I am a vampire.
I have lived, in one form or another, for two hundred and eighty-two years.
When you have walked the Earth for so long, time ceases to be the indomitable foe to whom you spend your entire life bowing and scraping. Instead it becomes as insignificant as that childhood bully you left behind at the school gates. And a year can seem to linger only for as long as it takes for you to turn a page in a book.
After so, so many years, it is difficult to remember a time when I did not exist for Luna, the woman I have loved since I was made into a being of darkness. Nearly all the pages of my life are filled with Luna. There are pages spent in a wilderness of despair, her face haunting me, keeping me bound to the grim spectre of the life that was now mine. Many more of those pages are ones of ceaseless joy in which, united, we basked in the light of our love. But far too many pages of my life are coloured a soulless sepia with faded words, her absence a weeping wound which bleeds through to the many more blank pages that are still left for me to fill.
But there was such a time in England, in the 1700s, when I, Avery Wentworth, was a man and time was something to be respected. I remember that life so well: the shy boy who transitioned from awkward, stuttering youth to the pensive man who joined the priesthood. I remember those days, but they lack colour and vitality, and it is often like looking out of the window to a view so unremarkable the eye slides across the entire panorama without taking in a single detail of it until one must turn away from the sheer pain of boredom.
They are there, nonetheless. Memories of my mother, her sorrow the silent wraith haunting my childhood; the philandering father—usually loud and boisterous—who was barely present during my childhood, his charismatic personality lingering in the rooms of our haunted house long after he departed.
There was the pain of my mother’s death when I was ten, along with the stark reality that I was alone in a cold, harsh world which would never be softened by her gentle words, her kindness, and the protection of her love.
From then on I lived with my father—a man I barely knew—who soon became impatient with the young boy who was overwhelmed by his booming voice, overbearing personality, and extravagant ways. Then he became critical of the studious teenager and eventually bored with the young man who did not share his interests for women, drink, or hunting. Boarding school was a sanctuary, and upon graduating from university I did what my father has always seen as the worst insult to his name: I joined the priesthood and dove into my duties with a feverish kind of desperation.
But my story really begins on the evening of April 14, 1757, the night before my fateful trip to the Americas. I was twenty-seven years old, and on that evening, I was in what I really saw as my first home, my church. I wore black clothing: breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and a white necktie from which hung two large flat vertical pieces of cloth—the simple clothing the clergy wore to distinguish themselves in those days. I was kneeling before the altar, deep in prayer, and had been for some time. The church was still and quiet, the chaos of the outside world far from me in the sanctuary. And all that remained was His strength and peace, which had been my guiding light since the day I made the decision to give my life to Him. When I eventually opened my eyes, it was not a surprise to see the grey early evening light in the church had given way to darkness. I saw that a few candles had been lit and my coat was draped over my shoulders.
I rose to my feet and turned around. A petite young woman in a blue gown and matching coat sat in the first pew, her waist drawn to an excruciatingly narrow point above the full skirts of the gown, as the fashions of that time demanded.
When the world looked at this woman, my wife, they saw a plain woman with harsh features that were emphasised by the way her long, brown hair was pulled back into a severe-looking bun. But whenever I looked at Julia, I saw her inner beauty, especially when she smiled her gentle, sweet smile, as she did now.
She got to her feet as I crossed over to her. My own smile was somewhat apologetic. We had been married for less than a year, but I frequently forgot that I had someone other than myself to consider and care for.
“I am sorry, Julia. I completely forgot the time. You should have let me know you were here.” I took her hands in mine and, feeling how cold they were, tried to massage some warmth back into them.
“I did not wish to disturb you.” She gazed at me with pure adoration in her eyes. At first, seeing this clear love and devotion made me uncomfortable, but now I found that it reassured me.
I picked up her hat and put it on for her, promising myself to be much more attentive from now on.
“I need to pay a visit to my father,” I said. “Why not come with me? I do not intend to stay for long, and then we can go home and spend our last few hours with the dogs.”
We left the church hand in hand and stepped out into the cool spring evening. The moon was sickle-thin, casting weak light over the grounds, and the cemetery on the other side of the church had been all but devoured by darkness.
