by P. N. Elrod
“A microscope?”
“You know, like a telescope, but for much smaller work, looking in rather than out. I may get one myself now, it’s a marvelous toy. You wouldn’t believe the things you can find in a humble drop of pond water with one of ’em. Most of my colleagues don’t think much of the things, but my friend is always peering through his and making drawings of what he finds. Has an enormous collection of the most fascinating sketches. I don’t think he quite knows what to do with any of it, but as a curiosity it’ll hold your attention far better than a flea circus.”
“And if you find a difference between my blood and another’s, what then?”
He gave a great shrug. “It’s knowledge and so it must be important. Come to think of it, perhaps I might take a sample from young Richard, then compare it to yours and see what’s different and what’s the same. I’ll wager that might be very interesting, indeed.”
“Really, now, Oliver, I don’t want you poking at the poor child with one of your fleams.”
“I doubt that I’ll need to; he’s bound to get a scrape or two while playing—children are so good at that. I had my share of skinned knees and elbows. It’s only a matter of time for him to turn up with one. All I have to do is wait until he takes a tumble, then sneak a quick sample before binding up the wound and giving him a chocolate for the tears. He’ll never know a thing.”
“Oh, you’ve reassured me to no end,” I grumbled, with more than a trace of annoyance. “Now I’ll not only be worrying about the pox—which is worry enough—but about skinned knees, broken arms and who knows what else.”
“Yes, the joys of fatherhood. You’ll do all right, Jonathan. I’ve been in many a house where the parents are more concerned about the lapdog than the child, so be glad that you have such a heart in you that cares so. Anyway, God wouldn’t have brought the two of you together unless he meant for it to last a bit. Just enjoy Richard one day—I mean, one night at a time, and let the future take care of itself.”
“You sound like Elizabeth.”
“Well! Thank you! I’ll tell her you said that. She’s a damn fine girl. Damn fine. I don’t mind telling you that if she wasn’t my first cousin I’d be sorely tempted to pay her court. With your permission, that is,” he quickly added.
This wasn’t precisely news to me, for I knew Oliver had been quite taken with her from their first meeting. Certainly I wouldn’t have minded having him for a brother-in-law. “Cousins have married before, y’know,” I ventured with an optimistic air.
“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “For the last century or so the Fonteyns have been famous for it and look where it got ’em. Any rustic huddled in his cottage will tell you about the dangers of inbreeding their stock. No, I don’t think the Marlings and Barretts would benefit from such a course. Suppose Elizabeth would even have me, our children might turn out like Mother, and then where would we be? Ugh. No, thank you, I shall content myself with admiring your dear sister from afar and being her very good friend.”
“Such an inheritance of temper might not happen. Elizabeth and I aren’t in the least way like our mother, after all, and I’m going to do my best to see that Richard doesn’t turn out like Clarinda.”
“If anyone can do it, Coz, then it is you. I say, you mean you wouldn’t have objected to me and Elizabeth. . . that is, if she’d. . . that is?”
“Not at all. You’re an excellent fellow. Not a bit like your mother, either.”
This pleased him to no end, and he told me as much, saying it gave him great hope for Richard’s prospects. “It was Nanny Howard that trained me up right,” he pronounced. “If it hadn’t been for her, Lord knows how I might have ended up. Between the two of you, well, maybe the three or four of us—what with Elizabeth and me hanging about the lad—there won’t be a trace of Clarinda left in the boy.”
“And that’s just as well,” I muttered.
“Yes, wretched business. I’d never have suspected it of her, but then I’m likely not to suspect it of anyone. It’s just not in me to do so.”
“Then you are a very blessed man, Coz.”
“Not so blessed that I don’t have a dark moment here and there. Sometimes I don’t know if I should condemn Clarinda or thank her for what she did,” he mused. “Murder’s a horrible, awful thing, but I don’t know of anyone in the family who was truly sorry to see Mother go, myself included, once you woke me up to it. Do you think I’ll be damned for even considering such stuff?”
“I think rather that you might need to go dancing on her grave again and purge any lingering remnant of guilt from your soul.”
“Perhaps you’re right. What really bothers me about the business is that Clarinda’s idea to marry me would have worked because, damn it all, I liked her. Suppose I still do in a way, though it’s mixed up with a sort of revulsion, like Eve and that serpent, y’know. A pretty animal, but so bloody dangerous. I don’t envy Edmond’s job of keeping her caged for good and all.”
“Neither do I.”
“What about Ridley? In a way you’ve become his keeper, too. You’re sure that the influencing you did will hold him and Arthur in check?”
His reminder of this unpleasant task waiting in the near future was hardly welcome. I found myself rubbing my arm again. The bone ached yet where Arthur Tyne had nearly severed it. That, or it only seemed to ache in my mind whenever I recalled the incident. “They’ll be fine for the time being. I’ll visit them within a week or so and bolster things up so they’ll behave themselves.”
“Pity you can’t do the same thing for Clarinda.”
“Oh, but I probably could. But I don’t think it would—”
His eyes widened. “Really? Well, that would take the load off poor Edmond.”
