MJD: Chapter one & two

Somehow first two chapters vanished. There you go.

MJD

Chapter one 

Spring /Summer 1887

'I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my life seems to stop there- I see no further. You have absorbed me. I have a sensation at the present moment as through I were dissolving... I have been astonished that Men could die martyrs for religion - I have shuddered at it- I shudder no more- I could be martyred for my religion - love is my religion -  I could die for that - I could die for you. My creed is love, and you are its only tenet- you have ravished me away by a power I cannot resist.'

~John Keats

..now as I think of it, I was obsessed with him, beguiled, smitten. I watched him from afar, you might say, I watched over him- but I did not dare approach him, yet his demure charm and sadness lodged deep in his dark eyes kept me painfully longing for a contact...however brief.

I must make myself known to him, I thought. I must - but how? You'd think me a youth of uncertain age, but by Gods,  I was much more than a trembling flower. I've spent a long time on this Earth, and two hundred years in England alone by that time. I should have been more adept in social graces, true - with knowledge and experience of such kind, but in all times, I was alone. Centuries passed me by, you might say, and I had no idea how to approach this young man.

I took to walking by the Old Bailey, where I first spotted him months ago. Sometimes, he'd stand by the banister, looking quite lost, but for a moment, and then, deep in thought, he'd stare at something beyond reach. His face was so beautiful to me, that all the great works of art paled in comparison.  His brilliant sapphire eyes, his pale skin, and curly hair - all that was so reminiscent of the ancient Greece and Rome, so out of place in that busy Victorian surroundings!

I longed to hear his voice. Somehow I thought it to be musical. He had something about him, I couldn't quite put a finger on- a quality you'd find in musicians,- long, tapering fingers, graceful gestures and movements, as if he were a Renaissance dancer,moving through a crowded ballroom somewhere in Venice.

I couldn't read him, although normally I would have - to know what a person was like. But with him, I could not. I could hear music around him, though. Quiet, dignified, almost church like, something from the age gone by. They still sang like that in cathedrals, I thought. Was it Porpora, Tallis or Handel? Or was it the music  unheard yet? I didn't know. I didn't even know his name. But I was deeply moved by this young man.

One day, in late April, I think, Gods were merciful to me. My strange young man was indeed there, as before, and suddenly someone called out.

'John? John Druitt,  is it you?'

A called turned out to be another young barrister, rushing down the stairs to greet him. A smile appeared on his face, lighting it up.

'George? How long has it been?'

So, his name was John. Not that I disapproved, it just seemed a bit odd to me. They were talking, and my young man laughed, remarking,

'Nobody calls me that, except my brother, you know. Will is such a bore sometimes, you almost forget he's but a year older! Please, don't call me John anymore, be a good boy'.

'As you wish, old chap. Montague,  then! Fancy a cup of tea later? '

'Absolutely, George.  Have to dash, I'm afraid. They must be waiting for me.'

They parted,  leaving me alone. So,I thought, his name is Montague.  It became him, this old fashioned name. It had the similar dusty golden glow about it. Now, I had to wait for the right moment.

The moment came two weeks later. Quite suddenly, I had a desire to take a tour round St.James Park. I rarely went there, but the moment seemed so right somehow,  with all the vivid greens, and fragrance of May in the air.

I walked through the alleys, drinking in springtime, enjoying the setting sun, when something made me stop. I turned my head- and to my astonishment, Monty was there, on a bench by the pond.  I approached carefully, trying not to make the slightest noise.

I can be lighter than a feather on my feet, and I usually am - but I was sure he sensed my presence - I was sure of it, but he never attested it. When I finally dared come closer, he looked at me as you would at an old friend.

'I knew you were there' he said simply 'I wonder who you were'.

'A friend' I replied,after a pause that took, as I felt it, forever. 'A friend'.

He smiled,  relieved.

'God knows I am indeed in dire need of a friend! My name...'

'I know' I whispered 'Montague. But some call you John. I'd rather call you Montague, if you do not mind. I think it suits you better'

'Oh, I do not mind. I like the name - there's something medieval about it, don't you think?'

'Oh, there is. I am...well..you can call me Lawrence. Lawrence Graves'.

'Montague Druitt' he said with a charming smile 'Pleased to meet you. At last. Would you care...'

'A cup of tea would be delightful'

That is how we met. And this time was the happiest of my life. I had everything I needed, I was happy- blissfully so, perhaps for the first time in my entire life. Summer came by, the favourite season of wanderers and cricketers, and my ancient idleness became restless excitement as I observed endless (as it seemed to me) matches, trying to take in Monty's world. He never insisted on me going, but I thought he needed me there, and he looked so happy seeing me that finally I grew used to this part of his life.

