P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 17
"You're like her," he whispered, breaking the impossible silence.
I resisted the urge to glance at Jemma. No, he was speaking not of her but—
"She would do that . . . to me. Nora would . . ."
Yes, he had been one of her courtiers, but she'd said he'd not been comfortable about it and she'd let him go, making sure to influence him into forgetting certain things. The influence had held firm. Until now.
His hand went to his throat, and he made a terrible mewling sound as he stumbled backward. He got as far as a chair and fell into it and stayed there. He was shivering again, not from fear of me, but from the onrush of restored memory.
"Oh, my God, my God," he groaned over and over, holding his head, giving a voice to his misery.
I swallowed my own anxieties. How unimportant they seemed. Standing, I buttoned my waistcoat, donned my coat, and put myself in order. This done, I went to Jemma and saw to her wounds. The flow from them had ceased, but the drying blood was a nuisance. Slopping some brandy on my handkerchief, I dabbed away until she was clean, then gently woke her.
"You're a lovely darling," I told her, pressing some coins into her hand. "But I need to speak with my cousin, so if you don't mind . . ."
She had no chance for argument as I smoothly bundled her and her trailing clothes out the door, shutting it. I trusted that the money would be more than sufficient compensation for my rudeness.
Oliver watched us, saying nothing. I pulled a chair from the other side of the table and sat across from him.
"Y-you've done that before," he murmured, making a vague gesture to mean Jemma.
"Not quite in the same way, but yes."
"But you . . . take from them."
"I drink their blood," I said, deciding to be as plain as possible. "Just as Nora once drank from you. And me."
He shuddered, then mastered himself. "I remember what she did to me."
"And she stopped. She knew you did not enjoy it."
"But you did?"
"I was—I am—in love with her. It makes a difference."
"So this is just some form of pleasure you've taken to like—like old Dexter and his need for birch rods?"
"No, it's not like that."
"Then what is it?" He waited for me to go on. When the pause became too lengthy, he asked, "Does it have to do with why your eyes are like that?"
At this reminder I briefly averted them. "It's everything to do with . . . this is damned difficult for me, Oliver. I'm afraid of—of losing your friendship because of what's happened to me."
He shook his head, puffing out some air in a kind of bitter laugh. "One may lose friends, but never relatives. We both know that all too well. Rely on it, if nothing else."
He'd surprised me again, God bless him. I softly matched his laugh, but with relief, not bitterness inspiring it. "Thank you."
"Right." He sat up, squaring his shoulders. "Now, talk to me."
And so I did. For a very long, long time.
London, December 1777
"What's happened today, Jericho? Any new staff taken on?" I asked.
"No, sir. Miss Elizabeth was too busy receiving visitors and had no time for interviewing anyone."
"What visitors, then?"
"Miss Charlotte Bolyn called. She wanted to confirm again for herself that you, Miss Elizabeth, and Dr. Oliver were going to attend the Masque tonight, then she flew off elsewhere, but was rapidly succeeded by a horde of other young ladies and their mothers."
"Oh, dear."
"A number of them were most disappointed that you were not available."
"Which? The young ladies or their mothers?"
"Both, sir."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear."
"Indeed, sir. Some of them had a rather . . . predatory air about them."
"And I was hoping to be spared. Damnation, you'd think they'd realize that not every bachelor is looking for a wife. Can't think where they get the idea. I shall have to acquire a horrible reputation to put them off my scent. Perhaps I can tell the truth about my drinking habits. That would send them away screaming."
"I have serious doubts that such a ploy would be particularly effective as a means of avoiding matrimony, sir."
"You're right. There are some perfect rotters out there drinking far worse stuff than blood who've . . . well, I'll think of something. What else for the day? Anything?"
"Several boxes addressed to Dr. Oliver arrived in the early afternoon from Fonteyn House."
"Sounds ominous. Any idea what's in 'em?"
