of just how overmatched he’d been with me. And I . . . I’d forgotten the extent of my own capabilities, which made me a fool as well.
No more of that, Johnny-boy, I thought, shaking my head.
Warmer, I threw off the cloak, exchanging it for the dressing gown, and struggled to remove my boots. I’d just gotten my left heel lifted free, ready to slip the rest of the way out, when someone began
knocking at the front door.
Damnation, what now? Slamming my foot back into the boot, I made my frustrated way to the central hall and peered through one of the windows flanking the entrance.
A man wrapped in a dark cloak stood outside. For a mad second I thought he might be Ridley because of his size, but the set of his shoulders was more squared and there was nothing amiss with his right arm. He turned and raised it now to knock again and I caught his profile.
Cousin Edmond Fonteyn? What on earth did he want?
Probably come to berate me about the duel. He was something of a dogsbody to Aunt Fonteyn, and to her only, and if she wasn’t of a mind to vent her doubtless acid opinion of the matter herself, she’d have sent him in her stead. Not that I had a care for the substitution or even his presence. So much had happened tonight that I was simply unable to raise my usual twinge of guilt from having hung the cuckold’s horns on Edmond that Christmas years past.
“I’ll get it, sir,” said Jericho, emerging from the back.
“I’m here, no need.” Obligingly, I unbolted and opened the door, and Edmond swept in, seeming to fill the hall. It was not his size alone that did it so much as his manner. Stick-in-the-mud he might be, according to Oliver, but when he entered a room, people noticed.
“Hallo, Edmond,” I began. “If it’s about the duel, I can tell you—”
“Bother that,” he said, his brown eyes taking in the hall, noting Jericho’s presence, then fastening on me. “Where’s Oliver?”
“In bed by now.”
“Have him fetched without delay.”
Edmond always looked serious, but there was a dark urgency to him now that made my flesh creep with alarm. I signed to Jericho. He’d already started up the stairs.
“There’s a fire in the parlor,” I said, gesturing Edmond in the right direction.
He frowned at me briefly, then accepted the invitation, striding ahead without hurry. Under the cloak he still wore his Harlequin guise, though he’d traded the white skullcap for a normal hat. He wore no wig, revealing his close-cropped, graying hair. It should have made him seem vulnerable, half-dressed in some way, but did not.
“What’s all this about?” I asked.
His gaze raked me up and down, then turned toward the fire. “Duel,” he said. There was derision in his tone, like that of a schoolmaster for an especially backward student. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”
“The quarrel did not begin with me.” He continued to scowl, but with the right on my side, I met his look. “What have you heard of it? I’m sure there’s a dozen versions flying about by now, but if you want the truth . . . .”
He grunted, abruptly waving the business away. “Never mind, it’s of no importance.
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
“You’ll know soon enough,” he growled.
Very well, then, I’d not press things, for he appeared to be in a devilish mood. Edmond threw off tension the way a fire throws heat; I could almost feel myself starting to scorch from it. Relief flooded me when Oliver finally appeared, clad also in a dressing gown, but wearing slippers, not boots. He blinked drowsily and glanced past Edmond to me, silently asking for an explanation. I could only shrug.
“Oliver . . .” Edmond paused, visibly bracing himself. “Look, I’m very sorry, but something terrible has happened and I don’t quite know how to tell you.”
All vestige of sleep fell away from Oliver’s face at these alarming words and the tone behind them. “What’s happened?” he demanded.
“What?” I said at the same time.
“Your mother . . . there’s been an accident.”
“An acci—? What sort of—? Where is she?”
“At the Bolyns’. She had a fall. We think she slipped on some ice.”
“Is she all right?” Oliver stepped forward, his voice rising.
“She struck her head in the fall. I’m very sorry, Oliver, but she’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
In England, for those in high enough and wealthy enough circles, funerals were customarily held at night. It was just as well, as it would have raised adverse comment had I not attended, though it mattered little to me. I had absolutely no interest in paying artificial respects to so contemptible a woman whatever the demands of propriety; I was there for Oliver’s sake.
The weather was atrocious, with bitterly cold wind and cutting sleet—appropriate, considering Aunt Fonteyn’s foul temperament. Her final chance to inflict one last blast of misery upon her family, I thought, cowering with the rest as we followed the coffin to its final destination. I walked on one side of Oliver and Elizabeth walked on the other, offering what support we could with the bleak knowledge that it was not enough. The color had drained out of his face when Edmond delivered the news, and had yet to return. He was as gray and fragile as an old man; his eyes were disturbingly empty, as though he’d gone to sleep but forgotten to close them.
