Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (17 page)

“He’s spoken to you?”

“Not exactly, but he puts on a damnably grim face when he knows you’re going over for a visit. He sulks awhile, then gets drunk.”

“He hides it well.”

“Doesn’t he just? You don’t notice because he’s always passed out by the time you get back. He’s always all right in the morning—except for a bad head.”

We all suffered from that malady at frequent intervals. “Should I do anything about him, you think?”

“Don’t know, old lad. Just thought I’d mention it, is all.”

This is a warning
, I thought.

After that Oliver refrained from further talk on the subject. More than once he stated that what went on between me and Nora and Nora and his friend was none of his business and was content to let it remain so. I respected this and did not attempt to draw him farther out, but now that I’d been made aware of them, I did note the small changes in Warburton, and thought about them frequently afterward. Again, when I spoke of him to Nora, she told me not to be troubled.

* * *

The social drawbacks of an institution like Cambridge became apparent from the start, as I realized with dismay that the majority of my activities precluded the presence of women. There were dinners and parties of all kinds, but for tutors and students only Not once but many times Nora and I discussed the utter unfairness of such ridiculous social partition.

Yes, we did find time to talk. One can occupy oneself with love-making for only so long before requiring a respite. During these intervals I discovered Nora’s mind was more than equal to her beauty. We found much common ground between us regarding people and politics, history and literature. Nora was well read and, though barred from the many volumes in the university library, she somehow managed to gain access to them in pursuit of her own literary amusements. I assumed that one of her other friends assisted her in this.

“If it weren’t for books I would become quite mad,” she confessed while paging through a rare volume I’d gleaned from a bookseller and presented as a gift for her library. She had a passion for history and a particular interest in biographies. This one was about the lives of various European monarchs.

“You are the sanest person I’ve ever met,” I said. We were in her parlor downstairs. She’d made it a very pretty place with new flowered paper enriching the walls and furnishings to comfort a weary body. A large fire in the grate warmed the whole room. “Why ever should you go mad?”

“Why should any of us?” she countered, which was hardly an answer. Perhaps I was expected to supply one.

I sank onto a wide settee, an idle thought passing through my head about what an excellent support it would be for love-making. All in good time. “My father thinks it’s in the blood.”

“He’s probably correct,” she said absently. She knew about Mother’s side of the family by now.

“Are you worried you might be risking yourself?” I asked this in light of her sensual preferences. “You know . . . you
could
be courting the possibility of madness whenever you drink from me.”

She looked up from her book, surprised until she saw my smile. “Oh, my dear, hardly that. I agree with your father’s opinion regarding one’s natural inheritances, such as hair or eye color. In regard to myself, if I did not have such friends as these” — she gestured at her shelves of books— “my life would be unbearably tedious. You have no idea how heavy an empty hour can be even when surrounded by people. I do. I once endured years of them, years of grinding ignorance and boredom muddled together with contempt and jealousy for that which I could not understand.” There was no pain in her tone, though, only gloomy regret.

“How old were you?” It could not have been so very long ago.

Her smile returned. “I was not old, Jonathan. I was young; very, very young.”

I’d never asked her age, but by even the most generous estimate, she could not have been more than four and twenty, if that much. “I see. And now you are very, very old.”

“Yes,” she said lightly “I’m positively ancient.”

I fell in with her humor. “But you magically preserve yourself by drinking my blood.”

“Of course.”

An idea lanced through my skull, a rather obvious one. Why had it never occurred to me before? “And that of others like Tony Warburton?”

Her gaze turned guarded against any suggestion of jealousy from me. There was none, only curiosity “Yes. I have to, you see. There’s not enough in you alone to sustain me.”

“You speak as though you live upon it,” I said seriously.

“Well. . . I do.”

There followed a lengthy silence from me as I sought to comprehend her meaning. “You’re not joking, are you?”

She stood by the fire, my book in hand, watching me carefully. “No.”

