by Claire Cray
"Merrick," I breathed, reveling in his presence, savoring the weight of him beside me. "You'll stay with me."
"I won't set foot outside."
I may have said something more, but it was lost to the darkness of a most perfect sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was dark, of course, when I opened my eyes. There was a lamp burning low on the nightstand, and the scent of pine hanging in the air. I inhaled the clean aroma as I stretched, groaning happily as I felt the blood waking up in my limbs. Giving my back a final delicious arch, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Then I grinned. Across the room, obscured from view of the door by a folding screen, was a rather large tin bathtub.
No sooner had I spotted it than Merrick appeared in the doorway, carrying a steaming wooden bucket. "Good evening," he smiled, and crossed the room to set the bucket near the tub.
"Good evening." I thought to rise from the bed, realized I was still naked, and decided to sit tight. Of course there was nothing left of me that Merrick hadn't seen, but a little propriety wouldn't hurt. I'd shown little enough of it the night before, as I now recalled with a flush.
"You slept well?" Merrick himself was attired in dark buckskins and boots, his waistcoat hanging loose over his white shirt.
"Very well." I happily watched him come closer. Though my eyes saw into the shadows more readily now, there was something about a barely candlelit room that always took me back to those peaceful nights in Merrick's cottage. "Are you about to take a bath?"
"No, that’s for you."
"You shouldn't have gone to the trouble," I said, but was far too delighted to sound very sorry about it.
"It was no trouble at all." Merrick assured me. "You barely had time to rest after your journey yesterday. I'm afraid I was rather overwhelmed by your arrival and forgot my duties as a host."
"Please. I can't imagine you could treat a guest any better."
Merrick looked down as though to hide his smile. "I'll leave you to it. And now that you're awake, I must retrieve some things from the coffee house just down the way. It should be no more than twenty minutes. Take your time and join me downstairs whenever you like."
"Thank you, Merrick."
With a nod, he made to leave, but paused at the door and turned to me again. "You look very well, William."
"I was thinking the same about you, sir."
Merrick laughed through his nose and left shaking his head.
Glorious day! Or night, rather.
I flung the covers off and went straight to the washstand, inspecting myself in the mahogany-framed mirror above the basin as I cleaned my teeth. It was still strange to see myself so healthy and fresh. Though I'd always had a strong constitution, now there was a new brightness around my eyes and a silky texture to my skin, which was completely devoid of blemishes or tired shadows. My body confirmed the overall change. I had not grown or shrunk in size, but I was leaner, my muscles tighter. Nothing disagreeable. And it was a good thing, for—I realized as I looked into the mirror, which showed me from the waist up—this was the body I'd have for the rest of my life, however long I could make my life be. Strangely, Theo came to mind. But then I rounded the screen to stand beside the tub, and my pleasure swept that passing thought away.
What a gentleman, to go to all this trouble! I would have been just as delighted in the kitchen, without his having to carry so many buckets up and down the stairs. Of course, it was more pleasant here in the bedroom, with the lamplight dancing across the dark oak floors and on the surface of the water. I lowered myself into the steaming bath with a blissful groan. The oblong vessel was large enough that I could sit comfortably with my knees up, and full enough that the water reached my chest. Within arm's reach was a wooden stool, likely from the kitchen, upon which sat a folded linen towel, a little tin pitcher, and a palm-sized round of his homemade soap. I used the pitcher to douse my head until my hair was drenched, happy as a damn otter. Reaching over to retrieve the soap, I lifted it to my nose and savored the lavender scent.
Ah, the luxury of life with Merrick! I knew exactly what expression he'd make if I ever said that aloud, the look of fond bemusement he often aimed in my direction. But truly, for all his simplicity and humility, for me, Merrick's world was practically decadent. I had always felt that way, even in the stone cottage, with nary an ornament or decoration in sight. Everything was always in its place, every surface clean and polished. Once I had detected a wobble in one of his wooden chairs, and the next day found it was good as new again—he had sanded the legs down during the night. After that I made a game of looking for signs of disrepair in and around the cottage. He nearly always beat me to them, asking me to fix the loose handle of the kettle or mend the frayed edge of a towel.
