Her Dear & Loving Husband

by Meredith Allard

  The game passed in a blur for Sarah. Every once in a while, if the crowd screamed loudly enough, she would check the score, but otherwise she was consumed by James. He cheered as loudly as anyone, cursed a bad call, shouted encouragement for Levon. When Levon blocked a potential Bowdoin winning goal, James stood up and shouted, “That’s my boy!” Sarah smiled whenever a student recognized him and gave him the hi sign or shouted “How ya doin’ Professor?” or “Hey Doctor Wentworth! Don’t usually see you at the games!”

  The Vikings scored again in the fourth quarter, and they won 3-2. The cheers in the arena echoed so loudly Sarah had to cover her ears to stop the ringing. Levon skated past to the locker room, and he stopped when he saw them.

  “Doctor Wentworth, you made it!” He pointed his chin in Sarah’s direction. “I saw you earlier. You were waiting for the professor in the hall.”

  Sarah felt her cheeks blush hot. “I had some books for him.”

  “That’s right. I remember tripping over the cart.” Levon grinned. “You’re the Humanities librarian.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s a nice lady, Doctor Wentworth.”

  “Yes, she is,” James said.

  Levon looked at Sarah, still grinning. “I’m glad you’re hanging out with the professor. I’ve been telling him he needs a friend…”

  “Good night, Levon.”

  Levon laughed at the professor’s terse dismissal as he skated away.

  After the crowd cleared, James took Sarah’s hand and led her back to the library. It was dark, Jennifer had closed for the night, so Sarah used her keys to let them in. She flipped on the lights of the main floor, and suddenly they were alone inside. James sat in a chair by one of the computer terminals, and he logged into his account and typed something into the keyboard. Sarah walked over to him, as close as she dared. She wanted to brush his gold hair from his eyes. She wanted to kiss him, but she wouldn’t pressure him again. He took his glasses off and slid them into his shirt pocket, and she was glad he felt comfortable enough to put his disguise away, meager as it was.

  “Look at this,” he said. He turned the monitor so Sarah could see what he had pulled up—information about the year 1662.

  “1662?”

  “The year I was born.”

  She leaned over his shoulder so she could see the screen clearly. He leaned toward her, his hair touching her cheek.

  “You’re three hundred and forty-nine years old,” she said. He nodded. “You look good for your age.”

  He laughed, though the amusement became a sigh. He took Sarah’s hand and held onto it. She didn’t want him to let go. He brought her around the chair and she sat on his lap. She leaned into him, her back against his chest.

  “Immortality sounds like a gift, doesn’t it?” He spoke softly, whispering in her ear. “Never growing old or feeble. Never ailing, never dying. But my nights became monotonous. I had to find a way to give meaning to my time, so I began teaching. It’s an odd job for me, I suppose, but then any job besides Grim Reaper might seem odd for one of my kind. I enjoy sharing the knowledge I’ve gained, and since so few people know what I am, no one questions me. I’m virtually undetectable in this world.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “London. I moved to the Massachusetts Bay Colony with my father, John, who made his fortune as a merchant. We both wanted a fresh start after my mother died, and we were intrigued by the untapped opportunities in the New World. We knew of the seaport here and the possibilities of making more money in the merchant trade, so we immigrated.”

  “Did you meet your wife here or in London?”

  James paused, and she turned her head so she could see his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes closed as he rested his head against the chair. He seemed to wonder how to say what he needed to say.

  “I met my wife here, through friends of the family, over supper one evening. She died too young. Many people died young in the seventeenth century, but she didn’t die from illness or childbirth as so many did then. She died for all the wrong reasons.”

  Something James said made Sarah pause, something tugged at the edges of her memory, but she didn’t try to make sense of it then. She was just happy to be near him.

  “You must have had a fascinating life,” she said.

