by P. N. Elrod
“Indeed.” But not too surprising. My father also had not liked the man, and from the scarce information he’d shared about him, I would have probably followed his suit. My grandfather had been a most disagreeable fellow, according to Father, a foul-tempered tyrant subject to fits of rage, which would certainly account for Mother’s behavior toward us, since she seemed to have taken that as an example of how to treat one’s family. That was what Elizabeth and I had come to call “the Fonteyn blood” and regard with dread lest we succumb to it ourselves.
But it did not explain why Mother had been afraid in her dream, the one I’d interrupted when I’d gone to see her that night. She’d been pleading like a frightened child. Her voice might well have been a child’s voice, and I was forced to admit to myself that it had shaken me to hear it. At the time I’d been too preoccupied with what I’d been doing, but later that trembling tone had come to haunt and worry me. And instead of looking upon Mother with my usual unhappy tolerance, I’d allowed a small piece of compassion to enter into my regard. It made her seem less of a barely controlled monster and more like . . . what? A lost and wounded child? Dear God, I could understand that, having been there myself. Perhaps Father was not the one in the family with the blind spot.
“Was your father a strict man?” I asked almost absently, for the silence had stretched long between us. I needed fresh conversation between me and my thoughts.
Anne smiled. “Mother sometimes accused him of not being strict enough.”
“He was a loving man, then.”
The smile thinned and faded altogether. “No, not really. He cared for me, but I . . . .”
“If this is painful for you—”
“No, really, I’ve just never thought of it before. I see it now. He never allowed himself to get close to anyone. How sad. I wonder why?”
“He may not have known how. Or been afraid to try.”
“Father afraid?” She shook her head, then spread her hands, smoothly retreating into her most common defense against the harshness of life. “It’s all too confusing for me.”
Or too close to the heart. “Quite so. Besides, I was trying to learn about my mother.”
“And I haven’t been of much help.”
“But you have . . . and I’m grateful for it.”
* * *
Anne and I made an amicable parting, and I trotted up to my room only to come down again soon after, garbed for the outdoors. I passed Jericho in the hall and told him I was going to take the air. He nodded, reminded me to put on gloves and resumed whatever errand I’d interrupted.
Gloves . . . yes, in the pocket of my cloak as usual. With my indifference to the cold weather, I sometimes forgot them. A spare handkerchief was there as well, wrapped around two lumps of sugar. Good. Jericho was uncommonly efficient in anticipating my needs. I was hungry tonight and would find those items useful.
I let myself out by the side door as usual and trudged over my own footprints toward the stables. The wind was high and the ground hard from the cold. My boots crunched and cracked against the frozen mud and snow. I paused outside the far end of the building away from the house and glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then vanished and pushed my way through the wall to get in. It was strange be aware of the texture of the barrier, but not the solidity as I flowed through the minute cracks in the boards like so much water. Not too terribly unpleasant, but far from enjoyable. Using the door would have been better, but noisy.
All was dim and dark within when I reassumed form. Bereft of outside light, my eyes were no better than anyone else’s now, but I knew the way. Ahead on my right were the stalls, and one or two of their occupants sensed my presence and stirred slightly, dark shapes against a darker background. The familiar scents of horse, straw and manure filled my head. I felt my way toward the first stall, then passed the second, and on to the third. Though the great animals could easily part with a sizable quantity of blood before feeling it—more than I could drink in one night—I took care not to feed from. any single one more than once in a week. Since we had a number of horses and I needed to sup only every other night or so, their health remained blessedly robust.
My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dark, and I found that Desdemona was in this stall. She turned her head ’round to get a better look at me. Like the others, she’d come to associate my late visits with some form of reward and may have already smelled out the sugar in my pocket. I decided to leave her alone, though, as she would be foaling in the spring. We’d mated her to Rolly and had high hopes for what was to come, and it seemed best not to require any more from her than to continue to quietly gestate, undisturbed by my hunger.
She gave a decidedly human-sounding snort of disgust when I moved to the next stall and began patting down Belle, who happily consumed the sugar and stood rock still while I fed from her. As always, the taste was rich with life and entirely good to me. I had all but forgotten what other, more solid—more normal—food had been like. I did know that it had never imparted such a feeling of completion to me as the blood did now.
The second lump of sugar followed the first and I wiped my mouth clean with the handkerchief. Within my body I felt the red warmth flush throughout my vitals and spread to my limbs. It was like the summer sun soaking my soul from the inside out. Little yearning lingered in me to see that fiery orb again. There was no need to; I carried it in my veins.
I quit the stables by the same path and set out once more into the night.
The wind was a nuisance, but bearable, and the walking itself would keep me warm should the cold overcome my resistance to it. I pulled my cloak close and marched down the lane to the main road. Once out of sight from the house, I grew too impatient to stay on my feet and so took to the air.
It was hard going with the wind against me, but I relished the struggle. At least it was something simple and straightforward. I made most of the trip blind or half blind, being unable to retain much solidity, as I moved low over the ground, but it was a familiar trip and did not take long. Just before reaching the first buildings of Glenbriar, I went solid again and walked the rest of the way.