“You must be.” My voice had gone up a little. A small breath of unease curled against my spine like a draft.

“Believe what you will.”

She was
not
joking. “How can you? I mean,
how
is it possible?”

Nora shrugged. “It’s how it is with me. Accept it.”

“Surely you must know. Were you born like this? Did your mother nurse you on milk . . . or blood?”

She made no reply.

My unease was roughly swept aside by something else, something more solid than the air but just as invisible. Darker. Colder. It edged beneath my skin, oozed along my muscles, squeezed my lungs, chilled my racing heart.

Her secret, like a curtain hanging between us that I had previously—perhaps willingly—ignored, was torn away by that invasion. I caught my first glimpse of what lay beyond. The full understanding I thought I wanted burst upon my brain.

“Jonathan?”

“It’s true?”

“That I live on blood. Yes.” Her tone was steady, her demeanor . . . still watchful.

“Is that why there are so many handsome, hearty young men around you, why they come calling so often, why you require their silence. . . .”

“Yes.”

“And I am one of them. You—your
favorite
.” Oh, dear God . . . .

She fixed her gaze hard on me. “Jonathan, calm yourself.”

My mind swooped like a bird struck by an unexpected rush of wind. I found myself struggling to right myself, but felt trapped, pressed down, held in place by the power of her eyes.

“
Calm
yourself.” Her voice was firm and clear and more forceful than normal. It streamed through my ears, my thoughts, my body, rising to drown me from within. I abruptly gave up fighting. It was the only thing to do. Anything else was foolish. Nothing else was important. Not my new knowledge. Not my new terror. Not even myself.

She was seated next to me. When had she moved?

“Listen and hear me out, Jonathan.”

Her melodious tone soothed, reassured, filled me with peace. I could not find tongue to speak. Could only nod.

“I do what I must to live and maintain myself,” she said. “The others come by and for a moment or two I gift them with a unique pleasure, and they gift me with life. The ones who can afford it provide a small donation of money. I have none of my own, no family, no fortune, no other means to live.”

“They give you money?” My voice was normal once more, but at the same time it sounded as though someone else were using it. The sudden tranquility she’d impressed upon me was in danger of splintering like thin ice on a deep pool. I was walking where I did not wish to go.

“When I ask, when I’m in need. A little from each, so they are not beggared, the same as with their blood. If that makes me a whore, then so be it.”

I stirred, writhing inside. “No. . . .”

“I’ve
no
other way.” She collected herself and stared hard until I felt at ease again. “But . . . you understand that now. You completely understand. Don’t you?”

“I . . . yes.”

“And it’s all right. It doesn’t bother you in the least. I’m still the woman you love.”

Her gaze wavered, and I felt my mind clearing a bit, the darkness on my heart lifting. I did seem remarkably serene, considering.

“There’s one very important difference, Jonathan. You are not merely my favorite. You are the man
I
love. I may receive some pleasure from them and give it, but you are the
only
man I take to my bed. You’re the only man I want there. Believe that, if you believe nothing else.”

And I did. Wholly. My heart grew so full I thought it would burst. I wanted to touch her, but she still held me fast with a mere look, watching for some minutes. Only gradually did the apprehension leave her expression and tension depart from her posture. Only then was I able to move. I lifted one hand, fingers lightly touching her face. With some surprise I realized there were tears glistening on her cheek.

“Oh, Nora. Please don’t cry. There’s no reason.”

“There are a thousand. But it’s all right now. I’ll stop.” She found a handkerchief and used it. “I just don’t want to lose you. Or hurt you. Ever. But sometimes I can’t help it because of my nature. It forces me to—”

“It doesn’t matter. Truly it doesn’t.” I meant it with all my soul. “I’ll show you. . . .” I eased her arms around my body. She gave no resistance as I pulled her close. Turning slightly arranged us so her lips almost brushed my neck.

“Jonathan. . . .”

I cast free of my neckcloth and presented my bare throat to her, leaving no ambiguity as to what I desired to give. I loved her. Trusted her.
Wanted
her.