  He looked sad as he nodded. As Sarah sat on his lap, feeling his strength envelope her, part of her, her logical mind, began to balk against the supernatural hocus pocus. Though she had felt his unbeating chest, he was so human in every other way. How could this young-looking man have been born during colonial times? How could he be dead but alive, talking to her, stroking her hair? She touched her hand to his cheek, felt the lifelessness there, and she was reminded that the hocus pocus was true. Silently to herself, she tried to list all the changes that had happened over the last three hundred years.

  “It must be jarring to you, the passage of time,” she said. “Like that old saying, the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  “It can be quite a shock sometimes to remember it’s the twenty-first century and not the seventeenth, though human nature hasn’t changed much in all that time. Apart from the new-fangled technology, what people want from their lives has remained essentially the same. They want their basic needs met. They want security. They want to know they matter.”

  Again, Sarah thought of James’s wife. She remembered his reaction the first time he saw her the night she went to look at his house.

  “When you saw me the first time, you thought I was your wife even though she died over three hundred years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still think I look like her?”

  “Yes.”

  He spoke quickly, as if he needed to change the subject. “I’m sure it’s hard for a human to accept the fact that my kind exists. There are probably around a million in all, more in Salem as well. Timothy, for example.”

  Sarah had seen the pale-faced, dark-eyed, dark-haired boy following James around the library like a faithful puppy with his tongue out and his tail wagging. Whenever she saw the boy she thought he seemed too young to be in college.

  “And Jocelyn. You met her on Halloween. She was dressed as Cher.”

  “Jocelyn and Steve are vampires?”

  “Not Steve. Just Jocelyn.”

  “A vampire married to a human?”

  James shrugged but he smiled. “It happens,” he said.

  “It must be hard for a human to be married to a vampire.”

  “Jocelyn and Steve seem to manage. They’re one of the happiest couples I know.”

  James paused and his face softened as he watched her. She wanted to love the way he was looking at her, but she couldn’t help wondering who it was he looked at with such tenderness, the memory of his wife Elizabeth or her. She wanted to believe he saw her since she was the one sitting on his lap, but then she remembered what happened the other night, the coldness be-tween them when all she wanted was to be closer to him. She shuddered at the memory of the way he jumped into his car and sped away.

  “I suppose it depends on how different the human is willing for her life to be,” he said, his voice trailing away with the thought.

  “I didn’t know about you until last night. You don’t seem that different.”

  “But I am. I’ve become better at hiding it over the years. For one thing, we’re on different schedules. Most of life happens during the day while I’m sleeping. And I drink blood, Sarah. I need blood to survive.”

  “That is different.”

  “There’s also the fear factor. Some people might be too nervous about the fact that their significant other drinks blood. She might be afraid her vampire would suddenly decide he’s hungry one night and start feeding on the closest human he can find.”

  “And you’re dead?”

  “You remembered.”

  He shook his head again. Of everything Sarah had learned about him, that fact amazed her the most. How can a body
function without a heartbeat? Even a vampire body. Especially a vampire body. Looking at him as he held himself so still, she wanted to reach out, pull him even closer, run her fingers through his hair. He was the bigger, stronger one by far, yet something about him looked so vulnerable then. But instead of grabbing him, she reached out her hand and touched his chest where his heart should be. The nothing that had frightened her so much the night before, no rise and fall of air, no pounding life rhythm, now seemed merely an interesting fact about James. She looked into his night-dark eyes and saw a faint smile, maybe one he didn’t intend for her to see. With a little more courage brought on by his smile, she pressed her ear where her hand had been. She could have stayed that way all night. Then she felt his chin on top of her head. His head felt heavy, but the pressure felt right. She stayed there longer than it took to hear the hollow silence inside his chest.

  “Still nothing,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “How does the blood you drink flow through your body if your heart doesn’t pump?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She raised her head from his chest and looked him in the eye.

  “Tell me about Elizabeth.”

  He shook his head. “Another time.”

  “Tell me anything. Tell me about the day you met.”

