P. N. Elrod - Jonathan Barrett 01 - Red Death

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Long Island, April 1773

"You are a prideful, willful, ungrateful wretch!"

This was my mother speaking—or rather screeching—to me, her only son.

To be fair, it was not one of her better days, but then she had so few of th

ose that none of us were accustomed to noting any difference in her temper.

Good or bad, it was best to treat her with the caution and deference that sh

e demanded, if not openly, then by implication. Today, or at least at this m

oment, I had failed to observe that unspoken rule of behavior, and for the n

ext five minutes was treated to a sneering, acid-filled lecture detailing th

e negative aspects of my character. Considering that until recently she'd sp

ent fifteen of my seventeen years removed from my company, she had a surpris

ingly large store of knowledge to draw upon for her invective.

By the time she'd paused for air I'd flushed red from head to foot and swea

t tickled and stung under my arms and along my flanks. 1 was breathing hard

as well from the effort required to hold in my own hot emotions.

"And don't you dare glower at your mother like that, Jonathan Fonteyn," she

ordered.

What, then, am I to do? I snarled back to her in my mind. And she'd used m

y middle name, which I hated, which was why she'd used it. It was her maid

en name and yet one more tie to her. With a massive effort, I swallowed an

d tried to compose my face to more neutral lines. It helped to look down.

"I am sorry, Mother. Please forgive me." The words were patently forced and

wooden, fooling no one. A show of submission was required at this point, i

f only to prevent her from launching into another tirade.

Unhampered by the obligation of filial respect, the woman was free to glare

at me for as long as she pleased. She had it down to a fine art. She also

made no acknowledgment of what I'd just said, meaning that she had not acce

pted my apology. Such gracious gestures of forgiveness were reserved only f

or those times when a third party was present as a witness to her loving pa

tience with a wayward son. We were alone in Father's library now; not even

a servant was within earshot of her honey-on-broken-glass voice.

I continued to study the floor until she moved herself to speak again.

"I will hear no more of your nonsense, Jonathan. There's many another you

ng man who would gladly trade places with you."

Find one, I thought, and I would just as cheerfully cut a bargain with him on

this very spot.

"The arrangements have been made and cannot be unmade. You've no reason

to find complaint with any of it."

True, I had to admit to myself. The opportunity was fabulous, something I

would have eagerly jumped for had it been presented to me in any other m

anner, preferably as one adult to another. What was so objectionable was

having everything arranged without my knowledge and sprung on me without

warning and with no room for discussion.

I took a deep breath in the hope that it would steady me and tried to push the

anger away. The breath had to be let out slowly and silently, lest she interp

ret it as some sort of impertinence.

Finally raising my eyes, I said, "I am quite overwhelmed, Mother. But this i

s rather unexpected."

"I hardly think so," she replied. "Your father and I had long ago determined

that you would go into law."

Liar. I had decided that in the years she had been living away from us in Phi

ladelphia. If only she had stayed there.

"It is our fondest hope that you not only follow in his footsteps, but surpass

him in your success."

My mouth clamped tight at the unmistakable sarcasm in her emphasis of cert

ain words. This time the anger was on Father's

behalf, not for myself. How could she think him a failure?

"To do that, you must have the best education possible. Don't think that thi

s is a mere whim of ours. I—we have studied the choices carefully over the y

ears and determined that Harvard is simply not capable of delivering to you

the best that is available...."

Just after breakfast, she'd sent for me to come see her in the library. I was

mildly apprehensive, wondering what the trouble was this time. It was yet to

o early in the day for me to have done anything to offend her, unless she'd f

ound something to criticize in the way I chewed my food. I was not discountin

g it as a possibility.

We'd eaten in uncomfortable silence, Mother at her long-empty spot at one e

nd, and my sister, Elizabeth, across from me as usual in the middle. Father

's place at the head of the table was empty, as he was away on business.

Such silence at the morning meal was new to this household. It had settled

upon us like some heavy scavenger bird with Mother's return home. Elizabeth

and I had learned that it was better to remain quiet indefinitely than to

speak before spoken to lest we draw some disapproving remark from her.

