Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Shadows, Dan Curtis does. And I highly doubt I'm important enough to warrant legal action.
Chapter Three: Love and Loss
"Do you have to leave so soon?" Sarah whined, clutching to her brother's arms.
"Yes, Sarah. You need to get to bed," Barnabas chided warmly. Disregarding all of Ben's half-hearted warnings to stay away from the house, Barnabas had taken to visiting Sarah nightly, as soon as he was sure that their mother was no longer near. Sadly, there was no danger of the governess Victoria walking in on them—she had long since been jailed for witchcraft. Unjustly as well, Barnabas knew. But it meant that Barnabas had an easier time sneaking in to see his sister. He felt that those clandestine meetings, though perhaps selfish on his part, were the only barrier between him and insanity at this point. Holding Sarah's small body, reading to her quietly in the dim glow of her bedside candle, made him feel a measure of normalcy again, however small.
"You'll come tomorrow?" Sarah said. It came out more like a command than a question, but it was a command to which Barnabas was happy to comply. Besides, the sound of her voice, now strong and healthy, warmed Barnabas, a warmth that was desperately needed.
"Now, remember, this is our little secret, understood?" he said conspiratorially, placing a finger to his lips. "Mother and Father cannot know of this, otherwise they might be very angry at me." Sarah nodded vigorously. This had become a nightly ritual as well. Although terrified of discovery, Barnabas's need to visit his sister always won out—but that didn't mean he couldn't take precautions.
Tucking her in to bed, Barnabas knew that this couldn't last forever—his sister would age, and with it would come the knowledge that dead brothers weren't supposed to be visiting their sisters at night. When would the questioning begin, and when would she refuse to keep their secret any longer? Barnabas didn't know, and he hadn't the heart to mull over that particular topic at the moment.
As Barnabas walked along the secret passage that led from Sarah's room to the kitchens downstairs, and from there to the fields behind the house, he heard a rustling from the walls. He froze. He had not realized how paper-thin the walls were, that such a movement could be heard from his position. Had anyone on the other side heard him, his footsteps, the swish of his cape?
He forced himself to calm down. Much as he hated to admit it, he was a predator, and a supernatural one at that. When one is afraid of discovery, one's body reacts instinctually, walking more carefully and breathing more shallowly. His changed body did this as well—it just did it much better than the average person's. Without even realizing it, he could walk as softly as a wolf with padded paws, move as carefully as a nimble cat when the situation called for it. No one would have heard him, or he'd have a stake through the heart by now.
His next thought was one of confusion—who was in there? If his sense of direction was true, none of the family or servant chambers were on this side of the house, save Sarah's. At this time of night, with the sun long since set, no one would have reason to waste a candle in a room in which they did not intend to sleep.
Then he realized—it was a guest chamber. That meant it had to be either Josette or the Countess, as Aunt Abigail, Millicent, and Daniel had left a few days earlier in lieu of the tragedies that had taken place at Collinwood. The Countess and Josette, however, had been deterred by a storm that had delayed the departure of their ship to Martinique. Barnabas wasn't sure if this was a blessing or another curse.
Although he knew it was foolish, Barnabas lifted his face and gave a small sniff. The fumes that wafted slowly under the door drifted by his nose, and he caught the unmistakable scent of jasmine. So it was Josette who occupied that room.
Josette. Both the name and the scent filled him with incredible longing and grief at the same time. Josette was beautiful, that went without saying—the graceful way in which she walked, the way her dark, luscious curls fell around her soft, feminine face, which was always displaying an all-encompassing smile. A smile that often been directed at him.
But it was more than that. Josette was kind, intelligent, attentive. She possessed those qualities in a measure that few possessed, a measure that had made Barnabas fall for her the first night he had met her. It had seemed forever ago, that evening in Martinique when he had first been invited to the DuPres estates to take supper with them, a nicety that came after almost a month of business with Josette's father. He remembered when she had first come waltzing into the foyer, donning that radiant, welcoming smile that Barnabas loved so much. The dinner was held with the intention of providing a comfortable, more relaxed environment for Andre DuPres and Barnabas to get to know each other before sealing the deal on the Collins business providing the shipping of the Frenchman's goods, but Barnabas had spent most of the night conversing with Josette. Josette had, to Barnabas's surprise, kept up easily with the topics of conversation at the dinner table, very firmly stating her opinion on political points, including both the American and French Revolution, the latter of which her family had quite coincidentally narrowly escaped. He realized that many would have thought this ill-befitting of a woman of Josette's station, but Barnabas found that it only intrigued him and endeared her to him more. Later, Barnabas had seen that, contrary to her opinionated nature, she also could display a very soft and caring side, as well. He had watched her play with Sarah (after which she could do no wrong in Barnabas's eyes) and had seen the sincerity and interest in her eyes whenever she inquired about his life, his family, or his occupation. Even her imperfections were perfect—her absent-mindedness, her cloyingly unrealistic optimism, her habit of dissolving rather quickly into tears—all these things brought a smile to Barnabas's face upon remembrance. She was the woman he wanted to come home to. She was the woman he wanted to raise his children. She was the woman he wanted to grow old with.
