October 28th, 2011 § § permalink
The Volterra chapters are harder for me to write, I admit. And part of it is because although deep down I know where the conflict is, it’s hard to put on the page (and it’s also a very slow-moving conflict, unlike the 1918 conflict and the 1667 conflict). One of the questions you have to ask about the tensions between the brothers and Carlisle is, “What’s not to like?” Because it’s hard not to admire and be drawn to Carlisle. I’ve even developed a bit of the idea that this might be his superpower—his ability to draw people to him and connect them to others.
So, for me, it’s interesting to explore why it is that Carlisle is so unnerving. Malianani first pointed it out in her review of the first Volterra chapter, when she commented on my unintentional imagery of Carlisle standing all wet and dripping on the floor in the Volturi main chambers. He is, more than anything, an upset to their balance. Simply by his existence, he challenges everything they stand for. What they consider unchangeable–that their kind must prey on humans–he proves to be a choice. They want power, he wants love. They have beautiful floors, he goes out in the rain and brings the wet and the muck—and all of the life that goes with it—back in.
I often post chapters on my website first, if I’m unable to do a full 5-site post at once as I was this afternoon. So sometimes I get feedback before I’ve really had time to compose my note. In this instance, it was invaluable. Sisterglitch comments:
Caius seeks to destroy him for not caring. Aro seeks to seduce him with powerful intimacy. They glorify their own importance but Carlisle’s honesty and relative innocence negate it effortlessly.
And I think that’s really what this boils down to. Yes, it’s a slow burning conflict, in part because the characters themselves don’t realize what they’re fighting. Carlisle is fighting to figure out what he wants, which is not what the brothers Volturi want him to want. And they’re figuring he’s going to fight them for what they want, but they’re wrong.
Carlisle’s simply not after the same things. So the question is, who’s going to figure that out first?
As always, thanks to my intrepid betas, Openhome and Julie, without whom this story wouldn’t be what it is. Miaokuancha also gets my great thanks for catching an important anachronism in the last chapter, and Camilla my thanks for catching an Italian topography mishap. Haven’t edited those yet, but I will tonight.
October 27th, 2011 § § permalink
Volterra, Italy
June, 1789
Garrett was unlike any vampire Carlisle had ever met.
He was young, which accounted for some of it, but there was a maturity to his youth. Like Carlisle, he was forever inquisitive. He wanted to know everything he could about his new life and his old.
The first night on the mountain, the two of them talked for hours. Garrett asked how Carlisle came to be in Italy, and Carlisle explained, beginning with the dark street in Aldgate where he’d awoken to his new life and finishing in the Volturi Hall that morning as he informed Aro of the safety the Age of Reason had given them. Then, of course, Carlisle asked Garrett how he came to be here also. The other told of stowing away on a diplomatic journey, with the American Secretary of State aboard.
They traveled to spread their ideals, he said. To teach others a better way.
“The revolution, my friend,” Garrett told him. “America is free, and so shall be France.”
Carlisle frowned. “Is it right for our kind to meddle in the affairs of humans?”
Garrett laughed a booming laugh that seemed to rock the ground beneath them. “Is it right for our kind not to?” he asked. “Think of it this way. We have gifts beyond what humans have. Far beyond, as near as I can tell, though with my memory rotting as it is I find it more difficult to compare. As I am, I have the ability to pass on to the people of this country what I know from my country across the sea. Think of this, Carlisle. We amass knowledge as humans never can. They record history; we simply recall it. There is unlimited potential for us.”
Strange warmth welled up inside Carlisle. Hadn’t he had these same thoughts once?. Aro, Caius and Marcus sought to beat this kind of thinking out of him, that much he knew. To be a physician, to walk among humans—for them, these were things that were beyond unattainable. Carlisle had always assumed he’d managed to resist the brothers’ pessimism. But sitting with Garrett on the side of the mountain, the wind whipping in his ears, Carlisle realized he’d internalized far more of it than he’d thought.
Garrett leaned back on his elbows. “It simply seems to me that we have a larger obligation, Friend.”
Friend.
Despite the presence of another, even one who had, after only three hours’ acquaintance, dared call him “Friend,” Carlisle suddenly felt a deep loneliness wash over him. He’d lived this life for a hundred twenty-two years. Yes, he’d learned a great deal—languages, cultures, history, music. And medicine, of course. But what did he have to show for it? Three men who might just as soon destroy him as abet him, and a fear of becoming too close to any human.
“How…how do you reconcile who you are with what you do?” he blurted at last, and at once felt embarrassed. But Garrett only smiled.
“Who I am?” A pause. “You mean as a vampire.”
Carlisle nodded.
Garrett laughed. “That’s a good question. I’ve wondered that myself. Of course, I had no idea there were other options—you are quite the trailblazer. And far more disciplined than I.” He flashed Carlisle a grin, his teeth shining in the moonlight.
The compliment made Carlisle uncomfortable. He was no saint. Only a thinker. “It was simply an abhorrent idea to me. But…I try not to judge others lest I be judged myself.”
Garrett laughed again. “Spoken as only the son of a minister could speak. I’m certain the Almighty would be more than a bit impressed with you, whether you judge me or not.” He shifted his weight. “And I believe you’re right. Perhaps like you, I seek my penance. I have little choice but to feed from humans—your methods aside, of course—but perhaps I can repay them by making them free. It seems fair.”
Leaning back into the frozen grass, Carlisle stared up at the night sky. Perhaps Garrett was right. Maybe their skill did pull them to a higher calling. It was, he thought with a laugh, exactly what his father’s worldview might have been, if he’d been able to accept that his son had been turned into a demonic beast.
“And in France you are able to do this?”
“Oh, in France!” Garrett’s contented sigh was almost girlish. “It’s like the colonies with even more fervor. The monarchy is present here. They suppress the people to their faces, not merely with taxes from across the sea. And even taxes were suppression enough—I fought in the Virginia militia. What amazing days those were…and yet, France is even the more intense!”
“You also perceive it better.”
Carlisle had seen wars as a vampire and a human; the memories from his human years being among the few which had stayed with him after his change. He remembered starving women and men; people begging for bread in the streets. Looting and fire. And he had been away from the actual fighting…
Even now, his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to see that again, with his eyes and ears now attuned to every small detail. The very thought made him sick.
Another booming laugh. “I perceive it better. To be certain. You are so very serious, Carlisle.”
For a long time neither said anything, and Carlisle simply stared at the stars. For him and for Garrett, with their enhanced vision, each star burned individually, some blue, some red, and dozens of shades in between. The stars would look the same in the New World, Carlisle thought. He had the vaguest memories of his father mentioning the country, and he knew from the diaries and the histories that it was men like his father who’d populated the New World. How different would his life have been, he wondered, had he been born there instead of in London?
Startled, he realized that he would not have lived to see the Revolution. He was twice as old as a human might live to be.
And more alone than any human would ever be.
“There is a need for more of us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There is a need for more of us. In France. The people could use the help of another immortal. Particularly one who is resigned not to dine upon them after.”
That same toothy grin.
It was something to think on. He had, after all, just been contemplating that he needed to be away from the brothers, if not forever, than certainly for a spell. France would give him the opportunity to move away. His French was good, and he even understood the dialect here at the border, the mash of slowed-down Italian and choppy, sped-up French that so characterized the small populace of the mountain.
“I had been thinking of leaving them,” he muttered.
“Them—the ones who claim to be Rulers.”
He nodded, and Garrett propped himself up on his elbows, peering at him.
“It is, I confess, something I don’t understand,” the other man said after a moment. “I saw very little of them. I was in the city briefly—I had heard that they ruled from that seat. But it was too obvious that their numbers were too many, and I did not wish to be tracked.”