"None, sir. Everything was taken to his consulting room. He shut himself in with the items some time ago and has not yet emerged."
"Most mysterious. Are we done here?"
He gave me a critical look to determine whether or not I was presentable. Since no glass would ever throw back my image, I'd come to rely solely upon Jericho's fine judgment in the matter of my personal toilet. He had excellent taste, though often tending to be too much the perfectionist for my patience.
"You will do, sir," he said grudgingly. "But you really want some new shirts."
"I've already ordered some from the fellow who's done my costume for the Masque."
"Oh, sir, do you really think—"
"Not to worry, it's Oliver's tailor, a most careful and experienced man."
That mollified him. Oliver's own taste was sometimes eccentric, but he was always sensible when it came to shirts.
Released from the evening's ritual, I unhurriedly went downstairs to join the others, giving a polite nod to the new housemaid as she ducked out of my way. Her eyes were somewhat crossed, but she seemed energetic enough for the work, sober, was a devoted churchgoer, and had already had the pox. Elizabeth had only engaged her yesterday morning; that same night I'd conducted my own interview with the girl, influencing her into not being at all curious about my sleeping or eating habits. Or lack thereof. For the last week it seemed that each time I woke up there was a new servant on the premises requiring my attention. Thus far, not one of them had taken the least notice of my differences, not within Jericho's hearing, anyway. It was his job to look for any chinks in my work and give warning when reinforcement seemed required.
But for now, all was safe. My traveling trunk with its bags of earth was secreted in a remote section of Oliver's cellar, allowing me to rest undisturbed through the day. At sunset it was easy enough to make my invisible way up through the floors of the house to re-form in my bedroom and there submit to Jericho's ministrations. It wasn't quite the same as it had been back home, but the inconvenience of curling myself into the trunk each night rather than stretching out on a cot was negligible. Such totality of rest did have its advantages.
As for my excellent good cousin, well, our talk at The Red Swan had been mutually harrowing, but the experience created a more solid bond between us—something I'd badly needed and was humbly grateful to have—and all without having to impose my influence upon him. Though without doubt it was the most difficult conversation I'd been through since my first night out of the grave when I'd encountered Elizabeth. The topic was essentially the same: an explanation of myself, of the changes I'd gone through, and the desperate, unspoken plea for acceptance of the impossible.
But Oliver, my friend as well as my relative, had a large enough heart to hear that which was not said and then provide it.
Not that any of what he heard was particularly easy for him. It took a goodly time to persuade him that I really was not like old Dexter, one of the Cambridge administrators whose nature with women was such that he could not achieve satisfaction unless his partner birched his backside raw. We students found out about it from one of the town whores, who was not as discreet as Molly Audy when it came to gossiping about her clients. Most of us thought him a strange fellow though still very likable.
But once I'd convinced Oliver that my need to drink blood was a physical necessity equivalent in importance to his eating every day, things went a bit more smoothly.
His medical training (and curiosity) won out over his initial fear and astonishment, and he fairly hammered me with questions. Unfortunately, I could not answer them all, those being the very ones I had in store for Nora.
He had much to speak of himself, mostly of his own feelings toward her, which might best be defined as ambivalent. Certainly he'd found her to be beautiful, even bewitching, the same as many of the other men in our circle, but he'd been highly disturbed by her habits, then and now.
"She was using us—every one of us—to feed on like a wolf upon sheep," he'd said with something close to anger.
"One may look at it like that, but on the other hand, she willingly gave of herself to pleasure others."
"But that makes her a—" He cut off, realizing that I might take exception to his conclusion.
"I know what it makes her, and I'll not deny the similarities between herself and the two ladies we've enjoyed tonight. But God's death, man, I shan't begrudge her the right to make a living in whatever way that she's able. Look at the limitations our condition imposes. She can no more open a dress shop and make a profit than I can go to court to practice the law. Both require that we be up and about during the day, y'know."
