Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (53 page)

“I didn’t send you to Cambridge for you to sleep your life away,” Mother continued, as though
nothing
had happened.

“Mrs. Barrett!” cried Beldon from where he stood flat-footed in a corner, utterly appalled.

But before I could get to Elizabeth, she’d surged right back up again, swift as thought. She had the beginnings of a red mark on her face oddly similar to the one Mrs. Montagu had received; beyond that the resemblance ceased. Elizabeth’s expression—indeed, her whole body—seemed possessed by pure fury. While Mother still babbled on, heaping more reproach upon me, Elizabeth launched herself. Mother’s speech abruptly stopped, replaced by a snarl of surprise and followed by thumps, howls and thuds. They were on the floor, skirts flying and fabric ripping as they rolled and tore at each other like cats.

“You bitch!” bellowed my sister, landing one solid blow after another. “Bitch,
bitch,
BITCH
!
” Her voice rose to a terrifying shriek the like of which I’d never heard before.

Beldon joined me quickly enough, but it was hard going to find an opening. He and I finally managed to make a lucky grab each and pulled them apart. I had Mother, and he dragged Elizabeth into the hall, perhaps with the idea of taking her to her room. He’d need help there, for Elizabeth was still cursing and crying and fighting him, her face contorted and looking unnervingly like Mother’s.

That woman moaned, half-swooned, for she’d received the worst of it in the brief fight. Elizabeth had put all her rage-driven strength into the beating. Mother’s face was bloodied, her hair in disarray, and her gown in tatters. Any stranger seeing her in such a plight might have been moved to instant pity and an offer of immediate succor. But I was no stranger. I was her much disliked, if not despised, son, and hadn’t the vaguest notion of what to do with her.

Jericho, the most self-possessed, impossible-to-perturb man I knew, had frozen in place and now looked torn between going after Elizabeth and remaining with me. He’d also noticed something.

“Mr. Jonathan . . . your clothes . . . .”

My cloak had fallen open, revealing the—literally—bloody mess it had so handily concealed. “Oh, God.” I pulled the edges together to cover it again.

“But, sir—?”

“Jericho, I promise you that I am unhurt, but please, don’t ask about it just now. I’ll tell you later.”

Beldon returned before I could further confound things. With him came our guests and servants, drawn by the commotion. My room and the hall grew noisy with questions, called at the same time, making it impossible for them to hear answers, had we been of a mind to give any. Then Beldon shouted for silence, shoved back those nearest, and slammed my door in their faces. It was the only impolite action I’d ever seen him take.

“Up there,” he said briskly, returning to his patient and stooping.

We lifted Mother to my bed. Beldon had his box of medicines open and drew forth the laudanum bottle. He measured and prepared a dose—quickly, as he’d had much practice—and got Mother, still more than half stunned, to drink it. He then checked her other injuries.

“She’ll be all right,” he stated hollowly. I accepted the news without a single flicker of emotion. I felt dead inside. She was nothing to me. An irritant at the most, like a speck of dust in the eye that’s washed away by a few tears and then forgotten. Except that I had no tears in me. Not for her, at least.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barrett,” he murmured.

“Thank you.” Other replies had come to me, but they would have not improved the situation.

“Do you wish your father to know what’s happened?”

That one required thought. On one hand, Father would want to know; on the other, he had enough worries for the moment. “Yes . . . but there’s no hurry. You can send a messenger to the Montagu house tomorrow. Despite the presence of Mr. Nash’s men, I don’t think it wise for anyone to travel abroad tonight.”

“I agree. I shall see to your mother’s needs, then write him a note. What about Miss Barrett? She’s very shaken, if you want my help . . . ”

“Thank you, but I’ll speak to her myself.”

I backed away, found the door, and let myself out. The people waiting there with their questions drew back and went silent, expectation on their faces. What the devil was I to say to them? A voice inside prompted that I should blurt the truth, that Mrs. Barrett has gone raving mad, thank you all for coming to the tea party, and we’ll see you at church this Sunday as usual.

