Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (54 page)

“You’re very kind to her.” A woman’s voice. Lady Caroline.

I turned from the bookcase to find her at ease in Father’s big chair by the fire. She had a book in one hand, her finger marking the place where she’d left off reading. I gave a small bow.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, but it is. I tried to interest her in Shakespeare ages ago and she wouldn’t touch it. Thought it might be too confusing. I admire the way you tempted her into it.”

“Thank you,” I said, with happy sincerity.

Where Anne was lacking was made up for by Lady Caroline, and I found myself strongly drawn to her. She was easy to talk to on many different subjects.

“What book have you found?” I asked.

“It’s one I brought with me. It’s music.” She opened it to show the pages, which were covered with bars and notes, all unintelligible to me. I left such art to Elizabeth, who had a natural talent for it.

“You’re reading music? How can you do that without playing it?”

“It’s no more difficult than reading words, I assure you.”

“For you perhaps. Is there a story buried somewhere in your tune, then?”

She had a charming laugh. “I think it would be better for me to play it so you can work out your own story.” Lady Caroline was accomplished at the spinet and attributed her skill from having taken lessons from Joseph Haydn during the years prior to his entering the service of the great and wealthy Esterhazy family where he was finding fame these days. His name meant little enough here in the colonies, but I’d heard it often while in England and was impressed.

“I should like that,” I said.

“Your sister and I could take turns. She has an excellent ear and eye, I’ve noticed.”

“She will be delighted to know you think so, Lady Caroline.”

“I think quite a lot of your sister, you know . . . and so does my brother.”

Well-a-day.
“Indeed?”

“He’s given me to understand that he has a respectful regard in his heart for her.”

Though Elizabeth had extracted my strict promise not to speak to Norwood about her, she’d made no mention about avoiding the subject with his sister. “Then his lordship will be pleased to hear—if he doesn’t know already—that Elizabeth has a respectful regard for him.”

“That is good news, as far as it goes, but what shall be done about it?”

“I believe that once the principals understand things, the situation will likely take care of itself.”

“Ah, but there are other matters to consider, Mr. Barrett. Practical matters.

“What might those be?”

“Money, for instance, should it come to pass that my brother wishes to propose marriage to Miss Barrett. From the first when he began to confide his feelings to me about her, I could see that he would probably be too occupied with those feelings to even think about the dowry. I don’t know if there are different customs over here, but in England, the bride is expected to bring a suitable sum into the marriage.”

“There’s naught to worry about there, Lady Caroline, for the custom holds here as well. In fact, upon marrying, Elizabeth comes into her full inheritance from her maternal grandfather’s estate. It is a sizable sum with a comfortable yearly income attached. Of course, any marriage she seeks must have the approval of her parents, or she forfeits everything.”

Such was Grandfather’s hold from the grave on his female descendants. I had not been so restricted and had come into everything on my twenty-first birthday last summer.

“That requirement for approval must lessen the chance for hasty elopements,” she said.

“I believe that was the idea behind it.” Though I knew Elizabeth was headstrong enough to ignore it if she felt she had to; in this case it was irrelevant.

“Do you think your parents might bestow their approval on such a match?”

“That is something Lord James will have to take up with them, though in my opinion I doubt they will have any objections.” Father would not forbid Elizabeth any chance at happiness, and Mother would positively dote on the idea of having a duke’s brother for a son-in-law. She would, of course, have to abandon her policy of ignoring Elizabeth. Or not. Well, we’d get ’round her somehow.

“That’s good. Then I shall pass the news on to James. It seems he gets tongue-tied when in the presence of your dear sister and has been unable to speak to her of those things of the heart which most concern him.”

We both took amusement from that picture, but it was at odds with my memory. Norwood had ever been smoothly articulate. My guess was that he was genuinely interested in Elizabeth, but testing the waters via his sister. If he planned to press his suit, he’d want to be sure it was worth his while. This might be considered cynical, but it was the way things were done. Most marriages dealt with the issues of property and money before aught else, including love. But in this case, there seemed to be no problem over those concerns.