He thought it over and saw the sense of it. "But I still feel . . . well, violated in some way. First by her use of me, then again by making me forget it. I'm not sure that I'd care ever to see her again after all that."
"Of course I'll not force you, but I've an idea that if I made mention of it to her, she would doubtless wish to offer an apology."
"And then there's poor Tony Warburton to think about. I can still hardly imagine him doing such a horrible thing except that that's the same time you began acting all peculiar. For three years you had this grand passion for the lady, and then you behaved as if she were no more important than any of the other women we've known."
"Only because she made me think so. She made me forget everything that was truly important between us."
"And you can do the same sort of . . . ? If you don't mind my saying so, I find that to be rather frightening."
"As do I, be assured."
"But you have . . . influenced me?"
"Yes," I admitted. "And I do humbly apologize and promise never to do so again. That's what this talk is all about, so I may be honest with you from now on."
"I can appreciate that, Coz. Apology accepted, though damn it, I've no memory of what you've done, either. Insidious stuff, ain't it? And Nora's used it on God knows how many of us." He gave a brief shudder.
"You must understand that she has to be secretive when it comes to certain things. As do I, now. You've only to recall your own reaction when you walked in a while ago to see why."
"Yes, that quite woke me up. Are you sure Jemma is unharmed?"
"Quite sure. In truth, I went to some effort to see that she enjoyed herself."
"Hmph. If I'd troubled to do the same for Frances, I suppose I'd have come in much later and then we'd have not even had this talk."
"Perhaps so, but only in part. I have always intended to tell you all this, but . . . well . . ."
"Yes," he said, hooking one corner of his mouth up in a smile full tainted with irony. "Well."
And so the nights passed between that one and the present, with Oliver becoming more and more accustomed to my change—now that he'd been made aware of it. Certainly, things were much improved for my own peace of mind, for I'd taken no enjoyment whatever from the previous necessity of having to influence him. It's one thing to be compelled to use it on a paid servant, but quite another to inflict it upon so good and close a friend as he.
Never again, I promised us both.
"Oh, there you are," said Elizabeth, emerging from the kitchen to meet me as I reached the lower landing. "Thought you'd never be coming down."
"Jericho was playing the taskmaster tonight. Wanted to make sure I was properly groomed for the party."
"Did he tell you about Oliver's mysterious treasure?"
"Yes, all the boxes. Where is he? Still in his consulting room?"
She nodded. "He came home an hour ago, went in, and hasn't been out since. I decided to wait until you were up before checking on him. Wonder what they could be?"
"Probably stuffed and mounted specimens from Bedlam, knowing the bent of his studies," I said, strolling in the correct direction.
"Ugh. That's disgusting."
"I've seen worse. If you ask him, he'll arrange to take you on a tour, y'know."
"I think not."
We paused before the consulting-room door, and Elizabeth knocked, calling Oliver's name. There was no immediate reply, so she repeated herself.
"Did you hear anything?" she asked, her brow puckering.
"Barely." The noise had been so low as to be impossible for even me to understand what was said, though it sounded vaguely like an invitation. I pushed the door open and peered in, making room for Elizabeth.
"Good heavens," she said, staring in astonishment at a perfect glut of disorder littering the floor. Books, papers, clothing, and toys were spread into every corner, leaving no doubt as to what had once been in the boxes, which were now gaping and empty. Cross-legged, Oliver sat in the middle of it all, a carved wooden horse in one hand, a chapbook in the other. He looked up at us, his eyes rather bleary and lost.
"Hallo, all. Pardon the mess," he said in a faint, tired voice.
"What is all this?" Elizabeth lifted her skirts and picked her way into the room.
"Mo—" He swallowed with difficulty. "Mother sent it. Her way of saying good-bye, I think."
"These are your things?"
"Every one of them. All of it. Clothes I outgrew that weren't passed on to others, letters, even some of the prizes I won at school. Here it is. My whole life. She's sent the lot of it away for good." He spoke unevenly and his eyes were red. He'd been crying, I was sure.
