While London had failed to capture his heart, Berkshire’s twisting lanes, patchwork fields tipped with frost, and sprawling farmhouses brought to mind his home in Hadley. The familiar sights sparked his memories of living according to the cycles of nature rather than measuring the passage of time with ticking clocks and changing dates on newspapers.
Matthew escorted Marat and Marcus to the house of Mrs. Graham—who turned out to be the most notorious woman in England, and one of the cleverest, too. Catharine Sawbridge Macaulay Graham had almost as many names as a de Clermont and just as much confidence. An autocratic lady near sixty with a high, domed forehead, a punctuation mark of a nose, ruddy cheeks, and a no-nonsense way of speaking, Mrs. Graham had scandalized polite society by marrying a surgeon less than half her age after the death of her first husband. William Graham was young, short, stout, and Scots. He doted on his wife and relished both her radical opinions and bluestocking tendencies.
“Fancy a walk, Marcus?” William said, poking his head into the library where Marcus was availing himself of the household’s impressive collection of medical books. “Come on. Some country air will do you good. Those books will still be here when you get back.”
“I’d love to,” Marcus said, closing the illustrated anatomy text. Now that it was April, Marcus could hear and smell the earth coming alive again after its winter sleep. He liked to listen to the frogs by the stream and measure the slow leafing out of the trees.
“We could always . . .” William moved his hand up and down in a gesture that suggested there would be drinking involved.
Marcus laughed. “If you’d like.”
They set out on what had become their customary route, putting Binfield House behind them and traveling south toward town. Ahead of them were the gates of an older and far grander residence than the new, redbrick build that the Grahams were renting.
“Matthew remembers staying there last century,” Marcus commented as they strolled past the E-shaped building with its tall, leaded windows and crooked chimneys. The Grahams were fully apprised of the way the world really worked, and Catharine had been a friend of both Fanny and Ysabeau for years, so Marcus was free to speak of such things with his hosts.
“Full of rot and woodworm, and birds nesting in the eaves.” Graham sniffed. “I’m glad to be living in a modern house, with sound windows and doors, and a chimney that won’t catch fire.”
Marcus made a noise of agreement, but truthfully he liked the charming old pile with its zigzag rooflines and exposed timberwork. His father had explained how the house was constructed from a mixture of wood and narrow bricks with stone casements for the windows. One of the unforeseen benefits of their forced exile was that Matthew was far more relaxed in England than he had been in either America or Paris.
Marcus and William circled west toward Tippen’s Wood. This was the vampires’ preferred hunting ground, though the wildlife was sparse at this time of year, and the bare branches didn’t provide much cover from curious human eyes. As a result, most of Marcus’s sustenance came from red wine and bits of raw game birds, supplemented with blood from the butcher. Marcus had grown accustomed to a more varied—and tastier—diet in Paris.
“How is Mrs. Graham this morning?” Marcus asked William. Catharine was suffering from a cold that had settled in her chest. William and Marcus had consulted on a cure and sent her to bed with one of Tom Buckland’s tisane recipes and a chest plaster made with mustard and herbs to ease her congestion.
“Better, thank you,” William replied. “I wish they’d taught me something half as useful in Edinburgh as what your Tom taught you in America. If they had, I’d be a prosperous surgeon by now.”
William may have attended the finest medical school in Europe, but he had lacked the connections and resources to establish his own practice. His older brother, James, had completely overshadowed him with his controversial cures in London and Bath—the most famous of which was the Celestial Bed. For married couples trying and failing to conceive—which was their patriotic duty, according to James—Graham’s contraption (complete with turtledoves, scented bedclothes, and a tilted mattress to put husband and wife at the most propitious angle while they made love) renewed their procreative hopes. James made a fortune from desperate couples, but William’s medical prospects were jeopardized because of it. Fortunately, Catharine Macaulay was one of his brother’s childless patients, and William’s future was assured when they fell in love and married.
“What was Edinburgh like?” Marcus asked. Matthew still promised to send him there one day, as soon as Marcus was mature enough to withstand the anatomy lectures.
“Gray and damp,” William replied with a laugh.
“I meant the university, not the city,” Marcus said, grinning at his friend. He had missed having someone his own age to swap insults and banter with. Marcus and William were both born in 1757. William was now in his early thirties. Whenever Marcus looked at William, he was reminded of what he would be like today if Matthew hadn’t made him a vampire.
“It was tedious and exciting as all courses of study are,” William said, clasping his hands behind his back. “When you go, which I pray will be soon, you must make a point of attending Dr. Black’s chemistry lectures, even though Dr. Gregory will want you on the wards seeing patients.”
“And the lectures in anatomy?” Marcus knew that he must master a wider body of medical knowledge, but surgery remained his first love.
“Dr. Monro has a limitless curiosity and courage when it comes to surgical experimentation. You would be wise to attach yourself to him, and learn all that you can from his methods and discoveries,” William advised.
The prospect of doing so almost made Marcus wish he could remain in England, though of course he must return to France and the Revolution as soon as he could. And there was Veronique to consider.
Marcus and William emerged from the wood and cut east across the fields along Monk’s Alley. Once, the tree-lined lane led to a religious house owned by Reading Abbey, but that house was a crumbling ruin now. William had painted a watercolor of it based on Matthew’s recollections of what it had once looked like, tucked into its green pastures and providing a bucolic retreat for the clerics of the nearby city.
“I suspect your teachers will all be dead and buried by the time I arrive,” Marcus said, elbowing William. “Who knows? You might be a member of the faculty by then.”
“My place is with Catharine,” William replied. “Her work is far more important than mine could ever be.”
At present, Catharine was writing histories of both the successful American, and the budding French, Revolutions. Since Marat’s arrival, Catharine divided her time between asking him questions about what was happening in Paris, and perusing the papers given to her by General Washington when she and William visited Mount Vernon in 1785. Catharine had even interviewed Marcus and Matthew to better understand the events of 1777 and 1781, and had been fascinated by Marcus’s reports of Bunker Hill.
“How did you know that Mrs. Graham was . . .” Marcus trailed off, embarrassed by his own boldness.
“The one?” William smiled. “It was fast—instantaneous, even. People think Catharine is a vain old woman and I am a fortune hunter, but from the moment we first met, I never wanted to be anywhere but by her side.”
Marcus thought of medical school in Edinburgh, and Veronique in Paris. Perhaps she would consider setting up a business in Scotland.
“I’ve heard you talk about the woman you left behind in Paris—Madame Veronique,” William continued. “Do you think she might be your soul mate?”
“I thought so,” Marcus said, hesitant. “Think so.”
“Such a weighty decision must be difficult for a long-lived vampire,” William said. “It is a long time to remain faithful.”