A slash of red to my right caught my eye and I glanced toward the cemetery to see a woman standing at its gates. She was a tall woman who possessed the dark beauty of the Spaniard, a shock of thick raven hair hanging down to her waist. She was dressed in an elaborate red gown and large red hat that was more suited to formal occasions. Lavish jewels adorned her neck and wrists. There was something wanton about her, a dark lasciviousness in the way her ruby lips spread in a smile that was more of a sneer.
I turned to help Julia into the carriage, and when I glanced at the cemetery once more, the woman was gone. I quickly put her out of my mind and entered the waiting carriage. We made our way along dark streets doused in flickering shadow from the weak candlelight sputtering from neglected streetlights. The streetlights did little to illuminate the cramped roads littered with manure from the heavy traffic it saw every day.
In what I would call a rather unremarkable life, that was the period when I was at my happiest. Marriage had opened up my world and was bringing a level of joy and contentment to life I hadn’t known was there. The only thing missing in our marriage was a child. It had been nearly a year since our vows, and every month that passed without the longed-for pregnancy seemed to bring a quiet air of desperation to Julia’s countenance that nothing could dispel. But I remained hopeful and believed that God would bless our union with what we both desired most: a son.
The only thing that marred my thoughts that evening was the impending visit to see my father. Our relationship was fractured at best, volatile at worst. My interactions with him were always clouded by the childhood memories of my mother lost in her sorrow as she waited night after night for her husband to come home, pretending not to be aware of the gossip that frequently blazed through her social circles of his whereabouts and the many married and unmarried women he seduced. But there was one thing I was grateful to him for: He was the one who brought about my union with Julia.
Over a year ago I had been summoned to the house of my childhood. It was a stately detached house set back from the road, offering a haven from London’s crowded, noisy streets.
I entered the warm, cosy drawing room to a pang of longing, its familiar, solid furnishings taking me back to the many evenings I spent on my mother’s lap in front of the fire. Unfortunately, my father’s imposing presence intruded upon that happy memory. He was standing by the fireplace with a glass of brandy in his hand, staring up at two swords hanging above it. The swords were his most prized possessions, an extremely extravagant gift from a wealthy female admirer. They had staghorn grips and intricate silver markings along the blade and lining its edges.
My father was an extremely handsome man. He was now in his fifties, the streaks of grey in his dark hair giving him a distinguished air, and although he was running to fat, he was tall enough to wear it well and merely looked robust. I was a younger, leaner version of him and had inherited his dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and aristocratic features.
Considering our relationship, it always surprised me to see the simple joy that infused him whenever he saw me. He gave me a warm smile when I entered and did not appear to notice that I did not return that smile. He bounded over to me and I braced myself for one of his characteristic—and painful—slaps across the back.
“Avery, my boy!” In addition to the slap, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and roughly pulled me over to the drinks cabinet. “It is good to see you. I see too little of you. I may have to start attending that church of yours just so I can get a glimpse of my firstborn.”
That booming laugh of his, which had a habit of grating on my nerves, rang out in the small room.
“So what will it be? Brandy?” he asked.
I pasted a thin smile on my lips and moved away to the chair by the window, where weak, frosty light shone into the room.
“No thank you, Father.”
He poured it anyway and placed it before me, generously topping up his own glass before he sat down opposite me.
“Don’t be wet, Avery. One drink will not hurt.”
My smile became colder. “‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’ Proverbs Chapter twenty, Verse one.”
His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second and the grip on the glass of brandy tightened. But then he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“I hear the congregation of St Anne’s has increased dramatically since you took over. Apparently it is difficult to get a seat due to all the young ladies who descend in droves so they can fawn over the dashing—and single—Reverend Wentworth. You know, all these years I believed that little act of yours. But you are a Wentworth. You must be going through those girls like a wild stallion.”
I bristled. I had never noticed before, but the majority of my parishioners were women. But to imply they merely came to look at me was ludicrous—and insulting. And to even suggest I was acting in a way that would dishonour those sacred vows I had taken left me in a silent rage.
I rose to my feet.
“I can see there is no purpose to this visit other than to sit here and listen to you make slurs against my character.”
“Sit down, Avery. It was a joke.”
When I stepped away from the chair, his temper was quick to rise to the surface.