This Carlisle could understand. “They may be tracking you anyway. They are likely tracking me.” He thought back to how he’d at first assumed Garrett to be Alrigo or Rafael following him into the Alpi.
A shrug. “Truly, they are welcome to have whatever issue with me they like. Frankly, I was far more interested in you, my friend.”
“In me?”
“I saw you with the women there in the square. Selling herbs? What were you doing?”
Carlisle looked away shyly. He hadn’t seen Martina in several days, in fact. The weather had been beautiful, which locked all of them in the castle except at night.
“She gives me supplies, and I make medicines, if I can.”
Garrett didn’t answer right away. The wind howled in their ears, but the short, cold-weather grass barely yielded beneath them.
“You truly are unique, Carlisle,” he said finally. “You ought to come join me in France. You would be of great use there.”
It would be fascinating to be in France. He would have the opportunity to practice medicine in a way he wasn’t afforded in Volterra. The thought intrigued him. Could he withstand human blood thoroughly enough to trust himself to be safe?
But what he said instead was, “They’ll expect me back in Volterra.”
The booming laugh rolled over him again. “Certainly, Friend. It is better for us both if they don’t suspect you of treason.”
Treason. An image swirled in Carlisle’s mind; nearly fifteen years ago now. The vampire who’d knelt, tearlessly weeping before the four brothers, his arms stretched by the guard. The sickening whine of ripping metal as head separated from shoulders, the purple smoke as limbs burned on a pyre. The way everyone reported his viewpoint after, touching Aro’s hand…
“Aro will see this conversation,” he blurted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He sees memories. Everything you’ve ever thought, in detail, or at least, so I suppose—I’ve obviously never seen his. It is his gift.”
A low whistle. “So this is why he’s appointed himself the king.”
Carlisle hadn’t actually thought about it in so many words before, but he supposed Garrett was right. “I don’t mind it,” he said, but even as the words left his lips, he realized this wasn’t the case. He did want to have a private conversation, or at least, one which would be his alone for more than a day or two. Aro always told Carlisle that his heart and mind were among the purest he’d ever encountered in his centuries of life, but Carlisle knew that somewhere, he was tempering his thoughts, being careful not to even think things that would cause friction, and ruin his ability to stay in Volterra.
And for what reason, exactly? Did he even want to stay?
“You don’t mind?” Garrett turned toward him now, the edges of his lips curling. “I suspect you lie, Carlisle. Not to me. That’s of little consequence. We have only just met. But I suspect you lie to yourself, and that is more troubling.”
Was that true? He stared out over the mountains. It was nearly impossible to see, and a human eye likely would never be able to, but the faintest band of pale purple hovered in the east. He stared at this for a long while, realizing he didn’t want the sun to rise. Not today. He wanted another twenty-four hours of this same, inky black, the thin mountain air revealing the brilliance of the stars.
Another twenty-four hours of having someone to talk to.
So he decided to ignore the sun.
“Tell me of America. What is it like there?”
Garrett’s face alighted, and his speech tumbled from him at once. He told of the colonists and the simple, but excellent ways they lived. The land-so much of it. Corn—a staple food for Americans that Carlisle had rarely seen. The native people, whom Garrett had been raised to regard as savages but whom he had seen differently since having been changed. And the government, created by the people; the leaders elected, not born. The first ruler—president, he was called—a war general but also a farmer, who believed the country would be borne on the backs of other men of the land.
“It is our country,” he said at last, with finality and a smile.
Our country. Was it possible for Carlisle to ever feel that way? He’d never thought of ownership of a place. Sure, he called himself a Londoner, which surprised others of his kind. But to call a place “our country”—that was a different proposition altogether.
By now, the sun was unmistakable, its faint rays making their skin glisten. Dawn and dusk were the safest times for them—away from the night prowling of others of their kind, and yet with the sun still so low that they still did not look otherworldly.
Garrett noticed it also. “We should part. If all you say about Aro is true”—Carlisle nodded vigorously—”then it is paramount that you ease his concern.” He got to his feet, brushing bits of the stiff mountain grass off his breeches. “You ought come find me,” he said. “I am in the southern region most, although I travel to Paris at times.”
Carlisle nodded. “I may.” He would, he thought. Standing also, Carlisle offered his hand. But instead of shaking it, Garrett gripped it and squeezed it firmly.
“It is quite an honor to meet you, Carlisle. I suspect you are one with whom I shall wish to keep contact.”
Startled, Carlisle mumbled, “Likewise.”
They started their different ways, but Garrett turned after only a few dozen paces.
“Freedom, Carlisle,” he said. “It’s worth fighting for.”
And then he was gone.
~||x||~
As usual, it was Caius who grew the most anxious when Carlisle did not return.
“He seeks to undermine us, Aro,” he hissed, pacing back and forth before the massive desk that took up most of the room in the study. They stood in Aro’s private chambers, the study adjacent to the opulent room in which Aro entertained his mate.
Marcus stood with his back against the wall, watching Caius with a bemused expression.
Aro turned to him. “My brother Marcus,” he said, “certainly you know Carlisle’s heart. Does he desire to defect?”
The younger man shook his head. “His ties to you are no weaker than they ever have been, Aro,” he offered. Then, as if thinking better of his comment, he added, “Though they were never particularly strong to begin with, as you know.”
It had been one of the risks of allowing Carlisle to join them. He did not feel loyalty in the same ways as Aro’s brothers and his guard. Marcus had assessed Carlisle’s ties to Aro and to Caius—he was always able to suspect the tiniest hint of infidelity and treason. Carlisle disliked Caius, Aro knew. He didn’t find him trustworthy. But between Carlisle and Aro there was friendship and respect, and even more so between Carlisle and Marcus.
“Do you see? He becomes even more disloyal.” Caius’s scowled even more. “Aro, he is not one of us. He is not here to guard us, he is not here to serve us, and he is not here to feed us.”
“Nor is he our prisoner,” Aro added thoughtfully. “He stays by our invitation, and he lives by our rules. But he is free to go if he wishes, so long as he does not cause an insurrection.”
Which was about the last thing anyone could expect from Carlisle.
Marcus chuckled as if to agree.
Caius crossed his arms over his chest, walking from one side of the room to the other, before sitting unnecessarily on one of the chairs. Aro prided himself on the furniture collection in his chamber and study-the works were some of the best each era had to offer, and the small bench on which Caius now sat had been constructed by one of the finest furniture-makers in the Ottoman empire.
“Brother, in fairness,” Marcus piped up, and both Caius and Aro turned to him. He was the youngest of the three of them in both human years and immortal ones, and sometimes, like now, it was impossible not to smile at Marcus’s reprimand. Were they human, Marcus and Caius would be separated by enough decades to be father and son—perhaps even with a generation between them. Caius’s appearance was wizened, his hair more than streaked with gray. Marcus, who had not reached even twenty years as a human, radiated the confidence of a young man assured of remaining strong in body and mind.
That he now held up a hand as though to pacify the older man was, even after nearly three millennia, quite comical.
Marcus was by far the quietest of the three of them. Caius could be more than hot-headed, and Aro was known for constantly articulating his own positions to the other two. But Marcus—Marcus almost never spoke. So when he did, he commanded the room.
“Yes?” Aro said.
“We ought to wait for Carlisle to return. At this point, he and he alone knows why he’s left. We have no way of knowing if he intends to defect or if he simply wished to be outside the compound awhile.”
Caius snorted. “You give him too much credit.”
But Aro didn’t agree. The Young One, he knew, craved companionship above everything. He’d wandered alone for a century and a half—not a terribly long period, by anyone’s count, but it had hurt the young blond. Carlisle stood in utter confidence and conviction in nearly everything he did; yet in the reaches of his mind was a yawning void. He despised what he was. He would spend the rest of eternity trying to atone for his very existence, were he allowed to.