His was the cricket ground, mine was the theatre, and we visited the opera as frequently as his schedule would allow us. He loved it, I could tell. He had a musical ear, and his voice was well-suited for singing, a soft baritonal tenor, and he enjoyed accompanying my play at times. He was a really gifted man, that barrister, but most of his talents were unknown to his family or friends. I knew him better, still. He was an artist at heart, and some of his sketches still adorn my walls. Being modest, he'd laugh when I praised him, and say,

'In faith good sir! It is but a child's scribbles!'

And he'd blush. A little bit. One more endearing trait, that blushing. I loved everything about him- and he knew that, but I'd never dare talk about my feelings.  I loved him - and I was certain of it, with the passing of time, I could say that. But the time was ambiguous, and men were so restricted in their feelings! Love ceased to be free then, with society clipping its wings. Love, they proclaimed, is only pure when it's shared by man and woman, and everything beyond it is heresy, an abomination, a crime.

Monty didn't support that point of view, but as a lawyer, he was even more tied up by the power of justice. He felt deeply,  but he never admitted it publicly. He knew my heart as I knew his, and this was enough for both of us.

That is how it all began. The year was 1887, and it seemed that the whole world belonged to us.

Chapter two.

Autumn,1887

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair."

~ Charles Dickens, A tale of two cities, 1859

My kind is not known for mirth, optimism or boundless joy. We've been around for centuries, and yet the mortal mind somehow pins us to the Victorian era as one would pin a butterfly to a board. We should thank that odd Irishman for placing us on the map, although he wasn't the first one. Somehow, people tend to forget Lord Ruthven, Carmilla and Varney-  Dracula's forebears, which is, at best, unfair.

People were aware of us long before that, and many a tale was spun, attributing awful traits to us, none of which is tr

ue. I must admit, the mere idea of a sharply dressed vampire is not a new one, but to have us wear opera cloaks or top hats, sleep in coffins or be afraid of sunlight is ludicrous.  Would you, I wonder, trust someone who wears his evening dress in all occasions? I would not dare presume you that stupid. What we do, though, is more akin to blending in with the times. Elegant, but up to date and appropriate - that is, you might say, our rule. We are but cogs in that mechanism of time, and should not be any different to other cogs.

We rarely let our nature out in public. That would be utterly preposterous- and absolutely unnecessary. When emotional, or deep in thought, we might let our guard down but that makes us more human, so we naturally try not to 'feel' more than needed.

I was quite successful in that, for years. Two hundred years spent in London taught me more in the subject than the  previous three hundred spent elsewhere.  London is a harsh teacher, but it is also a wondrous place full of progress and dreams, - and it was no different back in the 1600s. People rarely change, but society does, and in London, as I've found out early on, there was a void between classes, a void that deepened from era to era.

In Victorian times,  you'd see Charles Dickens striving to bring morality to the fallen women on the very same street where the distinguished and esteemed gentlemen did away with things more abominable that riding St.George with young boys or teenage girls. I knew him,  and I must say, he felt deeply for the misfits, the outcast and the poor, but the Victorian life was at best ambiguous when it came to morals, and that life was very different for those in the East end.

I've discovered early on,  that a man of my kind has to have eyes and ears wherever it seems well fit, and there was no place better to have them at than a pub. So, naturally, three leading pubs in the East end were owned by me. A good move, as it turned out. The Ten bells,  The Britannia and The Princess Alice were more than pubs of course. I had trusted people placed there, - for instance, George was the Bells landlord, and his cousin, Molly, watched over the girls of Commercial street. George, of course, wasn't your average landlord. Agile and sharp, ever-vigilant,  even at his age, he was fiercely loyal to me (back in the days of the Stuarts, I saved him from the noose), and there was nothing that could escape his beady eyes. The other two pubs followed the similar pattern, and the best thing about this scheme was the knowledge. I could visit one of them once a month, and it would be enough to know everything there was to know.

I was careful enough not to take Monty there, though. A man like him in the East end of London wouldn't make an uproar, of course, but still, there was something about him that singled him out. However to ensure his safety at all times, I showed him to George once.

'I see, m'lord ' George said, eyeing Monty from the safe distance 'Ye need 'im watched over for ye.  We can do tha'.  Now I know him, so Moll will know. Ye can trust blood, huh?'

I nodded, noting to myself that that particular day Monty looked slightly paler than before.