Then his smile fell. She had married another man. True, this was due to witchcraft and nothing else, but the fact remained. And, as if that were not hopeless enough, an even more terrible truth remained, a truth that meant he would never have children. And he would never grow old.
Barnabas bowed his head and willed himself not to give any outward signs of grief. Some said that, when a person is about to die, their life passes before their eyes. He didn't remember any such thing happening to him, but as he stood in that cold, dank hallway, listening to the sounds of the love of his life preparing for bed in the next room, he thought he saw a life go past his eyes—the life he was supposed to have, the life that was now a distant dream. A few months ago, his life seemed to be falling into place—the woman of his dreams was coming to marry him, his father approved, they were going to be a married couple for as long as they were to live. But now he was dead, and she was clothed in mourning black for another man. An unwanted, selfish thought passed through his mind briefly, but he made no move to stifle it. It isn't fair.
Maybe it was. He hadn't meant to toy with Angelique's heart—he had thought that she had seen it as nothing but a passing dalliance, too. Their affair had petered out long before he had ever met Josette. Perhaps she had changed her mind when faced with the stifling humiliation of watching none other than her own mistress snatch up what she had seen as her own only a few months before. Perhaps if he had returned to the United States (he was still having trouble calling it that) and married a nice girl from Massachusetts, none of this would have happened. He would not be a fairytale monster now, pining outside of his once-fiancée's chambers.
Barnabas gave a sigh that he quickly realized might have been too audible. He clamped his mouth shut, listening intently for some sign of reaction from the adjacent room. When there was none, he slowly, carefully moved on. There was no use stewing over could-have-beens.
Josette sat in the Collins's parlor, perched on a plush chair, trying to focus on her needlework. Her intention had been to give it to Sarah after her wedding when she had started it, but the amount that had happened since then—her marriage to another man (quite unexpected, even to herself), his subsequent death, and the death of the man she was supposed to have married, the man she loved, had pretty much obviated the project. She had picked up the ornately embroidered handkerchief with the calligraphic letters S.C. stitched into them (the C was only half done, falling like a backwards apostrophe to the lavender embroidering) again if only to give her hands something to do. The storm, which had been raging on and off for the last few days, threw rain against the wide windows at the other end of the room. Josette sighed and slammed down her needlework in her lap. She had nearly begun to cry when she had heard news that their ship was delayed. She hadn't wanted to stay another moment in the house where she had brought her parents to shame and watched the love of her life die, much less what was turning out to be a week. It was stifling. No matter what Barnabas had said about witchcraft being to blame for her unfaithfulness, she still felt shame and guilt at the thought of what she had been made to do. Whenever a member of the Collins family walked into the room, she felt like she was rude to inhabit it after what she had done to their family name. She couldn't meet any of them in the eyes. But that wasn't the worst of it. Every day, she had to walk past the place where they had loaded Barnabas's coffin into the back of a carriage and transported it to the mausoleum. The sight of that coffin, and knowing that in it lay the empty shell of the man that she was supposed to have grown old with, had made her fall to pieces. Being forced to relive that memory over and over was even worse.
The sound of small footsteps broke Josette's reverie. She looked up to see none other than little Sarah Collins staring at her. "Why are you crying?" the small voice queried.
"Crying?" Josette responded, confused. She wiped a hand across her eyes, and her lace cuffs immediately dampened. Sarah was right. Honestly, could she hold back tears for one minute, or was she doomed to wearing her heart on her sleeve for the rest of her life?
When she looked up, Sarah was still staring at her. She loved Sarah, but she had to admit, that girl could be eerie when she wanted to be. From her expression, Josette could tell that she was still waiting for an answer. She sighed. "Well, sweetie, many things have happened in the past few weeks, and many of them were very sad. My husband, well…he went away, for one thing."
"You mean Uncle Jeremiah died," Sarah said, and Josette was taken aback by her abruptness. She knew that word? "But weren't you supposed to marry my brother?"
At this, Josette shrank back on herself. How to tell a child that seemingly adored you that you had broken her beloved brother's heart? She decided to skip that subject entirely. "Well, yes, and I'm also very sad that he's…gone away." By this time, she realized that the child knew the euphemism, but Josette didn't feel comfortable telling a child that their favorite person in the world was dead in such a blatant manner.
Sarah seemed to mull over this thought, then frowned, as if she were debating something in her head. "You'd be happy if my brother came back, right?"
"Well, yes," Josette said, even though she wasn't sure this was true. Did she really want the man whose heart she had torn to pieces to come waltzing through the door right now? Not particularly. What she really wanted was just to travel back in time several months…maybe years.
The girl finally seemed to decide upon whatever it was she had been debating, and turned her face up once again to Josette's. "Well, I like you, and so does Barnabas. I'm sure he wouldn't mind me telling you. He just said not to tell Mother and Father. And that means you can't tell them, either." After seemingly gauging the reaction on Josette's face (Josette herself was not sure what the girl saw there) Sarah leaned in and said in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "Barnabas didn't actually leave."
Josette's heart dropped to her stomach. "What?"