And he would cling to those who supported him, even as meagerly as did the brothers.
Aro paced the room, feeling his brothers’ eyes on him. This was frequently how they decided things. Aro would draw input from his brothers, but in the end, it was he who made the final choice.
As though he knew exactly where Aro’s mind had wandered, Caius added, “He insulted you, Brother. He has no intention of honoring your request.”
The image swirled in his mind at once. The shimmering arms. The impassioned speech. The scowling face. The deep voice, mocking him for the first time in decades, calling Aro Master.
Would Carlisle honor his orders? There had never seemed to be reason to ask this question before, but now it was nearly impossible not to.
The chamber remained utterly still as he thought.
“I will summon him when he returns,” Aro muttered, more to himself than to his brothers.
“You ought to destroy him when he returns.”
A pained look slid across Marcus’s face, and Aro wondered if his own held a similar expression. It must have, for Caius immediately continued.
“You see? Both of you. You treat him as though he is one of us, and he is not. Aro, if any other being had dared speak to you as he does, Alrigo would have taken his head long before now. There would be no question of him leaving the compound.”
“Carlisle is unique,” Aro muttered.
Caius snorted. “No. Carlisle is a fool.”
Aro looked over at Marcus. Of the three of them, Marcus was the closest to the young blond, on account of the schooling which took place most days. The two of them would disappear at times, strains of Greek and Latin and laughter floating from wherever they were. Keeping Carlisle around meant Aro had less worry that his brother-in-law would leave, and his valuable gift would disappear.
Of course, if Carlisle wanted to leave also…
“Aro, your history of dealing with those who wish to defect is quite firm,” Caius reminded him.
Aro nodded. His fist clenched, remembering on its own the feel of the steely skin beneath it as he tore limbs from torso on that cold night so many centuries ago. It was the guards who did this, customarily; Aro gave the orders and they executed them. But that night he’d needed to be alone.
He’d asked his younger sister to come on an excursion with him. To find new places to acquire prey, he’d said. Didyme was a wonderful conversationalist; even without her gift, she was lovely to be around. She was speaking of the world, of the places she and her adoring husband would travel, now that she had her brother’s blessing, when Aro leaned in and sank his teeth into her collarbone. Bone splintered, blood spurted—from them both, to be sure, as Didyme turned out to be a surprisingly good fighter. In the end, however, he merely ended up with his robes torn to rags and covered with venom, and it was his sister who went up in a cloud of hazy purple smoke.
It was as he’d lit the pyre that a twig had snapped behind him, and he’d turned to see Caius, a wretched, wicked grin on his face.
Aro swore the other to secrecy, and he was pledged eternal fidelity—but this didn’t change the fundamental fact: Caius knew.
And his reminder now was sharp.
Get rid of Carlisle, he seemed to be saying. Before he becomes trouble.
Footsteps came in the hall, a good distance away, and all three of them caught Sulpicia’s scent. A tick of a clock later, she was in the room with them.
“Aro.”
“My Sulpicia.”
“Athena wishes to see you. As soon as you’re able.”
He sighed. As though to add to this problem…
“We are finished here,” he said.
Caius frowned. “Athena?”
“Your mate works on a project for me,” he explained, and did not voice the understood message: And it is not your business. “I shall go.” He immediately began to move for the door.
“And of the Englishman?”
“We will wait. He will return. When he does, I will question him.”
Sulpicia frowned. “Carlisle? He’s in his chambers. He returned an hour ago.”
Caius scowled; Aro raised his eyebrows as if to say, You see? Marcus only smiled.
When they were somewhat clear of the other two, Sulpicia turned to him, her eyebrows raised. “You’re questioning Carlisle?”
Aro sighed. “Caius is suspicious of how he’s spent his time.”
“Caius is suspicious of how everyone spends his time.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t worry. Carlisle seemed perfectly content when he returned.”
This gave him pause. Perhaps he was right then, in thinking that Carlisle would not leave them. Someone as indomitable of spirit as Carlisle surely needed time to think after receiving an order such as the one Aro had issued.
It took a full quarter-minute to go to Athenadora’s chambers, which were on the other side of the compound. When they reached her, Athena sat before a large table, on which lay piled a great deal of inky black fabric.
She smiled when she saw him. “Master. I hope it is to your liking.” She stood, holding the top of the garment, and letting the black fabric cascade to the floor. Athena was not tall enough to display it all, and the bottom hem and maybe a palm of fabric remained pooled on the stone. But he could still see the finery of the top closures, the hood, the way the shoulders would move. He could imagine how it would appear on its wearer, how regal it would make him appear.
Taking the fabric into his arms and winding it carefully back and forth, he thanked Athena.
Sulpicia reached a hand out to stroke the fabric, nodding appreciatively.
“For Carlisle?” she said.
Aro turned the garment over in his hands, remembering everything of which he and Marcus and Caius had just spoken. Impertinence. Defection. Desertion.
“Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
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Chapter Notes
September 16th, 2011 § § permalink
Chicago, Illinois
October, 1918
Heat from the tea radiated into Elizabeth’s palms as she turned the porcelain cup carefully in her hands. October was coming on cold. The Sun-Times thought this was good—they hoped that somehow it would slow the transmission of the influenza.
Elizabeth had her doubts.
“Beth?”
She looked up. Theresa had been a mere acquaintance from the Ladies’ Aid society at the church. But that was before Edward Senior and Theresa’s Michael had been taken by the influenza only two days apart. Like Elizabeth, Theresa’s children were nearly grown, and like Edward Junior, Theresa’s son had a perverse desire to be at war.
Except that Charles was old enough to enlist, and therefore, already overseas.
“I was thinking about Charles,” Elizabeth muttered. “You know Edward Junior wants to be at war.”
Her friend nodded. “I recall you saying that—he went down to enlist, didn’t he? Was caught by one of the teachers from the Latin school?”
She nodded. “If it weren’t for the fact that keeping him alive is what I’m aiming to do, I would have killed that boy.”
They both chuckled but quickly fell silent again.
“Edward wanted Junior to go to war,” Elizabeth muttered at last. “Sometimes I think…well, is it silly to feel like Edward wouldn’t be gone if I’d done what he wanted?”
Her friend smiled sadly, reaching across the table to take Elizabeth’s hand. “I think the same thing. I lay awake at night making faces at God. Asking him if I go back and change things, if I do a little bit more of the things Michael wanted. Maybe if I let him buy that Chevrolet, or if we’d taken the train to the shore in Michigan, like he always wanted to do in the summer. The air in the car or the air at the shore would’ve made him stronger, maybe.”
Elizabeth smiled a little smile.
“I know. Doesn’t make an ounce of sense.”
She shook her head.
“But neither does sending Junior off to war. Your heart would break, Beth. Mine does, and I still have Janice here with her babies. If Junior goes over to the war, you won’t have anyone.”
It was true. Although, to be honest, the subject of the war hadn’t come up once in the two weeks since Edward’s passing. It was as if Junior’s every desire had evaporated. He didn’t play the piano; he rarely went out with his friends. There was a single package of Lucky Strikes on his bureau, that, as far as she could tell, was not being depleted. He had been reading Dickens and Doyle, but these novels were now upended on his nightstand.
Three weeks ago, any report from overseas was a chance for Junior to stare wistfully at the radio, and proclaim loudly what he would do differently if only he were allowed to go fight.
But now these proclamations were gone. He almost never turned the radio on.
As if she were reading her mind, Theresa asked, “How is Edward Junior?”