All to my great delight, for I was nothing if not fastidious, a trait that had been somewhat out of place among the folk I grew up with. It was my mother's doing, I guessed. No matter how late she returned from work, she could not sleep until she had washed her shift and dried it by the fire, brushed her hair and pinned it in shining plaits about her head.
My mother. There was a strange thought. I opened my eyes, looking at my knees above the milky water. Not five days ago I had said goodbye to that sweet lady, never to see her again. I could not summon that sadness now, but there was a tender feeling that came over me, a warm tide of nostalgia. I turned the soap in my hands, working up a thick lather as I pondered those last days leading up to my present situation. It was almost like looking at someone else's life, for this morning I could not imagine despairing as wantonly as William Lacy had done all those months in New York. I could recall the reasoning behind my misery, yes, but I couldn’t relate to it. Yes, Merrick had kept me waiting, and yes, perhaps I had gone so far as to wonder if he might kill me, but those were such petty quibbles in the larger scheme of things. So I had been forced to wait a few months! What were a few months when our lives were measured in centuries? And what would it have mattered to die, really, when I wouldn't have known the difference?
But this was a drastic shift in perspective, a fact I deliberately reminded myself as I massaged the creamy lather into my hair. The change had only happened last night, and I wasn't so brash as to discount everything that had happened prior to that fateful bite. For was I not still William Lacy? Though some of me had changed, surely more remained the same. I still reveled in a good bath, for instance. I still appreciated a well-tailored suit. I was still head over heels for Merrick. And as my patriotic delight in last night's stroll through Boston reminded me, I was still an American. That was rather amusing, wasn't it? How many other American vampires were there? I would have to ask him.
I stood up to wash the rest of my body, and as I worked the soap over my lower half, I couldn't help remembering the night before. Christ, I'd lost my head. Who wouldn't? The man had set me alight, fed the flames until I was blazing, and stoked my embers all night until I crumbled like hot ash. To think I had fancied myself a skillful lover! Merrick's carnal talents had always overwhelmed me, but not even our previous encounters had prepared me for that. Had I ever guessed there was such pleasure in being taken by a man, I might have sought the experience sooner. When had he found out? How? I wondered.
The opening of the door downstairs alerted me of his return. The water was still quite warm, and when I finished soaping myself from head to toe, I settled back down to soak for a while longer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We spent two idyllic weeks in Boston, which I failed to notice until I overheard a man discussing his plans for the end of July.
"Did he say it was the twenty-ninth?" I asked, turning to Merrick in astonishment. It was just after nightfall, and we were walking down Marlborough on our way to the tailor. "Just a moment. What day did I arrive?"
"The sixteenth."
"As I thought! Where the Devil has the time gone?"
Merrick arched a knowing brow. "Indeed."
"Damn," I murmured to myself, rubbing my chin and looking ponderousl
y toward the few stars that speckled the early night sky. "I suppose I have had that many baths. I must have lost my sense of time in all the excitement."
"You have a new sense of time."
"Do I?"
Merrick nodded. "It moves quickly for the first decades. And it slows down, gradually, as the years go by."
"How curious." In fact, I was near disbelief. Two weeks and I had barely scratched the surface of all the questions I had saved up. Was it possible we had spent so little time in conversation? Perhaps. Yes, perhaps it was. I turned my face away from Merrick to hide my smirk. Between my long baths and toilettes, our leisurely strolls through the city, the time given to acquiring our sustenance, and the hours we spent in the townhouse languorously grinding our way to dawn, well. Delving conversations may have slipped through the cracks, yes.
"Time must be at a crawl for you, then," I ventured.