“Mrs. Barrett has taken ill.” I faltered.
Oh, lord in heaven, was that not the absolute truth?
“Nothing serious, just too much excitement. She’s retired for the evening.”

Of course they were disappointed, but the wiser ones could see that was the extent of my explanation for the row. They obligingly parted as I stalked down the hall to see Elizabeth.

Her door was fast shut, dim light showing at the bottom. I knocked and called her name but heard no reply. If she wanted privacy, she’d have said something. I pushed in.

Elizabeth lay on her side on her bed, still clothed in her now- crumpled finery, turned away, hunched around a pillow, and loudly sobbing into it. She rarely cried, which made this release all the more violent.

Young Sheba was with her, but the situation was beyond her limits. I wasn’t sure of myself, either, but instinct told me to go with traditional remedies. I directed Sheba to fetch hot tea and brandy. She clattered off, visibly relieved.

Both Anne and Lady Caroline hesitantly came forward to offer assistance, and I’d thought it best to politely refuse. They knew nothing of the situation. The door bumped shut, affording us much needed privacy.

I sat on the bed and put my arm around Elizabeth and told her it was over and that things were going to be all right, much as Father had done for me earlier. It was nonsense, but the object was to let her know she wasn’t alone. By the time Sheba returned with a tray, the worst of the storm, I hoped, had passed, and Elizabeth was sitting up and working through several handkerchiefs.

Pouring the brandy, I murmured to Sheba stand just outside and turn away anyone who wasn’t Dr. Beldon.

I felt cold. And distant. From myself, strangely, but not from Elizabeth. My feeling for her was sorrow that she was experiencing such pain in both body and soul. On her cheek was the red mark of Mother’s hand; it would turn into a nasty bruise soon enough. I urged her to take brandy. She offered no resistance.

“Oh, Jonathan, how could I have done such a thing?”

I had no answer. “How could
she
have done such a thing?”

But Elizabeth wasn’t listening. “Was it the Fonteyn blood showing through at last? Is that it?”

“It was
you,
not your blood. You, Elizabeth, who had been brutally provoked beyond all patience.”

“Provoked or not, I shouldn’t have done it. Something just came over me. It’s as though I don’t know myself.”

“Oh, yes, you do. We all lose control now and then.” My voice caught as I thought of Nat and his big companion. But a few hours earlier, these same hands holding Elizabeth’s had squeezed and snapped the life from two of God’s creatures. “It’s not always good . . . but it is understandable. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for.”

“But I do. To have done such a thing . . . .”

“Is understandable,” I emphasized. “Even if you don’t understand, others will.”

“I don’t want others to know about this.”

It was pointless to mention that others did, already. Cousin Anne had been flighty and mystified in the glimpse I’d had of her, but Lady Caroline looked to have drawn some perceptive conclusions about the Barrett household. It wouldn’t take much for her to decide Mrs. Hardinbrook would be her best source of information on what was going on. And that gossipy lady would be more than happy to supply a few dramatic details to the sister of a duke. Perhaps she and Lord James would soon depart.

“I feel awful,” Elizabeth mumbled.

“Sleep will cure that.”

“And what about
her?”

Mother. “Beldon’s with her. I expect she’ll recover. If it’s like the other times, she won’t remember a thing.”

“How nice for her.”

“I think it’s a pity.”

She sat up to stare. “What?”

“For her to not remember is a great pity.”

“Why is that?”

“Because if she did, then she would think twice before she dared strike you again. The sad part is, she probably won’t, therefore you need to be careful around her. We all do.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No.”

Another horror sprang into her mind. “What about Father? Oh, God, what shall I tell him?”

“The truth, as always. I’ll help.”

“How can I face him?”

“He will have the same concern for you as I do now. You needn’t worry. Just remember how dearly he loves you. Nothing you’ve done will ever endanger that. He knows what Mother is like. Beldon will tell him what happened too.”

More protests, more reassurances from me. In the end she settled down, and I called Sheba in to help get her ready for bed. I left quietly and was surprised to find the hall clear. Beldon must have taken charge and sorted things out, God bless the man.