Elizabeth shrugged. There had been no funeral, for people were forbidden to congregate. And no burial, either. As the doctor had predicted, there were no undertakers willing to handle the body. When she’d come home from the hospital that day, Junior had been sitting at the piano, practicing her favorite Chopin nocturnes. He allowed her to run her hands through his hair while he played. When she started to cry, he simply rose from the piano bench and held her. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.
In the days since, they hadn’t spoken of it. Like his father, Edward Junior was a stoic. He spoke of assuming the management of the family’s bank accounts without ever once referring to why this would be necessary. He sent a letter off to the keeper of the grounds at their church to find out what it would cost to order a headstone. He took to carrying his father’s pocket watch and lighter, and the way he resembled Senior with his lopsided trousers caused tears to well in Elizabeth’s eyes every time.
It was only at night, when the house was dark and all was still, that she heard the wet, quavering breaths echo down the hall as her child sobbed.
“He does as well as might be expected,” she said. “He’s a good boy.”
Her friend nodded sadly. “I don’t even know if Charles has received the telegram yet. I don’t know if I’ll even get a letter from him when he does…they say the French and English troops are marching on the German front. Don’t know if our boys will be sent with them.”
The news lately had been encouraging, if one ignored the death toll. Germany was receding—the line in France was supposed to be able to be breached by the Allies.
“Is it cruel of me,” she said to Theresa, “that I hope for an end to the war not to end the war, but to keep Junior from enlisting?”
Her friend gave her a sorrowful look, and Elizabeth realized at once she was thinking about her own son. Charles had attended Latin school with Junior. He was a few years older, a few inches taller, and a good bit larger, too. Although she wouldn’t admit it to Theresa, she had an easier time imagining Charles there, with the drab uniform and tin hat. But she couldn’t imagine her own child in that dress. The hands, which were so skilled before a piano keyboard, holding a gun instead?
Her friend stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth mumbled. “That was quite rude of me to say.”
Theresa shook her head. “I understand, Beth. I don’t want Charles over there, either.” She reached across the table and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “And I’ll pray with you that the war ends before Edward can go.”
The women sat in silence awhile, spoons clinking against china as each stirred her tea.
The knock was so aggressive that Elizabeth, who was taking a sip when it came, slopped tea down the front of her dress. It started to spread, a strange, light reddish brown over her breasts. She muttered a string of excuses to Theresa and stood from the table.
The boy on the stoop was blond and mousy, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. She recognized him as one of Junior’s classmates.
“Mrs. Masen? I’m Eugene. Eugene McElhinny..”
Eugene’s face was flushed, and she realized a moment later, dripping with sweat. He appeared to have run to her doorstep—from where, she didn’t know. She nodded for him to go on.
Later, she would wonder what she’d been expecting. Whether she’d been thinking that there would only be a brief announcement, perhaps an invitation for Junior to go out with his friends—never mind that he had been out with them for the better part of the afternoon. But she wasn’t expecting the three words that Eugene spoke:
“It’s Edward, ma’am.”
Edward? She had barely begun to form the question, “I’m sorry?” when she looked over Eugene’s shoulder and saw the others, nearly halfway down the street.
They were large boys, two of the backers or whatever they were called from the Latin school football team. She’d forgotten their names, but Edward spent time with them often, smoking Lucky Strikes and pilfering whatever bathtub gin they could get their hands on. It was a frigid day, and both boys were dressed in thick coats, their scarves flapping in the wind—one end behind their necks, tassels flying, and one end whipping the face of the boy who hung between them.
This third boy’s feet moved of their own accord, but only barely so, and he’d slung an arm over each of the other boys’ shoulders to keep himself upright. His face was hidden, but even in the faint light that was all of the setting sun hidden behind the clouds, she could see the reddish hair shining.
Elizabeth ran before she was even conscious of commanding herself to, and she nearly tripped and fell as she flew off the concrete porch stairs. She screamed to him, crying out his name over and over. “Edward” and “Junior” and even “Teddy,” the nickname they’d tried to give him but which he’d refused since the age of four.
She nearly slammed into the boys carrying him. His hands slid from their shoulders and clasped around her neck instead, his face finding its way into her shoulder so that she could feel his hair, dampened with sweat. His body was unnaturally hot against hers. Edward had rarely been ill as a child, but when he had, he’d had the tendency to run high fevers and to suffer for days. Of course, then he had been small enough that even she had been able to lift him and pull his fevered body to her own. Now, it was all she could do to keep him upright as he stumbled forward.
At once, she began running her hands through hair already sticky with sweat, mumbling her child’s name over and over. He collapsed against her, his head falling heavy against her breasts for the first time in at least a decade.
Her mind began to race. How long did he have? Senior had expired in only two days. There were stories of dozens who’d been stricken in the morning and died in the afternoon.
Edward’s breath was hot and wet against her neck. He was panting as though he’d run several miles, when instead he was barely able to stand. Where would she take him? The hospitals were closed to new admissions. And how would she even get him there, with him barely able to stand? They didn’t have an automobile, and even if they had, she wouldn’t have known how to drive it.
“Beth?”
She spun halfway, her shoulders twisting as she kept her arms firmly around Edward.
Theresa stood behind her, her eyes wet. “Do you need help getting him inside the house?”
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes flooding. Theresa and Elizabeth took the place of the two large boys and Edward’s body sagged between them as they turned back to the house.
“Thank you,” she managed, as the boys began to walk away. Their steps were quick; and no wonder. It had been an heroic enough action simply to bring Edward home; she understood that now they wished to put as much distance between themselves and a so obviously-infected person.
One of the boys tipped his hat to her, and Eugene said, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Masen.” He looked nervously from her to Edward and back, and mumbled, “I hope he gets better.”
Absently, still looking at Edward, Elizabeth nodded to Eugene.
“Thank you,” she muttered, trying not to acknowledge the content of what Eugene had just offered.
Because they both knew the odds.
Edward shuffled slowly between the two women as they progressed back to the house. When they managed to make it inside, they helped Edward onto the couch in the sitting room. He groaned, throwing one lanky arm over his head.
“Edward,” she murmured. “Edward, I’m going to help you. Mama will help you. I’m going to go get a cold rag.”
Theresa, however, had beaten her to it. She thrust the dripping cloth into Elizabeth’s hands—it felt as though it had been put in the cold box, and perhaps it had. She laid it on Edward’s brow, and he trembled.
What was she going to do? Edward had been responsible for helping to get Senior to the hospital. She had no way of getting him there—if they would even take him.
“Mother,” he managed a moment later, his lips shaking as though he’d just come in from a snowstorm. “The doctors.”
He drew a shaky breath and then broke into a coughing fit.
At once, Elizabeth propped his back up, as she had done so many times when he’d been ill as a child. Her hands remembered the feel of the spindly body before them, the way he’d been so skinny that she could feel every bump of his spine. That wasn’t the case any longer. Her son was still slender, but his body had filled out. The once thin back was now covered with strong muscle that contracted violently with each cough.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”
His head shook furiously. “I need—a doctor,” he managed.
It was the same thing his father had said. And in the same, authoritative manner.
“Beth?”
Theresa looked over Elizabeth’s shoulders at them both.
“Let me go on,” she murmured. “I’ll get Janice’s Michael. They have a new Ford, did I tell you that?”
Elizabeth shook her head, temporarily bewildered. A car? She hadn’t mentioned it earlier, but it was odd to mention it now. “That’s nice,” she heard herself say.
“Beth, He’ll come back. We’ll come back. We’ll come back with the car. And we’ll take Junior to the infirmary.”
The tears came so quickly she didn’t have a moment to try to stifle them. Her breath escaped her in a shudder.
“Oh, Theresa, thank you,” she managed. “Thank you…”
Her friend shook her head, and Elizabeth suddenly found her hand squeezed in a firm grasp.
“We can’t lose our boys, Beth,” Theresa murmured. “We’ve lost our men—we won’t lose our boys.”