"Not anymore, no. Not these past two weeks.” Merrick tilted his head thoughtfully. “I suppose that goes to the heart of the matter."
"Does it?"
“You already know part. Our bodies don’t grow old, but our souls age in strange ways. As the years go by, time stops moving so quickly, and we sleep less and less. One grows weary when each second is unimaginably slow, and there is no comfort in sleep." He paused, and when he went on, he took on the tone of a confession. "But these afflictions vanish as easily as we can find a companion. Now I can sleep at will, though it isn’t necessary for me. And time is no longer at a crawl, as you say."
I caught his sleeve in surprise. "I had no idea." Seeing the hint of a smile on his lips, I exclaimed, "Splendid!"
"Yes," Merrick laughed quietly at my reaction.
Christ, no wonder he seemed so much more alive. "It sounds like Hell. I’m quite fond of sleep. Although,” I mused, “what is it like to be awake in the day?"
"Have you forgotten already?"
"Of course not," I scoffed, not sure if he was teasing. "But everything is different now."
"I know," he said with a fleeting smile. "You're right. The days are just as different. Empty and plain. You must hide from the light, and there is no thirst."
At the last point, I frowned. "Is it a bother not to be thirsty?"
"It is complicated," he said slowly. "No, not in itself. It makes some matters easier, being awake to do business by day, and without distraction. But it changes everything. And it becomes difficult to face the night."
"Difficult in what way?"
"In the way of melancholy. Shame. Despair." He seemed to trail off with a wave of his hand, which caught me off guard, because Merrick was not one to make needless motions while speaking (unlike his old friend Theo, a thought which also caught me off guard). But then I realized Merrick was only gesturing to indicate the brick house on the corner to which we were now headed. Above the door hung a finely cut and polished wooden sign bearing the name of one Anthony Beekman, tailor.
I touched Merrick's arm as we walked up the path, bidding him to look at me. "I want to hear more about this," I said directly, hoping that would help me not lose the question in another few nights of revelry. "If you don't mind."
"As you wish," Merrick said. "Though there are more pleasant things to speak of." And with that we had reached the entrance. I resolved not to forget where our conversation had left off. We would only be inside for an hour, as Merrick had told me quite firmly, perhaps guessing that I would not be easily hurried out of a merchant tailor's shop.
The door was opened by a young lad in a dark suit, who bowed and beckoned us into a well-lit hall. Likely an apprentice, he couldn't have been older than twelve. I greeted him warmly, instantly excited by the scent of textiles hanging in the air. Ah, there was nothing like a trip to the tailor! A man came around the corner then to greet us, a tall, lanky fellow outfitted in the most exquisite ensemble I had seen in a long while. His pale trousers disappeared neatly into his tall boots, and his creamy waistcoat offset a wine-colored jacket that practically gleamed in the light. I glanced at Merrick, impressed. Had the man made a poor choice in his life?
"Good evening, sirs," the man said with a broad smile. He was several years older than me, with a friendly demeanor balanced by an affable nervousness. "Anthony Beekman, at your service."
"Good evening," Merrick said. "I'm Jonathan Mansfield, and this is my partner, Mr. Liam Samuels. We've brought along a token of gratitude for doing us the favor of opening your shop this evening."
"A new black tea from China," I said, presenting the square parcel. It was neatly wrapped in indigo cloth and bound in black ribbon, a trademark of the rather exclusive dealer from whom Merrick had procured the gift. "Wonderful with breakfast." Or so we'd heard.
"Oh, my word!" Beekman said, his eyes lighting up in apparent recognition as he took the bundle into his hands. "What a delightful gift! Gentlemen, you shouldn't have. I assure you, it's my pleasure to welcome your patronage this evening. Come in, come in." He ushered us into the main room, where a lad closer to my age was straightening the bolts of fabric laid out on a long table beneath the window. The room was even more brightly lit than the entryway, with as many lamps burning as I imagined sensible in a room full of cotton, silk and wool. Beekman alluded to them himself, remarking, "It's a pity the moon doesn't shine a bit brighter, but I do believe you'll get a good sense of the material by this light."
