William (15 page)

All to my great delight, for I was nothing if
not fastidious, a trait that had been somewhat out of place among
the folk I grew up with. It was my mother's doing, I guessed. No
matter how late she returned from work, she could not sleep until
she had washed her shift and dried it by the fire, brushed her hair
and pinned it in shining plaits about her head.

My mother. There was a strange thought. I
opened my eyes, looking at my knees above the milky water. Not five
days ago I had said goodbye to that sweet lady, never to see her
again. I could not summon that sadness now, but there was a tender
feeling that came over me, a warm tide of nostalgia. I turned the
soap in my hands, working up a thick lather as I pondered those
last days leading up to my present situation. It was almost like
looking at someone else's life, for this morning I could not
imagine despairing as wantonly as William Lacy had done all those
months in New York. I could recall the reasoning behind my misery,
yes, but I couldn’t relate to it. Yes, Merrick had kept me waiting,
and yes, perhaps I had gone so far as to wonder if he might kill
me, but those were such petty quibbles in the larger scheme of
things. So I had been forced to wait a few months! What were a few
months when our lives were measured in centuries? And what would it
have mattered to die, really, when I wouldn't have known the
difference?

But this was a drastic shift in perspective,
a fact I deliberately reminded myself as I massaged the creamy
lather into my hair. The change had only happened last night, and I
wasn't so brash as to discount everything that had happened prior
to that fateful bite. For was I not still William Lacy? Though some
of me had changed, surely more remained the same. I still reveled
in a good bath, for instance. I still appreciated a well-tailored
suit. I was still head over heels for Merrick. And as my patriotic
delight in last night's stroll through Boston reminded me, I was
still an American. That was rather amusing, wasn't it? How many
other American vampires were there? I would have to ask him.

I stood up to wash the rest of my body, and
as I worked the soap over my lower half, I couldn't help
remembering the night before. Christ, I'd lost my head. Who
wouldn't? The man had set me alight, fed the flames until I was
blazing, and stoked my embers all night until I crumbled like hot
ash. To think I had fancied myself a skillful lover! Merrick's
carnal talents had always overwhelmed me, but not even our previous
encounters had prepared me for that. Had I ever guessed there was
such pleasure in being taken by a man, I might have sought the
experience sooner. When had he found out? How? I wondered.

The opening of the door downstairs alerted me
of his return. The water was still quite warm, and when I finished
soaping myself from head to toe, I settled back down to soak for a
while longer.

We spent two idyllic weeks in Boston, which I
failed to notice until I overheard a man discussing his plans for
the end of July.

"Did he say it was the twenty-ninth?" I
asked, turning to Merrick in astonishment. It was just after
nightfall, and we were walking down Marlborough on our way to the
tailor. "Just a moment. What day did I arrive?"

"The sixteenth."

"As I thought! Where the Devil has the time
gone?"

Merrick arched a knowing brow. "Indeed."

"Damn," I murmured to myself, rubbing my chin
and looking ponderously toward the few stars that speckled the
early night sky. "I suppose I have had that many baths. I must have
lost my sense of time in all the excitement."

"You have a new sense of time."

"Do I?"

Merrick nodded. "It moves quickly for the
first decades. And it slows down, gradually, as the years go
by."

"How curious." In fact, I was near disbelief.
Two weeks and I had barely scratched the surface of all the
questions I had saved up. Was it possible we had spent so little
time in conversation? Perhaps. Yes, perhaps it was. I turned my
face away from Merrick to hide my smirk. Between my long baths and
toilettes, our leisurely strolls through the city, the time given
to acquiring our sustenance, and the hours we spent in the
townhouse languorously grinding our way to dawn, well. Delving
conversations may have slipped through the cracks, yes.

"Time must be at a crawl for you, then," I
ventured.

"Not anymore, no. Not these past two weeks.”
Merrick tilted his head thoughtfully. “I suppose that goes to the
heart of the matter."

"Does it?"

