Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Rolly was almost as perceptive as Jericho and seemed to sense that I wanted to fly as fast and as far as possible. The cold wind roaring past us deadened the strident echoes of Mother’s voice and swept clean the memory of her distorted face. She shrank to less than nothing, lost amid the joy I felt while clinging to the back of the best horse in the world as he carried me to the edge of that world—or at least to the cliffs overlooking the Sound.

  We slowed at last, though for a moment I thought that if Rolly decided to leap out over the sea instead of turning to trot parallel to it he would sprout the necessary wings to send us soaring into the sky like some latter-day Pegasus and Bellerophon. What a ride that might be, and I would know better than to try flying to Mount Olympus to seek out the gods. They could wait their turn with him . . . if I ever let them have one.

  The air cutting over us was clean with the sea smell and starting to warm as the sun climbed. I drank it in until my lungs ached and my throat burned. Rolly picked his own path, and I let him, content enough with the privilege of being on his back. We went east, into the wind, him stretching his neck, his ears up, me busy holding my balance over the uneven ground. The trot sped up to a canter and he shook his head once as though to free himself of the bridle as we approached another fence.

  The property it marked belonged to a farmer named Finch who kept a few horses of his own. His lands were smaller than Father’s, and he could not afford riding animals, but the rough look of the mares on that side made no difference to Rolly, aristocrat though he was. In his eyes a female was a female and to the devil with her looks and age as long as she was ready for mounting. Obviously one of them was in season. I barely had time to turn him and keep him from sailing over the fence right into the middle of them all.

  Rolly snorted and neighed out a protest. One of the other horses answered and I had to work hard at getting him out of there.

  “Sorry, old boy,” I told him. “You may have an excellent bloodline, but I don’t think our neighbor would thank you for passing it on without permission.”

  He stamped and tried to rear, but I pulled him in, not letting him get away with it.

  “If it’s any consolation, I know just how you feel,” I confided.

  I was seventeen and still a virgin . . . of sorts. I’d long since worked out ways around certain inevitable frustrations that come from being a healthy young man, but instinctively knew they could hardly be as gratifying as actual experience with an equally healthy young woman. Damn. Now, why did I have to start thinking along those paths again? An idiotic question; better to frame it as a syllogism of logic. Premise one: I was, indeed, healthy; premise two: I was, indeed, young. Combine those and I rarely failed to come to a pleasurable conclusion when the desire was upon me. However, I was not prepared to come to any such conclusions here in the open while on horseback. That was definitely something guaranteed to garner maternal disapproval . . . and I’d probably fall out of the saddle.

  The true loss of my virginity was another goal in my personal education I’d planned to achieve at Harvard—if I ever got there, since Mother had said that everything was settled about Cambridge. I wondered if they had girls at Cambridge. Oh, God, this wasn’t helping at all. I kicked Rolly into a jarring trot, hoping that it would distract me. The last thing I needed was to return home with any telltale stain on my light-colored breeches. Perhaps if I found a quiet spot in the woods . . . .

  I knew just the one.

  As children, Elizabeth, Jericho, and I had gone adventuring, or what we called adventuring, for we knew the area quite well. Usually our games involved a treasure hunt, for everyone on the island knew that Captain Kidd had come here to bury his booty. It didn’t matter to us that such riches were more likely to be fifty miles east on the south end of the island; the hunting was more important than the finding. But instead of treasure that day, I’d found a kettle, or a sharpish depression gouged into the earth by some ancient glacier, according to my schoolmaster. Trees and other vegetation concealed its edge. My foot slipped on wet leaves and down I tumbled into a typical specimen of Long Island’s geography.

  Jericho came pelting after me, fearful that I had broken my neck. Elizabeth, though hampered by her skirts, followed almost as quickly, shouting anxious questions after him. I was almost trampled by their combined concern and inability to stop fast enough.

  The wind had been knocked from me, but I’d suffered nothing worse than scrapes and bruises. After the initial fright passed we took stock of our surroundings and claimed it for our own. It became our pirate’s cave (albeit open to the sky and to any cattle that wandered in to graze), banditti’s lair, and general sanctuary from tiresome adults wanting us to do something more constructive with our time.

  Still a sanctuary, I guided Rolly down to the easy way into the kettle, but we were not alone. Far ahead were two people near the line of trees marking the entry. A man and woman walked arm in arm there, obviously on the friendliest of terms.

  Even at that distance I recognized my father. What was he doing here . . . Oh.

  The woman with him was Mrs. Montagu, his mistress for the last dozen years. She was a sweet-faced, sweet-tempered widow who had always been kind to me and Elizabeth, was everything that Mother was not. Mother, thank God, knew nothing about her, or life for all of us would truly become a living hell.

  It was a quietly acknowledged fact in our household that most of Father’s business errands took him no more than three miles away so he might visit Matilda Montagu. Their relationship was hardly a secret, but not something to bring up in open conversation. They had not asked for this privacy, but got it, anyway, for both were liked and respected hereabouts. They were discreet, and that was all that was required for people to turn a blind eye.