Order was restored to my room: Mother was gone, the bed’s coverlet smoothed again and turned down that I might occupy it, which was sham. As ever, I would sleep in the cellar.

I stripped out of my clothes. Perhaps Jericho could find someone in the servant’s hall able to repair the cuts and tears, though I could take it all to Molly Audy some night. The thought of her warmed me enough for a short moment to draw out a faint smile. She and I had become good friends over the last few months. She knew nothing of the domestic trials of my life here; I didn’t want that part of my life tainted with such cares. I could be myself with her and for a short time enjoy a measure of freedom.

But my smile faded as other thoughts crowded Molly’s pleasant company from my mind. Poor Elizabeth. Poor me. Poor Barrett family.

I washed my face and hands. Several times. What I really wanted was a scalding hot bath, but that was impractical at such a late hour. Pity.

It was all so absurd. There I’d been, trying to comfort Elizabeth for having lost control when I was far more seriously guilty of it myself. Absurd.

And hypocritical, at least where my sister was concerned.

For in my heart of hearts, I was
glad
that Elizabeth had done it.

CHAPTER SIX

JANUARY 1777

“A letter for you, Jonathan . . . I think it’s from Cousin Oliver!”

I’d barely emerged from my cellar sanctuary when Elizabeth all but pounced on me, waving her packet. She usually reserved her greeting for later, after I’d had a chance to change for the evening. Then we would sit in the library as usual, and she’d catch me up on the day’s events. I was startled by this abrupt assault, but recovered and eagerly accepted the packet she shoved into my hands. The address was written in Oliver’s sprawling scrawl, and I wasted no time tearing it open.

“What does he say?” she demanded.

I plowed through the first few lines. “All is well with him.”

“What about Nora?”

“No mention of her yet. God, what writing the man has! I can barely make out . . . there’s her name, let me see . . .” I read on and my heart fell right into my shoes. It was readily apparent to Elizabeth, who insisted that I share my knowledge.

“Nora’s no longer in England,” I announced mournfully. “She’s gone away and Oliver doesn’t know exactly where.”

“Gone? What’s happened?”

I read a little more and shook my head. “Oliver thinks she may have followed the Warburton family to Italy sometime last November. He knows where they are staying, so he’s written asking if they can find Nora for him. She was a regular visitor to Tony Warburton, y’know. Oliver thinks they might be able to get my letter to her.”

“That’s something, at least.”

“Yes. More waiting for me. Months more.”

“I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. “It hardly matters now. Most of the questions I’d asked Nora have found their own answers after all this time.”

“But some have not.”

“True, but there’s nothing I can really do about that. Thank you for bringing me this, though.” I wondered what Nora might be up to in following the Warburtons. She’d felt badly about what had happened to Tony. I was less charitable concerning his sudden and near murderous madness. When my memory returned I recalled that horror all too clearly when he almost— “What other news is there tonight?” I asked, seeking distraction.

“Not much. It’s just been one more dreary winter day.”

“Did Lord James go with Father to Hempstead?” Last night he’d expressed a keen curiosity about Father’s work and gotten an invitation to come and observe legal procedures. Winter tedium must have had something to do with it, for he’d never been especially interested before.

“Just after breakfast.”

“Lucky man.” I should have been the one to go with Father, as I’d studied hard for just that purpose, but my condition utterly precluded it. Travel was no problem, so long as it was at night, but I’d never see the inside of a courtroom again, nor ever have the chance to practice my profession.

Elizabeth knew what I was thinking, for I’d made enough complaint about it over the months. “Father’s left a huge stack of papers for you in the library.”

More copy work
, I thought. “Clerking, not real law. I’m like an artist who may only paint walls. The desire and talent are there, but the execution . . . .” I waved my hand in a throwing-away gesture.

“We’re in like situations, so I understand what you mean.”

“In what way are they like? You’re able to stay awake while the sun’s up.

“And do what? Housewifery? Needlework? Gossip?”

“Missing him, aren’t you?” I asked, desirous to change the subject.