“Damn you, I said sit down! I rarely see you, and when I do, you are here for barely a few minutes before you take your leave.”
The sound of him raising his voice elicited an echo of the dread I used to feel around him as a child, and almost without realising it, I responded as I would have then and quickly sat down before he became angrier. I glared at him for a few moments before I spoke again.
“Why did you summon me, Father?”
“It is time you found yourself a wife.”
“Father, if this is the reason why you called me here, then you are wasting your time. My work keeps me far too busy to go about the business of finding a wife.”
“Then it is a good thing I have already found one for you. And do stop pouting. Your mother used to do that and I find it most annoying.”
It was necessary for me to inhale deeply before responding.
“It is most kind of you to have taken it upon yourself to find me a wife, Father, but if some of the unfortunate females I have seen you consort with over the years, including the very night you laid your first wife to rest, are an example of what I am to expect, then I will have to refuse your kind offer.”
“Actually, she is nothing like them. For one, she is not much to look at and is docile, meek, and suitably pious for you. I am sure the two of you would greatly amuse yourselves by quoting the Bible to each other day and night.”
“I do not need a wife.”
“Whether you do or not, I have found one for you. She is extremely wealthy. Look around you, Avery. We are broke. Her wealth can help restore this house and make you a man of some means.”
I got to my feet again as he continued.
“Her name is Julia Spencer. She will be coming to dine here tonight, Avery. I expect you to be here.”
I moved to the door, stopping to glare at him. My voice shook with emotion when I spoke.
“I will not marry anyone of your choosing, and definitely not at your command, or merely for their wealth.”
I opened the door.
“I am not finished, Avery. Avery!”
The door closed behind me and I was already halfway down the corridor. He did not follow.
I remained angry for the remainder of that week and ignored my father’s letters. But a few weeks later, I came across Julia at a social function I was required to attend. She was a small, plain woman who might otherwise have gone unnoticed among the other women, who were like dazzling flowers in comparison. What struck me about her was the weariness of her countenance as she sat, sometimes alone or with one or two other women, throughout the dancing that took place that evening. It spoke of years of dejection as she stared either at her hands or at a spot above the heads of the dancing couples, as if she were imagining she was not in the room with them. After watching many men wander past, completely overlooking her, I rose from my seat and moved toward her.
She saw me approaching, her eyes growing wider with uncertainty and confusion when she saw I did not deviate from my path toward her. When I reached her, she lowered her gaze abruptly and merely nodded her assent when I asked her to dance. Her gaze remained lowered as I made polite conversation, but as the dance progressed, she eventually looked at me and even smiled. I had found her to be a thoughtful young woman with a subtle sense of humour.
I was sorry to leave the function that evening, knowing it was likely Julia would spend the rest of the night back in her seat avoiding staring at the men and women dancing before her. She remained in my thoughts and a week later, I decided I would see her again.
We were married a month later. It was a quiet affair followed by a small gathering at my childhood home. I had avoided my father for most of that day, but he found me as we were leaving. He stood at the window of the carriage, glass of brandy in one hand, and took Julia’s hand with his other.
“Julia,” he said, slurring his words. “I want you to know that we are all very happy to have you as part of our family. I do not think we would have found a more gracious wife for Avery if I had chosen her myself. Oh, hold on, I did choose you, and I must say, I chose exceedingly well.”
I noticed he was stroking her hand a little too fondly for my liking.
“And, of course,” he continued, “my door is always open to you, my dear. You can call on me at any time, day or night. You will find me most welcoming and eager, extremely eager, to be of service to you.”
At that, I pulled Julia’s hand out of his, not entirely pleased about the fact that she was smiling as she thanked him for his kind offer.
He smiled and winked at me and then at Julia. He gulped down the rest of the brandy and waved, his drunken grin irritating me as the carriage pulled away.
So on my last evening in England, I left Julia in the carriage when we reached my father’s home, intending to make it a short visit. I entered the drawing room to discover he was not alone. My brother Albert, who was two years younger than me and had been conceived with one of my father’s countless mistresses, was in conversation with two women. He gave a cordial nod in my direction when I entered, appearing relieved when he saw me. He was a tall, lithe, handsome man with piercing dark eyes and an arrogant curve to his lips. He also had a natural reserve that made him appear aloof. The two women he was in conversation with paused to glance my way, keen interest in their eyes. I was acquainted with them only by their reputations and the salacious gossip my parishioners sometimes divulged to me.
