Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “It’s just like learning another language for you. One day it suddenly makes sense.”

  “But to translate it with your eyes to your hands and thus to the ear. . .”

  “Jonathan!” Mother’s voice cut between us like an axe blade. Elizabeth missed her notes and ceased play altogether. Mother glared at us with disturbing malevolence, recalling that awful night more than three years past and her obscene accusation. “Have you nothing better to do with yourself than disrupt your sister’s practice?”

  Her lips quivering, Elizabeth was about to say something we might all regret. I quickly stepped in first. “Quite right, madam. I am most inconsiderate. Please excuse me.”

  She made no reply, but some of the tension in her body eased a little. This was the only sign that I’d received her pardon. Her gaze flicked to her cards. “Find something to do, then. Your wandering about the place is most aggravating.”

  “Yes, madam. I only came down to ask when Dr. Beldon might have a free moment.”

  “Then you should have said so in the first place. The doctor is, as you can see, occupied.”

  Beldon raised his head. “Your arm?” he asked.

  “Partly. But as you are busy, it can wait. I’ll be in the library when you’re free.”

  Beldon read enough from my manner to know that this medical call was not urgent, so he had no need to risk Mother’s ire by immediately responding. He returned his attention to his hand, and I left the room.

  My feet took me to the hall, past the library, and out the side door, leaving the flagged path to wander in the yard. It was better out here, the air more free, the scents it carried of earth and grass and flowers more pure. I wanted to roll in it like a dog, free and easy. I settled for sitting beneath a tree and stretching out my legs. Here was peace and a kind of rest. I was so very, very tired. In days past, I napped here in the summer heat. No more. While the sun was down, sleep obstinately eluded me, even when I tried to find it.

  But I closed my eyes in another hopeful attempt. My other senses leaped in to take up the slack. I heard the rustle of every leaf and night creature, the sweet tones of the spinet, felt the cool ground and each tuft of grass under me, smelled the hundred messages on the wind, tasted the first dry swallow of thirst.

  That would be tended to later, though, while everyone slept.

  Upon my return to the hearth, Mrs. Nooth’s first instinct had been to provide food for me and she required further influencing on the subject. Now she and the rest of the household simply ignored the fact that I did not eat with the family anymore, indeed, that I seemed not to eat, period. No one questioned it, no one remarked upon it. It was quite the best for all concerned.

  As for the stable lads, I had them well-schooled to completely ignore me should I be seen in the stalls at any hour of the night. As the young master of the house it was certainly within my duties to check on the horses at a time of my choosing. So far, all was well. If any of the lads glimpsed my true purpose for being there, none seemed to consider it worth mentioning.

  Elizabeth’s playing ceased again, and I saw movement against the curtains of the drawing room. The card game must have ended. I heaved up and stalked back to the house, feeling considerably better for the respite outside. As much as I desired and cherished the company of my family, getting away from them now and then was also necessary.

  Beldon was in the library, and I apologized for not being here as promised. He bowed slightly to dismiss the issue, and I inquired if he would like some sherry, which he declined.

  “I am still astonished at how quickly it healed after the injury,” he remarked, nodding at my arm. “How is it for you?”

  “The same. I still cannot straighten it.”

  “I feared as much. I saw something similar once, a man with his elbow shattered. It healed, but remained frozen at a right angle. Unless you want to risk the same permanence of condition, I fear we shall soon have to—”

  “Yes, I know that, but I wanted to consult you about something else.”

  “Indeed?”

  We seated ourselves and I explained my problem to him.

  “You’re getting no rest at all?” he asked.

  “None. I seem to fall into a kind of waking doze, a halfway state, and can neither rouse from it or sink into true sleep. During this, I’m subject to endless dreaming, so even if my body rests, my mind does not, and that’s what leaves me so fatigued all the time.”

  “And yet but a few days ago you assured me that you were a very sound sleeper.”

  “So I was—a few days ago.”

  “Has there been any change in your usual habits?”

  More than I can begin to number, I thought.

  “Any change in your room, bedding or night clothes?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Does the pain from your arm keep you awake?”

  “It only hurts when I try to move it and I take care not to do so.”

  “I can prescribe something to make you sleep,” he said reluctantly.

  Laudanum, or some other preparation, no doubt. I shook my head. “If else is available, I should prefer some other treatment, Doctor.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms, studying me from top to toe. “There are many reasons why a man cannot sleep. Has anything been troubling you lately? Any problem, no matter how minor, can prick at the mind like a thorn just at the moment when one most wants to forget it.”

  “Perhaps it’s this business with Roddy Finch,” I offered lightly, after a moment’s consideration. “There’s been some protest, but there’s no doubt they’ll soon be hanging him.”

  “And you were the one who turned him in. Yes, a burden like that can’t be easy for a young mind like yours to bear. It’s out of your hands, though. Like it or not, justice will be served,” he said grimly.

  Justice or the law? I well knew there was often a wide difference between the two.

  “The best thing for you is to try and forget about it.”