That delayed further speech from her as we left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. She made no inquiry about whom I was referring to, there being no need. Elizabeth blushed and opened her mouth several times to reply, then snapped it shut again every time she caught my grin. The topic of Lord James Norwood was a tender one with her.

“And he’s been gone
only
a day?”
I added.

She looked ready to explode for a moment, then abruptly gave it up. “Yes,” came her rueful admission. “All bloody day and probably tomorrow as well.”

“It will pass soon enough.”

“It’s forever,” she grumbled.

“Does he know how you feel?” I paused at the door to my room.

“Sometimes I think he does. I wish I knew how
he
felt about me.”

“You can’t tell?”

She looked entirely helpless. “No.”

“I could talk to him—”

“No!
Don’t you dare!”

“But if it will end your uncertainty—”

“No!
I absolutely forbid it, Jonathan! Don’t! Please promise me you won’t!”

“All right, all right. I just wanted to help.”

“I’ll do my own helping, thank you very much. You promise not to say anything to him?”

“I promise, though if you should change your mind . . . ?”

Brows high, eyes wide, and teeth bared, she shook her fists at me in mock rage. I pretended to cower away from her and, laughing, took shelter in my room.

Things had been easier in the house in the last few weeks as evidenced by our play and the shared laughter. Against expectations, it appeared that Mother had not conveniently “forgotten” the fight between herself and Elizabeth, after all. She never spoke of it, but since that time there was a marked change in her behavior toward us, particularly toward Elizabeth. So far there had been no more reproaches, no scoldings, no adverse attention or pointing out of our shortcomings.

Instead, she utterly ignored us.

The first day or so was puzzling, as we anticipated her to return to her old pattern of behavior once she recovered from her bruises. But as the days (or for me, the nights) followed one another we saw that she either purposely or accidentally overlooked us in all things. She never addressed us directly and should we be in a room with her, her gaze simply skipped over us as though we were invisible.

The puzzlement was soon replaced by grateful relief as we saw how things stood. We found it infinitely preferable to be ignored by her than to be subjected to her constant abuse. Even Father benefited as some of her more acidic commentary toward him dropped off. She became coldly polite without the usual underlying tone of sarcasm.

Of course, he had not been pleased about what had happened, but his interview with Elizabeth on the incident had been a gentle one. He understood the provocation to which she had been subjected, but was disappointed that she had lost her head. He deemed that Elizabeth’s own guilt over the matter was punishment enough, and merely advised her to exercise more strength of will in the future—and to stay out of Mother’s way. But so far she had been spared from testing herself further. With Mother utterly ignoring us both, fresh conflicts never came to pass.

It was a liberation. We each sensed that it might not last, but were determined to help it continue for as long as possible and did our best to hold ourselves clear of anything that might draw Mother’s attention.

Another expectation of mine that had gone unfulfilled was the speedy exit of our guests. The row had been a highly embarrassing episode and I’d thought the Norwoods would soon invent an excuse and leave, but they stayed on. Lady Caroline was most gracious about the business and chose to regard Mother in the same way as Father did: that the woman suffered from bouts of illness over which she had no control. Norwood had missed it all, so any impression it might have made on him when he heard of it from others was negligible. He possessed an easy patience with Mother, and in his own way seemed to help her keep balanced. She behaved herself when he was about, was almost normal.

Cousin Anne was a bit less capable when it came to dealing with such domestic powder kegs, deciding that it was “horrid” and “confusing.” But she, too, stayed on, for she had nowhere else to go. As for Mrs. Hardinbrook, it was just another in a long series of unpleasantries that she found easy to dismiss after much skillful practice.

I’d asked Dr. Beldon for his opinion about the change in Mother, but he was not as candid as he might have been. “It seems to be for the good,” he said, “but I won’t hazard to say how long it might go on. Mrs. Barrett’s condition has ever been an erratic one in the past.”

“But she’s always been consistent in her poor behavior,” I pointed out.

“Ah, yes. One could say that. She has displayed a certain nervousness in her temperament.” He was trying so hard to be tactful.

