Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Soon after our arrival in England, the Barrett cows had been turned out to mix with Fonteyn stock. My property would soon be in need of a permanent home if they bred as planned. It was my fond hope that when Father arrived he’d have the start of a fine herd to keep him busy if he wanted to retire from his law practice.

  Now there was something else to think about. “Another thing you need to know about this coming household,” I continued, “is that my father and mother are estranged, and I rather think both would be more comfortable if there’s some goodly distance between ’em. If I find something suitable, then my father will likely be sharing it with me.”

  “How will he feel about the—ah—irregularities? That is, if I may be so bold as to ask.” She nodded her head slightly in Richard’s direction, not looking at him.

  “Ask away, dear lady. As for your answer, once he gets over the shock, I think he will be utterly delighted.” I hoped for as much. Elizabeth and I had come to that comfortable conclusion after much lengthy discussion. During moments of weakness, I was subject to the occasional doubt or two, but that was from my own inner discomfiture, not because Father would fall short of our expectations. We knew him to be a wise and compassionate man. Certainly he would welcome a grandson, even one from the wrong side of the blanket.

  “There’s a comfort,” said Mrs. Howard. “I remember him as being a most sensible young fellow.”

  “You do? You knew him before he left England?”

  “Not to speak to, I should say. It wasn’t my place, of course. But there was many in the servant’s hall who were glad he stood up to the old judge and won Miss Marie away from Fonteyn House. Best thing that ever happened to her. I’m so sorry to know that that things worked out as they did.”

  “What was she like then?” I asked, feeling a sudden tightness around my throat at this chance to look into another’s past. Part of me wanted nothing to do with Mother, but a different part wanted to know everything. It was like picking a scab to see if it would fall away clean from a healed wound or peel painfully off to start the bleeding again.

  “Oh, she was a very beautiful girl. Sometimes quiet and sometimes headstrong. Not what I would call knowledgeable about the world, but the judge didn’t have much use for women learning more than they needed to run a household. She used to do clever needlework.”

  “Mother? Quiet?”

  “Silent, then. There’s a difference,” she said with a sad face.

  “I’m done with my milk,” Richard announced. His eyes had grown wide and his expression pensive with concern. Even if he didn’t understand much of our talk, he was keen enough to perceive the dark emotions running beneath it and be worried.

  “What a good lad you are!” she exclaimed approvingly, with a swift brightening in her manner. “Are you ready to go to bed, now?”

  “No, please. I want to play with Cousin Jon’th’n.”

  Nanny Howard shot me a dangerous look, one that I took to heart. “We’ll play again tomorrow night, my lad, or we’ll both be in trouble. We have to do what Nanny says, y’see. She knows best.”

  Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led to his bed, and she tucked him in.

  “A story, please?” he asked, as appealing as only a four-year-old can manage. I found my throat tightening again, but for a far different reason than before. Mrs. Howard correctly read my face and upon selecting a chapbook from a pile on a shelf, thrust it into my waiting hands.

  The book’s subject had to do with the alphabet, being full of instructive rhymes of the “A is for Apple” sort with a little poem for each. Richard and I went through it together, with him pointing out the letters and naming them and muttering along as I read the rest of the text. He seemed to know the book by heart, but that didn’t matter. I’d been told I’d had my favorite stories, too, never tiring of their repetition. He was asleep by the time I’d gotten to the “M is for Mouse” rhyme.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Howard,” I whispered to her as I prepared to tiptoe out.

  “Bless you, sir, but you’re the one to be thanked. I think you’re the best thing that could ever have happened to the child.”

  “I can hope as much. I’m new to this and don’t mind saying that I should highly value your guidance if you would be so kind.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And about the food, I’ll have Oliver arrange it so the pick of Fonteyn House’s country larder is at your disposal. Will that be satisfactory until such time as I can find my own home outside the city?”

  “More than satisfactory, sir.”

  I fairly bounded down the hall to my room where Jericho waited to repair the damages of my recent romp. Our conversation was a bit one-sided at first, with me rattling on about Richard with hardly a stop except when it was time for my shaving. Jericho had a light touch with a razor, but years back we’d both agreed that any unnecessary talk from me might prove to be a dangerous distraction to his concentration on the task. I was close-mouthed as a clam for the duration.

  He took the respite as an opportunity to catch me up on the day’s events within his own sphere, reporting about who had paid calls and what their business had been. An invitation arrived for Elizabeth and me to dine with the Bolyn family. It was worded in a flexible enough manner so as to include Oliver if he chose to come. He was still officially in mourning for his mother and not expected to participate in social gatherings, though an exception could be made for a private informal supper. Considering the restrictions of my diet, it was just as well for me. At least then Elizabeth would not be without an escort if she accepted.

  Once Jericho had my chin scraped clean and clothed me in something presentable, I was released from the nightly ritual and free to go about other civilized pursuits. I had to promise not to indulge in additional boisterous play before he let slip the leash, though. Since Richard was safely asleep, it was an easy enough pledge to make.