'Of course. But, George,  make it discreet, will you?'

'Aye,  m'lord.  We won' letcha down.  But, if I may ask - that lad, is he...well...'

'No, George. And I don't plan to make him one. He is a dear friend, though. And, George, I do worry about him sometimes'.

George, whose golden heart was safely hidden behind his grubby facade,  smiled reassuringly.

'I can see why, m'lord. He got som'thin hangin' o'er him alrigh ', and it's not the bloody Ol' Bailey. Me mum would say he was too darn good lookin to be happy. Me cousin Larry keeps a shop nearby,  he could keep an eye on yer boy. And Cathy,  the flower girl...'

'George. Keep it discreet. I don't want everybody to know. And yes, flower girls count.'

George chuckled softly, stroking his white beard.

'She's family,  m'lord. Her ma, bless her, was me sister. Moll and I raised her since she were a babe, Cat's a nice girl'.

Sometimes reasoning with George was useless. His extended family ties, it seemed to me, reached well beyond the vicinity of London, or should I say, England?.. But, this family however large it was, was as  close-knit as your next, and you could certainly count on them.

'We'll keep an eye. Where's he at, yer lad?'

'Blackheath. He teaches there. Another family member?'

'Aye,  m'lord.  Me nephew, a gardener at the school. Would ye mind?'

'Not in the least, George. There was one more thing I 've been meaning to ask. Have you noticed anything odd lately, in the area?'

George frowned, his face turning concerned. He gestured me to listen closer.

'Moll says, she heard from them other girls, someone's been attacking the ladies. Beatin' 'em up, ye see. She reckons,  it must be lads from George street. Sorry lot. Also, they've been sendin coppers to me pub.  All dressed up, they think I ain't seen the boots. Police is all up on their toes since the riots. If you see your lad these days, warn him, m'lord. I'll ask around folks at Blackheath,  m'lord,  but the crowd playing there is up to no good, believe me. Warn him will ye? He's a decent lad by the looks of him'.

I sighed.  George has just confirmed my worries. The Bloody Sunday had its toll on people, and the discord didn't end the Square. Anger was still rolling through the streets like a tidal wave. 

'I shall. In the meantime...George,  do send someone to me when you find anything...odd. I'll do what I can. Tell Molly to be careful, too. And, George...thank you.'

'Don't you mention it, m'lord ' George said happily 'I owe you me life. Tom will drop by in a day or two, no worries. Will scuttle now, m'lord, left young Angus at the pub, and I'm afraid that one will drink me dry!'

George tipped his hat and was gone in a wiff. Monty was no longer outside, and I left my watchpost too, albeit reluctantly,  to wait for him at a much warmer spot.

***

We spent the next hours talking, and I must admit, it was the most wondrous thing.  Talking isn't what our kind normally does, so I listened. Soon enough, all the family was as familiar to me as it could be, presented in Monty's soft, melodious voice. His authoritarian father, the esteemed surgeon and justice of the peace, his sensitive mother, Ann, who was much like Monty. His elder brother William, a solicitor who could pass for a dried up toast if he wanted to, his younger sisters, Georgiana,  Edith and Ethel, and brothers, stubborn Edward and Arthur, a boy of thirteen. In character, as I could deduce, Arthur resembled Monty just as he resembled his mother.

'When father died...it was unfortunate for all of us. But mother was...I think, most affected. She lived in his shadow, she loved him more than she loved any of us. Even Arthur and Edith couldn't soften her grief. She just...distanced herself from us. William was almost cruel then, almost forcing her to come out for her own sake. She resisted, he insisted,  and we were all caught up between them. I was glad to be living somewhere else, honestly. Staying at the manor was...daunting. And, you know, I feared the worst. Mother didn't come back to her usual ways, but the doctors say she is stable enough. The girls are still tense around her, I can tell. She is so fragile...and so afraid '.

He stressed the last word.

'What do you mean, afraid? Does William scare her?'

Monty chuckled unhappily.

'Oh, that indeed he does. But she is afraid of running mad. Has been for ages. My grandmother and aunt succumbed to madness under stress, and she is...well, afraid she could follow the pattern. I keep telling William to be gentler with her, but he's no sister of mercy. He's way too much like father at his worst. I think...he somehow got into his mind this absurd idea of substituting father. They are very alike, and Father always loved William more than any of us. I cannot say it made William a better man.  Almost unbearable, if you ask me. But there you go, that is my odd family...'

His voice trailed off into silence, and I realized Monty has fallen asleep. Right there, by my side, his hand clasping mine.I shifted lightly, so as not to trouble him, placing his head on a cushion.