If anything could divert my attention from this charming man after his remark on the moon, it was a fine spread of textiles. Merrick had briefly explained the matter of finances to me as we prepared to leave the house. The crux of it was there was very little reason to mind the price of anything. And here I was with a tailor, and a proper one, at that. God help us all. "What's this coating on your jacket, sir?" I asked him. "It’s exquisite."
"Why, how kind of you to say!" Beekman replied with the grace of a man who was accustomed to compliments. He proceeded to unwind a bolt of the very same material as he went on to describe its qualities. When a similar sample in another hue caught my eye, Beekman complimented my taste, which was a pleasure coming from such a fashionable gentleman.
"Yes," Merrick agreed with the tailor, his eyes moving casually over the selection. "He does have a discerning eye. In fact, I think he'd better choose for me, as well."
I looked up from the juniper-colored velvet we’d been discussing, flashing Merrick a smile. "Splendid," I said, and turned back to the tailor. "Splendid."
With that, we went to town. Mr. Beekman, it turned out, had just returned from a trip to London days before, and had a great deal to report on the newest fashions. His nervous manner mellowed considerably as I questioned him on the matter of breeches versus pantaloons; neither of us lamented the decline of exposed stockings. Mr. Beekman and his apprentices, of course, were all in trousers and boots.
You could tell a good man by his treatment of those beneath him, and Mr. Beekman was warm and cheerful with his boys. The youngest one brought out some wine and then went to work at stitching something in the back corner, while the older lad stayed at the tailor's side, assisting him with practiced ease. What a fine profession to be brought up in, and under such a talented practitioner! I couldn’t help being charmed by them, and to an extent that was new to me. For two weeks I'd drifted through flocks of strangers, feeling like an unknown creature in disguise. But now I could not help relating to this lot—the tailor for his sophisticated understanding of fashion, and his young apprentices, who reminded me of the days when I’d been in their shoes, only with Merrick as my master.
As Mr. Beekman was taking my measurements, I glimpsed the time and cursed under my breath. The hour was more than half past. There was time to measure Merrick and make a few final notes, but then we would have to be on our way until the next fitting. I was sorry we couldn't stay. Yet I forgot my disappointment quickly enough as I watched Merrick shed his jacket and waistcoat to let the tailor measure him.
I took a seat near the bolts of cotton and silk and leaned back against the cushion,
drinking my wine as he stood in front of the hearth, shoulders back and arms out. Mr. Beekman wrapped the tape around his chest, drawing the linen tight over that broad expanse of muscle for a moment as he relayed the measurement to his assistant. I schooled my expression as Merrick crossed his arms to let Mr. Beekman wind the tape around his waist, casually avoiding his eyes, for I was sure if he caught me watching I would betray myself with a grin—or worse. It was hard enough to appear nonchalant as Mr. Beekman complimented Merrick's shape. “Well built,” indeed! For as long as I lived, I’d never forget how gracefully he had worn that long hooded cloak during the days when I had been his apprentice. Needless to say, in a proper suit he was almost unbearable. Watching the tailor run his hand up the inside of Merrick's thigh to take his inseam, I raised my glass to my lips again for a long drink.
"I'm afraid we must be on our way shortly," Merrick said, and I looked up to find him observing me with a knowing expression. With some chagrin I stayed quiet as he and the tailor settled the next fitting, and then we were dressed and headed for the door. I gave Mr. Anthony Beekman a warm farewell, taking a final look at his immaculate attire and fashionably tousled hair, and then we were on our way.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Night had settled in nicely by the time we stepped out onto the street and made our way toward the harbor. The stars had spread all across the sky, clouded in some places by gauzy layers of cloud. It was still an uncommonly humid summer, more so by the day, though I rarely noticed.