In The Face Of Death (8 page)

It was finally necessary that I explain about the risks that come with loving those of my blood, and he heard me out indulgently, promising me, as if I were one of his children, to consider what could happen if we keep on as we have been. Nothing I said persuaded him that there could be any difficulty coming from our affair. He was jubilant that I wanted him still, given how he has behaved of late. I tried to insist that he take heed of my warning but he was too eager to make the most of the night, and was at pains to end my warnings as quickly as possible, which he did by summarizing all I had said to him succinctly but with a flavor of skepticism that was certainly his most overriding impression of all I told him. Any dread he might have of what might come of this was banished by his desire, which never faltered.

This time he had no hesitation, no awkward beginnings. His embraces were long and deep, and he undertook to follow my lead, to find out how long he could build his passion before spending. He was merry as a boy with a first prize, and he romped with me for more than an hour before fatigue finally overcame him. When I woke him an hour before dawn, he was as refreshed as if he had passed a full eight hours in slumber, and was in good cheer as he left. He promised to come again in three nights, and that he would find good reasons for us to be in one another’s company without attracting undue attention and gossip, which pleased me very much, for it is enervating to live with such close scrutiny. I pointed out to him that this would require some careful planning, to which he replied that he was very good at strategy and swore he would relish the opportunity, thinking it worthy of his talents. . . .

The warmth of the day was quickly fading before the chill fingers of fog that came caressing the hills from the west. As they turned down the steep hill, the wind nipping at their backs, Sherman signaled Madelaine to swing her horse off the main road to the wooded copse, indicating through gestures that they could then dismount and put on their coats.

“The Spanish call those two hills the Maiden’s Breasts,” he said to her as he lifted her out of the sidesaddle under the trees. He indicated the slope they had just descended. “I like yours better.” He took the reins from her hand and secured them to one of the low-growing oaken branches, next to where his grey was tied.

“Less hectic to ride, I imagine,” said Madelaine, smiling in spite of herself.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sherman whispered to her as he bent down to wrap her in his arms, his lips seeking hers. He took his time about it, feeling her warm to him; it promised well for the night ahead. When he moved back from her, he said, teasing her, “There isn’t any other land you would like to inspect, with the prospect of purchasing it, is there? That cove down the coast may prove worth the money asked for it; no doubt there are other promising locations as well. I will find out where land is for sale, so that you can have a look at it. I would have to escort you to advise you and to negotiate for you, wouldn’t I? I could not allow you to venture abroad without suitable protection. I would be remiss in my duty if I did.” He bent and, moving the thick knot of hair at the nape of her neck aside, kissed her just under her ear. “Where you kiss me, Madelaine. Where you pledge me your bond.” His lips were light and teasing, almost playful.

It took her a while to gather her thoughts, and when she did, she struggled to voice them. “That is a good notion, on its own; never mind the chance for privacy it offers us. If you know of any I might like, tell me of it, and I will arrange to see it for myself,” she said quite seriously. “I am in earnest, Tecumseh. I want to purchase some land here.”

“So far speculation has been very profitable, at least in this area.” He nodded, doing his best to fall into his role as banker. “When Congress finally comes to its senses and builds a railroad linking the East coast with the West, then land here may become even more valuable, but it will not happen until there is a railroad. Not even a good wagon road would help as the railroad would. But it would be better than nothing,” he said, letting his rancor show. “There is no sense in their reluctance to authorize the railroad other than their usual damned lack of foresight. The telegraph link with the Mississippi only begs the question, but it is typical of Congress to settle for half-measures when full ones are wanted. As long as they keep California isolated, it will have little to attract investors beyond the gold fields, and that is not investment but exploitation; and it will continue as long as there is no land connection but trails across the continent. Only when goods and people may cross quickly and comfortably will the Pacific come into its own, and assume its place in the scheme of things, bringing Occident and Orient together as no gang of Chinese laborers and cooks can do now. Until that time, it will be the last point of escape for the dreamers and scoundrels who seek their own private paradise, and attempt to create it for themselves here. It is short-sighted political chicanery to refuse to unite east and west by rail, I am convinced of it. The trouble is that California is an enigma; not even those who live here understand it.” He folded his arms, his shirt-sleeves suddenly too little protection against the encroaching fog. “I will get my coat.”

