One With the Night (9 page)

She’d have to find a way to make Mr. Kilkenny tell her. And until she could, she would study the one phenomenon she had observed in herself. There was no question that her sexual needs had somehow changed when she was infected. Look at her deplorable reaction to Mr. Kilkenny. And she suspected strongly that his sexuality was also intensified. She had detected an erection on several occasions besides the obvious one, including just after he had come out of the bath. She felt herself blushing in memory of his naked body, smeared with blood, gashes everywhere, but still so throbbingly erect. She … even now …

Stop it,
she commanded.
You’ll never get anywhere like this.

What she needed was a baseline of her sexual reactions prior to infection. And she had just that. She went to the sideboard and pulled her journal from the drawer where she always kept it. She’d just review the section about her experiment with Tom Blandings.

Relations between men and women had always been a mystery to her. At twenty-four she had been a virgin and likely to stay so. No man vaguely marriageable wanted a girl addicted to reading books on anatomy and determined to be a midwife, or even one with ideas of her own, for that matter. Jane found them as boring as they found her. She had quite resolved to be permanently on the shelf. She flipped through the pages of her journal.

And yet, she had felt she was missing something in life. Her friend Miss Fern Sithington, who had lived in tropical climes with her father, thought that physical relations between the sexes were a transforming experience. Jane made a survey of her patients. Some agreed with Miss Sithington. Others talked of the sexual act as something to be endured. Jane thought solving that mystery might make her better able to advise her patients. She could not share the experience of having and raising children, since no one would marry her. She sighed and pushed down that familiar pain. She couldn’t remedy that. But she could share her patients’ experience of carnal relations. How could a good midwife be a virgin?

She had resolved to conduct an experiment. Even then she had been a little frightened of the consequences. Not of the act itself, of course. She had read her anatomy books and she understood the organs and their physical responses. But if the act
was
transforming, that meant one lost control of the situation and oneself, and loss of control was always frightening to her.

However, a scientist could not let fear stand in the way. And she had not let her virginity stand in the way of her chosen path, either. So she constructed the experiment …

Ah, yes, here it was …

My preparations are now complete. I have reviewed my father’s notes on the anatomy of reproductive organs and the copy of the Kama Sutra I borrowed from Miss Sithington. How lucky that Miss Sithington lived in India! I have interviewed Meg Carruthers, a seasoned prostitute, who, for a small fee, allowed me to watch her at her trade (see notes, page 56).

She skipped ahead, through the descriptions of possible candidates for a partner. She must have chosen Tom Blandings for a reason …

Tom Blandings: third son of Sir Sheffield Blandings. Has been on the town for three years. Presumably has excellent level of experience with women by now. A sportsman, by his own account he has touched Mr. Jackson in the ring and rides admirably with the Quorn when in the country. Physique therefore no doubt in excellent condition.

Was that all? And were those the right qualifications? She suddenly wasn’t sure. True, he was experienced and physically fit. How else could he have performed so quickly and efficiently? And he had been almost as adept at disrobing her as her dresser, Molly, so he was certainly experienced with women. He’d been a perfect gentleman about it, agreeing that since she was a dreadful bluestocking and unlikely therefore ever to marry, this was an excellent way to acquire the same experience as her patients.

When approached, he agreed to the scheme. However, since he is of higher social standing than I am, he required a statement of my purpose and a release from any matrimonial aspirations I might have. He prepared a release, and I signed it.

She had coupled with him three times, and all three times were essentially the same, barring the loss of her virginity the first time, which had been a little more painful. All three times were uncomfortable. She would describe the experience as dry or rasping, at least until Mr. Blandings ejaculated, but mercifully short. She had found nothing transporting about it. It was an act that reduced both partners to their least transcendent. Perhaps her hip movements were incorrectly executed. But all in all it was rather … disappointing. Afterward she’d felt nothing but the need for a bath. A voice intruded on her thoughts.
More disappointing or relieving? You never really wanted to become someone different, or lose your sensible nature.