"It's true," the girl said, donning a mischievous smile. "He's been visiting me every night for the last week. I don't know why Mother and Father are saying he's gone away, but he doesn't want them to know he's still here. You won't tell, will you?"
Still in shock, Josette simply responded, "Oh, no. Of course not."
Seemingly satisfied, the girl bounced back. "Good. I'll see you at dinner, then?"
Josette nodded weakly, and the girl pranced back out of the room. Of course, the girl's brother was not back. Josette knew for a fact that he was buried in the Collins family mausoleum, never to return to his sister again. But the fact that Sarah seemed convinced that he not only was alive, but was visiting her every night, was highly disturbing. A form of denial, perhaps? She did adore him so. It would probably be best to inform either Mr. or Mrs. Collins of this—it could not be healthy for Sarah, to believe in such fanciful imaginings.
A few weeks ago, the long table in the Collinwood dining hall had boasted every seat occupied, Joshua noted—Daniel, Sarah, Millicent, Josette, Barnabas, Abigail, Jeremiah, the Countess DuPres, Naomi, and himself had all sat around the nightly banquet, exchanging niceties and filling the hall with the clatter of cutlery. Now, three of that number had left quite hurriedly, and two of them were dead. The remaining half of their once full household did not make nearly half the noise they had back then—and, although, at the time, Joshua had been extremely agitated by the constant noise and intrusions upon his privacy, he found himself now wishing that noise back, if only to take his mind off of everything he had lost. For one, there was every shred of dignity the family name had ever held—in eloping with the uncle of the man she was supposed to marry, and quite publicly, too, Josette had wrought humiliation upon them all. At least she could escape it by returning to Martinique. He, on the other hand, would have to endure the sneers of fellow businessmen, clients, and even his common workers. On top of that, his son had decided to turn his back on his father by marrying a common servant girl. A housemaid, of all women! If Joshua had felt betrayed by his brother, he felt even more so by his son, albeit less surprised.
His son. There was that loss, too. Who would the business go to when he passed away? Fall to the hands of whoever Sarah married? He had no male heir now, and that was a failing, even in these modern times.
But it was more than that, he knew. Barnabas was by no means what Joshua would have called an ideal son—he was soft in spirit but firm in opinion, throwing too much heart and too little brain into anything he pursued. He had no mind for money—he was alternatively lavish and frugal at all the wrong times. He was disobedient, but always in a way that made Joshua feel the fool for punishing him—how does one punish a son whose greatest fault is that he spends too much time attending to family matters to deal with those of business? How many times had Joshua insulted him, humiliated him in front of the family servants, saying that his devotion to family was almost womanly and unbefitting someone who was to become the head of a household and business?
It was true—Barnabas was not the ideal son. But that didn't mean that Joshua was happy with the fact that the last act he had done in regards to his son was disinherit him. He didn't count visiting him on his deathbed—the boy had barely been conscious, and when he had been he had incoherently mumbled about bats. No, the last memory Barnabas would have had of him would have been standing in Joshua's study, standing there defiantly as his father ripped him away from the fortune and business he had planned his life around—the fortune and business Joshua himself had encouraged, practically ordered Barnabas to plan his life around. Or maybe his last memory was of his father's absence—his absence to his son's wedding ceremony with Angelique. Either way, it wasn't exactly comforting.
Joshua hadn't questioned it when Angelique had fled from Collinwood. Her husband was dead, and there was no fortune left to her to sustain her. The remaining family had not welcomed her, although Naomi had done her level best, Joshua knew. There had been nothing for her here. Joshua found himself wishing he could flee as easily—in spite of himself, he found himself hearing a knock on the front door and thinking it was Barnabas come home from the shipyard, only for it to be a merchant inquiring after shipping. Or he would accidently tell a servant to give instructions to Barnabas as to the construction of a new ship, only to be asked, quietly and with pity, if he meant the foreman. Or he would see the doors to the stables wide open, and prepare himself for a confrontation with his son (the boy loved riding), and would abruptly realize that the deed was done by a servant. The ensuing beating would always be much harder than he had meant it to be.
It was not as if he had ever truly felt affection for the boy. But, nevertheless, the table was disconcertingly empty.
The main course just finished, Joshua had decided he'd had enough. Better to spend hours alone in the study than alone surrounded by family. He cleared his throat, "If you will excuse me, I have pressing business matters to attend to. I apologize for leaving the table early, but it can't be avoided. If you should have need of me, you will find me in my study." With that, he lifted himself from his chair and made his way towards the exit nearest him.
The entrance to the dining hall was still in view when he heard the rustling of skirts behind him—too many for a servant girl. He spun around to face Josette.
"Sir, may I have a word with you?" she asked, breathlessly. She seemed to have jogged the length of the hallway.
"How may I help you?" he said in a tone that he hope conveyed you-ruined-my-family's-reputation-talking-to-you-i s-the-last-thing-I-want-to-do.
Josette must have picked up on the tone, because she said, "I am very sorry for intruding on you, sir, and I understand that you would have no reason to enter into conversation with me. However, this is a matter that might be of importance to you."
"And that would be?" Joshua asked disbelievingly.
"Sarah."
Joshua gave a long-suffering sigh. "If there is something amiss with Sarah, you might do better taking it up with her nanny."
