Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (116 page)

“All ready,” Richard announced to her, showing off his clean hands, face and change of clothing. “Don’t be cross with Cousin Jon’th’n.”

The woman was adept at adjusting to changing circumstances, and her look went from questioning to acceptance. “Very well, I won’t. Have you had your lesson in fractions yet?”

“We were just about to get down to it,” I answered for him.

“How nice,” she said, and put the cup of milk on a low table next to a miniature stool. Richard plopped himself onto the latter and gave the cup and its contents a suspicious eye.

“It’s too hot,” he said decisively.

“No doubt,” I said. “But it will cool off in a moment. Now where’s that measuring stick?” I found it and sat cross-legged on the floor next to him to more easily explain the basic principals of fractions.

For all the fatherly pride that was fast burgeoning in my swelled bosom over his many talents, I couldn’t say that he took well to this first lesson. To be fair, he was still lively from his hard riding and full of questions for everything except the subject at hand. It didn’t take me long to twig to this, so I obligingly did not force him around. Instead, I did my best to answer why I preferred not to wear a wig, where I’d come from, the general location of America in relation to England, and conjectured just how wide and deep the “ ‘Lantic Ocean” might be. By then his milk was of a suitable drinking temperature, and I managed to coax most of it into him.

“Doesn’t taste like real milk,” he said.

“That must be the honey in it.”

“He’s used to fresh cow’s milk, sir,” Nanny Howard put in. “All the kitchen had was ass’s milk.”

“Yes, Oliver is particularly fond of it, says it’s more wholesome than what comes from a cow.”

“Indeed it is, sir, for I shouldn’t care to trust any cow’s milk bought in the city. Too many things can make it go bad.”

“Perhaps if we got our own cow—”

“Oh, no, sir, for it would still be in the city. Better to have ass’s milk or none at all.”

“You don’t care much for the city, then?”

“It’s not my place to say, sir.”

“Certainly it is if I ask you.”

“Well, then, it’s fine enough for me, but in truth, I don’t think raising a child in the city is at all wise.”

“What have you against it, then?”

“The bad air for one thing, the bad water for another.”

I could offer no argument on those points and motioned for her to continue.

“That’s more than enough to stunt growth and turn them sickly There’s also soot everywhere you step, rotten food sold by people you don’t know, disease, low women, wicked men and too much noise. How can a child get any sleep?”

“There’s low women and wicked men in the country—or so I’ve heard,” I said, dodging the question.

“Perhaps that is so, Mr. Barrett, but I’ve yet to see any and I’ve lived in the country considerably longer than you’ve been alive. But that aside, I’ve seen more country children reach their majority than city ones. Raising children is not unlike farming, sir. You need a bit of room to grow, sunshine, and sweet water. Take any one of those away and you’ll end up with a failed crop.”

Damnation, but she was making perfect sense. “Then you see nothing favorable about the city at all?”

“I’ll allow that it has passable distractions and entertainments, but the nature of such things holds little interest to a boy of four years.” Her observations were entirely sensible, but I didn’t know what to do about them. The first idea that came to me—and the first one to be discarded—was for Richard to return to Edmond’s country home. As for the second idea. . . .

“I could possibly look around for a place of my own,” I said, without much enthusiasm. I rather liked the city and its wicked, if not utterly evil distractions.

She picked up on that and offered an alternative. “What about Fonteyn House? It’s not far away and has more than enough room.”

That was my third idea, and I wasn’t too keen on it. “I don’t think it would prove practical. You see, my father and mother may be on their way to England at any time, and I rather expect Mother will want to live in Fonteyn House.”

“That’s only natural, it being her late sister’s home.”

“Natural, yes, but to have her sharing it with a young and rowdy child would not be the best for either of ’em.”

“But there’s more than room enough—”

“Room is not the point, Mrs. Howard. It’s best that you know about my mother.”

“Indeed?” She assumed a carefully neutral face, having also picked up on a darkening in my tone of voice.