  James closed his eyes again. He stayed that way so long Sarah thought he fell asleep. When he opened his eyes to look at her, she thought he seemed far away, as if he had traveled back in time. When he spoke his voice sounded different, like an actor in a Shakespearean play. He smiled as he thought of that long-ago day.

  “I remember how my heart danced dizzying circles the first time I saw her over the supper table where my father and I were gathered with friends. Her family was new to the Massachusetts Bay Colony having just arrived from England.”

  “What year was it?”

  He thought a moment. “1691. From the moment I saw her I knew I had never seen anyone as beautiful. She was talking to her younger sister in a sweet, motherly way, and I might not have been there at all for all that she noticed me. When she finally looked around the table and saw me gazing at her, our eyes met and I knew instantly she was the one for me. It came as no surprise that other young men had noticed her. I didn’t think I had a chance to win her hand. Surely she could find someone better than me, I thought, but she was always on my mind.

  “My father, ever my friend and protector, noticed how dis-tracted I was and how gammy, how clumsy, I had become. I was tripping all over myself, knocking everything over, unable to concentrate at my work. There was a particularly embarrassing incident one afternoon when I spilled hot coffee over a potential buyer. My father had found a new supplier for the beans and he was hoping this man, Mr. Smithers, would purchase most, if not all, of our product.

  “‘James,’ my father called, ‘bring Mr. Smithers some of that coffee I brewed this morn. He should taste how warming and delicious the drink is for himself.’ Though I was standing but a foot away I hardly heard him.

  “‘James?’

  “‘Aye?’ I said.

  “‘The coffee, Son.’

  “‘Coffee?’ I answered.

  “‘Aye, James. Coffee.’

  “I rushed to the tea service, an expensive set my father had imported from somewhere exotic, and I clanged around until I fit the right top onto the right pot. My father and Mr. Smithers watched with amused grins. I tripped over I-didn’t-know-what as I brought the tea service to the table, and I knocked into a chair and the pot fell over, spilling hot liquid all over Mr. Smithers, down his white linen shirt and white stockings. Mr. Smithers, as if nothing strange had happened, touched his fingertips to the puddle on his breeches and put his hand to his mouth.

  “‘Quite good,’ Mr. Smithers said, nodding in appreciation.

  “‘The finest you’ll find anywhere,’ my father said.”

  Sarah laughed at the image of James spilling hot liquid over the poor, unsuspecting man.

  “Was your father very angry?”

  “Not at all. After the man made his purchase and left—fortunately he was a good-humored fellow who didn’t hold my ungraceful maneuver against us—my father prodded my feelings from me.

  “‘Are you well, Son?’ he asked. He smiled as I sat behind my desk, a feather quill listless in my hand. ‘You’re wearing your spectacles so I reckon you can see well enough. What ails you?’

  “I hardly heard his questions while I stared with confused eyes out the window at the passing horse-drawn carts. I knew I was supposed to be doing something, but I couldn’t remember what that might be. Then I remembered my task, calculating figures from our latest importing venture. I attempted to work, but I couldn’t remember anything about how to add or subtract numbers. Did three come before or after four?

  “My father crossed his arms in front of his chest as he watched me, his knowing smile relaxing into an impish grin.

  “‘Your distraction wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Miss Elizabeth Jones, now, would it?’

  “I sighed as I looked at him. ‘‘Tis that obvious?’ I asked.

  “‘‘Tis obvious in certain ways. I’ve seen how you go out of your way to cross paths with her, how you gaze at her in church when your head should be bowed in prayer, how you’ve been slack with your duties here. And, well, at the moment your garters are undone.’

  “I saw that my garters were indeed undone and my white cotton stockings were hanging uselessly down my legs. My father laughed as I bent to fasten my straps.

  “‘Now when should I go?’ he asked.

  “‘Go? Where?’

  “‘To speak to Mr. Jones. You want Elizabeth’s hand, do you not?’

  “‘Aye!’ I spoke with such excitement my face flushed.

