Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (8 page)

The next month saw me through a round of farewell parties with our friends, fittings for new clothes, and careful decisions over what to take along. As Elizabeth had predicted, Mother’s reception into our circle had turned decidedly cool, but there were some occasions that required the presence of our whole family, so the woman got her share of social engagements. These were enough to satisfy her, but Elizabeth was sure that once I was off to England a dramatic drop in invitations would take place. She promised to write me in full detail. Perhaps her first letters would be in the very next ship to arrive in port after my own.

Something to look forward to, even if the news was over two months old.

As the hubbub of The Three Brewers played around me, I used my penknife to work out more pieces from another broken walnut. Across the room an argument was going on between two drunken workmen that looked to develop into a full-blown battle. Their accents were so thick I couldn’t make sense of what they were shouting, though the swearing was clear enough. A group of ladies huddled together and stopped up their ears, except for one who fell to praying. She started with a little scream when one of her friends accidentally brushed her ear with an upraised elbow.

My teeth crunched against a bit of overlooked shell. I spat it out and continued munching more cautiously.

One of the men took a wide swing at the other and missed, generating much amusement in the crowd. Bets were made, but called off when the landlord and a couple of younger men intervened and escorted the drunks outside. I had half a mind to follow, to see if the fight would continue, but was too full of food to be bothered.

I loutishly spat another shard of walnut, pleased with the knowledge that what went unnoticed here would have sorely offended Mother.

Across the room the ladies had unstopped their ears and put their heads together for a good talk. One of the younger ones smiled at me. Resuming my manners, I nodded back, lazily wondering who and what she was. By her dress, manner, and the company around her I decided that she was not a whore, or else I might have done more than nod. I hadn’t forgotten the promise to myself about taking the earliest opportunity to lose my virginity.

The pander and his woman came to mind again, only to be dismissed with disgust. I wasn’t that desperate or drunk.

The young lady turned her attention back to her friends. My face grew warm as I deduced by their manner that they were talking about me. From the smothered smiles and bright looks thrown my way I concluded that their opinions were highly favorable. I smiled back. Perhaps an opportunity was about to present itself.

Or perhaps not. The skirmish between the workmen had developed into what sounded like a proper war. Though I’d not followed the two combatants outside, others had, and in a few moments sides were taken and blows were struck. Members of the inn’s staff abruptly disappeared, though two of the maids clogged the room’s one window trying to keep up with the course of the battle.

“Jem’s got that ’un!”

“Arr, he’s bitin’ orf ’is ear! Get ’im, Jem!”

Then both girls squeaked and jumped back. A young tough with a bleeding ear sprawled half in and out of the opening. Before his admirers could rush to his aid, he raised up, threw us a foolish grin of pure glee, and bobbed from sight. The girls returned to the window to cheer him on.

The more refined ladies of the neighboring table produced screams of alarm, and crowded toward the door for the purpose of escape. They were hampered by others in the hall without, who were apparently trying to get out for a better view of the fight. The smiling girl was among them.

So much for that opportunity, however slim it had been. I stood, brushed stray crumbs from my clothes, and made for the window. Offering my apologies to the maids, I pushed past them and stepped through it into the courtyard to see what the commotion was about.

A wild-eyed man who had lost his shirt, but retained his neckcloth, rushed past me waving a bucket and howling. The man he seemed to be pursuing made an equal amount of noise but in a different key. A dozen other men were in a sort of wrestling match with one another in the middle of the yard. On the edge of their muddy sprawl of arms and legs, I spotted the porter swinging a cudgel and bellowing in triumph each time he connected successfully with someone’s head. He’d worked out a simple routine of knocking a man senseless, then moving on so the waiters could pull the body from the fray. They had the start of a fine stack of them, though it wasn’t much of a discouragement to newcomers eager to join the riot.

“What’s it all about?” I asked a young gentleman next to me, who was content to be a witness rather than a participant. He wore dusty riding clothes and an eager expression on his long face.

“God knows, but isn’t it grand? Five shillings that that big fellow with the scar will be the last to drop.”