“She’s just as horrible in her way as Aunt Fonteyn was.” I paused to allow her to take in that bit of blatant honesty, giving her a suitably somber look. “I think we know what might have happened had Aunt Fonteyn lived to learn about, let us say, certain irregular circumstances in the family progeny. Now multiply that by several times and you’ll have an idea of how my mother might react should she learn of it.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Sadly, her hold on reason is altogether infirm, and when her grasp slips she is capable of the most violent fits imaginable. I would be loath to expose an unprepared innocent to such an irregular temper.”

Mrs. Howard nodded. “Yes, old judge Fonteyn suffered the same sort of malady. Many’s the time I had to keep Oliver out of his way when the spell was on him.”

Oliver and I had had a lengthy talk about what disgusting sickness the old judge suffered from, an entirely horrifying topic. Though she gave me the impression she knew something about it, I wasn’t going to pursue it with Mrs. Howard at the present and certainly not while the boy was listening.

“Having my own home might be the best for all concerned, then,” I said instead. “But I shouldn’t like to be too far from London.”

“I’m sure there are any number of suitable places, sir.”

I had my doubts, but only because I was reluctant to move from Oliver’s comfortable house and assume the responsibility of looking after my own. On the other hand, there was a decided appeal to being one’s own master. “You know, if Oliver hadn’t invited me and Elizabeth to live with him, I’d have had to find one for us, anyway It probably would have been in the city, though, and I’d still have the same problem to face now. “

Then perhaps it was past time I gave serious thought to finding a separate accommodation for myself, or rather for the Barrett branch of the Fonteyn kindred. And I hadn’t exactly come to England empty-handed, being still in the possession of a half dozen cattle that had survived the ocean crossing. They’d originally been put aboard ship to provide me with a fresh source of blood for the long journey, but my condition had changed that plan by causing me to fall into an unnatural sleep for the whole trip. My unnerving hibernation provided no end of worry for Elizabeth and Jericho at the time. The only favorable thing that might be said of the phenomenon was that it spared me from two months of constant and exhausting
mal de mer.

Soon after our arrival in England, the Barrett cows had been turned out to mix with Fonteyn stock. My property would soon be in need of a permanent home if they bred as planned. It was my fond hope that when Father arrived he’d have the start of a fine herd to keep him busy if he wanted to retire from his law practice.

Now there was something
else
to think about. “Another thing you need to know about this coming household,” I continued, “is that my father and mother are estranged, and I rather think both would be more comfortable if there’s some goodly distance between ’em. If I find something suitable, then my father will likely be sharing it with me.”

“How will he feel about the—ah—irregularities? That is, if I may be so bold as to ask.” She nodded her head slightly in Richard’s direction, not looking at him.

“Ask away, dear lady. As for your answer, once he gets over the shock, I think he will be utterly delighted.” I hoped for as much. Elizabeth and I had come to that comfortable conclusion after much lengthy discussion. During moments of weakness, I was subject to the occasional doubt or two, but that was from my own inner discomfiture, not because Father would fall short of our expectations. We knew him to be a wise and compassionate man. Certainly he would welcome a grandson, even one from the wrong side of the blanket.

“There’s a comfort,” said Mrs. Howard. “I remember him as being a most sensible young fellow.”

“You do? You knew him before he left England?”

“Not to speak to, I should say. It wasn’t my place, of course. But there was many in the servant’s hall who were glad he stood up to the old judge and won Miss Marie away from Fonteyn House. Best thing that ever happened to her. I’m so sorry to know that that things worked out as they did.”

“What was she like then?” I asked, feeling a sudden tightness around my throat at this chance to look into another’s past. Part of me wanted nothing to do with Mother, but a different part wanted to know everything. It was like picking a scab to see if it would fall away clean from a healed wound or peel painfully off to start the bleeding again.

“Oh, she was a very beautiful girl. Sometimes quiet and sometimes headstrong. Not what I would call knowledgeable about the world, but the judge didn’t have much use for women learning more than they needed to run a household. She used to do clever needlework.”

“Mother? Quiet?”

“Silent, then. There’s a difference,” she said with a sad face.

