The Vampire Sextette

by Marvin Kaye

  "Why is that?" Madelaine asked, adding. "My felicitations on your anniversary.

  May all those to come be as happy."

  "Thank you," said Fanny, a smug hint of a smile showing her delight in this

  occasion. "I am a fortunate woman; my husband is devoted to me."

  "Yes, you are fortunate," said Madelaine. "The more so that you are fond of

  him."

  Fanny clasped her hand to her throat, touching her new necklace. "Dear me,

  yes. I have seen marriages—well, we all have—where the partners do not suit, and

  one is forever trapped trying to win the other, with flattery and gifts and other

  signs of affection that gain nothing but aggravation. The greater the effort, the

  greater the failure in those sad cases. Fortunately, I am not of their number."

  "Which must please all your friends," said Madelaine, thinking that festive small

  talk had not changed appreciably in the one hundred thirty years she had been

  alive. "I see the Captain has given you a wonderful remembrance."

  "So he has," she preened. "How good of you to notice." She looked around,

  then moved a step nearer to Madelaine. "I mentioned Baron deStoeckl just now, in

  the hope that there might be… an interesting announcement from him?"

  Madelaine realized at once what Fanny sought to know; she chuckled. "Do not

  let his affianced bride hear you say that, or she will never lend me his escort

  again."

  Fanny's face wilted. "Oh. An affianced bride, you say?"

  "So he has informed me," said Madelaine, her good humor unaltered. "Dear

  Mrs. Kent, you must know that even with your best efforts, few of us can become

  as happy as you are with your Captain. Although I appreciate your wish to see me

  thus." She regarded Fanny, trying not to lose patience with her.

  "Yes," said Fanny naively. "It is true that happiness like ours is rare. But I think

  it is necessary for a woman to have a husband in this world. Life is quite

  impossible without one." Impulsively she put her hand on Madeline's arm. "And I

  hate to see you so alone."

  "I deal well enough with my single condition," said Madelaine, knowing that

  Fanny intended the best for her, but offended by the intrusion in spite of her

  intuition.

  "But the

  future; think of the future, Madame." Her pretty face was now

  puckered with distress. "What will become of you? I cannot bear to think of it, not

  when I know you to be a prize any man would be glad to win."

  "Please, Mrs. Kent," Madelaine said, her manner less conciliating than before,

  "do not think that you must make arrangements for me. I have no wish to be any

  man's prize. I am capable of caring for myself; I value your interest as I ought, but

  I must ask you not to pursue the matter."

  Fanny dabbed a tear from her eye with her lace handkerchief. "If you insist, I

  will refrain, but why I should, I cannot grasp. Surely you must know that we all

  wish you well. Nothing would please us more than to see you well situated." She

  lowered her eyes to the flower beds. "This will be so splendid next spring. Don't

  you look forward to seeing it?"

  "Yes," Madelaine answered, "and I regret that I will no longer be in San

  Francisco when they bloom."

  Fanny's expression changed to shock. "What are you saying, Madame?"

  "Only that my purpose for being in your country will take me away from here

  before much more time goes by; I will be leaving soon, ahead of winter setting in,

  for I do not like hazardous travel," said Madelaine, trying to make these statements

  calmly so that Fanny would not be too inquisitive about her plans.

  "Gracious," said Fanny, nonplussed to the point of brief silence. "What

  purpose is that, Madame de Montalia?"

  "I am making a study of America; the United States are part of my subjects." It

  was not a lie, Madelaine reminded herself, though it was also not quite the truth.

  "But why would you want to do that?" Fanny marveled. "Why should a wellborn woman like you undertake so arduous a task?"

  "Curiosity," said Madelaine. "Women are supposed to be more curious than

  men, aren't we?"

  "Well, I suppose so," said Fanny dubiously, then turned as she heard her name

  called. She waved in response, then looked guiltily at Madelaine. "Oh, dear. You

  must excuse me, Madame. My husband needs me."

  "By all means," said Madelaine, and went back to her perusal of the flower

  beds. But she could not bring herself to concentrate on what she saw now, for

  Fanny Kent's well-meaning interference niggled at the back of her thoughts, and

  she remembered how Saint-Germain had cautioned her against making herself too

  noticeable in society. At the time, she had thought the advice too protective, but

  now she could perceive the reason for his warning, and she tried to think how best

  to undo the damage she had done.

  A short while later, Baron deStoeckl found her once more. He carried a glass

  of champagne, and he smiled broadly, his whole manner amiable, his eyes shrewd.

  As usual, he addressed her in French. "How are you faring, Madame?"

  "Well enough," she said, taking care not to appear too interested in him.

  "Fanny Kent was hoping she could make a match of us."

  Baron deStoeckl chuckled. "And did you tell her of my promised bride at

  home?"

  "Yes," said Madelaine. "I think she was more disappointed than shocked."

  He strolled along beside her, content to say little as they went. Finally, as he

  reached the foot of the garden, he remarked, "I hope you will not allow yourself to

  worry about what she said to you."