"I thought Miss Winters was…well…not available for discussion."
"She was the governess. I am speaking of the nanny. Charity, I believe her name is. If it is an urgent manner, you may speak with my wife." Perhaps he had said the wrong word…he had spoken more French in the last few months than he had in his entire lifetime.
"It's…it's something I thought I should bring to you, sir." She waited, and when Joshua gave no reply, she continued. "I do not think Sarah is taking her brother's death well. Earlier today, she told me that she was…well, being visited by him. I was worried that such denial might be unhealthy, especially for a girl of her tender age."
"Well, that is to be expected. He spent more time with her than anyone else. But I will see to it that things are set straight. She will see reason, never fear."
Josette didn't look entirely satisfied by this response, but it would have to make do. Although he had to admit that imagining that her brother was visiting her was a strange way for Sarah to manifest her grief at his absence.
But it was not as important a matter as Josette seemed to think it was, that was definite. Joshua turned and made his way back down the hallway, snorting at the folly of women.
Josette stepped out into the night air, and, for the first time since the beginning of the whole sordid ordeal, a feeling of calm enveloped her.
She wasn't sure why. She had been told earlier that day that her dead fiancée was mysteriously up and on his feet, and, more recently, had watched as this matter was disregarded by the father of the man himself. And, too add to that stress, she was walking about at night without a chaperone, highly inappropriate. But she needed it. The fresh night air, the freedom from the stifling rooms of Collinwood…and the memories.
Feeling daring, she took a path through the woods that was often used to traverse between Collinwood and the Old House. The grounds were far from silent on that summer night, filled with the chatter of nighttime creatures. The white noise soothed Josette further. She pulled her shawl closer and allowed herself a small smile.
A snapping of a twig awoke her from her reverie. Her eyes snapped open to survey the black woods around her. Nothing, save for endless trees and fallen branches and leaves. She had just allowed herself to relax when she saw something flit out of the corner of her eye.
Fortunately, she wasn't stupid enough to holler, "Who's there?" seeing as it was most likely that the shadow was an animal, perhaps predatory, that would not understand a single word of French. She studied the blackness into which the shadowed figure had disappeared, willing her pupils to widen to see through the lack of light. Her body was rigid. She forced herself to breathe more naturally. It will hear you, perhaps even smell the fear on you, she told herself. Finally, the shadow came fully into the light.
Josette screamed.
Barnabas gave a surprised yell as well, backing up and nearly tripping over a protruding root.
"Oh, my God, Barnabas!" Josette shrieked at his cowering figure. She then said the obvious thing. "You're…you're dead!"
Still backed up against the trunk of a tree, Barnabas seemed at a loss for words. "I—I—" he rasped, then swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips. He spoke again, his voice clearer. "Josette, I can explain."
Josette, however, was not at a loss for words. "You're dead! I saw them take the coffin out of the house! Why are you here?! You're dead! You're not real! I'm imagining this!"
"Josette, Josette, there was a mistake," Barnabas said in a rush. "I wasn't dead."
This finally got Josette to close her mouth, only to open it a few moments later. "What?"
"The-the doctor must have made a mistake," Barnabas stuttered. "I-I woke up…in a coffin…it was terrifying…"
"My God," Josette breathed, still in shock, but recovering ever so slightly, "they buried you alive?"
"I…" Barnabas looked lost, confused, in that way that had always made Josette's heart melt. She flung herself at him.
"Oh, Barnabas, I can't believe what you've been through! Sarah was right, you are back!"
"Sarah…?" His voice didn't seem confused, just…distraught. Of course he'd be distraught. He'd been buried alive!
"Oh, my dear, it's alright, it's alright," Josette soothed. "Why didn't you come to Collinwood? Have you been out here for…what, the past two weeks? Where have you been sleeping? What have you been eating?"
At both of these questions, Barnabas seemed to shrink in on himself, and Josette chastised herself for immediately bombarding him with questions when he had obviously been through enough. "Come, we'll get you back to Collinwood. You need a good, hot meal. You look starved!" It was true—his face, usually flushed with exertion or simple liveliness, was sallow and pale, almost beyond recognition. Hollow cheeks clung to his jaws, and his eyes were hooded by dark bags that made him look deathly ill. Nothing could be seen through his cloak and waistcoat, but Josette was sure that there would be ribs plainly visible under there.
At this, Barnabas pulled abruptly away. She was about to ask what the matter was, then realized why he might not be talking so much. From the sounds of it, he had spent the last couple of weeks hiding in the woods and speaking only to his young sister. And here she was, speaking to him in rapid French, and expecting him to keep up. She had been so used to growing up with the language of diplomacy being her first language, it was sometimes easy to forget that not everyone had been speaking it from birth. No one at Collinwood, even little Sarah, had had much of a problem speaking in French to her—they were educated, after all, of course they would know the language well. She had never spoken to Barnabas in anything but French. But perhaps it was time to accommodate. He had been through an ordeal. Maybe hearing English would give him a sense of normalcy.
"Love?" she attempted, slowly. "Will you return to the house with me?"
