Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “You are too young, and it is broad daylight,” Fanny said briskly, the feathers in her hat swaying this way and that with the movement of the carriage. “It will take too long to walk there at human speed, and Far does not like to be kept waiting.”

  “Besides,” Madame de Genlis added, “what if you meet with a maiden—or a cow—and are overtaken with a pang of hunger?”

  Marcus’s stomach flopped over like a fish.

  “Non,” Madame de Genlis said with a decided shake of her head. “You must direct your thoughts away from your discomfort and rise above them. Perhaps you could compose your remarks to Comte Philippe?”

  “Oh, God.” Marcus covered his mouth with his hand. He was expected to perform for his grandfather, like the trained monkey outside the Opéra who tumbled and danced for a fee. It reminded him of being dragged to Madam Porter’s house when he was a child.

  “You should begin, I think, with a few verses,” Madame de Genlis advised. “Comte Philippe greatly admires poetry, and has such a memory for it!”

  But Marcus, who had been raised in the fields and forests of western Massachusetts, where verses that were not found in the Bible were suspect, knew no poetry. Madame de Genlis did her best to teach him some lines from a poem called “Le mondain,” but the French words refused to stick in Marcus’s memory, and his constant retching kept interrupting the lesson.

  “Say it after me,” Madame de Genlis instructed. “‘Regrettera qui veut le bon vieux temps, / Et l’âge d’or, et le règne d’Astrée, / Et les beaux jours de Saturne et de Rhée, / Et le jardin de nos premiers parents.’”

  Marcus obediently did, over and over again, until Madame de Genlis was satisfied with his pronunciation.

  “And what comes next?” his martinet of a schoolmistress demanded.

  “‘Moi, je rends grâce à la nature sage,’” Marcus managed to get out between belches. His sense of the poem’s meaning was hazy at best, but Fanny assured him it was entirely appropriate to the occasion. Ulf, who was accompanying them to Auteuil, looked unconvinced. “‘Qui, pour mon bien, m’a fait naître en cet âge / Tant décrié par nos tristes frondeurs.’”

  “And do not forget the final line! You must say it as though you mean it, Marcus, with conviction,” Fanny said. “‘Ce temps profane est tout fait pour mes moeurs.’ Ah, how I miss our dear Voltaire. Do you remember our last evening with him, Stéphanie?”

  At last the carriage slowed to pass through the wide gates of a house that stretched along the hilltop. It was vast and made of pale stone, flanked by gardens that were more impressive than anything Marcus had ever seen. Though they were largely empty at this time of year, he could imagine what they would look like in summer. Marcus looked at Fanny in amazement.

  “They belong to Marthe,” Fanny said. “She is uncommonly fond of gardening. You will meet her, no doubt.”

  But it was not a woman who waited for them at the base of the wide staircase in the forecourt, but a dignified vampire with silver-flecked hair. Like the rest of the house, the forecourt was grand in scale and neat as a pin. There was a quiet hum of industry coming from the kitchens, as well as appetizing aromas. Grooms led fine horses out of their stalls. Servants and tradesmen shuffled in and out of a warren of offices and rooms in the service buildings that were tucked behind a stone wall.

  “Milady Freyja.” The man bowed. “Monsieur Marcus.”

  “Alain.” It was the first time Marcus had seen Fanny looking anything less than confident.

  “Pepper.” Marcus recognized the vampire’s scent. “You’re the one who has been watching me.”

  “Welcome to the Hôtel de Clermont. Sieur Philippe is expecting you,” Alain said, stepping aside so they could enter through the central, arched door and into the hall.

  Marcus crossed the threshold and entered a house that was far grander than the one he had promised to own one day. The black-and-white marble floors of the hall were polished to a high sheen that reflected the light and made the entrance glimmer. A stone staircase curved up to a broad landing before spiraling up to another floor, and then another. A forest of white pillars added substance and style to the airy space, creating an arcade between the doors through which Marcus had entered and the doors opposite them, which led to an expansive terrace that provided a prospect over the river and beyond.