  "It is not my intention," said Madelaine, trying to sound unconcerned, and

  went on impulsively, "but it galls me to think I have been foolish enough to expose

  myself to her…"

  "Scrutiny?" suggested deStoeckl when Madelaine did not go on.

  "Something of the sort," she admitted. "Though that may be too strong a

  word."

  They started back to where most of the guests were gathered. DeStoeckl

  gestured to indicate the expansive garden. "You know, at the rate this city is

  growing, holdings of this size will soon vanish. Ask William what it was like when

  he was in California the first time. It was nothing like the place you see now. Once

  the Rush was on, San Francisco mushroomed. And it is mushrooming still." He

  grinned impishly. "William learned a great deal then, and it has stood him in good

  stead now. He claims that at the time, he had other things on his mind. Ask him

  why they called Monterey Bay 'Sherman's Punch Bowl,' six years ago."

  "You may be right about the city," she said with verve, not wanting to be

  pulled into talking about Sherman. "Though it would be a pity to lose this garden."

  "The price of land is rising steadily," deStoeckl reminded her. "And buildings

  are going up everywhere. I venture to guess that one day the city will stretch from

  the Bay to the Pacific itself." He saw the mayor signal to him. "I will return later,"

  he said as he went to answer the summons.

  It was too early to leave the party, but Madelaine wanted some relief from it.

  She went into the house and looked about for the library; the chance to read

  would diminish her growing anxiety.

  There was no library, only two small shelves of boo
ks in the withdrawing

  room. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the limited fare, and taking a copy of

  Bleak House from the top shelf, sat down to read, deciding she would discover at

  last what it was Sherman so admired in Dickens.

  "I wondered what had become of you," said a voice from the door; a young

  importer stood there, smiling fatuously at Madelaine. "No fair, you running off the

  way you did."

  "It is too bright in the garden; I fear I do poorly in such bright sun," she said,

  noticing the fellow looked a bit flushed. "So do you, it would seem."

  "The sun doesn't bother me," he boasted and held up his glass in a toast to

  her. "But not looking at you does. You're better than the sun any day of the

  week."

  This flattery was more alarming than complimenting; Madelaine began to

  wonder if the high color in the young man's face did not result from too much

  champagne rather than too much sun; there was a certain glaze to his eyes that

  suggested it. A quiver of consternation went through her as she recalled other

  unwelcome encounters: Alain Baudilet in Omats' garden, Gerard le Mat on the

  road to her estate in Provence, Ralph Whitestone in her box after The Duchess of

  Malfi. "Thank you for the pretty words," she said automatically, continuing with

  great deliberation. "I think, perhaps, it is time to rejoin the others."

  The young man gave her a lupine grin. "Not so fast. I thought we could have a

  little… talk on our own."

  "Did you?" Madelaine closed the novel and put it back into its place on the

  shelf. "I fear you were mistaken." She rose and started toward the door, not so

  quickly that she would seem to confront the young man. With all the composure

  she could muster, she said, "Will you let me by?"

  He extended his arm to block the door. "I don't think so. Not yet."

  "Mr…" She could not bring his name to mind; it was something simple,

  uncomplicated, but not as obvious as Smith. She maintained her outward

  equanimity. "There is no reason to do this."

  "There's plenty of reason," said the intruder, enjoying his position of

  advantage. "And a Frenchwoman should not need to be told what it is."

  Madelaine frowned. She could always scream, but that would defeat the whole

  purpose of her withdrawal from the garden—to remove herself from observation

  and the occasion for gossip. "I don't think you want to do this," she began

  reasonably. "Please stand aside." She thought she sounded like a schoolmistress

  with a recalcitrant pupil.

  "Not on your life," the young man said, swaying toward her. "Not while I have

  this chance." He drank the last of the champagne in his glass, tossed it away

  without paying any notice to its shattering, then reached out for her.

  Madelaine sought to get around him and was about to reach for something she

  could use as a weapon when Sherman abruptly forced his way into the

  withdrawing room, grabbing the young man by the front of his shirt to back him

  up against the wall, leaning hard on him, pinning him to the wain -scoring. "You

  didn't hear the lady, sir. She asked you to step aside."

  The young man blanched and sweat broke out on his forehead. "I… I…"

  "And you will do it, won't you?" Sherman demanded through clenched teeth.

  "I…" Though bulkier than Sherman, the young man was terrified, and he

  squirmed in an attempt to escape; Sherman leaned harder. "Oh, God."

  The relief and gratitude that had filled Madelaine a moment before vanished in a

  wash of exasperation. "Mr. Sherman," she said crisply, "I think he has taken your

  meaning."

  Sherman kept his relentless grip on the young man. "You will apologize to the

  lady, sir," he ordered.

