Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (120 page)

With weary resignation I seated myself at his desk, found paper and a pen with a good clean nib, and opened the ink bottle. Time to write to Father.

As I began the salutation and paused to gather my wits, the fervent hope stabbed through me that he was already on his way to England, making this missive unnecessary.
Selfish, Johnny-boy,
I thought.

Extremely selfish it was to want to place him on a freezing cold ship crossing a dangerous winter sea just to spare me a bit of letter-writing. Yes, that was the light explanation for it. The heavy truth was that I very much wanted to see him again, to have his dear face before me, and to hear his voice. Try as I might, I could find no fault in that wish, for I knew it would be his as well.

Like any other chore, the hardest part was in the mere starting, and once this was achieved I was more of a mind to keep at it until it was finished. I wrote steadily, filling page after page with a recountal of events since Elizabeth, Jericho and I sailed for England. So much had happened, so many details, events and speculations rushed at me, that I had to make notes to myself on a bit of used paper to be sure they were all included.

I scratched and scribbled away, hoping Father would be able to read my handwriting without too much difficulty, taking pains to go slower over the more involved bits of narrative so it would be clear to the eye as well as to the mind. One memory jogged another as I set it down, and I was only occasionally aware of my surroundings, now and then noticing a footstep in the hall without, the snap of the coal in the fireplace or the wind outside trying to pierce its way through the window. Twice I got up to throw coal on the fire, more to give myself a respite to stretch and think what to write next than for any need of warmth.

The candles on the desk burned down to the point where fresh ones were needed. Rather than halt my work by calling for them, or even opening the curtains to the general glow of the night sky, I simply thieved more from the sconces on either side of the mantel, shoving them into the desk holders.

Some portions of the letter were easier to write than others. Surprising to myself, my past liaison with Clarinda proved to be the easiest of all to get through. I’d resolved to tell it plainly and make no apologies for my actions or hers. Father was a man of the world in his own right, having a dearly loved mistress as well as an estranged wife, so I had no doubt he would understand the drives of passion when they so firmly seized hold of me. I did, however, make it clear to him my shock and regret at finding Clarinda to be married and of my sober intention to avoid a repetition of the circumstance with other ladies. I then told him that there was a good reason why I had written at all about my encounter with her, and so word by word and page by page, as I told all there was to tell about Clarinda’s now broken plans, I led up to the subject of Richard.

Again I surprised myself, for now the ease of writing deserted me. I could not seem to put pen to paper about him for long. Each time I tried, my mind wandered off in a dreamy speculation of a happy future, rather than framing a solid report of the happy present. How that child could lay hold of my mind and keep hold of it—had my father felt this way about me at my birth? Perhaps, though, he’d have had several months to anticipate the event, thus getting used to the prospect of having another baby in the house. Richard had been—to grossly understate it—a complete surprise.

At least I could and did say with all truth that there was no question in my mind whatsoever about the child’s paternity, adding that I considered myself to be the most fortunate of all men. I added also that unless upon finding Nora and she told me otherwise, Richard was like to be my only child because of my changed condition. With that in mind I expressed the profound wish that Father would receive the news he was a grandparent as joyfully as I gave it.

After that, I couldn’t think of anything more to say. His acceptance of Richard meant much to me. He would or he would not, but I had every confidence in his love for me and felt he would have no trouble welcoming my son into his own heart as well as I had myself.

I blotted the last page and shuffled them into order like a pack of flimsy playing cards. They’d make a sizable parcel and would cost a fortune to post. Well, it wasn’t as though I didn’t have the money for it. I rolled the letter into a cylinder and tied it with a bit of string filched from a drawer. Then I wrote a short note to Elizabeth, asking her to wrap it up and post it for me.

The thought came to me on the wisdom of making a copy of the thing. That might not be a bad idea, especially should something adverse happen to this pile of paper while en route to Long Island. But to do all that work over again? Ugh. Though I could easily
have
the whole thing copied for a modest fee. . . .

Oh.

Good heavens, no. I snorted at myself for being a fool.

