Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (58 page)

“More than ever.”

“But not enough to be that person?”

“No. You see, I’ve . . . been in love . . . still am in love.”

“Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why don’t you marry her?”

“I really couldn’t explain.”

“And I am prying too much,” she concluded.

“Not at all, I’d just rather not speak of it.”

That should have put an end to things, but Anne made no move to leave.

“I don’t feel like going back to the others yet,” she said shyly
.

“Neither do I. Would you like to sit and talk awhile?”

For an answer she glided to one of the chairs, sat, and smiled up at me. “About what?”

For anyone else it might have been affectation, but Anne was blessedly free of such encumbrances. I laughed a little and decided that I liked her very much indeed. There was no great depth to her yet, but innocence has its own strong appeal, for base types to corrupt or for others to appreciate and even envy. I had a mind to be appreciative.

I took a chair opposite her. “Whatever comes to mind. How do you like living here, for instance?”

“Oh, it’s splendid. Much better than Philadelphia. If Cousin Roger knew how nice it was here, he’d have forgotten his politics and come along with us. Your mother has been most generous to take us all in as she has.”

That was almost what Beldon had said, although he’d attributed the generosity to Father. The similarity was enough to start a line of thought for me. Questions that had hovered half-formed on the edges of my mind now bloomed forth.

“What do you think of Mother?”

Her brow creased once more. “She’s a great lady, but . . . of a nervous temperament, I believe.”

The memory of her first night here and the altercation between Mother and Elizabeth must have been before her. Like Beldon, she leaned on the side of diplomacy over honesty.

“Yes, she is nervous,” I agreed, hoping to make her comfortable. “I think you understand that I don’t know her that well. She lived away from home for most of my life, y’see.”

“That’s very sad, I’m sure.

A blessing, more like,
I thought. “And because of her nervous temperament, she’s not easy to get to know. I thought that you might be able to tell me more about her.”

“I could try.” Anne did not betray any great enthusiasm for that pursuit.

“Was Mother nervous when she lived in Philadelphia?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Probably not. Without her family there to bother her and—

Family.

Those odd things she’d mumbled when I’d awakened her. . . . “What do you know about her as a girl?”

“Before she married, you mean? Oh, hardly anything. She often speaks proudly of her father, Judge Fonteyn, and shares news about her sister in England, but that’s all. It’s rather odd, to think on it. Most people like to tell stories about themselves now and then, things that happened when they were young, but . . . .”

“Mother never does?” I knew that to be true. In her time with us she’d been strangely reticent about her past.

“Yes. One would think that she had never been a young girl.”

“I wonder why she is so silent. Did your father ever speak of his brother?” If I could get no information about my mother, then I’d settle for knowledge of my grandfather, though trying to find it out via my granduncle’s daughter seemed a rather roundabout way of accomplishing it.

“He talked about his life at school, the little adventures he had there, but he never spoke about his home life—how odd. I never realized that until now.”

“Perhaps life was hard for them.”

“Oh, but the Fonteyns are very rich.”

“I meant that—”

“Oh, I see, that they might have had a strict upbringing? Yes . . . now that you call it to mind, I remember Father saying he was glad to leave home and go to school, which made him different from the other little boys.” She gave a sudden little shiver.

“So he never spoke about his oldest brother?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

She shrugged, using her hands. “I’m not sure, but I got the impression that Father didn’t like Judge Fonteyn much. His own brother. It’s horrid, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” But not too surprising. My father also had not liked the man, and from the scarce information he’d shared about him, I would have probably followed his suit. My grandfather had been a most disagreeable fellow, according to Father, a foul-tempered tyrant subject to fits of rage, which would certainly account for Mother’s behavior toward us, since she seemed to have taken that as an example of how to treat one’s family. That was what Elizabeth and I had come to call “the Fonteyn blood” and regard with dread lest we succumb to it ourselves.