Lady Caroline, her questions answered, made leave to excuse herself. “I should like a chance to practice,” she replied against my objection. “Then I shall give you a proper recital. Who knows, but I might have the honor of playing for a wedding party soon.”

I bowed deeply as she left and smiled after her. She was a lovely, graceful young woman and understandably, my thoughts of her drifted along pleasantly carnal lines. For a few foolish moments I entertained the thought of entering marriage with her. Though I had no title to offer, I did have money, and that counted for much in these troubled times. She would still retain her title, after all . . . .

No, I told myself gently. It was not for me. Then that gentle negative grew in strength as it came to me that marriage to any woman was certainly a much more serious consideration for one such as I than it would be for an ordinary man. Firstly, any proposal would also entail a confession about my particular condition . . . and how I had come to acquire it. Very risky to the relationship, that, but the only honorable course to take in order to be fair to the lady. It wasn’t the sort of revelation one reserves for the wedding night.

My God,
why
had Nora always refused my many proposals? For all the intimacy of our relationship, we might as well have been married. I had known all about her condition. Did she think I might reproach her for the other men she knew, the ones who willingly supplied her with blood . . . and money?

She would not have wanted for money with me, and I knew from experience that human blood was not her only source for nourishment. Why, then, had she—?

The hurt washed over me like a cold sea wave, but dear God, how I missed her. Lady Caroline vanished from my thoughts, replaced by the shining image of Nora. How could I think of anyone else, think of marrying anyone else, even in fancy?

I’d write another letter to her, to follow the last and hope that they would reach her soon.

But first I would write to Oliver.

I settled in at Father’s desk and put aside the papers he’d left me for the time being. There was a long night ahead, with little else to do; I’d get to it. For now I plucked up a pen, charged it with ink, and began a serious address of my cousin, thanking him for his efforts on my behalf and encouraging him to continue, if he wouldn’t mind.

That business covered, I undertook to catch him up on the events of the last few months since my previous writing. Much was the same, yet much had changed, something of a mirror of my own condition. I included a guarded account of the incident with the rebels at Mrs. Montagu’s house, mentioning that I’d been wounded, but only slightly and was all better now. I said little about Nat and his large companion, only that they’d been killed, not a word on who had done the killing. I’d almost omitted the business altogether, but went ahead and put it down, anyway.

Father and I had had a long talk about the business afterward, or perhaps I should say he listened while I talked. It had not been easy to admit to that fatal loss of control, but to hold the remorse of it tight within would have been worse. For several nights after I was bothered by the memory of Nat’s red face and the feel of his flesh between my fingers as I squeezed the life from him. Like some latter-day Pilate, I found myself washing my hands every time the image turned up before my mind’s eye. Thank God I was no longer troubled by bad dreams or I should have become as distracted as Mother.

Perhaps because Nat’s death was so vivid, I did not dwell as much on how I’d killed his friend. I thought this was because he’d been so eager to murder my father. It might be easier to bear such a burden when one is defending for another rather than attacking for oneself, but now and then I could still imagine feeling the shock of the table edge as it slammed into the man’s spine, vividly recall the impact traveling up my arms. When that happened, I washed my hands.

Much to my disgust, Nash and others hailed me as the hero of the hour, an honor I’d have been pleased to do without. I wearily maintained that my heroism was due to poor judgment and worse luck and asked that no more be said of the affair. It was then thought that I was being too modest. The story got out regardless and grew in the telling, much to my chagrin. Only Father and Beldon, both veterans of real war, seemed to understand. At home the subject was hardly raised. I went on as usual, pretending to recover from my wounds, and gradually time worked its magic as present concerns supplanted past woes.