The front door clicked behind her as she left, and suddenly, the house was still.
When Junior had been a baby, Edward had arrived home one day with a box. A clock kit, to assemble a grandfather clock. It was a nightmare, keeping the baby out of the parts, and Elizabeth lived three weeks in fear that he would crawl to the work area, shove a gear into his eager mouth, and choke to his death. So it had been to her great relief when Edward finally declared the clock complete, and she could freely let their baby crawl throughout the house again.
It had remained the centerpiece in their parlor for all the intervening years. She had measured Junior against it in her mind—just after his first birthday, when he toddled past, barely able to see the pendulum, his tenth birthday, when he’d reached the chimes, his fifteenth, when he’d stood level with the dial.
We’ve lost our men, Theresa had said. We won’t lose our boys.
Settling in with her arms firmly around her son, Elizabeth listened to the steady tick and prayed her friend was right.
~||x||~
The radio in one corner of the armory crackled. It was one of the few rallying points in the place—the flu patients, or at least, those who were able, would crowd around it to hear updates on the war. At any given time, the bodies around the radio might be as many as three deep, and the doctors and nurses would have to gently urge patients back to bed.
This was what Carlisle was doing now, half-carrying, half-dragging a man whose eyes were red and whose fingernail beds were already turning a violent shade of purplish-blue. He caught the slightest bit of the broadcast as he took the man’s arm. The gravelly voice reported that there was to be an offensive against the Hindenburg line—all the Allied forces would begin trying to breach the German offensive in northeastern France.
The war was becoming harder and harder to fight. Farmers recruited into the armies in France and Britain had left food shortages for the wives and children left at home, to say nothing of the food for the soldiers themselves. As the death toll rose, there were fewer regiments available to refresh the exhausted men in the trenches, and although Wilson sent thousands of U.S. boys there every day, the reinforcements were nowhere near enough.
It was a fitting duality, Carlisle thought as he placed a firm hand on his patient’s shoulder and pushed him onto the cot. In France, they fought a war against a physical enemy, who pressed closer and closer in on the country. Men died, more men came to their aid, only to be ripped apart by rifle fire and to drown in the gas. In the chaos that was Chicago, it felt as though a German offensive pressed itself against the windows of the armories and hospitals, claiming life after life as it rolled forward toward some ill-defined goal. And as in Europe, the reinforcements for the front line of this war grew more depleted by the day.
Carlisle was working two positions now, sneaking from one to the other at the change of the light, escaping only every fourth day or so to feed. The armory had no windows and so he could work here during the day, moving from bedside to bedside as he carefully monitored the patients. There were over two hundred of them, in neat rows of cots with a single sheet and blanket apiece.
It seemed they ran out of these every few hours. Some new patient would arrive and be relegated to a cot or even the floor without so much as a bed sheet to cover him. The nurses who volunteered their time boiled the sheets as quickly as possible when new patients left—either because they had become well, or, more often, when they were transferred to the hospital. And every now and again they would lose one or two, patients who slipped away before anyone could notice. This was the saddest, because it was their job to look out for these people, the ones who were so sick they needed to be admitted to the hospitals at once. But they couldn’t do it. There weren’t enough eyes, enough hands. The humans were exhausted.
And though there was no physical reason for this to be the case, Carlisle felt exhausted, too.
“Doctor?”
He looked down. He’d nearly forgotten about the man he had just ushered away from the radio. The man’s lungs were already crackling—not so much that a human would hear without a good stethoscope, but to Carlisle the sound was deafening.
“Doctor, how much longer do I have?”
Carlisle’s eyes closed. He wouldn’t lie—he couldn’t lie, not when so many patients came in and out. He envied the human doctors with their fallible memories, the way they wouldn’t remember the patients they’d lost the week before.
Carlisle remembered them all.
Three hundred and forty-seven, mostly at the hospital, but a dozen and a half here as well, in the two weeks he’d worked here. The woman who had already been widowed and who left five young children with their aunt. The father of four, his body ruined by bathtub gin long before the influenza set in; he hadn’t lasted a day. The young man intent on making it to New York to make his fortune in the stock exchange. He’d come from Iowa, and his mother didn’t even know he was in Chicago. Carlisle had been the one to send the telegram.
And then there were the children. Carlisle claimed to detest children, if anyone asked. This was his excuse for treating them as little as he could. The truth was he couldn’t bear their loss. Losing a human who was old, who had children and grandchildren, who had lived a full life and was happy with his lot, that was one thing. It was almost beautiful, in its own way, and Carlisle could recognize in the peaceful eyes the way he himself would have preferred to leave his life. With younger adults, it was harder, but still there was some redemption—they had lived a while, many had families, they had lived past the age to which Carlisle had lived as a human.
But with children, there was nothing to hold. They hadn’t finished school. They’d never experienced a world which was not run by their parents. They didn’t know what it was to fall in love, or hold a job, or feel as though they contributed to the world themselves. When they died, it was the worst kind of loss, and it was liable to knock Carlisle off-kilter for days.
Here, however, it was utterly unavoidable. For all his supernatural strength and senses, he might as well have been the Angel of Death.
“Doctor? How much longer?”
Carlisle brought himself back to the present and looked down at the patient under his hands. He realized at once that he did not know his patient’s name; he would need to look this up so that he could transfer the man to one of the hospital lists. But there was not a great deal which could be done.
“I’m not sure,” he heard himself whisper. “Not long. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No,” the man sighed. “Not really.” He rolled away from Carlisle, staring at the seemingly endless rows of cots. His own creaked as he settled himself in, curling into a fetal position beneath the thin blanket.
Carlisle nodded. But as he moved away, he muttered, “I’m sorry” in a voice too low for human ears.
He made his way toward the doors of the armory, straightening blankets and taking inventory of patients as he passed. The nurses tried to keep track of everyone they could, but even clipboards at the ready, they couldn’t keep track of everything. Bed 45 was lying in his own vomit; Carlisle mopped this with a dry rag and promised to return to clean further. Bed 82 had given his blanket to his daughter, Bed 84, and now lay shivering despite the humid air. Bed 107 looked badly in need of hydration.
Making his to-do list, Carlisle reached the end of the rows of cots just as the armory door swung open and a man staggered inside.
This wasn’t uncommon. The influenza weakened even the strongest grown men; they often barely managed to stumble their way in the door. But what made this one different was that this man staggered under the weight of a body; a boy, Carlisle realized at once, his heart sinking. For even though the body in the man’s arms was lanky and tall, it was clearly that of quite a young man. His long, pale arms wrapped loosely around the man’s neck, feet with untied shoes dangled. His head was turned into the man’s collarbone so that all Carlisle could see was a shock of reddish hair.
A shock of reddish hair he recognized.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “Oh, no, no, no.”
It had been what, two weeks? At once, the woman’s face swam before him, the way her eyes had filled with tears as their hands met, the transfer of a few personal effects. The way she’d stood before him, resolute in her need to move forward, already thinking about her son. Her insistence that she would manage to have her husband buried properly.
But she didn’t look that way today. She stood, a little bit behind the man carrying her son, her expression no longer resolute. Those odd green eyes darted from the boy, to the man holding him, to the rows upon rows of influenza patients, and then, finally, to Carlisle.
He heard her gasp from the other side of the room.
Over the centuries, Carlisle had become accustomed to moving at the speed of his human compatriots. It had even come to the point that to do so no longer felt unnatural—his gait was preternaturally smooth, to be sure, but other than that, there was little to reveal that he was out of the ordinary.
Today, however, he cursed the need to move so slowly. He wanted nothing more than to dash across the infirmary, yank the boy into his arms, and lay him on one of the cots. It took only a few seconds for him to stride across the floor, but it might as well have been a year, he was so anxious.