But it did not explain why Mother had been afraid in her dream, the one I’d interrupted when I’d gone to see her that night. She’d been pleading like a frightened child. Her voice might well have been a child’s voice, and I was forced to admit to myself that it had shaken me to hear it. At the time I’d been too preoccupied with what I’d been doing, but later that trembling tone had come to haunt and worry me. And instead of looking upon Mother with my usual unhappy tolerance, I’d allowed a small piece of compassion to enter into my regard. It made her seem less of a barely controlled monster and more like . . . what? A lost and wounded child? Dear God, I could understand that, having been there myself. Perhaps Father was not the one in the family with the blind spot.

“Was your father a strict man?” I asked almost absently, for the silence had stretched long between us. I needed fresh conversation between me and my thoughts.

Anne smiled. “Mother sometimes accused him of not being strict enough.”

“He was a loving man, then.”

The smile thinned and faded altogether. “No, not really. He cared for me, but I . . . .”

“If this is painful for you—”

“No, really, I’ve just never thought of it before. I see it now. He never allowed himself to get close to anyone. How sad. I wonder why?”

“He may not have known how. Or been afraid to try.”

“Father afraid?” She shook her head, then spread her hands, smoothly retreating into her most common defense against the harshness of life. “It’s all too confusing for me.”

Or too close to the heart.
“Quite so. Besides, I was trying to learn about my mother.”

“And I haven’t been of much help.”

“But you have . . . and I’m grateful for it.”

* * *

Anne and I made an amicable parting, and I trotted up to my room only to come down again soon after, garbed for the outdoors. I passed Jericho in the hall and told him I was going to take the air. He nodded, reminded me to put on gloves and resumed whatever errand I’d interrupted.

Gloves . . . yes, in the pocket of my cloak as usual. With my indifference to the cold weather, I sometimes forgot them. A spare handkerchief was there as well, wrapped around two lumps of sugar. Good. Jericho was uncommonly efficient in anticipating my needs. I was hungry tonight and would find those items useful.

I let myself out by the side door as usual and trudged over my own footprints toward the stables. The wind was high and the ground hard from the cold. My boots crunched and cracked against the frozen mud and snow. I paused outside the far end of the building away from the house and glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then vanished and pushed my way through the wall to get in. It was strange be aware of the texture of the barrier, but not the solidity as I flowed through the minute cracks in the boards like so much water. Not too terribly unpleasant, but far from enjoyable. Using the door would have been better, but noisy.

All was dim and dark within when I reassumed form. Bereft of outside light, my eyes were no better than anyone else’s now, but I knew the way. Ahead on my right were the stalls, and one or two of their occupants sensed my presence and stirred slightly, dark shapes against a darker background. The familiar scents of horse, straw and manure filled my head. I felt my way toward the first stall, then passed the second, and on to the third. Though the great animals could easily part with a sizable quantity of blood before feeling it—more than I could drink in one night—I took care not to feed from. any single one more than once in a week. Since we had a number of horses and I needed to sup only every other night or so, their health remained blessedly robust.

My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dark, and I found that Desdemona was in this stall. She turned her head ’round to get a better look at me. Like the others, she’d come to associate my late visits with some form of reward and may have already smelled out the sugar in my pocket. I decided to leave her alone, though, as she would be foaling in the spring. We’d mated her to Rolly and had high hopes for what was to come, and it seemed best not to require any more from her than to continue to quietly gestate, undisturbed by my
hunger.

She gave a decidedly human-sounding snort of disgust when I moved to the next stall and began patting down Belle, who happily consumed the sugar and stood rock still while I fed from her. As always, the taste was rich with life and entirely good to me. I had all but forgotten what other, more solid—more normal—food had been like. I did know that it had never imparted such a feeling of completion to me as the blood did now.

The second lump of sugar followed the first and I wiped my mouth clean with the handkerchief. Within my body I felt the red warmth flush throughout my vitals and spread to my limbs. It was like the summer sun soaking my soul from the inside out. Little yearning lingered in me to see that fiery orb again. There was no need to; I carried it in my veins.

I quit the stables by the same path and set out once more into the night.