“Let’s be honest, Doctor, her temper has been consistently bad, especially toward her family. Now she’s become almost congenial. Without making comment on how it was brought about, I’d just like to know how it may be continued.”

Beldon, so used to the shelter of social pretense, floundered on that one. “I have no answer for you, Mr. Barrett. As a physician I can hardly prescribe a reenactment of what happened between your mother and Miss Barrett as a course to take should the . . . nervousness return.”

I winked at him. “Still, it’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

He covered his mouth with his fist and coughed trying to hide the smile there, but I’d seen it and thus did he confirm what Elizabeth and I had earlier determined: that a firm hand was needed with Mother. In other words, those few seconds of knocking about had done her (and the rest of us) more good than three years of constant placation and submission. Not that either of us planned to repeat the violence, but because of its occurrence it just may have gotten through to Mother that she was no longer immune to the consequences of her actions.

* * *

I had come to like winter, even as the worst of it settled upon us like a vast white bird with icy wings. With the longer nights so closely following the short days, my time and enjoyment of the society of our guests happily increased. With Father’s permission, I’d worked my influence upon them, ensuring that they found nothing unusual in my daytime sleep in the cellar or avoidance of the supper table. And so when I came down after changing into more suitable clothes for the evening, no one remarked upon it, or even thought to try.

I went straight to the library, planning to answer Oliver’s letter right away and then get started on the work Father had left for me. However dull it might prove to be, I would do what I could to help him in all things. The war’s encroachment on the Island had brought about a marked increase in livelihood for him.

“Hallo, Cousin,” said Anne, who was by the bookcase when I came in. The dreariness of the short days and long nights had finally overcome her aversion to reading, and once started, she’d made a habit of it. Perhaps in Philadelphia a young lady with no penchant for intellectual pursuits was acceptable, but not here in our comparatively rustic fastness. One could not just cross the road and visit friends to avoid ennui. Anne’s schooling had been limited to only what she’d need to run a house when she married, for that was all that was required of her. She’d been rather shocked that Elizabeth’s education was a match to my own. Though Anne wasn’t up to learning Greek just yet, she was trying to acquire some French. It passed the time for her, at least, though her accent was awful.

“Hallo,” I returned. “Finished with my Gibbon already?”

“Hardly. He’s interesting, but I wanted something different tonight. Something a bit lighter than history.”

“Hmm. Let’s see, what about this one?” I plucked down a volume of Shakespeare.

“A play?” She frowned. Her prudish father had instilled the idea that anything to do with the stage would lead straight to perdition. On some level he was probably right, but Anne was safe enough here.

“A comedy. It’s about twins, a boy and a girl who are separated by misadventure, so to make her way in the world the girl disguises herself as a boy.”

“You’re jesting!” Anne looked shocked.

“Then she falls in love with a nobleman, but since she’s pretending to be a lad, she can’t reveal it to him. Then a lady, also fooled by the disguise, falls in love with
her
and so on. Elizabeth found it amusing and so might you.”

“But a girl dressing as a boy? It’s so . . . so immodest!”

I shrugged. “There are even a couple engravings in there showing it.”

Her jaw dropped, but curiosity won out over her objections. She seized the book and scurried off to explore its vulgar pleasures, tossing a hurried “thank you” over her shoulder. I smiled after her and realized that I quite liked my cousin.

Anne had a sweetness in her nature at odds with her Fonteyn blood, so presumably she’d escaped its dire effects. However, she was not especially clever, and much of her conversation was of a repetitious nature. She was pretty, though, and at her best when singing, for she had a lovely voice. As there was nothing to dislike about her, she was generally liked by others as well, so long as the conversation was not too intellectually taxing.

I thought that she might have a working mind hidden away somewhere; it just wanted a little encouragement to emerge. From what I gathered by listening to talk about how things were in Philadelphia, a girl with an intellect was at a disadvantage in the marriage market. Pouring tea correctly, wearing a pleasant face no matter what, and keeping the servants in line was all that was expected of her; that, and being a good listener when a man spoke. Little wonder Elizabeth had such a low opinion about what polite society thought desirable in females.