  “My father laughed again. ‘Then you shall have it. I’ll speak to Mr. Jones directly.’

  “‘You’ll go this day?’

  “‘This moment. And you needn’t thank me since ‘tis for me as well as you. I can tell by the folly in your manner you’re not likely to complete your tasks here lest I secure her hand for you.’

  “‘What if she won’t have me?’ I asked.

  “‘Won’t have you? Of course she’ll have you. You’re a good boy, James, patient, kind, even-tempered. And handsome too. Thank God you took after your mother. Besides, I believe the feeling is mutual. I’ve seen her on the other side of the aisle in church staring back at you when she should have been praying as well.’ My father tapped the desk in front of me with his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Son. I shan’t take no for an answer.’

  “My father told me afterwards that he talked me up as the heir to his prosperous merchant trade, a business that often took him to exotic ports around the world. He explained how I knew all manners of the business, and I was indispensable as a son and friend.

  “‘There is no better young man than my James,’ my father told Mr. Jones. ‘My son was educated at Cambridge. I had no choice but to send him to university, you see. He seems to have been born with his nose sewn into bookbinding. Always reading. Always learning. He wishes to be a professor at university, but he’s a fine son, biding his time helping his old father with busi-ness now.’”

  “You knew even then you wanted to teach,” Sarah said. “You haven’t changed.”

  “In some ways I haven’t changed at all. In other ways I hardly recognize myself.”

  “I haven’t had the same transformation as you,” Sarah said, “but I understand what you mean. I feel so different now than I did when I was living in Los Angeles. I feel like the light has been switched on.”

  James smiled, and she felt the heat lick her cheeks pink.

  “So Mr. Jones accepted your offer?” she asked.

  “It didn’t take much persuasion. My father said Mr. Jones seemed inclined to accept me right away. After all, my father was one of the wealthiest men in England, let alone the colonies. He explained to Mr. Jones that I had some savings of my own, and he assured
him that, should it be agreed Elizabeth and I were to be betrothed, he would gladly buy us some land and build us one of the grandest houses in Salem Town.”

  “Salem Town?”

  “It was divided into Salem Town and Salem Village then. Mr. Jones said it was the best offer he had had for Elizabeth all year. He even told my father he had been worried since she was heading past marriageable age, at twenty-two. He was afraid she would never marry because she was a stubborn girl who had refused two previous offers.

  “‘If your boy wants her, and she’s agreeable, then 'tis all well enough by me,’ Mr. Jones said. He told my father that he had promised his wife that he would never force his daughters to marry someone they were not inclined toward. Fortunately for me the feeling was mutual, as my father predicted. I remember the day I told him to hire the sawyers and the carpenters to build our new house. I knew Elizabeth would be my wife, and I wanted to get our home ready for our life together.

  “I didn’t tell Elizabeth the house was being built, and the carpenters worked quickly. The day the last peg was hammered into the wood my father and I brought her to see it for the first time. She gasped out loud when she saw it.

  “‘‘Tis beautiful, James,’ she said. ‘Tis the grandest house in Salem Town.’ She walked to the front door, touched the latchkey, and looked through the diamond-paned window to the furnished room inside. ‘Whose is it?’

  “‘‘Tis yours,’ I said, ‘if you want it to be.’

  “There we were, standing in front of the house while my father waited inside, and I asked her to be my wife. I knew it had all been agreed upon before, but I wanted to hear her response with my own ears.”

  “Were you very happy together?”

  “Happier than I thought I had any right to be.”

  James looked at Sarah. He leaned so close their heads touched. His dark eyes penetrated her, reached inside her, as if he were grasping for something. She felt the way she did the night she first saw him when he had mistaken her for his wife—disjointed and confused. The more he looked into her, though, the more there was something there, some semblance of a dream, or was it a memory, she couldn’t tell. The feeling disap-peared as soon as it came on, and then she became fidgety, her fingernails tapping a worried rhythm against the side of the chair. He must have sensed her discomfort because he turned away.