  My belly gave a sharp twist at these words. The knowledge flamed up in my mind that the one thing I could not do was to forget.

  Knowing what his fate would be, I’d turned Roddy over to the soldiers without a qualm. Now the doubts were creeping in. I’d had many, many dreams about him, about what his hanging would be like. I kept seeing his father rushing forward to drag on his son’s heels to hurry the work of strangulation. After what my own family had experienced, would it do any good to put Roddy’s through the same anguish and grief? How could that serve justice?

  But it was the law that murderers and thieves and now spies should be executed, and Roddy was guilty of all three crimes as far as the courts-martial were concerned. It was out of my hands, but not my heart. Beldon thought I should forget it, but Father had always taught us to face our problems, not run from them.

  “When you come to a fence either jump it or go through the gate, but don’t let it hold you in,” he’d said.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I heard myself saying. “You’ve given me some ideas that want turning over.” I excused myself and left before he could raise further questions or the topic of re-breaking my arm. On the way up the stairs, I hailed Jericho and kept going.

  “What is it, sir?” he asked, rushing into my room.

  “Get my riding boots out. I want some exercise.”

  “At this hour, sir? The soldiers have been most discouraging to travelers out after curfew”

  “To the devil with them.”

  He correctly read my mood, fell in with it, and found my boots. Before a quarter hour had passed, Belle was saddled and one of the stable lads gave me a leg up onto her back. I took the reins with my good hand and swung her around toward the front lane leading to the main road. Not sure how good her eyes were at night, I didn’t ask for an impossible pace, especially along areas steeped in shadows,
but once on the road, the way was fairly clear and I kicked her into a decent canter for as long as my abused arm could stand the motion.

  Not very long.

  She never worked up a sweat, though if she had, the remaining walk would nave cooled her down. Despite the curfew, we met no one along the way, not a single soldier until we reached Glenbriar and The Oak came into view. There I was challenged quickly enough, but after giving my name and a formal request for an audience with Lieutenant Nash, I was immediately escorted in to see him. Apparently the guards presently on duty hadn’t heard any rumors from their fellows about my blood-drinking.

  “This makes a fine change from having to shout at you from the street,” I said after greetings had been exchanged.

  “Aye,” said Nash. “You’re still the hero with the men for all that you’ve done. That’s a night I shall not soon forget myself. Your sister is in good health, I hope?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “And I trust your arm is mending?”

  “Middling fine, sir.”

  Nash took note of the many curious eyes trained on us and invited me to a more private room. It was the same one as we’d used before, but his manner indicated that it held no inconvenient memories. He inquired after the purpose of my visit.

  “I wish to see the prisoner, Roddy Finch.”

  “May I ask why?”

  There was more than sufficient candlelight to work with. “You may not,” I said evenly, fixing my gaze hard upon him.

  He blinked once and with no alteration of his expression, stood. “Very well, then, Mr. Barrett. I should be pleased to take you to him. You’ll want that candle, as it’s very dark.”

  “He’s in the cellar?”

  “There was no other place to put him. This village is too small to have a proper lockup.”

  Until the soldiers came we’d had no need of one, but I held my peace and picked up the candle. Nash led the way through the common room, where we were both—and I imagined myself in particular—subject to more staring. I caught a glimpse of the landlord, but he ducked from sight when I turned for a better look. Elizabeth’s fear that I’d have to have a “talk” with the whole island had some substance to it. Well, Mr. Farr and the rest would just have to wait.

  We reached a back passage near the kitchen, where a man with a sword and long rifle came to attention when he saw Nash. He moved from off the trapdoor where he’d been standing and slid back a bolt that looked to have been recently attached. Lifting the door, he took a ladder from the wall and lowered it into the darkness, then went down ahead of us. Nash had charge of the candle, and I followed the guard as best I could, hindered as I was with my arm in its sling.

  The place had a nauseating smell of food stores, damp, human sweat, and unemptied chamber pots. The roof was low; Nash and his man were all right, but I had to stoop to keep from bumping my head.

  “Over there,” said Nash, pointing to a far corner.

  I took the candle and peered, needing every ray of its feeble light in this awful place. I could just make out two hunched shapes huddled close by a supporting pillar of wood. Drawing closer, they took on form and identity and became Roddy Finch and Ezra Andrews. Both stirred sluggishly and winced against the tiny flame. There were chains on their wrists, the links solidly fixed to the pillar with huge staples. Neither of them had much freedom of movement and they reeked from their confinement.

  Turning toward Nash, I thanked him and made it clear that he and the guard need not remain. As before, he gave no outer sign, but instantly obeyed my request. The two of them went up the ladder. The trap was left open, but I didn’t mind.

  “What do ye want?” Andrews demanded when I returned to them.

  An excellent question and not one that could be answered while he was listening in. I knelt close so he could see me. “I want you to sit back and go to sleep.”

  I knew I’d reached him, but it was still a little startling to witness how quickly he complied. He gaped at me empty-eyed for a few seconds, then did as I said, just like that. Oh, but I could see that Father was very wise in advising me to be sparing with this ability.