"Dear God," I said. The cruelty of it went right to my heart. "How could she do such a thing?"
"Actually, this was my old nurse's doing. She's working for Cousin Clarinda now, but Mother sent for her and told her to pack everything of mine up, then either burn it or give it away. Nanny couldn't bear to do either, so she sent it over to me with a note of explanation. I suppose I should be glad not to have lost it all. I hadn't even thought of the stuff for ages—I might not have even missed it—but to have it all back again in this way . . . something of a shock, that."
"Oh, poor Oliver," said Elizabeth. She gamely—and carefully—made the hazardous trek across the floor and knelt down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder. Elizabeth knew all about the speculations Oliver and I had made to each other at The Red Swan by now and so had an understanding of the depth of the pain he was going through.
"Yes, poor me. She's a wretched mother, but the only one I've got. It's—it's so damnable to think she hates me this much."
"She hates herself, that's why she acts as she does. Like a wounded animal lashing out."
"And wounding others in turn. Well, this is it, I should think. She's got nothing else to fling at me after this, not unless she changes her mind about the inheritance money. I wouldn't put it past her."
"But you went by the solicitors, didn't you?" she asked.
"All they would tell me was that she'd not sent for them. She could, though, at any time."
"It's very difficult to alter a will," I said. "Especially one that's been in effect for so long without contest. It's also rather public, and we know she'd be extremely reluctant to carry things that far. Too much like a scandal, y'know. Besides, I can always go back, if necessary, and—"
Elizabeth shot me a warning look.
"And—well, she just won't do anything. We'll get our money every quarter, as usual. We've no need to worry."
"I suppose not." He sighed. "You know, if it hadn't been for the note Nanny put in, I'd have thought Mother had sent it today on purpose just to spoil the party for me."
"I hope she hasn't. Has she?"
"I don't think so, but I am terribly unsettled."
"What you need is your tea." Elizabeth stood and put her hand out to help him up. He accomplished this with considerable groaning, for his legs had gone to sleep. With her to lean on, he limped out of the room's chaos and into the hall.
"I'll have the new maid sort things out for you," she said, holding his arm as she led him into the parlor. "That is, if you don't mind?"
"Not a bit of it. Odd thing is, that it was rather fun seeing my old stuff again. That little wood horse was my favorite toy once upon a time. I played and played with it until the paint was worn off, but by then I was learning to ride real ones, so it was all right."
Elizabeth rang the bell for tea and encouraged him to talk about himself. Being as vulnerable as any to another's interest in the subject, he readily complied, not knowing that it was her way of cheering him. By the time they'd finished their light meal, talk had turned to the upcoming party.
"I shall have to begin dressing soon if we are to be fashionably late," she said, with a glance at the mantel clock.
"I must say that I'm looking forward to helping escort a pirate queen once again," I put in. "You're in for a treat, Oliver. She was quite the spitfire when she was 'Scarlet Bess, Scourge of the Island.'"
"I think the whole gathering at the Bolyn house is in for a treat," he said. "Think we'll frighten anyone as her 'Cutthroat Captains of the Coast'?"
"We shall certainly try."
The problem of what to costume ourselves in had been much debated until Elizabeth suggested a re-creation of our favorite childhood game. Oliver had enthusiastically fallen in with it, asserting that the three of us together would make a wonderful and memorable entrance to the Masque. Elizabeth, having since become fast friends with our future hostess, promptly took herself off to Charlotte Bolyn's highly recommended dressmaker, while Oliver and I sought help from his tailor. Colors had been agreed upon, fabrics and laces chosen, and a hasty construction was begun. I'd asked Jericho if he wanted to join us, reenacting his role as the "Ebon Shark of Tortuga," but he'd begged to be excused from the honor. No doubt his much valued dignity would have suffered in some way.