As I’d expected, there were lights showing at The Oak. Freezing and windy or no, the soldiers here would not be kept from their drink, nor the locals, either. Some horses harnessed to a wagon were tethered outside, huddling miserably and unable to put their backs to the wind. If the riders were too drunk and irresponsible to take care of their mounts, then I’d have to have a word with the landlord. No sense in letting the beasts suffer for their master’s lack of concern.
I pushed through the door and called a general greeting to the company within. It was a sundry lot, uniforms, homespun, and fair to fine tailoring, each in their own groups, though there was some tentative mixing. One of the Hessian officers who had rather good English was holding forth about his war experiences to a spellbound crew. He could tell a good tale; I’d listened to enough of them myself on previous visits. His name was Eichelburger, and he’d been of great help to me in improving my knowledge of German. I waved over their heads to him and got a wave in return, without interrupting his recounting.
Mr. Farr had by now long adjusted himself to my return and came over to offer a glad greeting. His acceptance of me may have been tempered by my free-spending habits. I always bought an ale for myself and hardly ever failed to invite a few others to join me. Surrounded by a crowd, I could more easily get away with not drinking it, and if I wanted to empty my tankard, all I had to do was leave it unwatched for a moment by Noddy Milverton and he’d swiftly dispatch it for me. Not that we’d made any arrangements; Noddy just had an insatiable thirst and little money. He was a bit simple, so few of his victims objected, least of all myself.
“There’s some horses out front that are feeling the weather,” I told Farr.
“I’ll have someone see to ’em,” he said, and signed to one of his pot boys. As it was
so common an occurrence, no further instructions were needed; the lad nodded and went out. “They always come in for just a moment, then stay all night. Thankee for tellin’.”
“Any news?” Again, there was no need to be more detailed, as there was only one kind of news folk was interested in.
He shook his head. “Soldiers gone to ground for the winter. All’s quiet as far as I know, and I’m pleased for it to stay that way. The Suffolk County lads ’ave been restive, though. Stole some sheep t’other day.”
“I s’pects we knows what they stole ’em for!” put in the ribald and unrepentant Mr. Thayer. He was in his usual corner, puffing on his pipe. I wondered if he had grown roots to that chair yet.
“Now, now, sir,” cautioned Farr, but chuckling, too.
“Any more thieves from Connecticut?” I asked.
Farr shrugged. “Not in my hearing. There’s plenty of tales if you want to hear ‘em, but nothing I’d put my trust in. I’ve heard talk from the soldiers that the whaleboat boys sometimes shelter in Suffolk, but it don’t seem too sensible. The rebels in Suffolk are more like to thieve for themselves, not be sharin’ the pickin’s with others. Same goes for Connecticut.”
“And either way, it’s honest, loyal folk take the loss.”
“Some of ’em, but not all. Gunsmiths ’ave been busy. Nothing like a few rifle balls for helping a rebel to change his mind about taking your livestock.”
I could appreciate that well enough. It was reassuring to know that things had been quiet elsewhere. The weather had been none too good lately, either full of wind or sleet or snow or a combination of the three. Hardly encouraging to an enterprising thief looking for booty. We’d all learned to dread quiet nights, especially when there was little or no moon.
We talked a bit more, and others joined in or moved off. Noddy took care of two other tankards besides my own, all without being noticed. I said good evening and made my way out. Mr. Thayer’s seamed face cracked as he gave me a comically broad wink. He was used to seeing me leaving early, and his long experience told him why.
“Gi’ my regards to Molly Audy, will ye?” he bellowed across the room. This raised a tidal rush of laughter that swept me right outside. I wasn’t so sophisticated yet that I couldn’t blush, but I may have escaped into the dark before anyone saw it.
Most of the villagers were indoors and either in bed or getting ready for it; of course, that meant something different to a woman like Molly. Going to bed and going to sleep were often mutually exclusive, depending on the success of her business. She was apparently doing well enough tonight. Lights burned in her front room and bedroom. I quietly let myself in the door to wait until she finished with this other customer. There were some interesting sounds issuing from beyond the closed door in the back, but I could not judge just how far along they were to concluding things.
Hat in hand, I paced a little. Friendly curiosity aside, my experience with Cousin Anne had provided me with sufficient inspiration to carry what she’d initiated forward to a satisfactory conclusion. Further inspiration was this time provided by the noise Molly and her friend made, and I grew naturally impatient for my turn. After what seemed like an indecently lengthy interval, the bed and its occupants finally made their last groans together. The voices resumed normal speech, Molly murmuring admiration and the man making similar responses.
Oh, dear. Sudden recognition of the man’s voice froze me. My mouth went dry as sand. All the enthusiasm that had been building in me abruptly fled. Molly’s customer . . . . Damnation.
Flat-footed as I was with surprise, I had enough time to recover and completely vanish before they emerged. I stayed that way until he was well and truly gone and even then waited long before returning.
Molly had gone back to the bedroom again and so I found myself alone in her “parlor” where she conducted her sewing business during the day. Bits of fabric, thread, and pins littered the place, adding a legitimacy to this half of her livelihood; as for the other half . . . .