The man began to speak at once. “My friend’s son has fallen ill,” he explained. “This was the closest infirmary.”
Carlisle was already nodding, his eyes fixed not on the boy, but on his mother. She stared at him, the green eyes neither tear-filled nor resolute, not as they had been the last time he’d seen her. Instead, today they were full of questions. He wondered, briefly, if she was feeling the same things he was—wondering what it meant that fate would throw them together twice, in such different places. It was rare, in a city like this, and that was one reason Carlisle enjoyed practicing here. The anonymity protected him, meant that even if a single person suspected he was more than who he pretended to be, it was unlikely he or she would ever encounter him again. No accusations would be leveled, and he would be free simply to disappear.
Not so this time.
The woman was shorter than he by perhaps six or seven inches. But she seemed even smaller tonight, as she stared imploringly up at him.
“Save him,” she said.
Carlisle winced. Hadn’t this been what had gotten him into so much trouble the first time? Pity, anger, his own feelings of helplessness. All these had led him to a promise he’d been utterly incapable of keeping.
He couldn’t do that again.
“I can’t,” he heard himself say. “Mrs. Masen, I can’t—”
“Save him,” she repeated, and this time the voice and the eyes were harder. The resolute woman he’d met outside the men’s ward had returned.
“I have faith in you.”
Faith? What was there to have faith in? Overseas, the war raged, the country’s young men came sailing back across the Atlantic in coffins instead of cabins. And at home the war was no better, nor was it any less deadly. And he had already failed this woman once.
But hadn’t he been called to duty? Wasn’t that exactly the point? Working two jobs, nearly nonstop, trying to save as many lives as he could manage? It was a different front line, but Carlisle stood on it, nonetheless.
Elizabeth Masen’s eerie green eyes still stared up at him, and some part of him found himself nodding.
“I’ll do my best,” he whispered. “That’s what I can offer. My best.”
“Your best will do,” she answered.
Reaching to the man, Carlisle pulled the boy into his own arms, taking care to feign a stagger as the weight was transferred. His skin seared; a high fever had already settled in. He groaned, his heavy head finding its way onto Carlisle’s bicep.
That day at Cook County replayed in Carlisle’s mind, the way Elizabeth had nodded first to her husband and then to her son, linking their names. He turned away from the mother and began scouting for an empty cot as he addressed the boy.
“Edward? I’m Dr. Cullen, and I’m going to take care of you.”
September 16th, 2011 § § permalink
And so finally, we truly meet Edward.
There are a lot of things I’m moving with in this story that aren’t completely laid out for us in canon. One of them is, why Edward? He was seventeen, Carlisle really needed a companion, not a child, or at least, that’s what he thought he wanted. So I’ve chosen to focus a little more on the Carlisle-Elizabeth relationship (and to foreground it with Elizabeth Bradshawe!) so that the business of turning Edward becomes this passing of the reins from Elizabeth to Carlisle. A number of people asked why I chose Elizabeth’s POV as the second POV for 1918—this is why.
This chapter, for reasons unknown, took almost two months to pen (I write a chapter ahead—the chapter just completed was chapter 12.) It turns a page in this story, to be certain. From now on, this is as much Edward’s story as it is his sire’s.
Thank you to Openhome and Julie for their intrepid beta skills as always, and thank you to everyone for reading.
August 26th, 2011 § § permalink
London, England
May, 1667
“The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of his son Jesus Christ our Lord, and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated the congregation, bowing their heads collectively. There came a shuffling sound as the parishioners moved from their pews and towards the door.
Young William stood at his side, and William glanced at him. The boy’s eyes were distant, staring blankly toward the front of the church, where parishioners were beginning to slowly file out down the aisle toward them. Out of the corner of his eye, William watched him as he greeted the departing church members. A good number of them had words for Young William as well—the church members liked to call on the son just as often as they did the father.
The Milner boy was one of the last to leave the church, and William could see his eyes searching out in the churchyard for another—Anne Nesbit, his intended. William had known Thomas his whole life; his parents were some years younger than William, and had come to Aldgate when Mrs. Milner had been carrying Thomas. It had been only a few short months after his own child had been born. William remembered baptizing baby Thomas and wondering if Thomas would become a companion to his own child, who was at nurse in the next parish. It had taken a handful of years before Thomas and Young William met, but when they had, they’d become fast friends.
He watched as the two young men greeted each other, his son saying something in a low voice to the other young man as he nodded knowingly toward the door. The women, who left the church before the men, stood in the yard awaiting their escorts home, and Anne waved a gloved hand in the direction of the two. A wide smile spread across Thomas’s face, a much subtler one across his son’s.
Then the Milner boy was gone, bounding out of the church to take the arm of his intended, and William watched as a strange, wistful look clouded his son’s face.
As Thomas took the arm of his woman in the churchyard, and the two of them walked away slowly, William felt a tiny jerk in his own stomach. He’d hoped his son would marry early as well. Not because the boy needed a wife—his son was at times disturbingly skilled at women’s work. He was a good cook and dedicated housekeeper, and cared for William as though William was more his ward than his father.
But no. It was, if William admitted it, more superstition than anything. Even though Sarah had been young, and even though it was nothing out of the ordinary for a woman to lose her life in childbirth, he had always felt that if somehow he had married earlier, if he and Sarah had met sooner, he would not be standing at the back of a church, saying goodbye to his parishioners without his wife at his side. His son would have grown up knowing a mother’s care, perhaps have been challenged in his own ways by the presence of siblings.
If he’d married younger, he thought, the two of them would not be so alone.
As the last parishioners trickled their way out of the church, Young William moved toward the front of the church to collect the sacrament vessels. He would retreat with them to the small sacristy, clean them, and return to the vicarage to cook their supper, as their housekeeper was excused from work Sundays. The remainder of the day was to be rest for them both, typically spent reading.
His son was beginning to make his way up the aisle toward the altar.
“William?”
The boy whirled, his blue eyes flashing. For the briefest of moments William considered whether he ought to call him by the name he preferred. It would save these murderous glares every time he wanted to get his son’s attention.
“Ah. Wouldst thou…I was thinking that perhaps we ought leave the vessels just yet.”
His son’s eyebrows raised. “Leave them?”
“Yes. This work should not be done on the Sabbath, truly. Let us go in to the house and rest.”
Instead of compliance, William was met with a skeptical look.
“Leave the vessels.”
William nodded. “I wish to speak with thee awhile.”
The younger Cullen continued to frown, still backing slowly toward the front of the church. “I—I think it best if I at least lock them further into the church,” he said simply. “I’ll take them into the sacristy and lock them there, to guard against thievery.”
It was a reasonable thought. He nodded, and his son disappeared.
The other Cullen appeared again near the altar, having stowed the vessels safely. Still with the same doubtful look, he followed his father back to the vicarage. He offered to put on their afternoon supper, to which William agreed. The pottage today contained a good amount of venison, which the younger one had purchased from the butcher the day before. For a long while, they ate in silence, William unsure how to broach the topic.
“I understand the Milner boy is contracted?” William said at last.
His son snorted into his stew, a strangled sound that William couldn’t distinguish as to whether it was laughter or indignation.
“I simply refer to this because I thought that it might be of interest to you. I watched the two of you speaking today.”
“Thomas is my friend. Of course we spoke. It has nothing to do with Anne.”
William didn’t say anything further, and for a long several minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were their spoons scraping against their bowls, the occasional slurp of a bit of broth, his son’s breathy gulps of his beer.
“Doest thou think of marriage?” William asked timidly at last.
His son’s head snapped up. “I beg you?”
“Marriage. Doest thou think on it?”
The younger Cullen gave him a look. It wasn’t contempt, or anger, but…wariness? That was it. He looked suspicious.