I hoped that once the horror of the entombment was over, he might begin to recover himself. The ties are strong between a mother and child, whether they love each other or not; when those ties are irreparably severed, the survivor is going to have a strong reaction of some kind. For all his years of abuse from her, for all his mutterings against her, she was, as he’d said, the only mother he had. Even if he’d come to hate her, she’d still been a major influence in his life—unpleasant, but at least familiar. Her sudden absence would bring change, and change is frightening when one is utterly unprepared. Certainly I could attest to the truth of that in light of my past experience with death and the profound turns of fate it had delivered to my family.
The memory of my demise came forcibly back as we shivered here in the family mausoleum a quarter mile from Fonteyn House. No mixing with other folk in the churchyard for this family; the Fonteyns would share eternity with their own kind, thank you very much. And no muddy graves, either, but a spacious and magnificent sepulcher fit for royalty, large enough to hold many future generations of their ilk.
The huge structure had been built by Grandfather Fonteyn, who moldered in a carved marble sarcophagus a few yards from where I stood. His eldest daughter’s coffin was even now being lowered next it by the pallbearers. Tomorrow its stone cover with a brass plate bearing her name would be mortared into place for all time.
As depressing as it was to stand here surrounded by the Fonteyn dead, it was preferable to being clustered ’round a gaping hole in the ground with the sleet stinging the backs of our necks. The cloying scent of freshly turned earth might have been too much for me, though being at a funeral, period, was bad enough. The same went for Elizabeth, for she not only had memories of my burial to wrestle with, but the service for James Norwood, too. Choosing to keep his betrayal of her secret, she’d had to play the grieving widow before hundreds of wellwishers. To this day I had no understanding of where she’d found the strength to endure it.
I glanced over to see how she was holding up and she gave me a thin but confident smile meant to reassure. Her attention was concentrated on Oliver, which was probably why she was able to get through this.
Sheet white and shaking miserably with the cold, Oliver looked ready to fall over. He wasn’t drunk, and he should have been; he was in sore need of muzzy-headed shelter from events. He stared unfocused at his mother’s coffin as they eased it into place, and I had no doubt that every detail was searing itself forever into his battered mind.
He must have help, I thought, and wondered what I could possibly do for him. No shred of an idea presented itself, though. Perhaps later, after we were out of this damned death house, I could come up with something.
The service finally concluded. Since I’d not listened to one word of it, I knew only by the last amens and general stir about me. No mourners lingered in this torch-lit tomb. As one, we left Elizabeth Therese Fonteyn Marling to God’s mercy and al
l but galloped back through the crusty mud and snow to the lights and warmth of Fonteyn House.
The servants had set a proper feast for the occasion, and the family set to it with an unseemly gusto. Soon the gigantic collection of cold joints, pies, sweets, hams, and lord knows what else began to steadily disappear from the serving trays. The drink also suffered a similar swift depletion, but no one became unduly loud or merry from all the flowing Madeira. Oliver, I noted, never went near the groaning tables.
Very bad, that, I thought.
There had been an inquiry about Aunt Fonteyn’s death, but a mercifully brief one, since it was obvious to all that it had been an accident. She’d been found in the center of the Bolyns’ shrubbery maze, having had the bad luck of somehow slipping on a patch of ice and striking her head on the edge of the marble fountain there. A servant had found her and raised the alarm. Though a doctor was sent for, her skull had been well and truly broken; nothing could be done. At least it had been quick and relatively painless, people said; that should be something of a comfort to her family. After all, there were worse ways to die.
Of the talk I overheard or participated in, it was universally agreed how unfair and awful it was, but then God’s will was bound to be a mystery to those who still lived. Thankfully, Cousin Edmond assumed the duties of making arrangements for the funeral. As lawyer himself, he moved things quickly along out of deference for Oliver’s condition, and three nights later most of the family gathered at Fonteyn House to pay their last respects.
If everyone had not been garbed in black, it might have been another Fonteyn Christmas, for we were well into the season. All the usual crowd was present, and one by one they expressed their sympathy to Oliver. Some of them, sensitive to his downcast countenance, were even sincere, but many did not like him. Of the falling out he’d had with his mother, none said a word. This was a great family for silences.