Well, she was the favorite of some of the more moneyed gentlemen of the village, so I needn’t have been so startled by this latest visitor. The way things were, especially in the more civilized parts of the world, it was fairly common for a man to seek a degree of physical satisfaction with any lady who might take his fancy. Whether she was his mistress or a paid prostitute depended on his situation and the depth of his pockets.
But in this instance I was so deeply disturbed because this particular fellow was also paying suit to my dearly beloved sister.
Visions of rushing after Lord James Norwood and demanding an explanation or wrenching a promise from him to cease and desist clouded my vision. Others intruded, including a tempting one of caning him within an inch of his life. Oh, but that would bring a lovely and wicked fulfillment to my baser nature; to thump him about the shoulders and smash his handsome face to a pulp for this insult to Elizabeth. How dare he pay honorable court to her one day and then—literally—pay out to Molly the next?
He’d be on the road back to the house for certain, easy enough for me to catch up and then serve him a solid lesson in polite behavior toward. . .
Damnation.
Elizabeth.
My anger leached from my heart at the thought of her. Certainly I could think of ways to deal with the man, but that would hardly change his status in her eye. In fact, if he turned up in a less than perfect condition, it would rouse a great sympathy from her. And if she demanded why I’d misused the fellow so, then I’d have to tell her the painful truth and. . . .
Damnation. Again.
Of course, Norwood was within his right to do what he liked. He and Elizabeth were not engaged, after all, but this discovery was a singularly unpleasant one, made the more so because I didn’t know what to do about it.
Questions tumbled through my mind as I wondered if he planned to pursue his courtship of my sister. If so, and they were married, would he continue to improve the trade for women like Molly? That was enough to set my jaw and turn my hands to fists.
If Norwood caused Elizabeth the least unhappiness, by God, he would answer to me.
Molly emerged, saw me, gasped, and gave a jump. “Goodness, Johnny-boy! I never heard you coming in. Why didn’t you call out?”
I was almost as surprised as she, so involved was I in my speculations. Shoving them forcibly to one side, I assumed what I hoped to be a pleasing expression to cover my true feelings and went to kiss her hand. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to disturb you if you had company.”
“Oh, my company’s been and gone. I was just starting to feel lonesome again. Glad I am that you happened by.” She wriggled into my arms and made a good-natured inquiry on whether I planned to stay awhile.
“For as long as you’ll have me,” I replied.
“Then that depends on how long you plan to have me,” she returned. “It’s been much too long since I’ve seen you. Whatever have you been doing with yourself? Or is that it? Have you been doing it with yourself?” She ground her body against mine in a delightfully suggestive way.
“Never,” I said with utter sincerity. Since my change, that was one form of carnal pleasure denied to me. But though my body’s expression had altered, the appetite for it remained, and so Molly and I did share company fairly often. I had an idea that my maternal grandfather would have been rolling in his grave if he knew where a fraction of my inheritance from him had ended up over the last few months. That idea added a certain . . . piquant flavor to my frequent beddings with Molly.
The memory of Cousin Anne’s curiosity reasserted itself and combined with the actuality of Molly; I found myself easily sweeping the latter up for a sound kissing. Her laughter—somewhat smothered by my lips—was genuine and I was once more pleased to realize that I was certainly her favorite customer. What matter to her if I drank her blood? She seemed not to mind, but relished it as much as I, since it ne
ver failed to impress a lengthy and highly satisfying climax upon her. So when it came down to it, I could be said to be paying her to have a good time. She’d once joked about paying me, but I never took her up on it. Thanks to Grandfather Fonteyn, I could afford to be generous.
She finally pushed me away, puffing for air. “This is lovely, Johnny-boy, but it’s drafty out here. Wouldn’t you like to find a warmer place to finish things?”
“Indeed, yes.”
It didn’t take long for us to settle ourselves in her bed. She’d been wearing a thick wrapper of some kind and shed it quickly, throwing it atop the coverlet for extra warmth before diving into the sheets. She had good cause to complain of the cold, since the only thing she’d worn under the wrap were a number of goosebumps. I liked to think that some were due to my actions rather than the chill of the outer room. Perhaps so, as she was eager and called for me to hurry myself.
I took off my cloak and spread it on the bed as well. My coat and boots went on a chair, but I kept the rest of my clothes on, as part of Molly’s own pleasure included a great fondness for unbuttoning things. I slipped into the sheets with her. They smelled of her . . . and others. It had not bothered me before. Which of those musky scents had been left behind by Norwood?
“Was that Lord James I spied leaving here a bit ago?” I asked.
She’d just started to work on my waistcoat. “Mayhap it was, but then lots of gentlemen come here. You know that.”
This, I remembered, was “Molly the Mum” talking. She never gave away names or told tales. Any other time I’d have applauded her discretion, but not now. “Decent fellow, I hope?”
“Very decent . . . but you’re better.”
“Tell me about him, Molly.”
She finished the last button and paused. “Now, Johnny-boy, that wouldn’t be right. You know I don’t gossip about any of my gentlemen. ’S not nice to gossip.”