Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (100 page)

“This is bloody cold,” Oliver commented, with high disapproval.

I gave him the brandy. “Then warm yourself.”

He accepted and drank. Good. The stuff would hit his near-empty stomach like a pistol ball.

Ugh. My hand went to my chest. Wish I hadn’t thought of that.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, unknowingly pulling me from thoughts about black, smothering graves.

“No questions,” I said, plowing forward through the wind with him in my wake.

It was a devilish thick night, but Oliver’s sight apparently adjusted to the point where he could see where we were headed. He balked. “We can’t go there!”

“We have to.”

“But it’s . . . it’s . . . .”

“What, a little frightening?”

“Well . . . yes. I feel like we’re being watched.”

“So do I, but it’s just the wind in the trees.”

“You’re sure?”

I cast a quick look around. “This is like daylight to me, remember? Well, I can’t see anyone. We’re quite alone.”

“
That’s
no comfort,” he wailed.

“Come
on,
Oliver.”

Two lighted torches had been left behind to burn themselves out. They made this house for the dead seem more haunted than if it had been dark. I took his arm and we continued forward until once more we stood in the mausoleum before his mother’s sarcophagus. The stoneworkers, gone now, had lifted the heavy lid onto it, shutting her in until such time as it could be permanently sealed.

“Now what?” Oliver sounded tremulous and lost, for which I could not blame him. Out here in the shadowy menace of the cemetery, with the wind roaring around the tomb as if to give an icy voice to those departed, I felt my own bravado preparing to pack up and decamp like a routed vagrant.

I cleared my throat rather more loudly than was needed. “Now you’re going to talk to her.”

His mouth sagged. “You’ve gone mad.”

“True enough, but there’s a purpose to it. Talk to her. Tell her exactly how you feel on her treatment of you. I guarantee she won’t object this time.”

“I couldn’t do that! It’s foolish.”

“Is it? Hallo there! Aunt Fonteyn! Are you home?” I shouted at the top of the stone cover. I thumped at it with a fist. “Are you in there, you horrible old woman? We’ve come to call on you and we’re drunk—Oliver is anyway—”

“I’m
not
drunk!” he protested, looking around fearfully.

“Yes, you are.” I addressed the coffin again. “See? Your son’s drunk and your least favorite nephew’s gone mad and we’re here to disturb your eternal rest. How do you like
that,
you bloody harpy?”

Oliver gaped, horrified. I grinned back, then shocked him further by bounding up on Grandfather Fonteyn’s sarcophagus and jumping down the other side. “How about that, Grandfather? Did that wake you up, too? Come on, Oliver, have a bit of exercise.”

He took a deep draught of brandy, coughing a bit. “I couldn’t,” he gasped. It was but a faint protest, though.

“You most certainly can. What’s it to him? He can’t feel it. But you will.” I hopped up, capered on the carved marble and dropped lightly next to him. “Right, if you don’t want to dance, it’s all one with me, but you are going to talk to
her.
Scream at her if you like, no one’s going to hear a word.”

He shot me a dark look. “You will.”

“I won’t. I’m going back to the house.” So saying, I turned and started away. “Best get on with it. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can enjoy the fire and food waiting there.”

* * *

He returned about half an hour later, teeth chattering and skin gone both red and white with the cold, but with a sharp gleam of triumph in his eyes. Not all of it had been inspired by the brandy.

He’d talked to his mother.

He’d also shouted, bellowed and cursed her in a most splendid and inspired manner. I knew, because I’d hung back out of sight, just close enough to hear his voice but not understand the words. Once I was sure he was truly into the business, I hared off to have hot broth waiting for him in the drawing room. Radcliff brought it himself, clucking unhappily over the breakage there, but hurriedly leaving at my impatient gesture when Oliver walked in. The talk in the servants’ hall would doubtless be quite entertaining tonight.

Oliver flopped into the chair with his familiar abandon and declared that he was ready to perish from the cold.