The wind was a nuisance, but bearable, and the walking itself would keep me warm should the cold overcome my resistance to it. I pulled my cloak close and marched down the lane to the main road. Once out of sight from the house, I grew too impatient to stay on my feet and so took to the air.

It was hard going with the wind against me, but I relished the struggle. At least it was something simple and straightforward. I made most of the trip blind or half blind, being unable to retain much solidity, as I moved low over the ground, but it was a familiar trip and did not take long. Just before reaching the first buildings of Glenbriar, I went solid again and walked the rest of the way.

As I’d expected, there were lights showing at The Oak. Freezing and windy or no, the soldiers here would not be kept from their drink, nor the locals, either. Some horses harnessed to a wagon were tethered outside, huddling miserably and unable to put their backs to the wind. If the riders were too drunk and irresponsible to take care of their mounts, then I’d have to have a word with the landlord. No sense in letting the beasts suffer for their master’s lack of concern.

I pushed through the door and called a general greeting to the company within. It was a sundry lot, uniforms, homespun, and fair to fine tailoring, each in their own groups, though there was some tentative mixing. One of the Hessian officers who had rather good English was holding forth about his war experiences to a spellbound crew. He could tell a good tale; I’d listened to enough of them myself on previous visits. His name was Eichelburger, and he’d been of great help to me in improving my knowledge of German. I waved over their heads to him and got a wave in return, without interrupting his recounting.

Mr. Farr had by now long adjusted himself to my return and came over to offer a glad greeting. His acceptance of me may have been tempered by my free-spending habits. I always bought an ale for myself and hardly ever failed to invite a few others to join me. Surrounded by a crowd, I could more easily get away with not drinking it, and if I wanted to empty my tankard, all I had to do was leave it unwatched for a moment by Noddy Milverton and he’d swiftly dispatch it for me. Not that we’d made any arrangements; Noddy just had an insatiable thirst and little money. He was a bit simple, so few of his victims objected, least of all myself.

“There’s some horses out front that are feeling the weather,” I told Farr.

“I’ll have someone see to ’em,” he said, and signed to one of his pot boys. As it was so common an occurrence, no further instructions were needed; the lad nodded and went out. “They always come in for just a moment, then stay all night. Thankee for tellin’.”

“Any news?” Again, there was no need to be more detailed, as there was only one kind of news folk was interested in.

He shook his head. “Soldiers gone to ground for the winter. All’s quiet as far as I know, and I’m pleased for it to stay that way. The Suffolk County lads ’ave been restive, though. Stole some sheep t’other day.”

“I s’pects we knows what they stole ’em
for!”
put in the ribald and unrepentant Mr. Thayer. He was in his usual corner, puffing on his pipe. I wondered if he had grown roots to that chair yet.

“Now, now, sir,” cautioned Farr, but chuckling, too.

“Any more thieves from Connecticut?” I asked.

Farr shrugged. “Not in my hearing. There’s plenty of tales if you want to hear ‘em, but nothing I’d put my trust in. I’ve heard talk from the soldiers that the whaleboat boys sometimes shelter in Suffolk, but it don’t seem too sensible. The rebels in Suffolk are more like to thieve for themselves, not be sharin’ the pickin’s with others. Same goes for Connecticut.”

“And either way, it’s honest, loyal folk take the loss.”

“Some of ’em, but not all. Gunsmiths ’ave been busy. Nothing like a few rifle balls for helping a rebel to change his mind about taking your livestock.”

I could appreciate that well enough. It was reassuring to know that things had been quiet elsewhere. The weather had been none too good lately, either full of wind or sleet or snow or a combination of the three. Hardly encouraging to an enterprising thief looking for booty. We’d all learned to dread quiet nights, especially when there was little or no moon.

We talked a bit more, and others joined in or moved off. Noddy took care of two other tankards besides my own, all without being noticed. I said good evening and made my way out. Mr. Thayer’s seamed face cracked as he gave me a comically broad wink. He was used to seeing me leaving early, and his long experience told him why.