  Marcus’s sense that he was being watched returned, stronger than before. Bay leaves and sealing wax and a fruit Marcus had no name for tangled with the aroma of pepper from Alain, Madame de Genlis’s musky scent, and the sweet hint of roses that always hung around Fanny. There were other, fainter notes as well. Wool. Fur. And something slightly yeasty that Marcus had detected in some of the older patients at the Hôtel-Dieu. It was the scent of aging flesh, he supposed.

  Marcus took careful inventory of what his nose noticed, but he kept returning to the laurel and sealing wax. Whoever belonged to them was the center of gravity in this house. And he was behind him, where Marcus was most vulnerable.

  His grandfather. The man called Far by Fanny, and Comte Philippe by Madame de Genlis, and sieur by Alain. Marcus wished that Gallowglass—or even the disapproving Hancock—were there to give him advice on what would be expected of him. He had learned much about how to wash clothes, make medicines, and handle horses since arriving in France, but Marcus had no idea how to properly greet a vampire except for the hand-to-elbow grip that Gallowglass and Fanny used.

  And so Marcus fell back on his Massachusetts upbringing. First, he gave his most polished bow. Now that Marcus was a vampire, any ragged edges or infelicities of line had been smoothed into a perfect, graceful movement that would have made his mother proud. Then he plumbed the depths of his conscience and reached for the honesty that had been drilled into him from pulpit and primer.

  “Grandfather. You must forgive me, but I do not know what I am supposed to do.” Marcus straightened and waited for someone to rescue him.

  “Already the son eclipses the father.” The voice was velvet and stone, both controlled and clear. It belonged, Marcus surmised, to a man who had made music his whole life. His grandfather’s command of English was perfect, but it was impossible to identify the accent that colored his words.

  “You needn’t worry. There isn’t any aggression in him, Far.” Fanny appeared from one of the many doors off the main hall, and Madame de Genlis with her. She was carrying two pistols, both of them cocked and ready to be fired at Marcus.

  “He is nothing but curiosity, Comte Philippe,” Madame de Genlis confirmed. She smiled at Marcus encouragingly. “He has prepared a poem for you.”

  Sadly, Marcus couldn’t remember a single word of “Le mondain.” Once again he dipped into his memories of Hadley for reinforcements.

  “‘Children’s children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers,’” Marcus said, with all the conviction Madame de Genlis could have wanted.

  “Oh, well done.” The voice of praise was scratchy and nasal, with a bit of a wheeze at the end that might have been a chuckle. There was another man on the stairs. “Proverbs. Always suitable—especially when the sentiment is sincere. A very sensible choice.”

  The man descending the stairs had a balding head slightly too large for his body, and a waistline that rivaled Colonel Woodbridge’s. The sweet scent intensified, and along with it came the iron-rich tang of black ink. He peered at Marcus over a set of spectacles. There was something familiar about him, though Marcus was sure they had never met.

  “And what do you say to that, Marthe?” His grandfather was now close enough to see the trembling of his limbs as Marcus’s nerves got the better of him. Marcus closed his hands into fists and took a deep breath.

  A small, wizened old woman with glimmering eyes and a maternal air came from the shadows. Here was the woman Fanny had promised he would meet—Marthe.

  “Madame.” Marcus bowed. “My mo
ther would have been envious of your gardens. Even in winter, they are impressive.”

  “A man of faith—and charm, too,” said the man on the stairs with another wheezing chuckle. “And it would seem he knows something of jardins and potagers, and not just medicine.”

  “His heart is true, but there is a shadow in it,” Marthe pronounced, scrutinizing Marcus closely.

  “Matthew would not have been drawn to him otherwise.” His grandfather’s quiet sigh floated around Marcus.

  “Put him out of his misery, my dear comte,” the man on the stairs advised. “The poor boy reminds me of a fish caught between cats. He is certain of being eaten, but does not know which of us will have the honor of picking over the bones.”

  Heavy hands came to rest on Marcus’s shoulders and swung him around. Philippe de Clermont was a giant of a man, as muscular as his elderly friend was soft and doughy. He had thick, burnished golden hair and tawny eyes that saw—everything. Or so Marcus suspected.