To hire someone, to allow some stranger a look at the intimate doings of the Fonteyns and their relations? That was impossible—not to mention ridiculous. The schemes, lying, adultery, assaults and murder? No, no, no, far better and safer to keep that within the family where it belonged. I’d do the copying myself.

Then all I had to do was hope neither letter fell into the wrong hands.

Well-a-day, maybe I should have used
that
as an argument with Elizabeth against writing the whole lot down to start with and saved myself an evening’s toil. Too late now. For that matter, how late was it, anyway?

When I glanced at the mantel clock, the hour shocked me. Listening closely, I determined the house was fast asleep and had been so for a long time. If I wanted company to help pass the meager remains of the night it would have to be chatting with the watch again or reading another book.

Or copy work.

I shuddered and pushed away from the desk. It could keep until tomorrow night; I’d devoted enough time on the project.

Quite enough and quite a lot, since I’d been left alone for nearly the whole of the night. In this mild form of abandonment, I sensed Elizabeth’s hand. Guessing that I might be writing to Father, she’d probably told Oliver and cautioned him against a return to his study lest he interrupt the task. If I grew tired of the work, I’d be out to visit them in the parlor. Since I hadn’t once emerged, she was likely to be quite pleased with me. I thought of confronting her about it tomorrow and teasing her a bit by saying I’d spent the whole time reading old magazines. It would serve her right for knowing me so well as to predict my behavior with such accuracy.

But my inclination for mischief passed; it occurred to me that Jericho might also have had something to do with it. He possessed an uncanny ability for understanding and predicting the actions not only of me but of others if given enough time to come to acquaint himself with them, and he knew me better than I did myself. He would be aware of Elizabeth’s wish for me to write—he knew all the goings-on of the house—and would have arranged for me to work on undisturbed. A keen observer of life was my good friend and valet.

I found evidence of this in the central hall. On a narrow settee he’d laid out my heavy cloak, hat, walking shoes, gloves and stick, anticipating that I’d want to take a turn about the early morning streets before diving into my cellar sanctuary for the day. Not wanting to disappoint him, I donned the things and quietly let myself out without bothering to open the locked and bolted entry door.

It was a fine clear night, if windy. I had to keep a tight hold on my hat lest it go flying. The ends of my cloak whipped about as though alive and trying to make good an escape. Finally giving up on the hat, I held it close to my chest with one hand and bravely walked into the wind with my cloak streaming behind like a great woolen flag. Not an arrangement to protect one from the elements, but I wasn’t one to feel the cold as sharply as other people. My chief annoyance was the way its collar tie tugged like a hangman’s rope at my throat. I thought it might be better to turn back to the house and fill the time with a book, but I’d been physically idle for hours and my body craved exercise. Though the wind was a nuisance, it freshened the air marvelously, a rare thing in London, inviting me to partake of it while it lasted. Coming hard out of the north, it reminded me of the wholesome landscape of the country and my desire to eventually move there.

The street was empty, though the tumbling of a stray newspaper and the constant dance on either hand of tree branches in the breeze made it seem less so. The creaks and whispers they made unnerved me at first until I grew used to the sound. Not so for a dog I heard occasionally giving vent to his unease by barking.

Most of the houses had outside lamps burning to aid in the lighting and thus the safety of the street. Oliver’s was one of their number because of his profession. Once or twice since moving in, I’d witnessed him called forth on a late medical errand, and it was best for all concerned that his door be easily found by those in need.

Within the nearby houses all must have been peaceful with sleep, though now and then I’d see candlelight showing through the curtains or shutters. Hopefully it was simply an early riser or another wakeful soul passing the night in study, rather than sickness.

I found the watch, in the person of an elderly man named Dunnett, uneasily dozing on his feet in his narrow box. He wore two cloaks wrapped close about his sturdy frame and a long muffler wound around his hat and head against the bitterness of the night, but the way he huddled in them gave me to understand they were somewhat inadequate to the task. So light was his sleep that he jerked awake at my soft approach, his startled gaze meeting mine in an instant of fearful suspicion until he recognized me.

“Good e’nin’, Mr. Barrett,” he said, rubbing his red nose with the back of his gloved hand. “Up early or out late ag’in? That is, ’f y’ don’t mind my askin’.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Dunnett. I’m out late, as always.”