  I found Elizabeth to be alone in the parlor, at her ease on the settee staring at some book. The tea things were cleared away. It was that space of time where most people enjoyed the quiet comfort of their home and family while awaiting the arrival of the supper hour.

  “Hallo, where’s Oliver got to?” I asked, idly glancing about.

  “Off to his consulting room for a bit of work he missed during the day.” She put the book to one side on top of a pile of well-thumbed copies of The Gentleman’s Magazine.

  “Is he going to be busy for the whole evening?” Our cousin could disappear for hours on end into his medical studies when the inspiration was upon him.

  “I don’t think so. He wanted to read up on a treatment for a complaint he thought too delicate for mixed company.”

  That sounded interesting. “Delicate?”

  “Apparently even reading about it with a female in the room was of considerable discomfort to him, so he excused himself. I can’t see what his problem might be, since it was only something in a past issue of a magazine about a new method of cutting into the bladder to remedy the suppression of urine.”

  “Ugh! Really, Elizabeth!”

  “Oh, now don’t you object to what is or is not proper for a lady. The article was right there plain and open on the page for anyone to examine.” She tapped the stack of publications next to her with her fingertips.

  “And bladder operations are the sort of thing you enjoy reading up on?”

  “Hardly, but it caught my eye. I was really looking for news about the war and was distracted away by the account.”

  “So how is the war going?” I asked, eager for a change of subject, any change at all. I vaguely recalled reading the bladder article myself and had no desire to have my memory refreshed.

  “It was a September issue, so their news was dated. All they had was what we already knew when we left; that, and some account of the rebels indulging in a paroxysm of prayer and fasting last July fourth to
aid their ill-considered cause. But the December issue is no better. There’s not one word in it about General Burgoyne’s defeat.”

  I threw myself into a chair, hooking one leg over its arm. “They’re probably afraid it will prove to be too disheartening to the public. Too late for that, though. I’ll wager the King and his cronies know all there is to know, and they hope by keeping quiet the whole nasty business will be forgotten.”

  “Then they are bound to be disappointed, especially if all the rumors in the papers are true.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they are. I overheard quite a lot during the funeral.” A few of the men in the Fonteyn and Marling clans possessed an inside ear to the private workings of the government and when closely questioned, became rather free with their information, most notably after the Madeira started flowing.

  “So did I,” she said, one corner of her mouth curling down. “If it’s true, then we may be here for good.”

  “I thought we were, anyway. That’s what Father—or did he tell you differently?”

  She made a sour face at me. “Father’s moving here for good, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that I have.”

  This was more than startling news to me. My belly gave a twist as I sat up straight to face her. “What? You want to go back? Into the middle of a war?”

  “Certainly not, but the war can’t last forever.”

  “And then you’d go back?”

  “I don’t know. London’s just wonderful from what I’ve seen of it, but I do get so homesick sometimes.”

  “And you might return to Long Island after the war finishes?” This came out as less of a question and more like a woebegone whine.

  “I’ve thought of it. But please don’t excite yourself yet, little brother. All I’ve done is think about it.”

  “Then thank God for that.” But I was still unnerved.

  “Your concern is most flattering.”

  “I had no idea you felt this way.”

  “Normally I don’t, but it caught up with me today after reading this rubbish. I came suddenly all over homesick. I miss Father and worry for him. Once he’s here in England, things will brighten up.”

  “I’m sure they will.” I sincerely hoped so, being much attached to my sister. Though ever considerate for her happiness and comfort, the thought of her moving back, perhaps forever, to Long Island made a cold and heavy knot in my heart. I should not like that to happen at all. “I miss Father, too,” I added.

  “Have you written to him yet?”

  “Well. . .” I hedged. “I’ve started a letter, but there’s been so much to do with Richard—”

  “Bother that.” Some of her dark mood appeared to drop away, and she favored me with a severe eye. “I’ve heard you complain time and again how heavy the early morning hours are before your bedtime when you’ve gotten tired of reading and there’s no one to talk to except the night watch.”

  I favored her with a sour face in return. “Be fair, Elizabeth, how do you think I can put all that’s happened into a letter? ‘Dear Father, Cousin Clarinda murdered Mother’s sister, and damned-near got her husband and myself as well. By the way, I’ve taken in Clarinda’s boy, who’s turned out to be my son, so congratulations, you’re now a grandfather. How are things faring with you?’ He’d burst a blood vessel.”

  Elizabeth found a cushion on the settee and threw it with a great deal of force, catching me square on the nose. “If you send him such a letter I’ll burst a blood vessel—one of yours.”

  The cushion dropped to my lap, and I punched it a few times, cheered by her show of temper. “All right, all right, I know better, but it’s still anything but an easy task. If you’re so keen to let him know what’s happened, why don’t you write him?”

  “Because it’s your business; therefore it’s your responsibility.”

  “But you’re the eldest, as you frequently remind me. Besides, you have the better handwriting.”

  “Jonathan, if I were a man I’d call you a coward and issue a challenge here and now.”