  "I… Sorry. I… didn't mean…" He stopped as Sherman released his hold and

  moved back. "I… just a mistake. Never meant anything… untoward. Upon my

  word, Madame." He was shaking and kept glancing quickly at Sherman, then at

  the windows, anything to avoid looking directly at Madelaine for fear of the redhaired banker's wrath.

  "And because it was a mistake, you will say nothing to anyone, will you?"

  Sherman pursued, giving the fellow no chance to capitalize on his gaffe through

  boasting or smugness.

  "No. No. I won't. Ever." With that, he bolted from the room. His hasty, uneven

  footsteps were loud.

  The withdrawing room was still, neither Madelaine nor Sherman being willing to

  speak first. She relented before he did. "Mr. Sherman. I didn't know you were

  here."

  "I arrived not long after you did," he said, keeping his distance.

  She had nothing to say to that. "How did you happen to follow that young man

  in here?"

  "Winters? I heard him boast that he would get a better taste of France than

  mere champagne. When I saw him come into the house, I followed; I had an idea

  he might attempt something of this sort." He locked eyes with her. "I'm sorry I

  was right. I would not have you subjected to… such things for… anything."

  "Thanks to your intervention, I wasn't," she said bluntly, and could read shock

  in his face. "His intentions were—"

  "If he had touched you, I would have killed him," said Sherman with quiet

  certainty.

  She achieved a rallying tone. "Now that would have been a grand gesture. And

  neither of our reputations would survive it, so it is just as well you arrived when

  you did." She managed to keep her hands from shaking as she slipped out the

  door. "Speaking of reputations, it might be wise if we did not leave this room at

  the same time. I will go back to the garden now; follow when you think best."

  He nodded, and before she could turn away, he blew her a kiss.

  San Francisco, 7 October, 1855

  How still it is this evening. After a week of wind and fog, it has

  turned bright and hot. I was surprised at this sudden change, coming

  when it does in the year, though I now understand it is not unusual to

  this region. I was told that this is one of the reasons vintners have

  been flocking to the inland valleys north of here, where they can plant

  vines with a reasonable prospect of a long, warm growing season…

  It is arranged that we will depart no later than 10 October, no

  matter what the weather. It is tempting to delay, but I must not, for

  my own sake as well as Tecumseh's…

  "I know it is what must be done, and I hate it," Sherman whispered, his hand

  tangled in her hair, his leg between hers, his body replete, tired, and yet unwilling

  to sleep; it was after midnight, and the city beyond the house on Franklin Street

  was quiet.

  Madelaine shifted her position so that she could lift herself up enough to look

  into his face. "I will miss you. Tecumseh."

  "I will miss you, too, and be damned for it," he said softly, the usual tension

  gone out of his features, making him look younger than he was. The hand in her

  hair moved down to brush her face lightly, and he stared into her eyes, wanting to

  pierce more than the night. "I should never have let myself become…" He drew

  her down to kiss her searchingly.

  She gave herself over to his mouth, opening herself to his growing renewed

  need, lying back as he made his way down her body as if by passion
alone he

  could take the whole of her into himself. As he moved between her thighs, he gave

  a harsh sigh, then lowered his head. Madelaine caught her fingers in his fine red

  hair. "What's the matter?" she asked, sensing the return of his ambivalence.

  He raised his eyes enough to meet hers. "It has nothing to do with you," he

  told her, touching the soft, hidden folds of flesh and relishing the shiver that went

  through her.

  "If it impairs our loving, it has something to do with me," she said as gently as

  she could.

  "Later," he muttered.

  "Now," she insisted, concern more than determination coloring her inflection.

  "Very well," he said, and brought his elbows under his chest so that he could

  more easily look at her without moving from his place. "Since I cannot truly grasp

  the enormity of your leaving, I was thinking that this is one —one of many—

  delights I will lose with you. If I could contain myself, I would do this for hours,

  to have the pleasure of your transports." He laughed once, chagrined. "But I am

  not patient enough for that, and so I have to make the most of our desires and be

  content with memories."

  Madelaine reached down and stroked his shoulder. "You are a generous lover,

  Tecumseh, more than you know, and you have learned…"

  "To be less precipitous?" he ventured. "To increase our gratification by

  postponing its fulfillment?"

  She touched his neck, feeling the strong pulse there. "It grieves me that you

  cannot be as generous in your marriage as we are together."

  To his acute discomfort, he blushed. "Not all women have the capacity to

  enjoy these things." He rested one hand on her thigh, caressing her with delicious

  languor. "And many who claim to are suspect, since it is their profession to please

  men." He moved to adjust himself more comfortably between her legs, saying, "If

  I had been less infatuated, less off guard, I would have kept away from you,

  arranged things with one of the whorehouses for discreet…"

  "Servicing," Madelaine supplied for him. "If that was your only alternative to

  me, then I am gratified your infatuation was—"

  He stopped her. "It isn't infatuation," he said in a flat tone. "And you know it."

  She looked at him, deep into his steel-colored eyes. "I know."

  This time when he sighed, he slipped away from her, ending up at the foot of