“Done,” I said, and we shook on it. I kept my eye on the porter and was not disappointed. Before long, he worked his way ’round to the fellow in question and gave him a solid thump behind the ear. The result fell short of my expectations, for he only went down on one knee, shook his head, and was up and swinging as though nothing had happened. The waiters wisely passed him by.

“Bad for you,” said the gentleman.

“There’s time yet.”

My faith in the porter’s arm was given a second test. As he made another circle of the gradually diminishing fighters, he was able to use his cudgel on the man again. This time more force was applied and the fellow was knocked to both knees. He got up more slowly, but he did get up.

“What’s his skull made of?” I asked. “Stone?”

“Cracked him a good one, though. He’s drawn blood, see?”

That was a good sign. Stones don’t bleed. I called encouragement to the porter for another try, but he was distracted when the man with the bucket blundered into him. Both fell over into the general melee and were momentarily lost. The porter emerged first, roaring with outrage. When he swung his cudgel back to deal with the newcomer, it caught the scarred man in the belly by mistake and he suddenly dropped from sight.

“Third time’s the charm,” I said. We waited, anxious for different reasons, but the man remained down. The waiters darted forward and dragged him out. Three more men waded in to help the porter and amid groans, curses, and with the breaking of a few more skulls, order was gradually restored to the courtyard.

The gentleman shook his head and paid up. “What a show. Pity it was so short.” He was about my age, with a high forehead, cleft chin, and a broad, mouth, the corners of which were turned down as he settled his debt. His was not the frown of an unhappy loser, merely concentration for the count. He had wide-awake blue eyes that added to the somewhat foolish but generally good-natured cast of his overall expression.

“Pity indeed,” I agreed. “Since there’s second no chance for you to win this back may I buy you something to ease the sting of your loss?”

He cheered up instantly. “That’s very generous of you, my friend. Yes, you may. It’s too damned hot out here, don’t you think?”

We retired to the common room, but found it quite clear of waiters, maids, and guests.

“Probably still cleaning up the mess,” he said, then bellowed for assistance. A pot-boy cautiously appeared, and I promptly sent him off to fetch us beer.

“Unless you’d prefer something else?” I asked.

He threw himself into a chair, putting his feet on the table. “No, no. Beer’s what’s wanted on a day like this. I’ve been on the road all morning and have a great thirst.”

“Traveling much farther?”

“Only to this roach trap. I’m supposed to meet some damned cousin of mine and take him home.”

“Really?”

“Damned nuisance it is, but—” A new thought visibly invaded his brain. “Oh, dear, suppose he’s out there among the wounded?” He launched from the chair toward the window and leaned out, shouting questions to the men in the yard. I sat back to watch the show. He excused himself to me and went over the sill to investigate something, but returned just as the beer arrived.

“Did you find your cousin?” I asked.

“Thought I had, but the man was too old.”

“What does he look like?”

“Oh, about this tall, forty if he was a day, and bald as—”

“I mean, what does your
cousin
look like?”

“Oh. . . him. Damned if I know. He’s fresh off the boat from one of the colonies, so I should spot him quick enough. Probably gets himself up with feathers and paint like a red Indian. I saw an engraving once of a frontiersman, dreadful taste. He was in a canvas suit covered head-to-toe with white fringe, trousers going all the way to his ankles, bare feet, and topped it all with a beard like a prophet. Can you imagine?”

“Sounds dreadful. What’s he over here for? New clothes?”

“Come to get an education. We’re going to be at Cambridge together, but since he’s supposed to be reading law and I’m doing medicine, we’ll likely be spared one another’s company for the most part.”

“What? You’ve never met the chap and you don’t like him?”

“I daresay I won’t if he has Fonteyn blood in him. Not that I’m too much against my own family, but some of the folk out of Grandfather Fonteyn’s side of things would be better off in Bedlam, if you know what I mean.”

“Bedlam?”

“That great asylum where they put the mad people. Damn, but that was good beer. Here, boy! Bring us another! That is, if you care to have another one, sir.”

