Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Days—and nights—passed and nothing untoward happened, thank God. Responding unknowingly to my influence, Mother did what was asked of her, which was to do nothing.

  I’d kept my influence to the absolute minimum, making the brief and simple request that she should not attempt to hurt or harm Father ever again. Once assured that she understood completely, I suggested that she forget my intrusion, but not her promise, and to go back to sleep. After a moment, when I stopped feeling so unsettled, I put out the candles, carefully returned them to where I’d found them, picked up the one I’d brought, and left.

  Without, the hall, rooms, the whole house had been as silent after as before. A listening silence, said my guilty fancy, but I was safe enough from discovery.

  Depending on one’s conscience, guilt can be eased by the passage of time, and to my surprise, I found my conscience to be rather more flexible than I’d thought—at least in this matter. As one night succeeded another without further incident, I began to see that what I’d done had been the right action to take. The only drawback was not being able to speak of it to the others.

  It would have helped them to know that their worries were over, but it seemed best to let things run on as usual. Not that I was indifferent to their concern; I offered reassurance when it was needed, but kept my mouth shut the rest of the time. After a while, life gradually eased back to normal. Or something close to it. Father resumed taking tea with us and ceased looking dubious when presented with his evening meal. Elizabeth, distracted by Norwood, left off drifting along in Mother’s wake whenever the woman left a room alone. Jericho and Archimedes stopped their searches for laudanum, though they continued to keep a sharp eye on Mother during gatherings.

  Beldon remained watchful, though.

  “I feel badly about this, Mr. Barrett,” he confided to me one night not long after. “My carelessness was inexcusable. It shall not be repeated.”

  “Hardly your fault, sir. How could you have known? Or even anticipated?”

  “But I should have.” He touched the pocket where he kept the new keys to his medicine box and room. “Nevermore.”

  “Then surely there’s no reason to feel bad.”

  He offered me a bleak look. “There is should your Mother decide to make another attempt, by another means.”

  “What is open to her, then?”

  “There are a number of hunting arms in the house, pistols, and you know that Lord James has quite a little collection of his own.”

  “You hardly need worry over that. Mother knows nothing about the loading or shooting of firearms.”

  That brought him a measure of solace. We had arms, powder, and shot at hand because of the roughness of the times, but kept them well-hidden. With rebel raiders threatening to swoop upon us to commit common robbery under the thin sham of patriotism, Father had taken pains to augment his cache of guns over the months. However, it was impractical to leave them loaded, as the powder might become too damp to fire. He did make certain that everyone in the house from Elizabeth to the scullery boy knew how to load and shoot, though. Everyone but Mother, who claimed to despise the noise and mess, and did her best to make a virtue of her willful ignorance. I think she may have regretted her attitude, for Lady Caroline turned out to be an enthusiastic shootist, setting a good example for the rest of the ladies to follow.

  “What other means of mayhem might Mother turn to?” I asked Beldon.

  “A push down the stairs?” he hazarded, then shrugged sheepishly. “I know, I’m probably worried over nothing, but I am fond of your family and should bitterly regret any harm that might come to them. Your father was uncommonly generous in taking my sister and me in and allowing us to stay.”

  That, of course, had been Mother’s idea, for this was her house, not Father’s, but in truth, Father had come to appreciate their company: Mrs. Hardinbrook as a buffer against Mother, and Beldon as a physician . . . and friend. I was reluctant to admit that, unwilling to relinquish my first impression of the man, which was that of a self-serving toad-eater. But though he often fell into that habit, especially around people like Norwood, he’d ceased to do so with our family. Perhaps some of our own cheerful honesty with one another (with the exception of Mother) had made a favorable impression upon him.

  “We’re all grateful for your presence, Doctor, and for your concern, but things are well in hand now.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “I don’t mean that we should not be vigilant to potential trouble, but I think things are safe enough that we may be at ease most of the time.” There, that was as much as I would tell anyone and much more than I’d wanted. Father and Elizabeth would have been able to discern what was behind my words and correctly guess what I’d done to be filled with such confidence. Beldon, though, did not. From his wan smile I got the impression he put it down to youthful optimism. I hoped he would choose not to quote me before others. That might prove to be rather awkward.

  But this night, like the last few, was quiet. The usual game of cards went on; they might have had enough for a second table of play, but I had no desire to join them and Norwood was gone. Some business in Hempstead claimed his attention and he’d left at dawn that morning. Poor Elizabeth had had a dull time of it waiting for him, or so I gathered when she greeted me earlier. Now she poked glumly at the keys of the spinet, starting up every time she fancied hearing a noise that might be the announcement of his arrival home.

  Lady Caroline was busy with some delicate needlework, while Anne studiously read another of Shakespeare’s works. They sat on either side of the table, close enough to share the candlelight. The flames lent a golden tone to their high-dressed and powdered hair that was charming to behold. I had a book of my own, but my attention kept wandering from it to them, particularly Anne. Her brow was deeply furrowed in concentration, but it was not unattractive on her. I quite liked the effect, as it gave a more serious air to her pretty, but usually blank face.

  Then she must have sensed me watching her. She looked up to meet my gaze. I smiled politely and got one in return. She tried to continue reading, but I’d spoiled it for her. After a few more efforts, she gave up and smiled at me again.

  Well-a-day. I’d seen that expression more than once on other women and recognized it, or thought I did. The question to face now was what to do about it. Possessing a healthy portion of curiosity, I decided to find out if I was mistaken. I nodded back to her with a friendly expression. Hers was also friendly . . . and maybe a bit more.