“But here . . . ? We can go upstairs.”

Now it was my turn to fix her with a look. “Yes, we can. But I want you to do with me as you do with them. Right here, exactly the same.”

“Why?”

“So I won’t have to wonder what it’s like.”

Her eyes went wide. I’d surprised her.

“Then after, if you choose, take me to your bed.”

The room was silent as I waited for her response. I heard only the fire cracking and—it could have been fancy only—the very beating of my heart.

Her arms suddenly found strength and pulled me close. I gasped when she bit down, and it was from pure joy.

* * *

Packets of letters from home eventually arrived, months out of date but eagerly welcomed. I always read the last one first to be certain that all was well before putting them in proper order.

Elizabeth’s were the longest, with page after page covered with news and the kind of observations she knew would amuse me. She lightly recounted the most mundane events of home, making them interesting; her writing was so clear that I could almost hear her voice in my ear again. I missed her dreadfully.

Father’s letters were shorter, but full of affection and pride, which in turn gave me pride in myself as well as a certain humility that I should have the high regard of such a man. He’d left many friends behind in England and encouraged me to seek them out to give them his greetings. In this task I was more than a little remiss, for some had died, others lived too far away, and by now I had friends of my own to occupy the days. I did manage to look up one or two old fellows who remembered him, but having little else in common with them, the visits were awkward. As quickly as common courtesy allowed, I would excuse myself to return to my own haunts, duty done.

Jericho had the least to say, curtailed by his own lack of free time and anything to write. This was a comfort, for it meant that the household was running smoothly. He did state that Elizabeth’s silent feud against Mother had eased somewhat. My canny sister made her point with the more alert members of the congregation on that Sunday, but the less sensitive had ignored her bruises or simply disbelieved how she’d gotten them. This small group became part of Mother’s new circle of friends. Though Elizabeth held them in contempt, they did divert much of Mother’s attention from her.

Mother did not write at all. This was a relief, for it released me from the duty of writing back, and God knows I had nothing to say to the woman. I suppose it was the same for her.

Other notes were enclosed, from friends, from Rapelji, and surprisingly, from Dr. Beldon. He was cordial and warm and floridly polite to the point of fawning. His letters I regarded with distaste, but felt obligated to answer. My replies were brief, and by their brevity, hopefully discouraging to further correspondence. It never worked. I would have felt ashamed, for he was an interesting and intelligent man, but those qualities were undermined by his toad-eating ways, else I might have welcomed his friendship.

My letters home were about my life at Cambridge and the direction of my studies. I wrote of my new friends and of Cousin Oliver, but left out quite a lot on the rest of the family. Doubtless Mother would be reading them and my honest opinions of her dearest relatives would have turned her apoplectic. These views I confided to a private journal I kept that she would never see. Of Nora, at least in my letters home, I said nothing.

The last months of that year fairly galloped past. Though I did well enough in my studies, they did not hold my interest. Compared to Rapelji’s style of tutoring what I worked on now seemed childishly easy. His most valuable lesson to me had been the cultivation of a good memory; this, combined with his frequent drilling of Latin and Greek, stood me through the most difficult of my reading. While other lads often despaired of pounding anything into their heads, I seemed to soak it up like a cleaning rag. This pleased me, for it left more time to devote to Nora. As the days grew shorter with the approach of winter, so did my nights with her lengthen and grow richer.

“This is my birthday,” she said one evening in November in the same tone of voice one uses to comment on the weather.

We were comfortable in her drawing room, idly pushing around a deck of cards. Coal snapped in the fireplace; I was warm and pleased to sit back and digest the excellent supper I’d recently shared with Mrs. Poole, who had long departed for bed. Nora had been at the table but had not eaten, as was her custom, and was quiet for the most part. Perhaps this announcement explained her preoccupation. Why had there been no marking of the event?

I expressed my congratulations and regret that I had no gift to offer. “I wish you had told me.”