  I’d pulled Rolly to a stop and now almost urged him in their direction to tell him what had transpired, then changed my mind.

  No. Not fair to interrupt them, I thought.

  Father had little enough happiness of his own since Mother’s return; I would not trespass upon their tryst with my present troubles. We could talk later. Besides, I had no wish to embarrass him by bringing up the disagreeable details of his wife’s latest offenses while he was in the company of his beloved mistress.

  Father and Mrs. Montagu continued their leisurely morning walk, unaware of me, which was just as well. It was interesting to watch them together, for this was a side of Father that I’d never really seen. I was somewhat uncomfortable with my curiosity, but not so much as to move on. Not that I expected them to suddenly seize each other and start rolling on the cold damp ground in a frenzy of passion. Nor would I have stayed to watch, my curiosity being limited by the discretions of good taste. But between the demands of my preparatory education and all the other distractions of life, I’d had few opportunities to observe the rules of courtship in our polite society. So far it hardly looked different from the servants’, for I’d occasionally seen them strolling about with one another making similar displays of affection.

  He had one arm around her waist, one hand, rather. Her wide skirts kept him from getting much closer. He also leaned his head down toward her so as to miss nothing of whatever she was saying. And he was laughing. That was good to see. He had not done much of that in the last month. What about his other hand? Occupied with carrying a bundle or basket. Full of food, probably. It was hardly the best weather for eating comfortably out of doors, but they seemed content to ignore it as long as they were together.

  Interesting. Now they paused to face each other. Father stooped slightly and kissed her on the lips for a very long time. My own mouth went dry Perhaps it was time to leave. As I dithered with indecision their kiss ended, and they turned to walk into the shadow of the trees. They did not come out again.

  Rolly snorted impatiently and dropped his head to snatch a mouthful of new grass just peeping through last year’s dead layer. At some point my fleshly cravings
had also altered so that carnal leanings had been supplanted by extreme hunger. The sun was high and far over; I’d been out for hours and had long since digested my breakfast. Elizabeth would be wondering whether I’d been thrown. She loved horses too, but didn’t trust Rolly to behave himself.

  I turned him back up the rise leading around the kettle, heading home.

  The horse being more valuable than its rider, I took care of Rolly myself when we reached the stables. As a menial job, I could have left it for one of the lads to do and no one would have thought twice about it. Especially Mother. I was raised to be a gentleman and imagined her disapproval while going about my caretaking tasks. But where horses were concerned, such work was no work at all for me. Defiance doubled, I thought, humming with pleasure. Jericho wasn’t there or he might have helped out—if I’d invited him. I made quick work of it, though, and before long was marching toward the kitchen to wheedle a meal from the cook.

  Then someone hissed from around a corner of the house. Elizabeth stood there, eyes comically wide and lips compressed, urgently waving at me to come over. Curiosity won out over hunger.

  “What is it?” I asked, trotting up.

  “Not so loud,” she insisted, grabbing my arm and dragging me around the corner. She visibly relaxed once we were out of sight from the kitchen.

  “What is it?” I repeated, now mimicking her hoarse whisper.

  “Mother was furious that you missed lunch.”

  I gave vent to an exasperated sigh and raised my voice back to normal. “Damnation, but I’m an adult and my time is my own. She’s never minded before.”

  “Yes, but she wanted to talk to you about Cambridge.”

  “She told you about that nonsense?”

  “In extraordinary detail. She seems to have decided how you’re to spend your next few years—down to the last minute.”

  “How very thorough of her.”

  “She’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Nooth planning meals, and I didn’t think you’d want to run into her.”

  I took one of Elizabeth’s hands and solemnly bowed over it. “For that, dear sister, you have my undying gratitude, but I am famished and must eat. A fellow can hardly spend his life going about in fear of his own mother.”

  “Ha! It’s not fear, only avoiding a disagreeable encounter.”

  She was right. I didn’t want to face the woman on an empty belly; some alternative needed to be thought up, but not out here. The day had warmed a little, but Elizabeth’s hand was icy. “Let’s go inside, you’re freezing. Where’s your shawl?”

  She shrugged, indifferent to the chill. “Upstairs someplace. You should be the one to talk; look at yourself, riding all morning without hat, coat, or even gloves. It will serve you right if you get the rheumatics, God forbid.”

  I shrugged as well. The ailments of age were still far away for me. My morning’s ride was worth a spot of stiffness in the joints. We went in by the same side door I’d used to escape, and Elizabeth led me to the library. A good fire blazed there now, and abruptly forgetting our lack of concern about the cool day, we rushed toward it like moths.

  “So you think your going to Cambridge is nonsense?” she asked, stretching out her hands and spreading her long fingers against the flames.

  “Mmm. The woman’s mad. When I see Father I’ll sort it out with him as you said.”

  “She’s very sure of herself. What if he’s on her side?”

  “Why should he be?”

  “Because he usually does whatever she wants. It’s not as wearing on the soul, you know. Or as noisy.”

  “I don’t think he will for something as important as this. Besides, look at the impracticality of it. Why send me all the way to England to read law? It may garner me some status, but what else?”