“Indeed, but then I’d have to explain myself to him. I’m not quite prepared to do so just now. It’s a damned heavy confidence.”
“Yes, that’s the stark truth right enough. Edmond might think you’d gone mad and toss you out if you ever told him about your little secret. It’s so extraordinary. He’d have to have proof, y’see.”
“And then I’d have to give it to him, and I’m not confident in the benevolence of his reaction.” Which is a mild way of putting it, I thought, with a nasty cold twisting in my belly. For Edmond to find out that the father of his son was some sort of extra-natural blood drinker didn’t bear lengthy consideration. My own immediate family accepted my condition, but then we had ever held close together by the ties of our deep, mutual affection for one another. Not so with Edmond. “He’d be within his rights to take Richard away from me,” I said, thinking aloud.
“Then you could just influence him into leaving well enough alone,” Oliver said, with some little heat. He seemed ready to enlarge upon the subject, but the look on my face stopped him. “Whatever is wrong?”
I’d come over glum at his idea of influencing Edmond, for the very same one had occurred to me and made my vitals twist in another direction. “I . . . well . . . damnation, that wouldn’t be right.”
“In what way?”
“Father and I talked the length and breadth of this business about enforcing my will upon other people, the good points and the bad. It comes down to a question of honor.”
“Honor? How so?”
“Your suggestion of my influencing Edmond—it’s all very well to talk about it, but to carry it out would be an unconscionable intrusion upon him. To be telling him what to do just so it’s convenient to my needs. . . .”
“But you’re doing it all the time to keep the servants from being curious about your eccentric habits,” he objected.
“Yes, but I’m not telling them how to arrange their lives. That’s the difference. I don’t think you’re aware of just how frightening a power this is for me, Oliver. If I wanted to I could make my way right to the bedchamber of the King himself and play him or any of his ministers
for a puppet on matters of state.”
“Good God.” His color flagged. “I never thought of that.”
“Then think hard on it now. I have, and in weak moments it makes me tremble.”
“I don’t fault you for it,” he whispered, then recovered somewhat. “Mind you, it would be a way of settling things out with France. You could take a little trip to Paris, talk here and there with some of old Louis’s ministers, and remove the threat of them jumping into the war to help those damned rebels.”
“God help us, but I could if I had a mind to try.”
“Without the French sticking their noses into that which doesn’t concern ’em, the rebellion would die down soon enough.” He was fast warming to the idea of my becoming some kind of invisible agent for the Crown, quietly managing the direction of foreign powers to suit the policies of the King and country.
“Hold and cease, Oliver,” I said, raising both hands palm out in a show of not so very mock terror. “I want no part of that.”
His eyebrows went up. “But you could be of no end of service to the King. By God, you could even make peace with Ireland if you put your mind to it.”
I shook my head and continued to shake it, until Oliver finally saw I was not to be moved by any argument.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Politics is better left to politicians. I am, or would have been, a humble lawyer, fit for arguing the law, but not for making it over to fit my idea of perfection. Besides, even if I had the guidance of the whole of Parliament for my actions I would still have to listen to the reproach of my conscience should things go wrong.”
“You’re just being the pessimist.”
“I’m being an abject coward,” I said truthfully. “Suppose I bungled things and started a war? I’m not prepared to have those deaths haunting me. Other men are able to stand it, but not me. I’ll gladly choose my own path, but will not presume to tell others where to walk themselves.”
He scowled. “Well, put that way, I can’t blame you, though one might argue that you would have an equal chance of preventing a war, thus sparing untold lives.”
I shifted, uncomfortable, scowling back at him. “There’s that,” I admitted. “But I’m not wise enough for such work and know it. Please, Oliver, let’s not pursue this subject, it’s making me liverish.”
He acquiesced, much to my relief. “Very well, can’t have you coming down sick on me because there’s no tonic you can take but the one, is there?”
“Right enough,” I agreed, but I was not feeling hungry at the moment. Quite the opposite.
“Then politics aside, what about Edmond? You’ve no plans for him one way or another if he decided to take Richard away?”
“But he’s not going to; I only mentioned that as a remote possibility, born out of my own fears. It’s true that I could influence Edmond, or most anyone else, to suit to my needs, but where does one stop once one has started? No, sir. That takes it back to the political once more and my liver won’t stand for it.”
He gestured to indicate his dismissal of that topic. “But then what about Ridley and Arthur? You’re doing your best to completely change their lives.”
“And don’t I wish to high heaven to be free of the responsibility. I’ve come to take no pleasure in any of it, even if it is to change them for the better. I’m hoping that the need for my influence will eventually cease for—believe me—I’ve a tremendous dislike of playing the god in men’s affairs. I am stuck having to do this to them for the present, because for the life of me I can’t think of any way around it. If there is a way out, I shall take it, and if you’ve any better ideas I should gladly hear them.”
“None at the moment. But the changes you’re making within them are for the better. Surely that mitigates some of your strong feeling against using your talent for influence?”