I held him,there in my arms,he was safe and soon enough his nervousness vanished. I watched him sleep,  and a strange feeling unknown to me before, rose within me, like a tide. I sensed his heartbeat, I counted his breaths. I watched his chest rise and fall. As his breath steadied,  his face became serene. In the dim candlelight his skin was almost pearlescent, shimmering and his dark hair formed perfect curls round his high brow.

In my long life,I have never seen anything that perfect. He was perfect to the last jot, that young man. Slender, tall and graceful, yet muscular, he'd make Antinous blush and David would weep in envy. To me, he was everything,  and I couldn't bear the thought of him losing his heavenly glow that can only be found in the young - and however sad it might seem- in ones, irrevocably lost.

My Montague was both - so young, compared to me, a 230 year old immortal, and fragile, so very lost in his fears and hopes!

His mind, troubled before was at rest now, and his dark eyelashes trembled slightly as he dreamt.

Have I fallen in love with him? I think it all happened then- in a moment, when I watched him sleep beside me. This feeling, however, came tinged with pain of unknowing. The future wasn't clear and it was an alarming sign. I could sense it before,  with others- but not with him. This future was dim as the autumn dawn.

I loved him, but I was afraid to say it out loud. I loved him- loved everything about him: his smile, his sudden bouts of thoughtfulness amid lively talks, his habit of furrowing his right eyebrow while listening. I found him charming, gentle, tender and witty, sharp in observations  and highly logical- and yet, so fragile!

He was athletic and muscular, and you would never think him weak- but all his weakness lay deep in his mind, so restless that even a storm seemed tame in comparison.

It was raining outside, and the leaves were rustling in the rising wind. Storm was nigh, and lightning crossed the skies. 

Thunder rolled by, and Montague shifted uneasily and his beautiful  eyes almost violet in the shadows, opened wide.

'Oh Lawrence' he said, his voice hoarse from sleep ' I have seen the strangest dream!'

'Tell me' I moved closer, my fingers stroking his hand. He didn't move away from me, as I thought he would.

'I was standing there, by the river. It rolled beneath me, gray and cold, and I couldn't keep myself from looking at the lapping waves - and it kept pulling me in,  calling me- and then it was nothing but darkness, and I felt...I felt dead'.

He looked so scared- and even younger than he was, and his beautiful hands trembled.

I touched his cheek.

'You are safe with me' I said 'I will never let anything happen to you. This was just a dream, Montague. Just a dream.'

'But it felt so real!' He exclaimed 'And, Lawrence,  I know this place! I have never told you - but I tried to...well, you know - to end it all there. I stood there for hours, I guess - in was last October, and the cold crept over me. I was leaning in, lower and lower, when this girl called me'

'Girl? You've never mentioned a girl before' jealousy reared its ugly head in me. Monty might have sensed it, as he smiled.

' She barely touched my shoulder, there on the pier. And I came back to senses. She saved me, but I never knew her name. She had long bright hair, and I remember walking her to Miller's court-  and when I woke up, I was back at my lodging again!'

'You don't remember whether you slept with her?' I asked incredulously' But how can this be?'

Monty laughed again.

' You don't understand. I most certainly would not - could not. I would never'.

'Pray tell me why '

He sighed.

'I never had any inclination...any desire of being with a woman in that sense. I had to keep my doubts at bay, keep them private. I suppose you know why. But women never interested me. Otherwise, I'd be where most my acquaintances are at the end of the day- at a pub with a girl. But I'm here with you'.

My heart skipped a beat.

'What do you...I mean...'

'Simple' he said, leaning towards me. I felt his breath on my skin. 'Simple.' He repeated ' I am here because I love you'.

The room spun before me, everything blurring, tangling and detangling- the only thing I could see clearly enough was his face- and his deep blue eyes tinged with gold.

My mind burst with millions of words and thoughts. He loved me. He loved me. He loved me. I wanted to hold him, to make him stay- forever.

My heart overruled my mind and I was close to being unreasonably careless. I couldn't tell him who - what I was- not now.

Say it again, I begged him in my mind. Say it again, say my name, make me tremble. Make me lose my mind, touch me - and never let me go. Love me. Make me forget myself. Make me forget what I am.

Instead, I said,

Hold me.

Chapter three: https://substack.com/@helltorium/note/p-158706583

Chapter four:

https://substack.com/@helltorium/note/p-157675338

Chapter five:

https://substack.com/@helltorium/note/p-159401382