“Bring mine, will you?” She strolled deeper into the little grove of trees, listening to the sounds around her, the rustlings and flutters that reminded her that there were other occupants of the copse, many of which began their day when the sun went down. It was cool enough to be unpleasant, and she was relieved when Sherman came and held her nip-waisted coat for her as she slid her arms into the leg-o’-mutton sleeves. He rested his hands on her shoulders as he stood behind her, then slid them down to cover her breasts.

“How can I give this up?” he murmured, drawing her to him, holding her tightly as he moved his hands down the front of her body; he did this with ease, being slightly more than a head taller than Madelaine. Suddenly he stopped his rapt exploration. “I must be mad.”

“For planning to give me up, or wanting me in the first place?” She avoided any hint of accusation in her mild rebuke, but she could not shake off the sadness that swept through her at her realization that she would have to leave San Francisco and Sherman before long.

“Both,” said Sherman with utmost conviction, turning her to face him, staring down into her violet eyes as if he wanted to meet her in combat. “I am not a man who loves easily, and I am . . . possessed by you. What is it about you? You are more of a mystery than this place.” His countenance was stern, his brows drawn downward.

“Had I thought I would be so . . . so wholly in your thrall, I would never have begun with you.”

“
Bien perdu, bien connu
,” said Madelaine, hoping to conceal the sting she felt from his abrupt words.

“But you are
not
well-lost, that is the trouble. I do not need to lose you to know you, Madelaine.” He surrounded her with his arms, his mouth rough on hers. He strained to press them more tightly together, then broke away from her. “But I will not compromise my marriage.”

“So you have said from the first,” Madelaine reminded him, as much to assure him that she still understood his requirements of her as to lessen his defensiveness. “And I have never protested your devotion. I will not do so now.”

“And I meant it. I mean it still.” He reached out and took her face in his long-fingered hands. “I treasure you as I have never treasured another woman, and may I be thrice-damned for it.”

“Tecumseh,” she said gently. “I have no wish to bring you pain.”

He released her and moved away, leaves crackling underfoot. His voice was low and his words came quickly. “But you will, and that is the problem. There’s nothing that can be done about it now: you are too deeply fixed in my soul for that. Oh, it is no fault of yours; you have been honorable from the first, if that is a word I may use for our adultery. Never have you asked, or hinted, that you want me to leave my wife: it is just as well, for I will not, no matter what sorcery you work on me. Yet when you go, as go you must, you will leave a wound in me that no enemy could put there. When you are gone—” He stared down at the ground as if trying to read something there in the last of the light. “I have never known anyone who so completely won me as you have.”

Madelaine did not go after him. “Then we must make the most of the short time we have, so that your joy will be greater than your hurt, and you will remember our time together with happiness.” She did not add that she longed for his ecstasy to sustain her in the months ahead.

“How can we?” He met her eyes in the dimness. “Why take the risk? We have been discreet so far, but I must resist my impulse to set all caution aside.”

“Why? Who is to know what passes between us? When we are private, there is no reason for caution,” said Madelaine, feeling some of his contained anguish as her own.

“No reason? Can you not think of one?” He shook his head, unwilling to look directly at her. “It may be there is the greatest reason of all, for when we are alone together, I have no strength to resist you.”

“You are managing to resist me well enough now,” she said, more sharply than she had intended.

“Do you think so?” he asked, his voice very quiet and deep, the lines of his face severe.

The silence between them lengthened, opening as if it were a chasm deep as the pits of hell. A scuttling flight in the underbrush as a fox hurried to find his supper provided a momentary distraction, then Madelaine took a step toward him, her hands turned palm up. “Tecumseh, do you recall what I told you of the bond the blood makes between us?”