The question was—could one consider her experience with Mr. Blandings as a baseline of sexual response before her infection? The only way to know for certain would be to repeat her experiment with Mr. Blandings again now, and she couldn’t imagine doing that even if it were possible. She took up her pen and her inkwell and sat down at the table. Dipping her pen, she paused for a moment, thinking how to describe her predicament.

April 24, 1822

I shall start with what I know, and provide an accurate description of my symptoms. Since my infection, I have had increased interest in males of sexually active ages. I experienced an urge to touch the arm of the driver of the post chaise we hired from Edinburgh. I also had several vague dreams about men of my acquaintance that left me dissatisfied upon waking. But these are hardly conclusive evidence of a change.

However, in the last day I have experienced something more nearly similar to my experiment with Mr. Blandings; to whit, my response to the sexual stimulus of seeing a naked and aroused male. This response was markedly different than my reaction four years ago. My reaction to Mr. Kilkenny could only be described as much …

How should I say it?

“wetter” than that to Mr. Blandings. I have found myself on several occasions wet between the legs with a viscous liquid which has issued from my womb area. (Indeed I feel this even now!) Secondary symptoms include a tendency to blush, a tightening of the nipples on my breasts, and an aching in my loins which can approach pain.

But could these symptoms be the result of the physical differences between the two subjects? Mr. Blandings had rather narrow shoulders, a flat chest, and one would say, a stringy habit of muscle. He had little or no hair on his body, except about his genitals. Mr. Kilkenny is older, probably in his mid-thirties. The difference in Mr. Kilkenny’s body might be attributed only to the fact that he is a fully mature specimen. He seems much—well, bulkier. His musculature is pronounced over chest, shoulders, upper arms, and thighs, in fact even his buttocks. He is constructed more broadly through the shoulders and chest, though his hips do seem as narrow as Mr. Blandings’. Mr. Kilkenny has some hair over his chest and down his abdomen, a little on his calves and lower arms. One would suppose that this would make him seem coarse, but it does not. Mr. Kilkenny is also endowed with a larger penis and testicles both resting and aroused.

His expression may also have a role in my attraction to him. It is closed, as over a great pain or sadness which keeps him from being open to the world. And yet I have seen a flicker of humor in his eyes. He must once have laughed easily. I find that courageous, and this courage is attractive to me.

There is, however, one additional variable. Mr. Kilkenny is a vampire, as I am. Could his condition itself have an effect on me? There is something about him that sings with life. Could this energy exert a sexual influence over me? Does it connect to the surge of life I feel in my own veins, or would his energy affect any woman in this way? And what of his unique scent? Could this be related to the musk emitted by some species of animal when desirous of mating?

These are questions I cannot answer. Therefore I feel any comparison of my sexual response pre- and postinfection is doomed by too small a sample of partners, and the number of variables that have been introduced. Since I cannot reach a satisfactory conclusion at this time, more observations are necessary, though I am sure to find the continued effort to evaluate my response stressful in the extreme.

Jane blotted her quill and sighed. The only person who might know for certain what was happening to her was the subject of her observations himself, and he would never hear a question from her lips on
this
subject. She was on dangerous ground, though. If she could not keep herself in check … well, who knew what might happen? She might end like those patients of her father’s who couldn’t help but rub themselves raw if they couldn’t find a man to do the deed for them. If she had felt little but the need for a bath after her experiment with Mr. Blandings, now feelings seemed to be washing over her like a tide, unwanted, inconvenient, and possibly even dangerous. She had been reduced to tears in front of Mr. Kilkenny tonight. Dreadful!

She puffed out a sigh. Better get to work. Her father would be in soon and need dinner. Maybe Mr. Kilkenny was right—she didn’t want to know any more about this frightening condition than she must to know to live, just until her father found a cure.

And let it be soon.