  Roddy also gaped, albeit for a different reason. “Jonathan? What—?”

  “Never mind him, I came to talk to you.”

  He raised himself up, his chains clinking softly. There were raw patches on his wrists and his face was dirty and drawn. His own eyes were nearly as empty as Andrews’s, but from a different cause. Beneath the sweat and grime and the heavy miasma of night soil, I could smell the thick sour stench of his fear.

  “Talk about what?” he asked. There was a lost and listless tone to his voice.

  “About what happened to me.”

  He shook his head, not understanding. “I didn’t do it; ’twere Nathan. An’ I’m that sorry about it, though.” He nodded at my arm.

  “Not this, about what happened at the kettle when the soldiers were after you for the horses.”

  “They was our hosses. It weren’t right as the soldiers should take ’em the way they did. I were only tryin’ to get ’em back for Da.”

  “Yes, and you . . . killed a man doing it.”

  “What? I didn’t kill nobody.”

  His protest was so genuine that it set me back a step, until I realized that under these circumstances he would certainly deny any accusation against him, especially one of murder.

  “But you did, Roddy. I know. All I want to know now is why.”

  “You’re daft,” he stated, looking mulish enough to pass for his younger brother.

  We could go around all night on this, but I saw no advantage to it. “Look at me, Roddy, and listen to me . . . . Do you remember the day you took back the horses from the soldiers?”

  “Yes,” he said in a voice as flat and lifeless as his expression.

  “You were standing above the kettle and you looked across, and you must have seen me.”

  “No.”

  “You saw me and raised your musket and shot me.”

  “No.”

  “You did, I saw you do it, Roddy.”

  “No.”

  Damnation. How could he not speak the truth while in this state? He was so far separated from his own will he couldn’t possibly do otherwise. I was frustrated to the point of trying to shake it out of him, until a simple little thought dropped into my mind like a flash of summer lightning on the horizon. Since waking up in that damned box, I’d had a thousand distractions keeping me busy, keeping me exhausted, keeping me from seeing that which should have been obvious. In all the time since his capture I’d never once questioned why Roddy, of all people, had expressed no surprise at my miraculous return from the dead. I’d looked across the kettle and recognized him and his eye was sharp enough for him to know me in turn.

  Or rather, I thought I’d recognized Roddy. But if I was wrong . . . then the young man who had . . .

  Nathan Finch?

  I had not seen him in three years. He’d have grown up in that time and at a distance . . . I’d taken him for his brother. “Nathan shot that man, didn’t he, Roddy?” I asked tiredly.

  “Told ’im he shouldn’ta done it,” he replied.

  I lowered my head and groaned and wished myself someplace that didn’t have soldiers or prisons or scaffolds.

  “Why? Why did he do it?”

  “They were comin’ for us an’ Nathan said as that fellow in the fancy red coat must be their general, shootin’ ’im would solve our problems. They’d leave off chasin’ us and see to ’im, instead, and they did.”

  “Coat?”

  “A fine red coat with braid, ’e said, which meant ’e were like to be General Howe. So Nathan got ’im. Said ’e couldn’t hardly miss. Our Nate ain’t so clever on some things, but ’e’s the best shot in the family. We never want fer a bit of coney ’r squirrel when ’e’s on t
he hunt.”

  Just as I’d mistaken him for another, Nathan had returned the favor, doing his patriotic duty by killing an enemy general. The fool. The bloody, bloody stupid fool. As if a general would be on a hunt for stolen commissary stock. I found I could not speak for a long time. It was absurd and awful and idiotic and unutterably sad.

  And I didn’t know what to do about it.

  * * *

  The whole night might have slipped past with me staring at nothing and trying not to think and failing if not for Roddy. He eventually woke up to regard me with both wariness and curiosity. He also seemed to have some vague memory of the questions I’d put to him.

  “You goin’ to tell on Nathan?” he asked.

  “He killed that man, didn’t he?” I returned. I still had enough wit to try maintaining the fiction of another’s death.

  “Well, it’s war, ain’t it? People get killed in wars.”

  There was no point in gainsaying him on that grim fact. “And what if it had been you? Would you care to have someone shoot you down just because there’s a war?”

  He shook his head, not for an answer, but in puzzlement. Apparently he’d never before considered himself as ever becoming a target. “Did Nathan kill that Hessian boy as well?” Roddy’s gaze dropped in reply. “Then I suppose they’ll hang you for that, too.”

  “But Ezra here said—”

  “They know you’re no soldier. He can take any oath he likes on your behalf, but they won’t believe him. They’ll hang you for a horse thief or a murdering spy no matter what.”

  “But I’m no spy, an’ how can I be a hoss thief when it was our own bosses we were takin’ back?”

  Oh, but there was such a terrible difference between the law and justice in some circumstances. Father often discussed that conundrum of right and wrong with Rapelji. There was nothing right about this situation. Roddy should not suffer for a murder he did not commit or be hanged for taking his horses back from thieves operating within the law. He was guilty, but innocent . . . and thinking too much on that just made my head hurt.