Marcus took careful inventory of what his nose noticed, but he kept returning to the laurel and sealing wax. Whoever belonged to them was the center of gravity in this house. And he was behind him, where Marcus was most vulnerable.
His grandfather. The man called Far by Fanny, and Comte Philippe by Madame de Genlis, and sieur by Alain. Marcus wished that Gallowglass—or even the disapproving Hancock—were there to give him advice on what would be expected of him. He had learned much about how to wash clothes, make medicines, and handle horses since arriving in France, but Marcus had no idea how to properly greet a vampire except for the hand-to-elbow grip that Gallowglass and Fanny used.
And so Marcus fell back on his Massachusetts upbringing. First, he gave his most polished bow. Now that Marcus was a vampire, any ragged edges or infelicities of line had been smoothed into a perfect, graceful movement that would have made his mother proud. Then he plumbed the depths of his conscience and reached for the honesty that had been drilled into him from pulpit and primer.
“Grandfather. You must forgive me, but I do not know what I am supposed to do.” Marcus straightened and waited for someone to rescue him.
“Already the son eclipses the father.” The voice was velvet and stone, both controlled and clear. It belonged, Marcus surmised, to a man who had made music his whole life. His grandfather’s command of English was perfect, but it was impossible to identify the accent that colored his words.
“You needn’t worry. There isn’t any aggression in him, Far.” Fanny appeared from one of the many doors off the main hall, and Madame de Genlis with her. She was carrying two pistols, both of them cocked and ready to be fired at Marcus.
“He is nothing but curiosity, Comte Philippe,” Madame de Genlis confirmed. She smiled at Marcus encouragingly. “He has prepared a poem for you.”
Sadly, Marcus couldn’t remember a single word of “Le mondain.” Once again he dipped into his memories of Hadley for reinforcements.
“‘Children’s children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers,’” Marcus said, with all the conviction Madame de Genlis could have wanted.
“Oh, well done.” The voice of praise was scratchy and nasal, with a bit of a wheeze at the end that might have been a chuckle. There was another man on the stairs. “Proverbs. Always suitable—especially when the sentiment is sincere. A very sensible choice.”
The man descending the stairs had a balding head slightly too large for his body, and a waistline that rivaled Colonel Woodbridge’s. The sweet scent intensified, and along with it came the iron-rich tang of black ink. He peered at Marcus over a set of spectacles. There was something familiar about him, though Marcus was sure they had never met.
“And what do you say to that, Marthe?” His grandfather was now close enough to see the trembling of his limbs as Marcus’s nerves got the better of him. Marcus closed his hands into fists and took a deep breath.
A small, wizened old woman with glimmering eyes and a maternal air came from the shadows. Here was the woman Fanny had promised he would meet—Marthe.
“Madame.” Marcus bowed. “My mother would have been envious of your gardens. Even in winter, they are impressive.”
“A man of faith—and charm, too,” said the man on the stairs with another wheezing chuckle. “And it would seem he knows something of jardins and potagers, and not just medicine.”
“His heart is true, but there is a shadow in it,” Marthe pronounced, scrutinizing Marcus closely.
“Matthew would not have been drawn to him otherwise.” His grandfather’s quiet sigh floated around Marcus.
“Put him out of his misery, my dear comte,” the man on the stairs advised. “The poor boy reminds me of a fish caught between cats. He is certain of being eaten, but does not know which of us will have the honor of picking over the bones.”
Heavy hands came to rest on Marcus’s shoulders and swung him around. Philippe de Clermont was a giant of a man, as muscular as his elderly friend was soft and doughy. He had thick, burnished golden hair and tawny eyes that saw—everything. Or so Marcus suspected.
“I am Philippe, your grandmother’s mate,” his grandfather said, his voice soft. Philippe waited the space of a human heartbeat and then continued. “It is a sign of respect, among our people, to turn your eyes away from the head of the family.”
“Respect is earned. Sir.” Marcus kept his gaze on his grandfather. Staring into the eyes of a man so ancient and powerful was not an easy task, but Marcus forced himself to do it. Obadiah had taught him never to look away from anyone older and stronger than you were.
“So it is.” The corners of Philippe’s eyes creased with something that, in a lesser being, might have been amusement. “As for this darkness we all feel, you will tell me about it one day. I will not take the knowledge from you.”
It had never occurred to Marcus that someone other than Matthew might learn of his past through bloodlore. Philippe’s words, which appeared to be tender and paternal, sent a chill through Marcus’s bones.
“You have done well with him, daughter. I am pleased,” Philippe said, turning to Fanny. “What shall we call him?”
“He is called Marcus, though he tried to get me to call him Galen, and Gallowglass called him Doc,” Fanny said. “He slept for a moment the other day, and cried out for news of Catherine Chauncey.”
So Fanny was spying on him, too. Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the betrayal.
“Marcus. Son of war. And Galen—a healer. I cannot fathom where the name Chauncey came from or what it might mean,” Philippe said, “but it must be precious to him.”
“Chauncey is a Boston name.” The bespectacled man studied Marcus carefully. “I was right, Comte Philippe. The man is not from Philadelphia at all, but from New England.”
The mention of Philadelphia brought the man’s face into sharper focus, and Marcus realized who he was.
“You’re Dr. Franklin.” Marcus looked at the elderly gentleman with the stooped shoulders and ample belly with something akin to reverence.
“And you’re a Yankee. I’m surprised the Associators took you in,” Franklin said with a slow smile. “They’re a clannish bunch, and don’t usually accept anyone into their ranks who was born north of Market Street.”
“What was your father’s name, Marcus?” Philippe asked.
“Thomas,” Marcus said, thinking of Tom Buckland.
“Don’t ever lie to me,” his grandfather said pleasantly, though the glint in his eye warned Marcus that this lapse into falsehood—like a challenging stare—was a serious matter.
“The man whose blood I once carried in my veins was called Obadiah—Obadiah MacNeil. But there is nothing left of him in me.” Marcus’s chin rose. “Thomas Buckland taught me how to be a surgeon. And a man. He is my true father.”
“Someone has been reading Rousseau,” Franklin murmured.
Philippe considered Marcus for a long moment. He nodded.
“Very well, Marcus Raphael Galen Thomas Chauncey de Clermont,” his grandfather at last pronounced. “I accept you into the family. You will be known as Marcus de Clermont—for now.”
Fanny looked relieved. “You won’t be disappointed, Far, though Marcus still has much to learn. His Latin is abominable, his French deplorable, and he is clumsy with a sword.”
“I can shoot a gun,” Marcus said sharply. “What need do I have for swords?”
“A gentleman must carry a sword, at least,” Madame de Genlis said.
“Give Stéphanie and me another month—perhaps two—and we will have him ready for Versailles,” Fanny promised.
“That is perhaps a matter for Ysabeau to decide,” Philippe said, casting a fond glance on his daughter.
“Ysabeau! But I—” Fanny was indignant. She turned her head away from her father. “Of course, Far.”
“And what do I call you, sir?” Marcus didn’t mean to sound insolent, though the horrified look on Fanny’s face told him he might well have been.
Philippe merely smiled.