Barnabas made no sign of recognition, and Josette wondered just how heavy her accent sounded to him. But finally he sighed, a sad smile playing on his lips. In impeccable French, he said, "It's alright, dearest. But I cannot return to Collinwood."
"Why ever not?"
"I—" Again, Barnabas seemed at a loss for words. Finally, he said, "It's not just…I've been more than buried alive. The illness…changed me."
"How so?" Josette breathed, anxiety welling up inside of her.
"There are certain things about my body…that are very different now." He seemed to be struggling for words. "I…it's always cold. I seem…not to be able to provide my own warmth. My blood is cold."
Josette nodded. Strange, but she was no doctor. Obviously his illness was of a more chronic nature, more permanent. She remained silent, an encouragement for him to continue.
"It seems…my skin is quite sensitive to the sun. I burn quite easily…almost immediately, in fact. I am practically incapacitated during the day."
"Oh, how horrible!" Josette said sympathetically. She knew the great affinity Barnabas held for the outdoors. Pale, blue skies, the sun slanting through the trees…this was the world he loved. And his illness, if it were indeed permanent, would keep him perpetually from those moments that gave him the most peace. Josette couldn't imagine a Barnabas that lived in a world of drawn shades and nighttime hours…she had always found his boy-like enchantment with the summer sunshine so endearing. The thought made her want to cry.
But that still didn't explain her question. "How does that prevent you from returning to Collinwood? To civilization? Surely your illness could be tended to more adequately under the supervision of your family and a doctor."
Barnabas looked down at his shoes, which were practically worn through and splattered with what looked like mud. "My…my diet has changed considerably."
"How do you mean?"
"I…I cannot…"
"You are made sick with everything you eat?" Josette queried gently, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, which stiffened curiously beneath her touch. Barnabas nodded, not meeting her eyes. That would explain his emaciated appearance. "But you should still come home. We'll take care of you."
"No…it's more than that, Josette," he said, his voice so soft she could barely hear him.
Josette gave a sigh, half exasperated, half disbelieving. "How much more could there possibly be?"
"I…my illness sometimes takes such strong hold of me that…that I am like to appear dead. Returning to my home would only place a burden on my father, and would horrify my mother."
Josette spoke softly, kindly. "It didn't horrify your sister."
A small sigh, almost a sob, caught in Barnabas's throat. "It did at first."
Josette wasn't sure what he meant by that, and wasn't brave enough to ask. All she knew was that Barnabas was clearly suffering, both in body and in spirit, and was refusing more than treatment—he was refusing shelter. She had suffered so much when he had died, knowing that she had betrayed him, knowing that they would never share a life together. Now, he was miraculously alive, and she wasn't about to lose him to his own stubbornness. She had never taken the vows with him, but the promise still rang through her head—in sickness and in health.
"Come," she said, encouraging him up with an arm under his shoulder. "Let's get you back to the house."
"No!" Barnabas said, flinging himself away from her with such force that Josette was almost thrown backwards. "No, Josette! Please, accept that I am gone! Accept that we can never be all that we had planned to be! Don't tell my parents. Please. It would be the worse for me…and for them. Please," he pleaded, his wide brown eyes gazing into Josette's imploringly.
Josette stared at him, at a loss for words. She didn't know how she could fix this. And she needed to fix it. She wouldn't feel right until she did.
"Alright," she said finally, in slow, careful words. "I will abide by your wishes…on the condition that we may meet again, here, tomorrow night, when the clock strikes ten. And I will bring you food—"
"Don't bother," Barnabas muttered sadly.
"It will be dry."
"Don't bother," Barnabas simply repeated.
Josette sighed. "Alright. Tomorrow, then?"
Barnabas said nothing, and Josette took that as a yes. She turned to go, but Barnabas's voice stopped her. "Josette…thank you."
Josette turned slowly. Don't cry. Don't cry. Then she saw Barnabas's face, crumpled and lost, and the tears came anyway. She flung herself into his arms. "Oh, Barnabas, I miss you so much," she breathed into his shoulder. "Don't ever die on me again."
Barnabas made no such promise, but his arms wrapped more closely around her small frame. Josette supposed that would have to be enough for now.
Barnabas woke up in the stillness that he was fast becoming accustomed to. His eyes cracked open on utter darkness, and he felt his heart make the traditional fall when he realized that he was waking upon yet another night of his miserable existence. His lips curled into a painful sneer as he went through the daily debate over whether he should expend the unnecessary energy of opening the lid of the coffin to crawl out into a dark and dreary world or remain hostage in his lonely cell of memories.
Then he remembered. His meeting with Josette! He flung the coffin lid open and stumbled out, barely registering the irony that he should be leaping out of a coffin to ready himself for courtship.
Not that there was much to prepare. His clothing, the finest his wardrobe had held and which were intended to rot forever with him, were becoming threadbare, caked with mud and dried blood. Ben had been incredibly thoughtful, stealing both his cape for sorely needed warmth and his cane, which, once merely a fashion statement, had become a crutch when he had been taken by sudden bouts of lack of energy and pain. But they looked incredibly out of place over the ruins of his burial outfit. Both Ben and he had decided, however, that it would be useless retrieving more clothing from the house—most of it had been burned to keep disease from spreading, Joshua would notice if to many of the remaining ones went missing, and it would be pointless, as they, too, would become testaments to Barnabas's horrid existence within the course of a few days. So he simply wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, so as to hide the worst of the carnage from Josette.