“Feels like the devil’s grabbed my ears and won’t let go,” he cheerfully complained. He held his hands toward the fire to warm them, then gingerly cupped his palms over his ears. “Ow! Well, if I lose them, I lose them. I’ll just have a wig made to cover my unadorned ear holes and no one’ll be the wiser. What’s this? Broth? Just the thing, but I’d like more brandy if you don’t mind. And some ham, no, that thick slice over there. Gone cold, has it? Just let me catch it with the fire tongs and toast it a bit. . . . There, that’ll hot it up nicely. Y’know she would
never
have allowed this. Dining’s to be done in the dining room and nowhere else, but to hell with her ways. This is my house now and there will be changes made, just you wait and see! And see this, too!”

He held up the mourning ring in his long white fingers.

“Are you watching, Coz? Are you? There!” He tossed the ring into the fire. It landed softly on a burning log. Oliver was silent as the flames crept up and quickly consumed it.

“There,” he repeated more softly. “No more hypocrisy. No more damned guilt. Dear me, but the ham’s scorching. Hand that plate over, will you? Mind the brandy, precious stuff, that.”

I stayed with him, listening with a glad heart to his chatter as he made inroads on the food. He was drunk and getting drunker. Tomorrow he would have a bad head, but that would give him something else to think about than his guilt, if any remained. I rather thought there might be, for the stuff has a tenacious grip on certain souls and Oliver had already shown a vulnerability to it. But I also though that the next time he felt its talons digging in, he’d go out to shout in the mausoleum again, now that he knew to do so.

Soon Oliver, replete and nodding in his chair, asked if I could take him upstairs and put him to bed.

“Don’ think I coul’ manage on m’ own, ’n’ tha’s God’s own truth, Coz.” He confessed this woeful tiding with a wobbling head.

I said I’d be pleased to assist him. After getting him to his nerveless feet, we staggered into the hall and found a stairs to stumble up. He was not quiet, giggling and declaring that I was the best damned cousin in the world and he’d give challenge to any man who said otherwise. This bought forth some servants to investigate the row, one of whom was an older woman that Oliver greeted with tipsy joy.

“Nanny Howard! You won’erful darling! How ’bout a nice hug for your bad-lad?” He flailed out with one arm, but I kept him from toppling and falling on the poor woman.

“Mr. Oliver, you need to be abed,” she said in a scolding tone, putting her hands on her hips. She was tiny, but gave the impression that her authority in the nursery was absolute.

Oliver smiled, beatific. “ ’Xactly where ’m goin’, Nanny. May I please have a good night choc’late, like ol’ times?”

“Have you a room we can put him in?” I asked her.

“His old one’s just here— no, that’s impossible, being bare as a dog’s bone. This way, sir.”

She led us along to one that had been made up for the use of guests who would stay the night. A small chamber for the new master of the house, but the fire was laid and the bed turned down and ready. I eased him onto it and let her fuss over him, taking his shoes off and stripping away his outer clothes as though he were still four years old. Oliver, for what little he was aware of it, seemed to enjoy every minute. As soon as his head struck the pillow, he was asleep and snoring mightily.

Nanny Howard tucked him in, then paused to make a curtsy to me on her way out. We got a good look at each other. I saw a cautious but kindly face, not pretty, but certainly intelligent. What she saw in me brought forth an expression strangely reminiscent of Oliver’s own pop-eyes surprise. Then I remembered that my clothes were in need of repair. No doubt torn sleeves and missing buttons were a rare sight in this house. I made a polite nod to her and sailed from the room as though unaware of my dishevelment.

Unfortunately, I sailed smack into Cousin Edmond, colliding heavily against his sturdy frame. He snarled a justifiable objection to my clumsiness.

“I do beg your pardon,” I said, having all but bounced off him. He was as solid and forgiving as a brick wall.

“What? Are you drunk as well?”

“No, but Oliver needed help finding his way up.”

“I’m sure he did. Half the house heard his disgraceful carrying on.” Edmond pushed past me for a look into the room to grunt at Oliver’s sleeping form and growl at the nanny. “Mrs. Howard, what the devil are you doing here? Get yourself along and see to the other brats. The one in here is long past your help.”

Apparently well used to his rough ways, Mrs. Howard plucked her skirts up with underplayed dignity and left. She quickly covered a fair amount of the hall without seeming to hurry and turned a corner without looking back.