“You already know part. Our bodies don’t grow
old, but our souls age in strange ways. As the years go by, time
stops moving so quickly, and we sleep less and less. One grows
weary when each second is unimaginably slow, and there is no
comfort in sleep." He paused, and when he went on, he took on the
tone of a confession. "But these afflictions vanish as easily as we
can find a companion. Now I can sleep at will, though it isn’t
necessary for me. And time is no longer at a crawl, as you
say."

I caught his sleeve in surprise. "I had no
idea." Seeing the hint of a smile on his lips, I exclaimed,
"Splendid!"

"Yes," Merrick laughed quietly at my
reaction.

Christ, no wonder he seemed so much more
alive. "It sounds like Hell. I’m quite fond of sleep. Although,” I
mused, “what is it like to be awake in the day?"

"Have you forgotten already?"

"Of course not," I scoffed, not sure if he
was teasing. "But everything is different now."

"I know," he said with a fleeting smile.
"You're right. The days are just as different. Empty and plain. You
must hide from the light, and there is no thirst."

At the last point, I frowned. "Is it a bother
not to be thirsty?"

"It is complicated," he said slowly. "No, not
in itself. It makes some matters easier, being awake to do business
by day, and without distraction. But it changes everything. And it
becomes difficult to face the night."

"Difficult in what way?"

"In the way of melancholy. Shame. Despair."
He seemed to trail off with a wave of his hand, which caught me off
guard, because Merrick was not one to make needless motions while
speaking (unlike his old friend Theo, a thought which also caught
me off guard). But then I realized Merrick was only gesturing to
indicate the brick house on the corner to which we were now headed.
Above the door hung a finely cut and polished wooden sign bearing
the name of one Anthony Beekman, tailor.

I touched Merrick's arm as we walked up the
path, bidding him to look at me. "I want to hear more about this,"
I said directly, hoping that would help me not lose the question in
another few nights of revelry. "If you don't mind."

"As you wish," Merrick said. "Though there
are more pleasant things to speak of." And with that we had reached
the entrance. I resolved not to forget where our conversation had
left off. We would only be inside for an hour, as Merrick had told
me quite firmly, perhaps guessing that I would not be easily
hurried out of a merchant tailor's shop.

The door was opened by a young lad in a dark
suit, who bowed and beckoned us into a well-lit hall. Likely an
apprentice, he couldn't have been older than twelve. I greeted him
warmly, instantly excited by the scent of textiles hanging in the
air. Ah, there was nothing like a trip to the tailor! A man came
around the corner then to greet us, a tall, lanky fellow outfitted
in the most exquisite ensemble I had seen in a long while. His pale
trousers disappeared neatly into his tall boots, and his creamy
waistcoat offset a wine-colored jacket that practically gleamed in
the light. I glanced at Merrick, impressed. Had the man made a poor
choice in his life?

"Good evening, sirs," the man said with a
broad smile. He was several years older than me, with a friendly
demeanor balanced by an affable nervousness. "Anthony Beekman, at
your service."

"Good evening," Merrick said. "I'm Jonathan
Mansfield, and this is my partner, Mr. Liam Samuels. We've brought
along a token of gratitude for doing us the favor of opening your
shop this evening."

"A new black tea from China," I said,
presenting the square parcel. It was neatly wrapped in indigo cloth
and bound in black ribbon, a trademark of the rather exclusive
dealer from whom Merrick had procured the gift. "Wonderful with
breakfast." Or so we'd heard.

"Oh, my word!" Beekman said, his eyes
lighting up in apparent recognition as he took the bundle into his
hands. "What a delightful gift! Gentlemen, you shouldn't have. I
assure you, it's my pleasure to welcome your patronage this
evening. Come in, come in." He ushered us into the main room, where
a lad closer to my age was straightening the bolts of fabric laid
out on a long table beneath the window. The room was even more
brightly lit than the entryway, with as many lamps burning as I
imagined sensible in a room full of cotton, silk and wool. Beekman
alluded to them himself, remarking, "It's a pity the moon doesn't
shine a bit brighter, but I do believe you'll get a good sense of
the material by this light."

If anything could divert my attention from
this charming man after his remark on the moon, it was a fine
spread of textiles. Merrick had briefly explained the matter of
finances to me as we prepared to leave the house. The crux of it
was there was very little reason to mind the price of anything. And
here I was with a tailor, and a proper one, at that. God help us
all. "What's this coating on your jacket, sir?" I asked him. "It’s
exquisite."