Barnabas took one look around the empty mausoleum—he had told Ben that he wanted to be alone when he rose that evening—and left through the iron gate.
Several minutes later, he was standing at the exact spot where he had met Josette the night before. The smell from the previous night hadn't been washed away completely by the rain, which was now dying down. The scent of Josette's jasmine filled his nose, as well as the meal of pheasant she had eaten the night before, her adrenaline, and the collage of smells that was Collinwood and family. Barnabas breathed deeply, letting it soak into him and alight all of his memories.
As time drew on, Barnabas began to worry. Not that Josette wouldn't come if she could—her fear and concern for him last night was so evident, it practically made Barnabas sick with shame. Rather, it was the content of their upcoming evening. How to talk to a fiancée who thought you dead the last two weeks? And what were his intentions? Certainly he did not want to rekindle their romance. It would be impossible to do so publicly for several reasons, Barnabas couldn't even get a handle on his life as it was, and it wouldn't be fair to Josette.
Because you want to see her again.
The thought came unbidden to his mind, but it was true. His desire to see her, her ringlets falling around her sweet face, her blinding smile, to hear her soothing voice, to feel the touch of her soft hand—all of these things drew him to this spot like a moth to a flame.
He froze at the sound of cracking twigs and crunching leaves. "Barnabas? Barnabas!" came Josette's voice, rasping through the woods in a stage-whisper.
Of course. She didn't have the sense of smell to know she was several hundred yards from their meeting place. Barnabas raced through the woods until he came upon her diminutive form. Clothed in mourning black, she was facing the other direction. Her chesnut hair was full of brambles. Barnabas smiled with affection and called back.
Josette whirled around, and the sight of her made Barnabas's heart soar with an intensity it had not had since his turning. It was all he could do, when faced with the familiar contours and lines of the face that held such strong and positive memories for him, not to gather her up in his arms.
"Barnabas!" she whispered in a dizzying mixture of delight and concern. "How are you faring this evening?"
He gave a small smile. He had lied blatantly to her last night, and the memory filled him with guilt. Here she was, thinking that he was ill and in need of care, when in reality he was a murderer, a monster that needed to be destroyed.
But everything he'd said last night was true. He was constantly cold, he burned in the sunlight, he grew ill at the sight of food, and he was so sickly he appeared dead. If that could evoke sympathy, than wasn't the sympathy Josette displayed for him justified? His lie had been by omission.
Which was just as worse.
"I'm well enough," Barnabas said simply.
Josette came up to him, embracing him forcefully. Barnabas felt a stab of pain at the gesture and nearly lost his balance—he had not fed for two days, and he was beginning to feel faint. The tantalizing metallic smell of blood running just beneath the surface of Josette's soft skin was not helping matters, and Barnabas ceased his breath to hold the scent off.
Josette seemed to notice this and looked up. "Barnabas? Shall we sit? You don't look well."
"Where?" Barnabas said, gesturing to the wilderness around them.
Josette walked over to a fallen, lopsided log and perched on it, looking up at him expectantly. God, he loved her.
After they were both seated, Josette began, "So, what are your intentions?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, surely you don't mean to stay in these woods forever. How are you to survive?"
Barnabas wasn't sure how to answer that. Since he wasn't sure he was living, surviving was also a word under consideration.
Josette took his chin in her hand and turned him to face her. "Barnabas, I will be leaving Collinwood and the United States soon. By all accounts, the fiancée I came to marry is dead. Nothing I can say will change that. If you do not act soon, we will likely never see each other again."
This sent a pang through Barnabas. There's nothing I can do, either, he wanted to say, but he couldn't. How could there be so much time for him and yet so little? "Josette, we cannot marry. You know that."
"The entire town knows Collinwood was plagued by witchcraft! You think it will be so hard to convince them that my mockery of a marriage was also a product of Angelique's evil scheming?!"
Barnabas was taken aback. He'd almost forgotten that he'd told her that Angelique was the guilty one, not Victoria. "That's not all that is barring our—"
"And what else is there?! Has your disease affected your mind, too?!"
"Even if I could return to my life, do you really want to be tied to a man plagued with my illness?! I cannot dine with you! I cannot take walks with you in the sunshine! I cannot even provide you with a warm embrace!" At this, his voice broke, and he caught himself before his weakness was made more apparent. Quietly, he said, "You would be sentencing yourself to a life in marriage to a broken man, Josette. I love you too much for that."
Josette bit her lip and turned away. Barnabas saw in her eyes, with some small despair, that she had given in. It wasn't the first time in his life he'd been upset over winning a duel. It was an odd feeling. Josette took in a small breath and, still not looking at him, whispered, "I would have sentenced myself willingly, if you had let me." With that she stood up and, obviously refusing to look at him, began to walk away."