“Yes, certainly. You intrigue me, sir. About this cousin of yours . . . would he be about my age, do you think?”

He squinted at me carefully. “I’d say so.” His mobile face suddenly went slack, then his eyes sharpened with alarm. “Oh, good
God
.” He nearly fell from his chair getting his feet down from the table.

“I’m not that awful, am I?” I asked, after he’d sorted himself.

His jaw flapped as he tried to put words to a situation that required none. As he floundered, the beer was set before us.

“Would you care for anything to eat, Cousin?”

“A pox on you, sir, for misleading me,” he finally cried.

“And my apologies, sir, for being unable to resist the temptation to do so.”

“Well-a-day, I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Perhaps it is my Fonteyn blood showing through. Jonathan Barrett, at your service, good cousin.” I stood and bowed to him.

“A
fine
introduction this is, to be sure.” He stood and gave a hasty bow in turn. Then we bestowed upon each other a second appraisal.

“Well?” I said.

“Well, what?”

“Do we become friends or act like our less genial relations?”

He blinked.

I grinned.

“Oh, pox on it!” He extended his hand and smiled broadly. “Oliver Marling, at your service.”

“Oliver ‘Fonteyn’ Marling?” We shared the same middle name, I knew.

He made a face. “For God’s sake, call me Oliver. I absolutely
detest
my middle name!”

Not that I’d had any misgivings about the man after the first few moments of speaking with him, but now I hailed him as a true kinsman in heart as well as by blood. We enjoyed more than a few beers that afternoon, ate like starving pigs that evening, drank an amazing amount of spirits, and talked and talked and
talked
. By the time we’d passed out and had been lugged upstairs to our room by the staff, we were the best of friends.

* * *

The morning sunlight was mercifully subdued through the tiny window, but its brightness was still enough to heat my brain to the bursting point. My eyes felt as though someone had poured gravel into each socket. I groaned, but refrained from touching my head for fear that it might pop from my neck and go rolling around the floor. The noise alone would have killed me.

All I could see of Cousin Oliver were his riding boots, which were on the pillow next to mine. For all the movement on that side of the bed he might have been a corpse. A blessing for him if he were dead, for then he’d be spared the abominable pain of recovery. Our drinking bout was such as would have left Dionysus himself flat on his face for a week.

Around and below us came the sounds of the inn, which had apparently awakened some time ago. With no consideration whatsoever for our possibly mortal condition, business proceeded as usual.

When I’d reached the point where walking around in agony would be no different from lying around in agony, I made an attempt to get out of bed. The thing was rather high, so the drop was an awful shock. The thud I made upon landing must have been heard throughout the rest of the house. It certainly echoed through my fragile head with alarming consequences. How fortunate for me that I was now within grasping distance of the chamber pot. I seized and dragged it toward me just in time.

The next few minutes were really horrible, but when the last coughing convulsion played itself out, I felt slightly improved. I wanted to crawl back to bed again, but hadn’t the strength for it. Shoving the pot away, I flopped on my back on the bare floor and prayed to God to have mercy on one of his more foolish sheep.

Some idiot pounded on our door as though to break it down. Without pausing for an invitation, one of the waiters entered and looked things over.

“Thought I’d ’eard you stirrin’, sir. Would yer be wantin’ ter breaks yer fast now?”

I was wanting to break his neck for shouting so loudly, but couldn’t move. All I could do was give him a glassy stare from where I lay at his feet and think ill thoughts.

“Well, p’haps not. Tell yer what, I’ll ’ave some tea ’n’ a bit of bread sent up. Twill do ’til you find yer legs, haw-haw.” Booming at his own cleverness, he left, slamming the door so hard I thought the bones of my skull would split from the sound.

There was a bowl and a pitcher on a table across the room. The idea occurred to me that splashing water on the back of my neck might be of restorative value. I managed to get to my knees and crawled over. The pitcher was empty. It. seemed pointless to exert effort to return to bed, so I gave up and sat with my back to the wall, waiting for the man to reappear with the promised tea.