  “I am Philippe, your grandmother’s mate,” his grandfather said, his voice soft. Philippe waited the space of a human heartbeat and then continued. “It is a sign of respect, among our people, to turn your eyes away from the head of the family.”

  “Respect is earned. Sir.” Marcus kept his gaze on his grandfather. Staring into the eyes of a man so ancient and powerful was not an easy task, but Marcus forced himself to do it. Obadiah had taught him never to look away from anyone older and stronger than you were.

  “So it is.” The corners of Philippe’s eyes creased with something that, in a lesser being, might have been amusement. “As for this darkness we all feel, you will tell me about it one day. I will not take the knowledge from you.”

  It had never occurred to Marcus that someone other than Matthew might learn of his past through bloodlore. Philippe’s words, which appeared to be tender and paternal, sent a chill through Marcus’s bones.

  “You have done well with him, daughter. I am pleased,” Philippe said, turning to Fanny. “What shall we call him?”

  “He is called Marcus, though he tried to get me to call him Galen, and Gallowglass called him Doc,” Fanny said. “He slept for a moment the other day, and cried out for news of Catherine Chauncey.”

  So Fanny was spying on him, too. Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the betrayal.

  “Marcus. Son of war. And Galen—a healer. I cannot fathom where the name Chauncey came from or what it might mean,” Philippe said, “but it must be precious to him.”

  “Chauncey is a Boston name.” The bespectacled man studied Marcus carefully. “I was right, Comte Philippe. The man is not from Philadelphia at all, but from New England.”

  The mention of Philadelphia brought the man’s face into sharper focus, and Marcus realized who he was.

  “You’re Dr. Franklin.” Marcus looked at the elderly gentleman with the stooped shoulders and ample belly with something akin to reverence.

  “And you’re a Yankee. I’m surprised the Associators took you in,” Franklin said with a slow smile. “They’re a clannish bunch, and don’t usually accept anyone into their ranks who was born north of Market Street.”

  “What was your father’s name, Marcus?” Philippe asked.

  “Thomas,” Marcus said, thinking of Tom Buckland.

  “Don’t ever lie to me,” his grandfather said pleasantly, though the glint in his eye warned Marcus that this lapse into falsehood—like a challenging stare—was a serious matter.

  “The man whose blood I once carried in my veins was called Obadiah—Obadiah MacNeil. But there is nothing left of him in me.” Marcus’s chin rose. “Thomas Buckland taught me how to be a surgeon. And a man. He is my true father.”

  “Someone has been reading Rousseau,” Franklin murmured.

  Philippe considered Marcus for a long moment. He nodded.

  “Very well, Marcus Raphael Galen Thomas Chauncey de Clermont,” his grandfather at last pronounced. “I accept you into the family. You will be known as Marcus de Clermont—for now.”

  Fanny looked relieved. “You won’t be disappointed, Far, though Marcus still has much to learn. His Latin is abominable, his French deplorable, and he is clumsy with a sword.”

  “I can shoot a gun,” Marcus said sharply. “What need do I have for swords?”

  “A gentleman must carry a sword, at least,” Madame de Genlis said.

  “Give Stéphanie and me another month—perhaps two—and we will have him ready for Versailles,” Fanny promised.

  “That is perhaps a matter for Ysabeau to decide,” Philippe said, casting a fond glance on his daughter.

  “Ysabeau! But I—” Fanny was indignant. She turned her head away from her father. “Of course, Far.”

  “And what do I call you, sir?” Marcus didn’t mean to sound insolent, though the horrified look on Fanny’s face told him he might well have been.

  Philippe merely smiled.

  “You may call me Grandfather,” he said. “Or Philippe. My other names would not suit your American tongue.”

  “Philippe.” Marcus tried it out. It had been months, and he still couldn’t think of the chevalier de Clermont as Matthew, never mind Father. It was definitely too soon to call this terrifying man Grandfather.

  “Now that you are part of the family, there are a few rules you must obey,” Philippe said.