"Josette, wait!" Barnabas said without thinking. All he knew was that he wanted to see her face one more time. Josette fulfilled his unspoken wish, turning around, her deep, chocolate eyes brimming with tears. Barnabas didn't know what to say, so he took off his ring—the black onyx ring he'd been buried with—and held it out to her, his long arm looking weak and uncertain in the moonlit clearing. "Here," he said, choking back emotion. "I wanted to give this to the woman I married, but since my marriage was a sham, and I will never meet another woman in my life whom I would wish to spend it with as I do you, it is yours."
Josette remained silent for a long moment, then wordlessly plucked it out of his hand and placed it on a shaking finger. "Barnabas, I—" she began, but seemed to think better of it. She turned away and began to walk into the darkness, leaving Barnabas once again utterly alone.
Joshua sat at his desk, twirling a quill slowly between his fingertips. He had barricaded himself in his study with the intention of getting a fair amount of work done, but he had ended up spending the last half hour starting a letter of business to a client concerning the delay caused by the storms, then throwing the parchment away and starting afresh after the opening sentence. The events of the last few days had not been conducive to focusing on work. Sarah supposedly seeing her dead brother, animalistic murders in town. Preposterous, but never the less concerning.
Joshua nearly snapped when there was a knock on his door. "Come in!" he yelled impatiently. The door creaked open, and Naomi stepped tentatively inside. God, what did she want now?
"Joshua?" she said timidly. "The DuPres family is due to leave tomorrow, what with the storms receding. The Countess desired to meet with you over the arrangements for traveling to the dock tomorrow.
Joshua sighed and placed down his quill. "Very well." That family had caused enough trouble. Every time his concentration was interrupted by one of them was a time that Joshua was reminded just how much he wished to be rid of them.
Five minutes later, Joshua entered the parlor, where the Countess stood at his approach. "I suppose you will want our carriage tomorrow," Joshua said brusquely.
"If you would, I'd like to wait until Josette is down here."
"Fine," Joshua snapped. The Countess gave him a withering look but said nothing.
It was another five minutes before they heard the creak of the stairs that heralded Josette's arrival. Her slipper-clad feet were the first to arrive. Then came the rest of her, in black, of course. Joshua scowled. Yet another reminder of the fact that she had brought scandal on the family and that his brother was dead. Joshua noted, furthermore, that she looked distracted—even more so than usual. Her eyes were at the same time spacy and darting nervously from person to person. God. What was wrong with her now? Joshua wondered what Barnabas had ever seen in the silly girl.
"Miss Josette." He refused to call her by her married name, for several reasons. The Countess arched an eyebrow, not failing to notice this. Joshua ignored her. "Your aunt is adamant on you being present for our discussion of travelling arrangements. I will send Ben with you to the docks in our carriage at, say, half past ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I believe that shall be ample time to board the ship. I trust that is sufficient for you?" he asked the Countess pointedly.
"Indeed it is," she responded primly.
Then he turned to Josette, still directing his voice to the room at large. "There is one more matter that we must attend to before you leave. As you know, I have told the public that Barnabas has gone to England, to allay fears regarding the plague. You two know this is not true, that in fact my son has passed away. I will have your word that you will speak the truth of this to no one, not even in Martinique."
The Countess made a noise of affirmation, but Josette simple stared at him, her eyes growing wider. Ridiculous girl. What had her worried now? She seemed to almost tremble, her lip moving slightly as if she were considering saying something. Then she seemed to think better of it, and looked away, twisting a ring on her finger.
That ring. Black onyx, the band engraved so uniquely that it could not belong to anyone else. Joshua gave an uncharacteristic intake of breath upon the sight of it. It was Barnabas's. The one he'd intended to give to his true love.
The one he'd been buried with.
"Where did you get that?" His voice came out in a whisper.
Josette looked down at that to which he was referring, then turned as white as a sheet. "I—I—it's mine," she stuttered.
"No, it's not," Joshua said, his voice rising with the beginnings of anger. "It's Barnabas's."
The Countess's voice, obnoxiously logical, interrupted them. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Collins." Her emphasis on his title, inferior to hers, made Joshua bristle. "It is common enough to possess an onyx r—"
"I buried my son with it!" Joshua nearly thundered. "I know what it looks like!"
Naomi's quiet voice interjected. "Joshua, please—"
"Did you steal it?" he said, glowering accusingly at Josette. "After all you've done to this family, and you stooped to robbing a grave? My son's resting place?"
Josette's eyes were brimmed with nervous tears. The Countess whirled on Joshua. "Have you taken leave of your senses? What reason would she have to rob his grave? And what right do you have to torment her like this?"
Joshua was readying a retort when Naomi said softly. "Joshua."
He turned to look at her. Her eyes were red, filled with water. "Joshua. Please don't do this. Not now."
This gave Joshua pause. When he turned back to the Countess, still scowling, he was surprised to find an expression of sympathy on her face. "Mr. Collins," she said, this time with no hint of condescension. "I know that it is hard for you. You lost your son, and I can only imagine what you're going through right now. But Josette is not to blame for his death. Please, desist with this folly."
Wanting to maintain a modicum of dignity, Joshua drew himself up to his full height and huffed. "I shall see you on the morrow," he said gruffly. "Countess DuPres, Miss Josette," he said, inclining his head to each of them in turn. With that, he turned and stalked out the door.