Edmond glared after her, then focused the force of it on me for an instant. His lips curled as if he wanted to speak. I waited, but nothing came forth. He thinned the set of his mouth into a tough line of contempt, but after all that had happened, I was utterly immune to intimidation from him. When one has gone to a cemetery in the dark of a winter night to dance with the dead, it takes more than a bad-tempered cousin to shake one’s inner esteem. Perhaps he sensed that. Without another word, he pushed past me to go below.

“Edmond?”

He stopped halfway down and did not quite turn to look. “What?”

“Just wanted to let you know that your work making the arrangements was excellent and much appreciated. Oliver is very grateful, y’know.”

He stared for a moment, then grunted. Then he moved on.

Even as he descended, my sister ascended, glancing after him pensively.

“You look much improved,” I commented, happy to see her again.

She reached the landing, her eyes wide as they raked me up and down. “What on earth have you been
doing?
”

“Oh, nothing much. Just had a nice little chat with Oliver. He feels the better for it. Asleep now, thank God.”

“You must have been chatting in a bear-baiting pit. What’s happened to you?”

I gave her a brief explanation for my condition.

“And Oliver’s all right?” she asked with justifiable disbelief.

“Right as rain, at least until he wakes up.”

Now she took her own opportunity to look in on him. “God, what a row,” she said, in reaction to his snores. “I suppose he must be better if he can make that much noise. So what was troubling Cousin Edmond? He seemed more broody than normal.”

“He objected to Oliver’s carrying on is all.” Poor old stick-in-the-mud Edmond, I thought. “Maybe his temper will improve with Aunt Fonteyn’s absence.”

“Jonathan!”

“Or is that too much to hope for?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were drunk. So would anyone else.”

“Bother them. They’re probably thinking the same as I about the old despot, but they’d never admit it. Oliver is now the head of the family and he’s bound to be more congenial in his duties than she. Everyone ought to be celebrating tonight. Things are looking up for the Fonteyns.”

“Unless Mother decides to take things over when she comes to England,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“She can’t. It may have been Aunt Fonteyn’s will, but hers was mostly a continuation of Grandfather Fonteyn’s testament. Except for a few special bequests and such it stays the same. His eldest daughter’s eldest son inherits the lot.”

“What? Nothing for his own sons?”

“That’s already covered, as in the case of our incomes. The old man had his favorites, and they were his daughters.”

Elizabeth briefly shut her eyes and shook her head. “In light of your speculations about—about how things were with them . . . well . . . .” She spread her hands, unhappy with the ugly idea.

“It explains much about Mother and why she is the way she is,” I said in a fading voice, starting to feel a cold emptiness stealing over me. It was a kind of black helplessness that settled on my heart whenever this subject was mentioned. Perhaps if any of us had had the least inkling of what her young life was like, then things might have been different for our mother. I wondered if we had a similar night like this awaiting us in the nebulous future, requiring that we shout at her coffin to exorcise our guilt.

“God forbid,” I whispered.

“What?” Elizabeth gave a little start, having perhaps also been in the thrall of dismal thoughts. “Forbid what?”

“Just thinking aloud. It’s nothing. Well-a-day, I wish I could get drunk, but I expect if I mixed brandy with my usual beverage it would just send me to sleep.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Yes, and we all know how alarming
that
is.”

“Nothing for it, then, I shall have to brave the family sans defenses.”

“You’ve plenty of better ones to make up for that lack, little brother. What was the problem you had with the young man who left you so fast? I saw how you were speaking to him. Who was he?”

“Thomas Ridley’s loving cousin Arthur Tyne. He was either hoping for revenge or to make a name for himself as a duelist. He tried to provoke me tonight.”

“Good God! You’re not—”

“I’ve had enough of fire-eating, dear Sister. I sent him off for good.”

“But if he insulted you and you allowed him to get away with it—”

“He didn’t, my honor is unsullied. Not that I give a hang for him, but I’m not in a hurry to send the dolt to hell for just being a dolt. Now, if he’d said anything against you, funeral or not, he’d be wishing he hadn’t.”

“You’d kill him?”

“No, but I’d serve him as well as I served his poxy-faced cousin.”

“But Thomas wasn’t poxy,” she said thoughtfully. “In fact he’s . . . . Jonathan, what
are
you
laughing about?”