“Oliver, how many times have you writhed inside when someone told you that they were doing something awful to you simply because it was for your own good?”
He thought that one over, then said, “Oh.”
“And recall your feelings when you remembered how Nora had dealt with you back at Cambridge. It was for your good as well as hers that you should forget your liaisons with her and what she did with you, but still. . . .” I spread the fingers of one hand, using a gesture to complete the thought.
“Oh.” He gulped, the corners of his mouth turning earthward in a bleak frown.
“Indeed. And again, where does one stop? Who am I to decide whose soul is in need of improvement and whose is not? Who am I to decide what’s best for me is also best for another? Remember how you felt when you found out I was influencing you into not noticing my ‘eccentricities,’ as you call them? It wasn’t so intrusive as to make a major change in your life, but I hated doing it, especially to you of all people. Before God, as hard as it was to go through at the time, I am most thankful that you walked in on me and Miss Jemma that night in the Red Swan or else I might yet be having to gull you of the truth.”
He went pink around the ears and nose and made a business of clearing his throat before speaking again. “No need to be so harsh on yourself, Coz. You did what you thought was necessary and explained things to me quick enough. I don’t think badly of you, y’know, for I understand why you had to do it. All’s forgiven and forgot, I hope.”
A little wave of relief washed through me and I nodded.
“Well, then, that’s that.” He gave a shake and shrug of his shoulders. “But just to end my curiosity on the topic for good and all. . . .”
In a comical manner I groaned, raising my gaze to heaven, making us both laugh. We needed the relief of it, it seemed. “What is it?” I asked after we’d settled ourselves.
“I was just wondering that since you’re already influencing Ridley and Arthur, you might think of it in terms of in for a penny, in for a pound.”
“Think of what?”
“Of influencing Clarinda, of course. You mentioned it as a possibility earlier.”
“A possibility I’m not ready to undertake for all those reasons I’ve just set before you. Besides, before you took the bit and ran with it, I’d been about to add that I’m doubtful it would work on her.”
“Why so?”
I hesitated, making a face. “If she’s mad—and it is my admittedly unqualified opinion that she is—then it won’t work well—if at all.”
“How do you know that? Oh, do stop glowering and tell me.”
I stopped glowering and sighed instead. “All right. The first night I was in London I paid a midnight call on Tony Warburton—”
“You what?”
“—and tried to find out if he knew anything about Nora’s whereabouts.” Before being struck down by sudden insanity, Tony had been an especially close friend of Oliver’s at Cambridge. He was now one of Oliver’s patients.
“The Warburtons never mentioned this to me,” he said.
“Because they didn’t know about it. I let myself in through a window and left in the same manner.”
“What, like the way you passed through Ridley’s door that time, and how you get from the cellar to your room here?”
“Exactly the same way.”
“And you then influenced him?”
“Tried to. It didn’t work. I just couldn’t catch hold of his mind—like trying to pick up a drop of mercury with your fingers.”
“But what has this to do with Clarinda? She may be as she is, but she’s not mad that I can see.”
“Are there not kinds of madness that are less obvious to the eye?”
“Of course there are.”
“Then my feeling is that Clarinda might be in that number. My mother’s like that.”
“But I thought your mother yells a lot, then goes into fits.”
“She does, but most of the time she’s merely disagreeabl
e. When she’s with people other than her family, she gets on quite well. One might think of her as being somewhat highly strung, but otherwise unremarkable. I’ve seen her being cordial, even charming when she puts effort into it. She’s all right as long as she can keep hold of her temper. Only when her grasp slips does she go flying off into one of her fits and shows all that she’s kept hidden about herself.”
“I saw no sign of that sort of temper with Clarinda, but then, as you say, her madness must surely be of a different kind. She hides it well enough.”
“It’s the madness of being so single-minded that she overcame all obstacles by any means possible in order to obtain what she wanted.”
“But lots of people are like that,” he protested. “Just look at the House of Commons.”
“True, but for the most part I don’t think they normally run about arranging duels, committing murder, and shutting their spouses into tombs preparatory to shooting them dead to achieve their goals.”
“I shouldn’t be too sure of that, my lad. But doesn’t that just make her clever rather than mad?”
“Good God, Oliver, listen to yourself!”
Apparently he did, and went flame red in reaction. “Yes, I see what you mean. I believe I’ve been hanging about with you too much; I’m starting to sound like a lawyer, trying to offer a defense when there is none. Well then, you’re telling me that because Clarinda has a touch of hidden—for the most part—madness, you don’t think your influence will work on her?”
“Perhaps for a time, but I’d not want to trust my life or another’s on it. I couldn’t do anything with poor Tony because his mind just isn’t there to be touched; Clarinda’s is—my feeling is that she is much too focused and strong to hold any suggestion contrary to her desires for any length of time.”
I’d been able to make her forget my unorthodox entry to her temporary prison at Fonteyn House; that was one thing, but to change the very pattern of her will was quite something else again. Add to that my own still caustic feelings toward her and the likelihood of successfully turning her about became a remote, if not impossible expectation.