The servants were not as lucky. Today one of the girls chanced to drop a sp

oon, and though no harm was done, she received a lengthy rebuke for her clu

msiness that left her in tears. Elizabeth exchanged glances with me while M

other's attention was distracted from us. It was going to be a bad day for

everyone, then.

Somehow we got through one more meal under this threatening cloud. Weeks ea

rlier, my sister and I had agreed to always finish eating and leave at the

same time so that neither had to face such adversity alone. We did so again

, asking permission to be excused and getting it, and had just made good ou

r escape when one of the servants caught up to us and delivered the summons

. I was to come to the library in five minutes.

"Why couldn't she have said something when we'd been right there in the roo

m with her?" I whispered to Elizabeth after the servant was gone. "Is speak

ing to me directly so difficult?"

"It's her way of doing things, Jonathan," she replied, but not in a manner to

indicate any approval. "Just agree with whatever she says and we'll sort it ou

t with Father later."

"Do you know what she wants?"

"Heavens, it could be anything. You know how she is."

"Unfortunately, yes. May I come see you afterward? I shall need you to bi

nd up my wounds."

She burst into that radiant smile reserved only for me. "Yes, little brother.

I'll go look for some bandages immediately."

Mother had seated herself in the chair next to Father's desk; it would have

been overdoing things to actually take over Ms chair. She was canny enough t

o avoid that. The idea was lo suggest his invisible presence approving her e

very action and word. I was sharply aware of this and not at all fooled, but

not about to inform her of it. In the month since her return, I'd had to fa

ce her here alone on a dozen minor offenses; this was starting out no more d

ifferently than the others. I'd guessed that she'd noticed the new buckles o

n my shoes and was about to deliver a scorching opinion of their style and c

ost. The other lectures had been on a similar level of importance. I was gla

d to know that Elizabeth was standing by ready to soothe my burns when it wa

s over.

Mother had assumed the demeanor of royalty granting an anxiously awaited au

dience, studying some letter or other as I walked in, her wide skirts caref

ully arranged, the tilt of her head just right. She could not have been an

actress, though, for she was much too obvious in her method and would have

been hooted from the stage in a serious drama. Farce, perhaps. Yes, she mig

ht have been perfect at farce, playing the role of the domineering dowager.

Marie Fonteyn Barrett had been very beautiful once, slender, graceful, with

eyes as blue as an autumn sky, her skin milk white and milk soft. So she app

eared in her portrait above the library fireplace. In the twenty years since

it had been painted the milk had curdled, the grace turned to stiff arrogan

ce. The eyes were the same color, but had gone hard, so that they seemed les

s real than the ones in the painting. Her hair was different as well. No mor

e were the flowing black curls of a young bride; now it was piled high over

her creased brow and thickly powdered. In the last month it had grown out a

bit and needed rearranging. Perhaps she would even wash it out and begin afr

esh. I could but hope for it. Her constant stabbings and jabbings at that aw

ful pile of lard and flour with her ivory scratching stick got on my nerves.

The curtains were open and cold April sunshine, still too immature for war

mth, seeped through the windows. The wood in the fireplace had not been li

ghted, so the room was chilly. Mother was a great believer in conserving h

ousehold supplies unless it concerned her own comfort. The lack of fire ga

ve me hope that our interview would be mercifully short.

"Jonathan," she said, putting aside the paper in her hand. I recognized it as

part of the normal litter on Father's desk, something she'd merely grabbed u

p to use as a prop. Why was the woman so artificial?

"Mother." The word was still awkward for me to say.

She smiled with a benevolent satisfaction that raised my apprehensions so

mewhat. "Your father and I have some wonderful news for you."

If the news was so wonderful, why was Father not here to deliver it with he

r? "Indeed, Mother? Then I am anxious to hear it."

"You will be very pleased to learn that you will be going up to Cambridge fo

r your university education."

That was hardly news to me, but I put on something resembling good cheer fo

r her sake. "Yes, I am very pleased. I have been looking forward to it all

year."

Her brows lowered and eyes narrowed with irritation. Perhaps I was not as

pleased as had been expected.

"I shall do my absolute best at Harvard to make you and Father proud of me,

" I added hopefully.