  “An education?” she suggested.

  “There’s that, but everyone knows you really go to university to make the kind of friends and acquaintances who will become useful later in life. If I do that in England, they’ll be left behind when I return home.”

  You’ve become cynical, little brother?” She was hardly a year older than me, but had always taken enjoyment from her position as the eldest.

  “Realistic. I’ve spent a lot of time in this very room listening to Father and his cronies while they’re sharing a bottle. I can practice law well enough, but I’ll be better at it for having a few friends ’round me as he does. Which reminds me . . .” I quit the fireplace to open a nearby cupboard and poured a bit of wine to keep my strength up. My stomach snarled at the thoughtful gesture. It wanted real food.

  Elizabeth giggled at the noise. She looked remarkably like the portrait above her. Prettier, I thought. Livelier. Certainly saner.

  “What is it?” she asked, taking note of my distraction.

  “I was just thinking that you could have almost posed for that.” I indicated the painting.

  She stood away for a better look. “Perhaps, but my face is longer. If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer not to be compared to her at all.”

  “She may have been different back then,” I pointed out. “If not, then why did Father ever marry her and have us?”

  “That’s hardly our business, Jonathan.”

  “It certainly is since we’re the living results of their . . . affection? . . . for one another.”

  “Now you’re being crude.”

  “No I’m not. When I get crude, you’ll know it, dear sister. Who do I look like?”

  She tilted her head, unknowingly copying Mother’s affected mannerism, but in an unaffected way. “Father, of course, but younger and not as heavy.”

  “Father’s not fat,” I protested.

  “You know what I mean. When men get older they either go to fat or put on another layer of muscle.”

  “Or both.”

  “Ugh. But not you. You’ve put on the muscle and look just like him.”

  “That’s reassuring.” We always regarded Father as being a very handsome man.

  “Peacock,” said Elizabeth, reading my face and thus my thoughts. I grinned and saluted her with my glass. It was empty, but I corrected that. The wine tasted wonderful but was shooting straight to my head.

  “Mother will burst a blood vessel if you turn up drunk in the kitchen,” my sister observed without rancor. “Or anyplace else for that matter.”

  “If I really get drunk, then I shan’t care. Would you like some?”

  “Yes,” she said decisively, and got a wineglass. “She’ll make drunkards of us all before she’s finished. I’m surprised Father isn’t . . .”

  “Father has other occupations to distract him from unpleasantries,” I said, pouring generously.

  “I wish I did,” she muttered, and drained off half her portion. “Father goes out, you have your riding and studies, but I’m expected to sit here all day and find contentment with needlework, household duties, and numbering out my prospects.”

  “Prospects?”

  Elizabeth’s mouth twisted in disgust. “After she finished going on about Cambridge, she started asking about the unmarried men in the area.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “All of them, including old Mr. Cadwallader. He must be seventy if he’s a day.”

  “But very rich.”

  “Now who’s taking sides?”

  “Not I. I was thinking the way she would think.”

  “Please don’t.” Elizabeth groaned and finished her wine. I made to pour another, and she did not refuse it. “I hope things settle down quickly in Philadelphia so she can go back. I know that it’s wicked, wishing one’s mother away, but. . .”

  “She’s only our mother by reason of birth,” I said. “If it comes to it, Mrs. Montagu’s been a mother to us. Or even Mrs. Nooth. I wish Father had married her instead. Mrs. Montagu, that is.”

  “Then neither o
f us would have been ourselves, and we wouldn’t be sitting here getting drunk.”

  “It’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

  “A most wicked thought, though,” she concluded with an unrepentant grimace.

  “Yes, I’m born to be hanged for that one.”

  “God forbid,” she added.

  As one, we lifted our glasses in a silent toast to many different things. I felt pleasantly muzzy now, with my limbs heavy and glowing from inner warmth. It was too nice a feeling to dispel with the inevitable scolding that awaited me the moment I stepped into the kitchen.

  “P’haps,” I speculated, “I should leave Mother and Mrs. Nooth to their work. It would be boorish to disturb them.”

  Elizabeth instantly noted my change of mind and smiled, shaking her head in mock sadness for my lost bravado.

  “P’haps,” I continued thoughtfully, “I could just borrow a loaf of bread from one of the lads, then pick up a small cheese from the buttery. That would fill me ’til supper. Father should be home by then and Mother will have something else to be bothered about besides me.”

  “And have one of the servants blamed for the theft of the cheese?”

  “I’ll leave a note, confessing all,” I promised gravely. “Mrs. Nooth will surely forgive. . .” Then something soured inside and the game lost its charm. “Damnation, this is my own house. Why should I creep around like a thief?”

  Someone’s shoe heels clacked and clattered hollowly against the wood floor of the hall. Elizabeth and I instantly recognized a familiar step and hastily replaced the glasses and wine bottle in the cupboard. The answer to my plaintive question entered the doorway just as we shut everything and turned innocent faces toward her.

  Mother.

  She wasn’t fooled by our pose. “What are you two doing?” she demanded.

  “Only talking, Mother,” said Elizabeth.