  “Rules?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

  “First, no siring children without my permission.” Philippe raised a single, admonishing finger.

  Having now met more members of the de Clermont family, Marcus had no desire to increase its size. He nodded.

  “Second, if you receive a coin from me, like the one on the letter I sent to Fanny’s house, you must return it to me. Personally. If you do not, I will come looking for you myself. Understood?”

  Once again, Marcus nodded. Like adding to the de Clermont family, he had no wish for Philippe to show up at his door, unannounced.

  “And one more thing: no more hospitals. Not until I think you’re ready.” Philippe’s steady gaze traveled from Marcus to Fanny. “Am I clear?”

  “Crystal clear, Far.” Fanny flung her arms around Philippe’s neck. She turned to Franklin. “Stéphanie and I discussed all the possible risks, Dr. Franklin, as well as the rewards. We didn’t think anyone was in real danger. Certainly not Le Bébé.”

  “Tell me how you came up with the idea to let him ring the bells at Notre-Dame. What a coup—and something I have longed to do myself,” Franklin said, steering Fanny through the doors and onto the terrace outside. Madame de Genlis went with them.

  Marcus was left alone with Philippe.

  “Your grandmother is waiting for you in the salon,” Philippe said. “She is eager to see you again.”

  “You know about our meeting?” Marcus said, his throat dry.

  Philippe smiled once more.

  “I know most things,” Philippe said.

  * * *

  —

  “MARCUS!” HIS GRANDMOTHER OFFERED HIM her cheek for a kiss. “It is a delight to see you here.”

  Ysabeau was seated in a deep chair by the fire, which was lit in spite of the open windows.

  “Grandmother,” Marcus said, pressing his lips to her cool flesh.

  Marcus sat quietly in Ysabeau’s salon, listening to the banter taking place around him as Fanny, Madame de Genlis, and Franklin joined them. He understood about a quarter of what was said. Without Dr. Franklin, who periodically translated in an effort to draw Marcus into the conversation, it would have been far less.

  But Marcus was content to remain quiet. It allowed him to try to absorb his present situation, which was both dazzling and bewildering. He studied his surroundings, which were more lavish and elegant than anything he had seen through Philadelphia windows. Books lay on tables, thick carpets were underfoot, and the scent of coffee and tea hung in
the air. The fire was a roaring blaze, and everywhere there were candles.

  Philippe sat within arm’s reach of Ysabeau in the only chair in the room that was not upholstered. It was wooden, painted blue, and had the curved, spindled back and saddle-shaped seat that were common to Philadelphia furniture. Marcus felt a pang of homesickness. The foreign speech, which had seemed pleasant and musical, became loud and dissonant. Marcus struggled to draw a breath.

  “I see you have noticed my chair,” Philippe said, claiming Marcus’s attention.

  Marcus felt his panic drop a notch. Then another. He felt able to breathe again.

  “Dr. Franklin gave it to me,” Philippe explained. “Does it remind you of all you left behind?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “With me it is scents,” Philippe observed softly. “When the sun falls on pine boughs, warming up the resin, it takes me immediately back to my childhood. Moments of dislocation—of feeling out of place and time—happen to all of us who have been reborn.”

  Davy Hancock had nearly pummeled Marcus into the ground when he asked him about his youth and how long he had been a vampire. As a result, Marcus knew better than to ask any of the de Clermonts their age or their true name. Still, Marcus couldn’t help but wonder just how ancient Philippe and Ysabeau were.

  The air grew heavy around him, and Marcus found that Ysabeau was studying him. The expression on her face suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her power was so different from that of her husband. Philippe was all civilization, a keen-edged sword in an elegant scabbard. Ysabeau, however, had a wild, untamed edge that could not be completely cloaked in satin or softened with lace. There was something feral and dangerous about his grandmother, something that caught at Marcus’s throat and made his heart thud in warning.

  “You are very quiet, Marcus,” Ysabeau said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, madame,” Marcus replied.

  “You will get used to us, I promise,” Ysabeau assured him. “And we will, in turn, get used to you. It is too much, I think, to meet your new family all at once. You must come again—alone.”