Time's Convert

“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.”

“That’s what Matthew says,” Marcus replied. “He and Juliette have been together for decades, but my father hasn’t mated with her. Yet.” Marcus worried that Juliette might persuade Matthew to take this irrevocable step, though Ysabeau assured him that if they were going to mate, they would have done so by now.

“Monsieur Marat says that Madame Veronique is quite the revolutionary,” William said as they approached the Kicking Donkey, their last stop before returning home. “You have that in common at least.”

“She is,” Marcus said proudly. “Veronique and Mrs. Graham would get along famously.”

“None of the rest of us would get a word in edgewise, I warrant,” William said, holding the door for Marcus. Warm air beckoned them inside, redolent with hops and sour wine.

Marcus ducked his head to enter the low-ceilinged space. It was dark and smoky, filled with farmers talking in low murmurs about the price of wheat and exchanging tips for the best livestock coming up for auction. Marcus relaxed into the familiar sounds and smells of the rural tavern—something he was never able to do in Veronique’s establishment in Paris, where the cacophony of voices and the press of bodies were so overwhelming.

William acquired two pints of foamy ale and carried them to the farthest corner of the room. The two of them settled into high-backed wooden chairs with stout arms for resting their tankards in between sips. Marcus sighed with contentment and clinked his cup against William’s.

“To your health,” Marcus said before taking a sip. Unlike wine, ale sometimes soured in his stomach, but it was worth it for the taste, which like everything else about Binfield reminded him of home.

“And to yours,” William said, returning the courtesy, “though if we’re to continue taking our daily walks, we’re going to have to come up with something else. Your safety perhaps?”

The escalating conflict in France was the topic of every dinner conversation.

“My father worries too much,” Marcus said.

“Monsieur de Clermont has experienced much war and strife over the course of his life,” William replied. “And Monsieur Marat calls for the death of all aristocrats—even your friend the Marquis de Lafayette. It is no wonder your father is concerned about where all this might lead.”

Last night, Catharine had drawn Matthew and Marcus out about what they thought of the current situation in France, and how it compared to what they had witnessed in the colonies. Marat had erupted into the conversation, waving his arms and crying out for greater equality and an end to social distinctions. Matthew had excused himself from the table rather than allow himself to be attacked by Jean-Paul or appear rude to his hostess.

“Do you agree with your father that the revolution in France will be far bloodier and more destructive than what happened in America?” William continued.

“How could it be?” Marcus said, thinking back to the stained fields at Brandywine and the winter at Valley Forge, to the surgical tents with their amputation saws and the screams of dying men, the hunger and filth, and the horrors of the British prison ships anchored off the coast of New York.

“Oh, humanity is marvelously creative when it comes to death and suffering,” William said. “We’ll come up with something, my friend. Mark my words.”

* * *

—

MARCUS AND MARAT RETURNED to Paris in May. Matthew was called away from Binfield House on some business for Philippe, and, left without a supervisor, Marat hatched a plan for their escape. It was complicated, and expensive, but between Marcus’s allowance (which had increased due to his good behavior in England), Marat’s cunning (which was limitless), and Catharine’s help as co-conspirator when it came to logistics, the plan succeeded. Marcus tucked himself back into Veronique’s life and her new lodgings at the heart of their increasingly radical neighborhood. Veronique had given up her old apartments in the attic of Monsieur Boulanger’s bakery so that a lumpen fellow named Georges Danton and his political cronies could use it as a base of operations for their new political club, the Cordeliers.

His father, who had returned to Binfield only to discover empty rooms and a triumphant Mrs. Graham, wrote a furious letter demanding Marcus return to England at once. Marcus ignored it. Ysabeau sent a basket of strawberries and some quail eggs to the Cordeliers along with a request that he call on them in Auteuil. Marcus ignored that, too, though he would have dearly liked to see his grandmother and tell her about Catharine and William. When Veronique complained that the de Clermonts were trying to interfere in their lives, Marcus promised that the only thing he would respond to in future was a direct summons from Philippe. But that never came.

Marat had now embarked upon a dangerous, clandestine life, one tilted more toward wild flights of fantasy and daemonic outbursts with each passing day. He resumed publishing his newspaper, L’ami du peuple, shortly after he arrived, seemingly working out of a shop on the rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie. During the day, he hid in plain sight, protected by Danton and the other neighborhood bullies while a citywide network of printers, booksellers, and newsagents put their own lives at risk to get the newspaper into the hands of its eager readers. At night, Marat secreted himself in the basements, lofts, and storerooms of his friends, jeopardizing their safety as well as his own.