Fielding Dingle was dangerous, too, even though he was dumb and I didn’t like him. And I could not forget the killer, that as-yet-unidentified monster who had gutted a professor, bled two women, smothered a little girl, smashed a baby, and torn a man’s face off. I had some reason to believe this ruthless butcher had entered my residence and noticed my dining room table, and I also suspected that he might be an indestructible monster of supernatural origins. So that was a fellow one might go out of one’s way to avoid.
Under the circumstances, remaining in Cambridge was a phenomenally stupid thing to do; the only sane choice was to book the first stagecoach home. But I had always believed that rational behavior made life much less interesting. So, to hell with that.
I would stay in Cambridge, and I’d do it for ridiculous reasons. Non-reasons, really. I wanted vengeance for Violet, and for her baby. But I’d shirked more pressing responsibilities in the past. I could have accepted justice rendered by another man’s hand; Archibald Knifing could probably dispatch a colder and more punishing retribution than I could ever begin to imagine. The only thing that prevented me from getting out of Knifing’s way was the unshakable, irrational belief that the killings were related, in some way, to my father and the vrykolakas. It was a stupid, crazy thing to believe, and I knew it was stupid and crazy, which just made it stupider and crazier to continue to risk my life and freedom by involving myself in the investigation.
But, God help me, the lie I’d told myself so many times had taken root in my mind, and I couldn’t walk away from even a very slim chance that I might learn the truth behind Mad Jack’s disappearance. And, anyway, my mother was at Newstead, and if I went home, I’d have to see her. I felt that I’d prefer the vampire’s company.
By the time Beardy’s crowd dispersed, night was falling and my course was set. I would stay and I would see this thing through. And, as long as I was remaining steadfast, I figured I might as well try to fuck Olivia Wright.
Chapter 25
I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long-I am such a strange melange of good and evil, that it would be difficult to describe me.
Men were not permitted into the women’s rooming house after dusk, but I’ve found that if I behave as though rules do not apply to me, then they usually don’t. So, I paid no mind to the feeble protestations of the house matron, who squawked without effect as I strode past her roost by the front door.
“Lord Byron, why have you returned to my residence?” Olivia asked when she answered her door.
“I have seen terrible things today. Mangled corpses and murdered children. I am distraught, and I am seeking solace,” I said. “I believe I misplaced some between your bosoms.”
I reached for her, but she pushed me away. “You’re drunk, Lord Byron. I apologize if I confused you this morning, but I cannot yield to your advances.”
“I think you are the one who is confused,” I said. “You can give in to your impulses, and you should, whenever possible.”
“I’ll regret it later.”
“Later might not come. Trading the pleasures of now for the possibilities of later is no way to live a life. There will always be a later to prepare for, but you will not always be young.” I thought of Mad Jack, flinging china plates into the air. “And if later comes, and you regret your pleasures, so be it! A life without regrets is a life without texture. When now becomes later, you can make a new now; drown your regrets with drugs and strong spirits and do more regrettable things. Let’s seize our opportunity to be scandalous together. Let’s commit some spectacular folly.”
Olivia was not persuaded. “I should guard my chastity, I think, until I can ensnare a proper suitor,” she said.
I smiled and brushed my fingertips against her cheek. “That would not be an imprudent course of action.”
“I am a prudent girl. I treasure my prudence,” she said. “You could be a most excellent man, Byron, if only you would be less reckless.”
“A poet mustn’t live by the strictures that govern ordinary, conventional lives. Propriety is anathema. Art is about testing limits and reveling in the joy of unrestraint. I am not the man you want to face your regrets with later. I can only offer to share this moment with you.”
She stretched her neck toward me, so my mouth was near to hers. I looked into her eyes and saw that they were full of tears. “Perhaps, for the right woman, you would change your rakish ways?”
I smiled. “Perhaps. For a month, or two, or even three. But before too long, I’d meet another right woman, and off I’d go, racing after her. A poet’s heart is not a thing to be owned. A lover’s love is too wild to be tethered in one place. I am fated to chase my desires, irrespective of other obligations. The world is full of beauty, and I want to taste all of it.”
“Some things that look beautiful are poisonous, you know.”
“I fear I shall not live a long life. But I would not live otherwise.” I tried to kiss her, but she pulled back from me and retreated across the room, so her bed was between us.
“And what of faith and fidelity?”
“If you want those things, you oughtn’t flirt with poets. Faith and fidelity are the province of the prudent man. Someday, you’ll meet one of those, and perhaps you’ll marry him. The prudent man is the most proper of suitors.”
“You speak as if prudence is a distasteful thing.”
“Not at all. Prudent men have the wisdom to resist the possibilities of now. A prudent man knows that the combination of two fortunes will yield greater comfort to both parties. A prudent man will understand that he desires children to carry his name. A prudent man will recognize that he wants companionship as he ages, that he wants tender hands to care for him as he grows infirm.”
“He sounds like an honorable fellow.”
“He is honorable, and it is upon a sturdy and honorable foundation that he builds his life and his future. And I, the poet, the lover, am most dishonorable. I don’t build anything. I care only for pleasure, and I behave as though my actions have no consequences. I am profligate with money and amass debts wherever I go. I keep dangerous beasts as pets. I am lazy in my studies. And I am rumored to be incapable of sexual fidelity.”
“You could be more prudent. You could be faithful, for a woman who understands you, for a woman who inspires you.”
“I don’t want to change,” I said. “And I know that if I changed, you would cease to love me. Maybe you should preserve your virtue for the prudent man. He deserves it more than I. He shall remain by your side, and he’ll always be faithful. If you grow ill, he shall hold vigil at your bedside. If you should predecease him, he shall weep at your funeral and bring fresh flowers to your grave. But you know what I know; love is not a lifetime of fidelity, and love is not a prudent combination of interests. Love is a single, sublime moment, transcendent but fleeting. You know there’s a kind of love so intense that you can’t look at it directly; so bright that you still see its shape when you close your eyes. And you know that a prudent man can’t love like that, because he’s too heavily invested in later to commit himself to now. He can commit for life, but I can only commit to right now. You may forsake true love for the fidelity of a prudent man. But you will recognize his faithfulness is dullness and his honor is weakness. You will know that he is boring.”