“Of course I do,” he said, his voice careful.
“Ah. Well, I was merely thinking, William.”
“Carlisle.”
His face grew hot. “That is not what I named thee.”
“It is what thou Christened me.”
William looked across the table to find his son scowling at him. When their gazes met, his son averted his eyes. He swallowed. He hadn’t expected this conversation to go smoothly, but the reaction seemed extreme, and he didn’t know why. But he went on anyway.
“What of Miss Connor? She seems lovely.”
And interested in thee, he thought to himself. The Connor girl, who was of maybe sixteen or seventeen, William couldn’t remember, had made it a point today to detour to say goodbye to his son. She would make a good housewife, young and strong enough to bear several children. He noticed that she had been raised to give alms each week.
“She would be a good wife to thee,” he continued. “She knows the church. She would do well serving alongside you.”
A strange, pained look flashed across his son’s face. For a long moment, he did not meet William’s eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was tight.
“Wishest thou to be my matchmaker, Father? That ought be the job of my mother.” He scowled downward. “Except I have none.”
“That is not my doing,” William snapped. Except…hadn’t that been just what he’d been thinking as they stood in the nave? That somehow, if he had done things differently, Sarah would be here. What kind of son would he have, if today there were three at this table instead of two? Or perhaps even more, for surely he and Sarah would have conceived again. They had spoken of six, or maybe seven, depending on how many sons the Lord would grant them. Their plan had been to have a large family; not for William to sit here with their only son, utterly alone.
As he took the spoon to have another bite of the pottage, his hand trembled so violently that his fingers lost their grip, sending the spoon splashing into the bowl, handle and all. His son shot to his feet, and William hardly had time to register what had happened before a rag appeared to clean the mess.
This was the urgency, William thought as his son replaced his utensil, a confused expression clouding his face. The time to have his son succeed him, to study at seminary, marry, perhaps even produce a son of his own—it grew shorter and shorter by the day. William didn’t have time to wait for the younger Cullen to come around to his ways of thinking. He didn’t have time to hold off while his son behaved as he had, going to seminary, burying himself in his studies, and only once he served a parish, beginning to think about a wife. Despite whatever the barber-surgeon might tell him, William knew his future was certain. And that meant his son’s needed to be, as well.
“I only wish thy happiness, like that of thy friend,” he said.
“No, Father, thou wishest for me to be like thee,” his son snarled. “That would not make me happy.” The younger one’s stool screeched as it shoved backward against the stone floor. His bowl was empty, as was his cup.
William bristled. “Thou shalt refer to me as you.”
His son’s jaw flexed.
“I will marry,” he said finally. “But I will do so when I wish to. I need not your help, nor that of anyone else. You may wish me to be exactly like you, Father. But it is fully my intention not to make your mistakes.”
And then he was gone, the door opening and closing behind him. When William turned back to his stew, he found it had gone cold.
~||x||~
Carlisle’s fists were still clenching and unclenching of their own accord nearly an hour later as he walked toward Elizabeth’s. He’d told William he planned to take a walk and would be gone awhile; William had seemed only too glad to be rid of him.
He’d lashed out, which was unusual for him, and more than a little unreasonable, he knew. His father knew nothing of Elizabeth Bradshawe, and that was all Carlisle’s doing. She was still his secret. Some part of him felt that to tell his father that he was courting would be to destroy all the beauty of the act. He was like some fiendish animal, hording the goodness away from someone he wasn’t even sure would take it away.
He was still surprised at his father’s choice of topic—they had never once talked about the likelihood of Carlisle choosing a wife. Never before had William in any way indicated that he was even interested in the matter. Although…he remembered back to Thomas’s words, the day he’d asked for help crafting that first letter to Elizabeth. “And here your father worries he will die with you still a bachelor.”
What did that mean exactly? It wasn’t something Carlisle thought much about, if he were completely honest with himself. His earliest memories were of his fathers’ stern guidance, teaching him to memorize scripture before he was able to read it, to work hard on the six days of the week and to work equally hard on more spiritual pursuits on the Sabbath. He’d learned to care for the church as he grew, first simply sweeping the nave and the doorsteps, and progressing to digging the graves in the modest burial yard by the time he was a young teenager. He had played on occasion with the other children of the parish, like Thomas, but it had been rare. William’s entire existence was grooming his son to take the helm of his church. It was the only thing of which they ever seemed to speak.
So what was this business about Carlisle marrying, he wondered. And why had it come on so suddenly? Yes, it was true that Thomas and Anne came to church together now, separating only to sit in their appointed men’s and women’s pews. Carlisle had watched them this morning from where he sat toward the front of the church. Thomas would steal a glance over his shoulder at Anne, who would sneak him a shy smile in return before looking down again into her apron. Their visits were growing more and more unchaperoned by the day, and it was common now for Thomas to go to Anne’s home to bundle with her as they slept.
He was jealous, if he admitted it. But it was different than covetousness. He didn’t covet Anne. She was a fine woman for Thomas, but Carlisle preferred Elizabeth—the way she gently teased him, the way she seemed to know everything about him before he even opened his mouth. The way she stood up to her brother, who had been appointed their chaperone on more than one occasion. This, Carlisle had discovered, was actually a good thing. Christopher seemed to have better things to do than watch his sister, and it wasn’t unheard of for him to duck into a tavern and agree to meet them a bit later, leaving Carlisle and Elizabeth to their own devices for a blissful hour or two.
The conversation about whether Carlisle would be permitted to court Elizabeth had been short and to the point, at the coffee house one evening three weeks before. Carlisle had been reading the newspaper when a body dropped onto the bench next to him, shaking the table so that the cups rattled.
“My mother tells me you wish to court my younger sister.”
Carlisle raised his eyebrows, attempting to sip his coffee and appear unruffled, but he could feel the heat beginning at the bottom of his neck and knew he would be entirely red in the face before long. But he managed to keep his voice from squeaking as he said, “Your mother is correct.”
Christopher stared at him. “What are thy intentions for her?”
He closed his eyes briefly then. His intentions. Carlisle wasn’t one to remember dreams, at least, not terribly often. This had served him well in childhood, when at times his fathers’ preaching of demons and devils lurking in the streets of London had led to nights of interrupted sleep, and of course, after that horrible day at Tyburn, he had been grateful for his amnesia when he found himself suddenly awake in the dark of night.
Yet this one he’d remembered, and held with him for weeks. Like all dreams, it had been imperfect and short. The woman he’d dreamed wasn’t quite Elizabeth, although some part of his dream-mind knew it to be her. She’d lacked the fine features, but had the dark hair and the gentle laughter. But the thing Carlisle remembered was the feeling—the love so intense it caused a physical ache in his belly that stayed with him long after he awoke. And then there had been the object of both their adoration. He couldn’t remember the face, and this bothered him, but he remembered the feel of a small hand in his own, the heat of a body against his chest. Jonathan, they had both called him. And as Carlisle had walked hand-in-hand with the dream-Elizabeth, the little thing had sped away from them on surprisingly steady legs, dancing and bobbing around them and giggling in the same high laugh of his mother.
Pulling himself back to the coffee house and to Christopher, he answered quietly, “Only the most honorable. Marriage, if she’ll have me. Children, thereafter.”
Christopher studied him. “And of your work?”
“My work?”
“You wish to become a solicitor, but your father wishes you to go to the seminary, am I correct?”
Carlisle nodded.
“And you are apprenticed to Mr. Tyne.”
Carlisle nodded again.
The cup of coffee in Christopher’s hands turned around once before he set it on the table again, still frowning. It took him a long time to speak. “I should think, Mr. Cullen, that it not be proper for my sister to marry a carpenter,” he said at last. “But she would be an excellent wife to a solicitor. Or a minister. If those be your intended occupations, then I see no reason to bar my sister’s wishes.”