  She quietly folded her book and left the room in such a way as to bring no notice to herself. That usually requires either talent or raw instinct to do well, and Anne apparently possessed both those qualities. As she passed me, I got another look from her. No, I had not been at all mistaken, so after an interval, I followed. I wasn’t sure about my ability to be as quiet as she, but tried.

  She was in the parlor. The fire was out and the only light came from the single candle she’d taken with her. She put it on a table.

  “Hallo,” I said.

  Anne briefly smiled, then said, “You seem to like me.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “As a cousin, or as something more?”

  “Ahh . . . well. . . .”

  “Is that why you were looking at me? Were you trying to decide?”

  I laughed a little. “Maybe I was. I’m sorry if I’ve given offense.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not offended, but I am curious.”

  What a coincidence.

  “I know we are blood cousins, but I . . . think you’re very handsome . . . and kind.”

  “Thank you. I think you’re very pretty and sweet.”

  She swallowed. “That’s good.”

  I moved fractionally closer. “Perhaps it’s that we’re both merely curious.

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.
But I . . . .” Now she looked rather helpless and lost. Was she standing on the edge of that cliff Elizabeth had spoken about? What lay below, a soft landing or something painful?

  “Do you think you might be in love?” I asked. I was nowhere near any sort of edge, but to take advantage of her would be most ungentlemanly. My sojourn in England taught me that in certain situations it was best for the lady to take the lead.

  Anne’s lips thinned as she sucked in the lower one. “I don’t know what answer to give you.”

  “What answer do you give yourself?”

  “That I’m not in love.”

  “But you’re still curious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps we should simply attempt to satisfy our mutual curiosity and leave it at that.”

  She thought it over and her face lightened. “What shall we do?”

  “Yes, well, there are any number of things that may be tried.”

  “I’d like to kiss you.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “But I don’t know how. You won’t laugh at me, will you?”

  “My word of honor,” I said solemnly, which seemed to give her comfort. I was not playing with her, for I knew just how difficult and frightening total inexperience can be.

  She straightened and composed herself. “Will you show me?”

  Now I had a moment of difficulty, not from inexperience, but from the responsibility I was about to take on. I vividly recalled Nora had been aware of it for herself. With her example in mind, I knew then that I wanted Anne’s first kiss to be just as happy a memory as mine was.

  “All right. Stand close.”

  She did so.

  “Relax a bit.” I placed my hands lightly on either side of her face, then bent a little and kissed her, just like that. Softly. Gently. “There now,” I whispered. “It’s easy. Want to try another?”

  “Mm-mmm.”

  I took that to mean that she did and so obliged, taking more time. She seemed to enjoy it, but had a puzzled look when I pulled away.

  “Is that all there is? Not that it wasn’t nice, but I thought—”

  “Actually, yes, there is more. Quite a lot.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Will you show me that as well?”

  “If you wish, but not everything. Don’t want to overdo it the first time out, y’know.”

  I put my arms around her and she followed suit. She was on the small side, but we managed to put our lips together again. I slowly opened mine and after a pause she did the same, catching her breath as I tried a more intimate touch with my tongue. That woke her up.

  “Oh, dear,” she gasped when I paused. I didn’t ask whether she liked it or not; it was obvious that she did, but had only been surprised.

  “Does everyone do it like this?”

  “Perhaps not as well,” I answered, eschewing modesty. I felt there was no need for such. Nora had, after all, been an excellent teacher.

  “Again, please?”

  Explorations proceeded on both sides. Her breath came faster and deeper and I could feel her heart pounding throughout her whole body. I was subject to some extremely pleasant reactions of my own, the most noticeable of which forced me to draw away before she discovered anything odd about my mouth. I began kissing her cheeks, forehead, temples, ears, and finally dropped as far as her throat.

  And there . . . I had to reluctantly stop. My corner teeth were out and I was more than ready to put them to use, but that wouldn’t have been right. Not for either of us.

  “Are you—are you finished?” she asked shakily.

  “I think it’s a good idea to leave off here,” I murmured somewhat indistinctly.

  “Do other people not continue . . . to other things?”

  “Yes, but I’m not prepared to do so. That is for another person to do.”

  “Who?”

  “The man you’ll fall in love with someday.”

  “What if I changed my mind? What if I’m in love with you after all?”

  “That would make me a most fortunate fellow, but you’re not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Her hands fluttered over her lips, paused at her breast an instant, and then clasped one another determinedly. She breathed in and out once. “Then what am I feeling?”

  “The normal kind of lust that is often generated by bit of healthy kissing.”

  “Lust?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a bad thing, though. Isn’t it?”

  “You do have to be careful around it, and not give into it willy-nilly, but under the right circumstances it can be good indeed.”

  “And these aren’t the right circumstances?”

  “And I’m not the right person.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Her eyes were sharp and guarded. “How do you know that?”

  “Because if it were otherwise, you and I would be feeling far more than just curiosity.”

  She thought that over for a time. “Or lust?”

  “Exactly.”

  More thought. Her hands unclasped. She took one of mine and went on tiptoe. I leaned down once more and we kissed once more. Rather chastely. She was smiling afterward. “Well . . . Cousin, if and when I should fall in love with a man, thanks to you, I shall be better prepared to deal with him.”

  “I’m happy to have been of assistance.”

  “But he will have to be someone exceptional, I think.”

  I bowed gravely. “You are most kind, Cousin.”

  Her expression was playful. “Do you still like me?”

  “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 f
or 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?”