Now her mouth thinned. "You will be going to Cambridge, Jonathan."

"Yes, Mother, I know. Harvard University is located in Cambridge."

Somehow, I had said the wrong thing. Fury, red-faced and frightening to l

ook upon, suddenly distorted her features so she hardly seemed human. I a

lmost stepped backward. Almost. Her rages were not uncommon. We'd all see

n this side of her many times and learned by trial and error how to avoid

them, but this one mystified me. What had I done? Why was she—?

"You dare to mock me, Jonathan? You dare?"

I raised one hand in a calming gesture. "No, Mother, never."

"You dare?" Her voice rose enough to break my ears, enough to reach the ser

vants' hall. Hopefully, they would know better than to come investigate the

din.

"No, Mother. I swear to you, I am not mocking you. I sincerely apologize th

at I have given offense." Such words came easily; she'd given me ample oppo

rtunity for practice over the weeks. I finished off with a bow to emphasize

my complete sincerity. Yet another opportunity to study the floor.

Thank God that this time it worked. Straightening, I saw her color slowly re

turn to normal and the lines in her face abruptly smooth out. This swift rec

overy was more disturbing to me than her instant rage. Since her return, I'd

quickly adjusted to the fact that she was not at all like other people, but

that was hardly a solace during those times when her differences were so ac

utely demonstrated.

Dominance established, she resumed where she'd left off, almost as though

nothing had happened. "You are going to Cambridge, Jonathan. Cambridge i

n England, Jonathan," she repeated, putting a razor edge on each syllable

as though to underscore my abysmal ignorance.

It took me some moments to understand, to sort out the mistake. I suppose t

hat she'd been anticipating a torrent of enthusiasm from me. Instead, my fa

ce fell and from my lips popped the first words that came to mind. "But I w

ant to go to Harvard."

That's when the explosion truly came and she started calling me names.

You know the rest.

What was she saying now? Something about the virtues of Cambridge. I did no

t interrupt; it would have been pointless. She wasn't interested in my opin

ions or plans I might have made. Any and all objections had been drowned in

the hot tidal wave of her temper. To resurrect them again would only aggra

vate her more. As Elizabeth had reminded me, I could sort it all out with F

ather later.

Did Father know about this? I couldn't believe that he would not have spoke

n to me about it before leaving yesterday. Surely he would have said someth

ing, for he, too, had planned that I should go to Harvard. That she had car

efully waited until he was absent before breaking her news took on a fresh

and ominous meaning, but I couldn't quite see the reason behind it yet. It

was difficult to think while she talked on and on, pausing only to get the

occasional nodding agreement from me at appropriate times.

Why was she so concerned about my education after fifteen years of blithe n

eglect? Marie Fonteyn Barrett had been singularly uninterested in either of

her children since we were very small. It was a mixed blessing for us, for

growing up without a mother had left something of a blank spot in our live

s. On the other hand, what sort of broken monsters might we have been had s

he stayed with Father instead of moving to Philadelphia?

She'd only made the long journey from there to our home on Long Island becau

se of all the turmoil in that city. With the rebels stirring things up at ev

ery opportunity, it had become too dangerous to remain, so she had written F

ather, and he, being a good and decent man, had said her house was there for

her, the doors open. Her swift arrival caused us to speculate that she had

not actually waited for his reply.

She'd just as swiftly assumed the running of the household in her own manner

, subtly and not so subtly disrupting every level of life and work. Surprisi

ngly, few servants left. Most were very loyal to Father and had the understa

nding that this was to be only a brief visit. When things had settled back t

o normal in Philadelphia, Mother would soon depart from us.

A likely chance, I thought cynically. Surely she was enjoying herself too mu

ch to leave.

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LongIsland,April1773"Youareaprideful,willful,ungratefulwretch!"Thiswasmymotherspeaking—orratherscreeching—tome,heronlyson.Tobefair,itwasnotoneofherbetterdays,butthenshehadsofewofthosethatnoneofuswereaccustomedtonotinganydifferenceinhertemper.Goodorbad,itwasbesttotreatherwiththecautionanddeferencetha...

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