His sister’s wishes. Carlisle’s heart jerked. So Elizabeth had spoken to her brother and indicated a preference for him. The heat crept upward from his neck again.
Christopher was already standing, gathering his coffee and his own newspaper to move to a table which contained men he knew better. But he stopped a moment, leaning back. “And Mr. Cullen?”
“Yes?”
“If I should discover that you have opened her legs before you are properly wed, not only will you not have my sister, I will see to it personally that you are disfigured such that no woman in England will want you.”
And then he had disappeared, off to another table in the coffee house, from which he had studied Carlisle for the remainder of the evening.
Carlisle had seen Elizabeth nearly every day since, stopping by the small house when his days’ work was finished at the carpentry shop. He grew to look forward to the way her eyes would alight when she saw him over the half-door. Her younger brother George, known to all as Georgie, seemed to enjoy him, too—on one excursion with Elizabeth not long after Carlisle began his courtship, they had walked a mile with Georgie to a field to play a bit of ball. Carlisle had thoroughly enjoyed himself, running up and down the field and kicking the ball back and forth with Georgie as Elizabeth and Mrs. Bradshawe looked on. Asked about it later, Carlisle had explained sheepishly that his father had forbade him to do such frivolous things as play ball as a child, and so the opportunity to make up for lost time was more than welcome.
Today, his feet seemed to find their way toward Elizabeth’s of their own accord, his fingers running carefully across the item in his pocket. It was a small box, made of cherry and holly, with a little lid that slid on in two pieces, like a puzzle. Carlisle had fashioned it himself in stolen moments during the week, between work on a large scroll desk ordered by the butcher. Inside the box, he had scribbled a verse from the Song of Songs: “As the lillie among thornes, so is my love among the daughters.” Thomas had scoffed at him, encouraging him to choose one of the scriptures’ more suggestive verses, or better yet, a bawdy limerick. But Carlisle stood his ground, and so it was this small verse he carried across London’s busy streets.
Elizabeth was waiting for him when he arrived, standing in the doorway. Her hair was pulled away from her face, but just enough had been left to trail over her neck so that Carlisle felt a warm feeling start in his belly. He had taken to wearing his hose as tight as he could manage it, so that in the instance his body got away from his mind, this fact would at least remain hidden.
He was glad for it now as Elizabeth caught his eye, a wide smile spreading across her face. As he reached her, he bowed his head in a polite nod to her.
“Miss Bradshawe.”
She rolled her eyes, pointedly answering, “Carlisle.” She took his hand and squeezed it, and Carlisle felt an odd coolness shoot down his spine from his collar. Her hands were pliant in his, and he recognized the feel of soft cloth at once. He was unable to suppress his smile.
“You wear my gloves,” he said, delighted.
She blinked at him, frowning. “Is that not what you intended? If you would prefer, I will leave them home so that no one will see that I have them.”
He choked and swallowed, but before he was able to squeak out the lie that of course he wouldn’t mind if she didn’t wear them, he realized Elizabeth was laughing.
Oh. He was being teased.
Her arm found its way into his, and they walked together between the houses to the tiny yard at the back. This was one of the few places they were allowed without a chaperone, mostly because Elizabeth’s mother and brother could see them from the back of the house. The yard was mostly dry dirt, with a small patch given over to where Elizabeth and her mother tended a small patch of vegetables and herbs. The Bradshawes also owned two hens, who wandered the yard and stayed out of the garden thanks to a small fence erected by Christopher. But importantly, there was a beech tree, which due to some force of nature, had grown one branch out sideways for nearly two feet before it stretched upward. The branch made a perfect seat for two, and the bright green leaves above them a bower.
They sat there together awhile, her knee against his. The branch was just high enough that Elizabeth’s feet did not touch the ground, and his grazed it just barely, if he pointed his toes. More often, though, he let his feet swing freely, as he did today, staring down at them as the toe of his boot became scuffed with dirt.
“You seem quiet today,” she said after a moment.
This startled him. “Seem I?”
“You are always quiet,” she answered, leaning into him a bit so that the swell of her breast brushed his side, which made him shiver. “But today, you seem more so.”
He sighed, looking upward into the tree. Its branches swayed back and forth, leaving a shifting, dappled shadow on the earth beneath them. “My father and I quarreled,” he said to the sky.
“Quarreled about?”
You, Carlisle wanted to answer, but that wasn’t true. William had absolutely no idea that Carlisle was courting anyone. He’d hidden this for fear his father would find it displeasing. But now he wondered if disclosing this would be harmful or good.
“He wishes for me to marry.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Well, he’s not alone in wishing for that.”
This made Carlisle jerk upright. “I—your pardon?”
“Merely a thought.” She patted his arm. “I am sorry you quarreled.”
He stared up into the trees again.
“Wouldst thou marry a carpenter?” he asked at last.
“Do not you wish to be a solicitor?”
“My father is set against it, and thy brother is set against my trade.”
At this, Elizabeth smiled. “Christopher worries overly much for me.”
Of course, there was a way around both of these, Carlisle thought. Christopher would be satisfied if Carlisle became a minister, and so would his father be, also. If his father were still living, there might be reason to take a parish somewhere other than Aldgate. Perhaps even out of London entirely. But he ignored this thought, and instead spoke of the Sunday, of his frustration with his father. She filled in with her week, with tales of caring for Georgie and helping her mother, the most recent places Christopher seemed to have ducked off to when she needed to run an errand. Elizabeth’s leg rubbed his own as they sat, and the feeling was so warm and comfortable that Carlisle couldn’t help but inch closer. They chatted easily as the sun began to set, making the shadows of their legs stretch alongside the shadow of the branches, as though they, too, were simply one part of the tree.
It was as he shifted his body closer to her that he remembered the box in his pocket.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “I brought something for you.” He rocked his body a bit so that he could reach and pulled out the small box. He pressed it into Elizabeth’s palm, and she explored it with tentative fingers, turning it over in the light. It took her all of a minute to work the simple puzzle which opened the top. Her smile became even wider as she read the inscription.
“It’s beautiful.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t too difficult.”
“I do not take thee at thy word on that, Mr. Cullen.” She leaned closer to him, and his face flushed with heat. “Thank you,” she whispered, so close that her breath tickled his face.
He shifted uncomfortably. Did he move toward her? Allow her to get closer?
“It is my pleasure,” he mumbled indistinctly, looking down, hoping she wouldn’t notice his reddening cheeks. But she did not take the signal, instead leaning into him further.
“Christ was a carpenter, you know,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning toward him.
A chill rushed down his spine as she brushed her lips against his, and, startled, he jerked back at once. But she merely giggled, closing the gap between them once more, and did it again.
Elizabeth’s lips searched his, pressing insistently but gently. It took him a good few moments to overcome his shock, but then he found that by some miracle, his own lips knew what to do in answer. The two of them kissed hungrily, impatiently, and it was only when he’d nearly run out of breath that he muttered, “What if thy mother sees?”
She laughed, the sound oddly muffled by his lips. He could feel her breath escaping the corners of her mouth as it tickled his own cheeks.
“Were she angry with thee, I would imagine she would come out,” she answered, “instead of standing at the window smiling at us.”
His head jerked up. Sure enough, Mrs. Bradshawe stood at the back of the house, gazing out the window at them with a smile on her face. When she noticed Carlisle looking at her, she waved briefly, and then, as though to assuage him, turned away. Elizabeth chuckled, her face still mere inches from his.
“Mr. Cullen,” she whispered through her laughter, “I do not believe I have ever seen a man turn quite this shade of red.”
Then her lips were on his again, and he let himself quite forget about her mother.
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