My father was sitting alone by the fire, glass of brandy in hand. I was surprised to see his swords were missing from their pride of place.
“Avery,” he said, his speech slurred. “I almost believed you would not come and spend any time with us before you departed. I have a gift for you.”
There was a tenderness I had not heard from him before, but I did not reply as I had just seen Philip, my youngest brother and another illegitimate son of my father’s. At fourteen, he was tall and gangly, with large blue eyes that charmed as much as his sweet nature. I was irritated to see a glass of brandy in his hand and a voluptuous redheaded woman draped over his lap. His head was in line with her large bosom, which was all but spilling out of her garment. And that was where Philip’s gaze stayed.
I moved to them, took her hand, and gently pulled her off of his lap, snatching the glass of brandy from his hand just as he brought it to his lips. I loosened my hold on the young woman’s hand, but her grip tightened and she moved in close, forcing me to glance at her.
“Reverend,” she purred, turning to my father before locking gazes with me again. “You did not tell us Reverend Wentworth would be here this evening. I must say that I am looking forward to getting to know you better, Reverend.” She giggled, placing her hand against my chest.
I placed the drink on the table, giving Philip a severe scowl when he reached for the glass. Chastened, he immediately sank back in his seat and looked down at his feet, two red spots of colour rising to his cheeks. That taken care of, I disentangled the young lady from my person, taking care to be kind yet firm.
“Miss Webb, if and when you decide to make your way back to the Lord, my church will always be open to you.”
The smile disappeared from her lips and she took a step back, meaning to resume her seat on Philip’s lap. But seeing my expression, she instead sat on the seat beside him.
My father got to his feet. “Oh good God, Avery. I have seen neither hide nor hair of you since you accepted this offer to go to the Americas. You finally make an appearance and it seems as if it is merely to ruin this party we are having in your honour.”
He placed a heavy hand on a vase that had been in my mother’s family since her mother was a child.
“Father, please be careful with that.”
I crossed the room and picked it up, walking over to a small table by the window.
“All of this will be gone when the house is sold anyway, so I would not worry too much about it,” he retorted.
I stopped by the window and it was a few moments before I remembered the vase and placed it carefully on the table. My hands were nowhere near as steady as they had been when I first picked it up.
When I faced my father, I was aware of how small my voice was and I felt cold all over.
“Sold? You intend to sell this house? You intend to sell my mother’s house?”
He emptied his glass with one lazy swill, placing the empty glass on the table where he promptly refilled it.
“Yes. The deeds of sale have already been drawn up and I will meet with the prospective buyer tomorrow to sign it over to him.”
“And exactly when were you planning on telling me this?”
I was only aware of the fact that I had raised my voice when Albert halted his conversation and looked toward me and my father, exasperation in his features. He ran an unsteady hand through his hair.
“Calm down, Avery, please,” Albert said, clearly in no mood to referee yet another argument between my father and me.
My father, as quick to anger as ever, had already grown a shade redder. “You are leaving tomorrow. Why should you care what happens to this house?”
“I care because it does not belong to you. It belongs to my mother. You told me you would restore this house. Instead you intend to sell it behind my back?”
“The house is a money pit. I refuse to waste any more money on it just to pander to your childish whims. Your mother is dead, Avery. Holding on to this house will not bring her back.”
In the corner, I saw Albert exhale heavily. But he need not have been concerned, for although years of repressed anger lay in my chest like slow-moving molten lava, my only response was to glare at my father for a few moments and then move to the door.
“Where are you going?” my father cried. Bleary, drunken confusion hung around his eyes, and his mouth lay open in an oval of hurt. “This is your last night in England. How can you leave when you have just arrived?”
Albert was by his side now. “Let him go, Father. I am sure—”
“Avery! You will not leave this house and disappear from my life in this manner. Your mother’s mollycoddling has made you spoilt and petulant and she clearly turned you against me. But that is no excuse for your behaviour.”