"Why, how kind of you to say!" Beekman
replied with the grace of a man who was accustomed to compliments.
He proceeded to unwind a bolt of the very same material as he went
on to describe its qualities. When a similar sample in another hue
caught my eye, Beekman complimented my taste, which was a pleasure
coming from such a fashionable gentleman.

"Yes," Merrick agreed with the tailor, his
eyes moving casually over the selection. "He does have a discerning
eye. In fact, I think he'd better choose for me, as well."

I looked up from the juniper-colored velvet
we’d been discussing, flashing Merrick a smile. "Splendid," I said,
and turned back to the tailor. "Splendid."

With that, we went to town. Mr. Beekman, it
turned out, had just returned from a trip to London days before,
and had a great deal to report on the newest fashions. His nervous
manner mellowed considerably as I questioned him on the matter of
breeches versus pantaloons; neither of us lamented the decline of
exposed stockings. Mr. Beekman and his apprentices, of course, were
all in trousers and boots.

You could tell a good man by his treatment of
those beneath him, and Mr. Beekman was warm and cheerful with his
boys. The youngest one brought out some wine and then went to work
at stitching something in the back corner, while the older lad
stayed at the tailor's side, assisting him with practiced ease.
What a fine profession to be brought up in, and under such a
talented practitioner! I couldn’t help being charmed by them, and
to an extent that was new to me. For two weeks I'd drifted through
flocks of strangers, feeling like an unknown creature in disguise.
But now I could not help relating to this lot—the tailor for his
sophisticated understanding of fashion, and his young apprentices,
who reminded me of the days when I’d been in their shoes, only with
Merrick as my master.

As Mr. Beekman was taking my measurements, I
glimpsed the time and cursed under my breath. The hour was more
than half past. There was time to measure Merrick and make a few
final notes, but then we would have to be on our way until the next
fitting. I was sorry we couldn't stay. Yet I forgot my
disappointment quickly enough as I watched Merrick shed his jacket
and waistcoat to let the tailor measure him.

I took a seat near the bolts of cotton and
silk and leaned back against the cushion, drinking my wine as he
stood in front of the hearth, shoulders back and arms out. Mr.
Beekman wrapped the tape around his chest, drawing the linen tight
over that broad expanse of muscle for a moment as he relayed the
measurement to his assistant. I schooled my expression as Merrick
crossed his arms to let Mr. Beekman wind the tape around his waist,
casually avoiding his eyes, for I was sure if he caught me watching
I would betray myself with a grin—or worse. It was hard enough to
appear nonchalant as Mr. Beekman complimented Merrick's shape.
“Well built,” indeed! For as long as I lived, I’d never forget how
gracefully he had worn that long hooded cloak during the days when
I had been his apprentice. Needless to say, in a proper suit he was
almost unbearable. Watching the tailor run his hand up the inside
of Merrick's thigh to take his inseam, I raised my glass to my lips
again for a long drink.

"I'm afraid we must be on our way shortly,"
Merrick said, and I looked up to find him observing me with a
knowing expression. With some chagrin I stayed quiet as he and the
tailor settled the next fitting, and then we were dressed and
headed for the door. I gave Mr. Anthony Beekman a warm farewell,
taking a final look at his immaculate attire and fashionably
tousled hair, and then we were on our way.

Night had settled in nicely by the time we
stepped out onto the street and made our way toward the harbor. The
stars had spread all across the sky, clouded in some places by
gauzy layers of cloud. It was still an uncommonly humid summer,
more so by the day, though I rarely noticed.

"What a talented fellow!" I exclaimed. "Did
you see his cravat?"

"I did." Merrick seemed mildly amused by my
enthusiasm.

"You made a fine choice. I'll bet my new suit
he's on the brink of fame."

"I would not be surprised."

I could have prattled on. The tailor had made
quite an impression on me, and I found myself revisiting his image
in my mind's eye, his gray eyes and warm, healthy skin. Delicious.
Though it would almost be a shame to mess up that impeccable knot
at his collar...