“Mus’ be rare ’ard for a youngun like you to ’ave such trouble findin’ sleep.”

“Oh, it comes to me eventually. All quiet tonight?”

“Aye, too cold for the bully boys, I’m thinkin’. Saw ’alf a dozen o’ them Mohocks earlier tonight. Gave me a turn. I was afeared they’d be makin’ some grief, but they left me alone, thanks be to God.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The night watch, mainly composed of unarmed old men, was ever a favorite target for the malice of the city’s rowdy element.

“A foolish lot they are, but mebe too cold fer their pranks. ’Tis fine with me.”

“Any other visitors aside from them?”

“None as I could see. ’S been rare quiet tonight. ’S I said, ’tis fine with me.”

“What, not even footpads?” I asked, pretending surprise.

“ ’Tain’t no one out fer ’em to rob,” he said with a cackle. “’Ceptin’ me, ’n’ I don’t ’ave nothin’. There’s you, but I ’eard as ’ow you c’n take care o’ yerself.”

“You have? Where?—if you don’t mind my asking.”

“ ’Eard it ’round o’r by the Red Swan. I done a favor f’ the landlord ’n’ he sees I get a tot o’ rum once a night ’f it’s to me fancy.” From the many veins decorating his nose, one could deduce it suited Dunnett’s fancy very well indeed.

I knew about his favor. The Red Swan’s chief business was not the sort to have the approval of the law. According to Oliver—himself a regular customer there—Mr. Dunnett had warned the landlord of an impending raid from the forces of justice and decency in time to save the establishment from serious damage. The story went that the raiding party burst into the place ready to face the worst kind of resistance this side of a battlefield, only to find it occupied by a large group of Quakers having some sort of a meeting.

There was vast disappointment on all sides once they worked out their business—the raiders had no one to arrest, and the Quakers failed to interest the newcomers in joining them on the closing prayer. Both sides retired unbloodied from the field to go their separate ways. The next day the Swan was open for normal custom, free now of the harassment from the forces of morality because of a well-placed bribe from the landlord.

Dunnett said, “I was in ’avin’ me tot not long back, ’n ’eard some gentlemen drinkin’ to yer good ’ealth.”

I smiled, feeling absurdly pleased. “Some friends of mine, I suppose, or my cousin Oliver.”

“Friends,” he confirmed with a nod. “I know Dr. Marlin’ well enough. Many’s the time I’ve seen ’im staggerin’ from ’is coach to ’is front door when ’e’s had a bit o’ fun. Always ’as a friendly word for me no matter ’ow much ’e’s swilled.”

“That’s Oliver and no mistake. But you didn’t know these men to name? If someone’s toasting my health it’s only right I should return the courtesy.”

“Not to name, no, sir, but I’ve seen one or two of ’em visitin’ the doctor now ‘n’ then. One was a’andsome, perky chap with a mole right ’ere,” Mr. Dunnett pointed to a spot on the side of his nose. “I noticed ’im special for it, ’n’ for ’im bein’ the one t’ name you ’n ’is toast. Talked all ’bout that duel you was in, called you a real fire-eater, sir. Those were ’is very words. So that’s ’ow I ’eard ’bout you takin’ care o’ yerself so well.”

I felt my face go red, and not from the wind. “I know the fellow,” I admitted. The mole on the nose—he could only have been Brinsley Bolyn. Since the night of my duel with Ridley, young Mr. Bolyn had become my most devoted admirer and supporter. Good lord, but I’d have to find a polite way of asking him not to be so free with his enthusiasm or I’d have no end of challenges from men wanting to test themselves against me. I could fight, but had an unfair advantage in terms of strength, speed and healing from even a mortal wound. Besides, unlike most of them, I had killed before and found no pleasure in it.

Dunnett noticed the change in my expression. “Not a friend o’ yers, sir?”

I quickly sorted myself and laughed a little. “He’s a friend, but he’s doing me no favors with such praise, however well intentioned.”

“I see ’ow it is, sir,” he said with a quick wink. “Too much talk like that makes it ’ard to live up to the ’onor.”

“Exactly. You’re a most perceptive man, Mr. Dunnett.”