CHAPTER
Six

Callan set the last nail in the wooden frame he was constructing to hang Dr. Blundell’s equipment. A single strike of the hammer sent it home. He had to be careful not to crush the post itself and splinter it. It was near dawn. Blundell had made good progress in reconstructing the laboratory during the day. His vials and small burners had been set up on the long table again but he’d taken no pains to remove any of the debris from last night. So after Callan had taken care of the animals and cleaned all the stalls, he’d had swept up all the broken glass and buried it in a grave of sorts next to the one he had dug last night for the vampire. He’d torn down the half-burned draperies and nailed up blankets Jane Blundell had bought in the village. She’d left them just inside the door and practically run back to the house. Just as well. He didn’t want her or the feelings she raised anywhere near him. He had scrubbed the blood from the wood floor as best he could. Good thing he’d grown up poor in a big family with only one sister and a sickly mother, he thought grimly. He knew how to clean and scrub floors.

He jumped down from the table where he’d been constructing the rack. How distant all that seemed. Even his mother would disown him now. But she was twenty-five years dead, and his father ten. Best he get down to the house before the sun rose. Yet he was strangely reluctant to go. She would be there, no doubt, just ready to go up to bed.

Finally, when the sun was moments from rising, he dashed down to the house to find the kitchen mercifully empty. He shut the door with a sigh of relief. She’d left the windows covered against the coming sun and bacon was laid out on the table with some fresh eggs. He was starving. He went about cooking his breakfast. A tankard of ale had been thoughtfully left next to the loaf. That meant she had touched it. He slid his palm around the cool metal of the handle, imagining he could feel the lingering presence of her palm.
Ye’d better start takin’ things inta yer own hands, lad,
he thought bitterly,
before ye burst inta flames and take her with ye.
After he cleaned the stable tonight, he’d go out behind the barn and release some of that tension.

When he had a plate heaped with bacon, eggs, and thick slices of bread and jam, he took it over to the table, and sat. Before he could take many bites, though, his eyes strayed to a leather-bound book at the end of the table. It was a smaller version of the one Dr. Blundell carried for his notes. It must be hers. He focused on his food. Likely a journal or a diary. One couldn’t read a diary. Still, Dr. Blundell’s was not a journal. It was a notebook of his scientific observations. One could read observations, couldn’t one?

He drew the notebook closer. He chewed the bread, still warm, drenched with melting butter, hardly tasting them. He’d just see if it was a diary. If it was, he’d close the thing up straight away. He flipped open the cover and paged through. It was hers, all right. Each page was covered by a tidy, sloping hand. One page held notes about some flower or other. It wasn’t a diary, then.

He turned the book with one finger to a better angle. If she came down, he would hear her in plenty of time to close the book. Before he knew it, he was flipping through the pages. She was a midwife. Odd. And her father didn’t know she delivered babies in the poorest parts of London. She felt guilty for keeping it from him. But really, he never seemed to know or care where she was. He flipped ahead.
Kama Sutra.
What? He pulled the book closer. What was an innocent girl doing writing about the Indian book of sexual relations?

His eyes flicked over the pages. Sure she would never marry … wanting to be like other women … an experiment … watching whores service their clients … picking out the lad …

What a cad. He’d like to land that loose screw a facer, draw his cork, and watch the blood spill over his no-doubt ridiculously high collar points. Agreeing that she would never appeal to a man enough to marry? Making her sign away her rights when he had ravished her? For it was little more than ravishment. The way she talked of the experience, the cub obviously hadn’t even brought her to her pleasure. She’d given away her virginity and didn’t even receive the simple recompense of sexual satisfaction. And with her resolve to give her life to midwifery and doing for her father, she might never know it, even if she found the cure for her condition. She had gone looking to see whether love could transform you. She was that naïve. But had she deserved what she got? Tom Blandings found a good thing thrust into his lap and used it. Used her. And she thought that was lovemaking. She’d never believe in love at all with that as an example, and what must she think of the sexual urges that surely accompanied her vampire state?