Maybe he was going mad. Certainly, no affection for his late son would have made him react like that. But he could not so quickly disregard the similarities between the two rings. Whether or not he confronted Josette over the matter again, he would survey his son's coffin as soon as possible. It would at least quiet his nerves.
Barnabas sniffed the air, drawing in a plethora of scents. The chill wind that made him draw his cloak around his now constantly shivering body brought in hints of summer plants, salt water, and…prey. Yes, he smelled humans. But he wasn't going to think of them like that. Not today.
Good God. He was already thinking of humans as "them". He was a human.
A cannibalistic one.
Well, he had been a human. Now, he was crouched in the woods that covered the Collins ground, putting his nose to the air like one of his father's bloodhounds. Tonight, though, he was determined not to go down to the village. He would hunt for blood, but not that of an innocent townsperson.
He stiffened instinctually when he caught the scent he was looking for. Course, warm…meaty. Deer. They ran constantly through the grounds, driving the bloodhounds wild. Surely if he needed blood, that of an animal would suffice. The thought of sinking his fangs into raw flesh instead of eating it cooked at the dinner table with fork and knife was revolting, but no more revolting than what he had been doing for the past two weeks—an act that Barnabas was becoming desensitized to disturbingly quickly.
Barnabas crept through the forest, slowly, carefully, in the direction of his meal. At his careful rate, it took him several minutes before he came to the edge of a clearing, where one solitary deer stood, bathed in moonlight. Barnabas hesitated in confusion. It wasn't eating anything. And why was it alone, at this time of night?
Then he saw it. The creature held one of its front hooves up to its cocoa-colored chest, in an uncertain stance. Barnabas could smell the fear and adrenaline running off of it. It was in pain. It was injured. Suddenly, Barnabas was having second thoughts about this. He had no desire to kill innocent villagers; was killing innocent, defenseless animals much better?
Barnabas scowled and shook his head. This was ridiculous. His family had venison regularly. His father and he had gone on multiple hunting trips together, using weapons that made the power difference laughable. This might actually be a fairer situation, really. Fang on fur. It was natural.
Barnabas steeled himself and waited for the right moment, calling on instincts he hadn't had a couple of weeks ago. It didn't take long. The moment the creature took one limping step, Barnabas launched forward, toppling the creature, which yelped out in pain. Now fully focused, Barnabas had only one goal, one thought: down the prey. And he did. With a feral growl Barnabas would never have thought he could possess, he sank his fangs into the jugular, gulping at the liquid that was quickly becoming very familiar to him. It wasn't human, that was apparent. And Barnabas could tell, just by the taste, that it wouldn't hold him forever. But it would do for one night. Perhaps even two. And every night was another life.
Barnabas was so engulfed in his meal he almost didn't recognize the scream for what it was. But he did, eventually. He took one last swig and dragged his face from the limp neck of the creature, his mouth still dripping with blood. What he saw made his limbs freeze.
It was Josette. Wrapped in her ever-present black shawl, she stared at Barnabas, a look of horror etched across her face. That one expression ripped Barnabas apart. Not now. Not again. This time it hadn't even been a human. It had been a deer. A deer! Not even knowing what he intended to do, he stumbled forward, reaching out to Josette with a pleading hand. "Please, Josette. Please. It's not…"
"What. What," Josette stumbled backwards, tripping over a fallen branch, "was that? My God, what are you?! Where's Barnabas? What are you?!"
"I'm not…I'm not…"
"You!" Josette seemed to be at an utter loss for words. "Barnabas?"
Barnabas didn't know what to say, suddenly very conscious of the blood dripping, sticky and disgusting, from his chin. He remained silent, failing to meet Josette's eyes.
"Barnabas? What happened to you? Why?"
The last word came out so plaintively. With one word, Barnabas's world seemed to shrink into an indescribably small point. He bowed his head. "Why…are you here, Josette." It was a statement. He found himself too apathetic to actually form it into a question.
"I…I thought to see you, one last time. Barnabas, what is this? What…what are you?" Her voice was soft, out of fear or concern Barnabas did not know. Perhaps both.
"I…I don't know, Josette." Josette's face was still contorted, this time in a look of utter disgust. Somehow, it was even worse than her previous expression of horror. He couldn't handle it anymore. "Josette…please. Don't tell anyone."
Josette gave a small sob. "No one would believe me. I'm hallucinating. God, this isn't real. Please. It can't be real."
Barnabas could offer no words of comfort, so he simply looked down at his knees, utterly debased. Josette uttered one last sob, then scrambled away, slipping on a root in her frantic exit. Barnabas didn't chase after her. It would have done no good. He didn't even look up. He didn't want his last vision of the woman he loved, the woman he would have contentedly spent the rest of his life with, to be of her running away from him in fear and revulsion. How many of the people he loved would he have to see do just that? Barnabas pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a moan. Angelique's curse would follow him through all eternity. Of that, he was utterly certain.
Notes: I'm not really big on the whole romance-writing thing, so I apologize if anything's a little wooden. And many thanks to all reviewers! You guys are awesome, and keep me writing!