“I’m done with my milk,” Richard announced. His eyes had grown wide and his expression pensive with concern. Even if he didn’t understand much of our talk, he was keen enough to perceive the dark emotions running beneath it and be worried.

“What a good lad you are!” she exclaimed approvingly, with a swift brightening in her manner. “Are you ready to go to bed, now?”

“No, please. I want to play with Cousin Jon’th’n.”

Nanny Howard shot me a dangerous look, one that I took to heart. “We’ll play again tomorrow night, my lad, or we’ll both be in trouble. We have to do what Nanny says, y’see. She knows best.”

Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led to his bed, and she tucked him in.

“A story, please?” he asked, as appealing as only a four-year-old can manage. I found my throat tightening again, but for a far different reason than before. Mrs. Howard correctly read my face and upon selecting a chapbook from a pile on a shelf, thrust it into my waiting hands.

The book’s subject had to do with the alphabet, being full of instructive rhymes of the “A is for Apple” sort with a little poem for each. Richard and I went through it together, with him pointing out the letters and naming them and muttering along as I read the rest of the text. He seemed to know the book by heart, but that didn’t matter. I’d been told I’d had my favorite stories, too, never tiring of their repetition. He was asleep by the time I’d gotten to the “M is for Mouse” rhyme.

“Thank you, Mrs. Howard,” I whispered to her as I prepared to tiptoe out.

“Bless you, sir, but you’re the one to be thanked. I think you’re the best thing that could ever have happened to the child.”

“I can hope as much. I’m new to this and don’t mind saying that I should highly value your guidance if you would be so kind.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And about the food, I’ll have Oliver arrange it so the pick of Fonteyn House’s country larder is at your disposal. Will that be satisfactory until such time as I can find my own home outside the city?”

“More than satisfactory, sir.”

I fairly bounded down the hall to my room where Jericho waited to repair the damages of my recent romp. Our conversation was a bit one-sided at first, with me rattling on about Richard with hardly a stop except when it was time for my shaving. Jericho had a light touch with a razor, but years back we’d both agreed that any unnecessary talk from me might prove to be a dangerous distraction to his concentration on the task. I was close-mouthed as a clam for the duration.

He took the respite as an opportunity to catch me up on the day’s events within his own sphere, reporting about who had paid calls and what their business had been. An invitation arrived for Elizabeth and me to dine with the Bolyn family. It was worded in a flexible enough manner so as to include Oliver if he chose to come. He was still officially in mourning for his mother and not expected to participate in social gatherings, though an exception could be made for a private informal supper. Considering the restrictions of my diet, it was just as well for me. At least then Elizabeth would not be without an escort if she accepted.

Once Jericho had my chin scraped clean and clothed me in something presentable, I was released from the nightly ritual and free to go about other civilized pursuits. I had to promise not to indulge in additional boisterous play before he let slip the leash, though. Since Richard was safely asleep, it was an easy enough pledge to make.

I found Elizabeth to be alone in the parlor, at her ease on the settee staring at some book. The tea things were cleared away. It was that space of time where most people enjoyed the quiet comfort of their home and family while awaiting the arrival of the supper hour.

“Hallo, where’s Oliver got to?” I asked, idly glancing about.

“Off to his consulting room for a bit of work he missed during the day.” She put the book to one side on top of a pile of well-thumbed copies of
The Gentleman’s Magazine
.

“Is he going to be busy for the whole evening?” Our cousin could disappear for hours on end into his medical studies when the inspiration was upon him.

“I don’t think so. He wanted to read up on a treatment for a complaint he thought too delicate for mixed company.”

That sounded interesting. “Delicate?”

“Apparently even reading about it with a female in the room was of considerable discomfort to him, so he excused himself. I can’t see what his problem might be, since it was only something in a past issue of a magazine about a new method of cutting into the bladder to remedy the suppression of urine.”

“Ugh! Really, Elizabeth!”

“Oh, now don’t
you
object to what is or is not proper for a lady. The article was right there plain and open on the page for anyone to examine.” She tapped the stack of publications next to her with her fingertips.