  “You’d never get satisfaction, because I’d here and now freely admit that concerning this matter I’m as craven as a rabbit.”

  “And properly ashamed of it, I hope.”

  “Dreadfully ashamed. In fact, I’m quite paralyzed from it, so much so that I don’t think I could possibly lift pen to—”

  Elizabeth reached for another cushion.

  “That is to say. . . never mind.”

  She put her potential projectile back, smiling a cat’s smile. Now that was a good sign.

  Teasing done and peace preserved, I continued. “It would be easier if we heard from him first. Surely he’s written by now.”

  “I’m sure he must have, but with the war going on, his letters might be delayed or stopped altogether. Those damned rebels have ships and guns, too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d find a way to get something through. He’s got enough well-placed friends to help him. What I’m thinking is that he might have sold the house by now and already be on his way here.”

  “I hope not—a winter crossing. . . .” She shivered, expressing a real concern for the dangers. “But that aside, you still have to do something about this yourself. Oliver and I will help, but in the end, it is your task.”

  “I know. But making a proper job of it requires a lot of thought and I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

  She made no effort in the least to stifle her laughter. I threw the cushion back, but missed. It landed harmlessly on the magazines next to her.

  “Very well,” I grumbled when she had control of herself again. “I’ll make a start on it tonight, though what I’ll say to him will be anyone’s guess.”

  “I’m sure the simple truth in the order it happened will be fine.”

  “But there’s such a deuced lot of it and—oh, heavens—what if Mother should see it?” We both knew Mother was not beyond opening and reading her husband’s letters when the chance presented itself.

  Elizabeth’s mouth crimped into an unflattering frown. “If she’s determined to commit such a trespass, then she should be prepared to accept the consequences.”

  “I’m all for it, but my worry is what the consequences will be for Father.”

  “I expect that should the worst happen, he’ll just call Dr. Beldon to give her a draught of laudanum, then Mrs. Hardinbrook will pat her hand and offer shrill sympathy as usual.”

  “If he manages to keep the letter from Mother, I hope Father won’t tell her about Richard.” My description to Mrs. Howard of Mother’s likely reaction was no exaggeration. Far better for all concerned that she never learned of the child’s existence.

  “He won’t, if you ask for his discretion.”

  “Be assured of my utter determination to do so. But I’m tired of this. Let’s talk about Richard instead.”

  “I wondered how long it would take for you to get ’round to him. Sooner than this, I would have thought.”

  “Don’t fret, I’ll make up for the delay. We had a wonderful time tonight.”

  “So Oliver and I observed whenever you came hurtling through. Did you win your race?”

  “Oh, dozens of ‘em.” Taking this as an invitation, I told her every detail of what we’d done. “He’s terribly smart, y’know,” I concluded, sometime later, after letting her know about the attempted lesson in fractions and the chapbook.

  “I know.”

  “I think he really was reading along with me. He knows all his letters, at least up to M, anyway. I’ll take him through the rest of the alphabet tomorrow night.”

  “That should be nice.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I hope not.” But her face was serious again. I feared a return of her melancholy.

  “Then what is it that you hope is not wrong?”

  “Perhaps I’m too
much the worrier, but I need some assurance from you.

  “On what?”

  Her ears went pink. “This is entirely foolish of me. I know you, but I can’t seem to quell the worry.”

  “What worry? Come now and tell me.”

  “It’s just that Richard is tremendous fun for you right now. Everything’s new and exciting. But this is for life, for both of you. I have to know that you’ll be there for him when he needs more than a playmate. That you’ll look after him when things are serious as well, the way Father’s always done for us.” Her words came out in a rush, clear evidence of her embarrassment.

  In my own heart I’d already thought along those same paths, worrying that once the novelty of Richard’s presence wore off, I’d find other pursuits to occupy me. “Of course I will,” I answered quietly. “He was a surprise at first, but now I cannot and will not imagine life without him. Elizabeth—know this: that boy is part of my very soul and always will be.”

  Her face cleared. Then she smiled, a small one, and gave an equally small sigh. “Thank you for not being angry.”

  I shrugged. “Hearing your concerns for him is my pleasure. You’ve nothing to fault yourself with. I won’t pretend to assume I’ll make as good a job of it with him as Father did for us, but certainly I’ll do my best.”

  “I don’t understand why I thought you might do anything less. I needed to hear you say it, I suppose.”

  “It’s because you’re my sister. You’ve seen me as a child howling away over scraped knees and a bloody nose, and it’s hard to accept that the boy you hold in your memory can handle a man’s business when he’s grown. Good heavens, there’s many that can’t no matter how old they get.”

  “Too true.” We regarded each other, peace restored—I hoped—to her heart and mine. For all the fun and frolic with Richard, I held a keen and clear awareness of the attendant responsibility. In odd moments I sometimes gave in to fear and quailed at the enormous weight of it, of raising a child, but then I’d had a more than decent raising and could draw upon memories of my father’s example when necessary. With this and guidance from others I had reasonable expectation of not making a mess of things. Still and all, I would be very, very glad when Father arrived in England.