His features grew less formidable and he reached out to caress her face as if compelled to do it. “Yes, Madelaine. How can I forget?”

“Then believe that when we are parted, we will not be separated,” she said as she held out her hands for his.

He put his hands into hers but would not close the gap between them. “What else would you call it?”

For once she had an answer. “Tell me, when you cannot see the sun or stars, do you still know which direction is north?”

“North?” he repeated, baffled, and then said, “Yes, of course.”

“And how do you know it?” she asked him.

He frowned, hitched up one shoulder. “I . . . sense it.”

She nodded. “Then understand that I will always sense you, no matter where you are, or where you go. It is the way of those of us who have become vampires.”

He winced at this last. “Vampires.”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

He regained his attitude of skepticism. “For heaven’s sake, isn’t there another word for it? What a ludicrous notion. Vampires. Legends, for the credulous and childish. Surely there is another explanation to account for what has happened.” His statement lacked conviction, but he glowered down at her. “How can you expect me to believe you?”

“I don’t,” she said wearily. “But it is still the truth. Oh, I have read that Polidori tale, and the little horrors Hoffmann writes, and I cannot blame you for how you think of us, given the model that is presented in such stories. If I were not what I am, I would be inclined to feel as you do, and to scoff at the idea of vampires.” She came a step nearer to him. “But I am what you may become, and you need to be alerted to the dangers you may face.”

His laughter crackled, brittle as autumn leaves. “Very well, you have warned me. If we continue as lovers, I could become a vampire when I die if my spine or my nervous system or my body is not destroyed. I will have to avoid direct sunlight and running water and mirrors. That covers all the hazards, I think. Yes, and I will need my native earth to sustain me. And blood. Should it come to pass, I am prepared. I will take the precautions you advise, on the odd chance they may be necessary.” Then, with a deep sound that was half-sigh, half-groan, he pulled her into his arms again and bent to open her mouth with his own.

San Francisco, 4 August, 1855

At the play last night, during the intermission, I heard discussion of the prospect of fighting in Free Kansas, which they suppose will come to a head within the year. Apparently there is a question if the Territory should be a slave or a free State; those who are abolitionists are locked in conflict with those who wish to own slaves, a matter determined by each State, as is their right. Each new State admitted to the Union is permitted to decide this for itself and both abolitionists and slave-holders are seeking to gain the balance of power in this regard. A publisher in the East called Garrison has been putting out determined abolitionist tracts in the hope of compelling all the States to outlaw slavery. In the eastern part of the country the debate is a growing one, and becoming more urgent with every passing week. . . .

Baron deStoeckl expressed hope that the war in the Crimea will soon end. It has been very costly for all the countries involved, as much for the ravages of disease as the terrible depredations of war. The Baron remarked to me that he prays that this country might learn the lesson of war from Russia and England and France and Austria, and seek to negotiate a resolution without a contest of arms.

I am nearly finished with my chapter on the Cheyenne, and in general I am satisfied with the way the work is going; I have recorded enough of their thoughts about the nature of the world that it will be possible for later scholars to have a context for appreciating their legends and traditions. It is frustrating, however, to realize that few scholars will understand or share my fascination with these people, for it is not fashionable in scholarly circles to examine the lives of primitive peoples, who are thought to have nothing to teach those of us from more advanced civilizations. In time the fashion will change, but by then the Pawnee and the Cheyenne will not be able to benefit from it.

Saint-Germain has written to me, in care of Lucas and Turner, to say he has been busy in London and Amsterdam, where he read my monograph and missed me more with every page he read. It pleased me to know he has read what I have written, the more so because he likes it. And I am moved to know he misses me, for I miss him as I would miss my right hand, if I lost it. How my heart goes out to him, and how much I love him, after so long a time.
. . .
Tecumseh was suspicious of the letter, and spent half an hour quizzing me quite persistently about Saint-Germain. I do not know whether or not he has accepted my explanation, though he has apologized for his outburst of jealousy. He told me he has no right to be jealous of anyone, no matter what they are or have been to me. If only I were convinced he believes that. . . .