My hand had been on the door, but now I faced him. Albert hung back now, sober and dour as I moved away from the door toward my father. The others in the room had fallen silent and were clearly ill at ease.
“My mother never said so much as a wrong word about you to anyone. Least of all me. She loved you, God only knows why, but she loved you. Your selfishness killed her, and I have always despised you for that.”
The colour completely drained from his face and a range of emotions crossed his features. Then the colour went rushing back to his face as he closed the space between us.
I was not even aware he had raised his fist until it smashed into my jaw. At first I felt no pain, only the force of the contact which sent me sprawling across the floor. I looked up in fear, expecting my father to lash out at me again, but Albert had his arms around my father’s chest. Philip was also at my father’s side, holding on to his arm to try and keep him back. Philip was trembling and all colour had fled his features.
Face red and breathing heavily, my father shrugged them off. When he spoke, I saw confusion and hurt in his eyes.
“No matter what you think of me, I am still your father. You have no right to speak to me that way.”
I got to my feet. When Albert moved from my father’s side to assist me, I pushed him away. I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped away a trickle of blood from my lip. Nausea rose, leaving me feeling weak and shaky.
“I hate you and I do not understand why she ever loved you,” I whispered.
Albert had also gone pale and his distress was evident in his dark eyes. “Father, he does not mean that. He is—”
“I do mean it,” I stated, my voice shaking. “I am just sorry I waited this long to tell you.”
“You ungrateful, spoilt brat! I have tolerated your sanctimonious ways for too long. You go on and leave with your plain, droll little wife. She is clearly barren so you will never have to suffer the pain of a hateful, ungrateful child!”
Stung he had insulted two people I loved in the space of two minutes, I stood my ground, although I knew that if he chose to lunge at me again Albert and Philip would not be able to stop him.
“You may say what you will about Julia. But she is beautiful. And most of all, she is kind and has generosity of spirit and integrity that you, and the women you associate with, will never possess. Yes, she may never bear me a child, but she is enough. She is enough.”
With that, I left the room to the sound of him screaming my name and cursing.
I closed the door and sagged against it, the poise I had shown gone. I could still hear him raging in the room, his voice echoing down the corridor. In fact, the whole house seemed to shake with his fury. I made to move from the door and saw Julia standing at the end of the corridor, almost hidden in the dim candlelight. She was completely still, some emotion evident in her features, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She was standing only a few feet away from me where she could hear every single word my father bellowed, but also Albert’s lower, bored drawl in the room behind me. Then it dawned on me and I felt the blood drain from my face. She had heard the whole ugly exchange.
Before I could try to offer some kind of explanation, she was moving toward me. I braced myself for another angry outburst. Instead she threw herself into my arms and kissed me. When she pulled away, I saw she was smiling, but there was a hint of uncertainty in her dark brown eyes.
“Did you mean that? Did you mean what you said?”
I was confused for a few moments, then relief flooded through me. She wasn’t angry. “Of course I meant it. You are beautiful, and you have given me so much in such a short space of time.”
“Oh, Avery.” She buried herself in my arms before pulling away and looking anxiously up at my face. “Are you hurt?”
She took the handkerchief out of my clenched, trembling fist and proceeded to wipe at my lip with a tender hand.
“No, it is nothing.” I caught hold of her hand and held it tightly in mine. “Let us go home.”
I kissed her gently on the lips before pulling her away with me, away from the sound of my father’s voice.
We exited the house and were about to enter the carriage when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw Philip at one of the upstairs windows. He quickly disappeared. A few minutes later, the front door was wrenched open and he rushed out of the house toward me. He stopped short when he was a few feet away and nervously fingered a button on his waistcoat. Then he threw himself into my arms. For a few moments I was completely still and then I placed my arms around him, touched by this uncharacteristic show of emotion. I realised I should have made the effort to spend more time with him over the years. With me gone, he only had the example my father set to follow.
When he pulled away, he had tears in his eyes.
“I will write as soon as I am able,” I promised.
He nodded and embraced Julia. Albert had come outside during that time.
He shook my hand and bade Julia farewell.
We entered the carriage and moved off. The last glimpse I had was of the two of them standing outside my mother’s house swathed in shadow.