Most of them. That blooding still puzzled me. Why had I not disappeared for a swift healing when I’d taken the shot? Though the pistol ball had passed right through me as before, this time I’d been left with a bleeding wound. In discussions with Father and Elizabeth about it, we quickly concluded that the foreign matter of the wood splinters in my body had somehow prevented it, this theory confirmed by the fact that I’d been able to vanish again upon their removal.
Why
this should be escaped us, but I was not of a mind to further any researches and, much to their relief, promised to do my best to avoid situations of peril in the future.

The Montagu household had also come to settle down as the days passed without further invasions, but they had lost quite a bit of property including two fine carriage horses, some cattle and whatever food had been lying about, such as those missing hams. Their losses were not important, though, when compared to the fact that no one had been hurt. Other houses similarly ransacked had not been so lucky, as the rebels had not hesitated to assault and even murder people in their quest for booty.

Lord James Norwood, exhilarated from hunting the thieves with Nash, had reported the sad fact that everything had apparently been loaded into whaleboats and carried off to Connecticut.

“Don’t know how they managed it with the horses and cattle, but their greed must have given them heart and ingenuity for the task,” he said. “We found the spot on the beach where they loaded them in and pushed off. The water was like glass, so they must have made swift time getting home again. There was no other sign of them when we arrived, more’s the pity.”

“What about the other soldiers tracking them?” I asked.

He laughed. “Almost no sign of them, either. They’d gone about their duty with much enthusiasm but little direction, and got lost in the dark. Poor fellows were so cold and tired from chasing after shadows all night they looked like a pack of stray dogs when we found ’em. Uniforms wet through and muddy, polish of sweat on their faces and the boot-blacking smeared from their mustaches, I think they were more unhappy at not maintaining a smart turnout than in losing their quarry.”

Lieutenant Nash had been just as disappointed as well as angry at the escape, for it reflected badly upon his ability to keep the peace in his allotted area. Not that his commissary duties called for him to do much soldiering, but the rebel actions did directly threaten his source of supply. In the end, despite Mrs. Montagu’s (and Father’s) loud and bitter objections, a half dozen of his men were detailed to be quartered in the emptied stables.

Unhappy that his proposal was met with such a cool reception, Nash bulled ahead regardless, pointing out that the people and property would be safer for the presence of troops. He pledged his word on the integrity of their behavior, and so far there had been no trouble from them. Apparently my past visit concerning that poor Bradford girl had put the fear of God into him, and he’d passed that fear on to his men.

Despite this settlement, Father began making a point of going over for a short visit nearly every day to see how things were for his lady, a courtesy that was much appreciated by her. He extended other favors, like the “loan” of two of our horses and a milk cow, that she might not be left stranded or without a source of butter and other necessities. Nash, for all his rapaciousness, made not the slightest move toward collecting the stock for his own people. I’d been there at the time, and though Nash’s eyes had sharpened, they grew dull enough again when they chanced to look into mine. Since that last interview we seemed to have developed an unspoken understanding, so influencing the man into charity was unnecessary. He’d come to his own conclusion as to how I might view any requisitions made from Mrs. Montagu and would save himself the bother.

Not all of this was passed on to Oliver, of course, but I did fill up a page or two with news I hoped he might find of interest. On a lighter note, I told him all about our house guests at length, including the interview I’d just had with Lady Caroline. If things proceeded as I thought, we would soon have Lord James Norwood as a relative. I asked Oliver if he had any opinion on the Duke of Norbury and his family and closed with a wish for a speedy reply to my inquiry about Miss Nora Jones, no matter what the news might be.

This done, I took out more paper and began my salutation to Nora. What followed was brief, but from my heart as I poured it out to her. I had many new questions about myself and many more about her, and included my hopes and prayers for her well-being. It didn’t seem enough, but it was all I had until I heard from her once more.

And a long wait that would be, unless she’d received my first letter by now. The reply might be on its way or even arrive tomorrow. Hope was ever with me, but often a bitter companion for every day that it went unfulfilled.