Hocking, Amanda Letters To Elise (My Blood Approves 4.5) (4 page)

contain myself.

I’d never felt so out of control, unable to stop myself, and I was so grateful for it. When Elise and I are together, it feels as if we are one. I can feel her emotions inside of me, as if they are my own. I’ve spent my whole life fragmented, living as half a being, but I never realized until I was with her and she made me whole.

These past two months have been a blur, a haze of happiness and pleasure. I’m not sure how long it

took for us to get to Paris, and I don’t really remember much of the journey. We stopped every chance

we could, renting rooms far more often than we needed to, but it was hard enough for me to keep my

hands off her.

I am her humble servant, and I worship at her feet nightly.

When I first turned, I felt as if I belonged to you. Did I ever tell you that? There was this sense that you had created me, that you owned me, and I felt like a slave to you. Not that you ever treated me as such, but it was something in my essence that told me that. Something inside me saying, “You belong to him.

You do his bidding. That is why you exist.”

And I did, without complaint. I was happy to do it, and I still would be. If you asked anything of me, I would gladly do it. Your unending friendship is the thing most valuable to me this life, other than my wife, of course.

I feel that way with Elise, only stronger. I’m so grateful she allows me to be with her, that she lets me touch her and share her bed. I know that I don’t deserve her, no matter what our blood says. She is far too good to me, so pure and virtuous. So I spend every waking moment trying to make it up to her that

I’m not nearly as perfect as she.

My Elise, my beloved…

We went to the opera house the last night we were in Paris. Most of our trip had been spent inside our hotel room, but we’d done some sightseeing. Elise had never been to the opera before. She’d never

even been out of Ireland, and she’d grown up very poor.

Until I met her, she could barely read. I don’t understand that part exactly. As you know, I grew up with hardly any money, but we could all read. My father was a great admirer of Shakespeare, and he read to

us as often as he could. My siblings and I spent hours acting out his plays.

Father always adored A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and we performed a loose version of that once a

year. My younger sister Caroline was always Puck, but being a trouble maker suited her fine.

When I told Elise of these stories, she could hardly believe me. I went to a small bookshop in Paris (I’m indebted to you for forcing me to learn French all those years ago), and I bought up all the Shakespeare they had.

Elise and I lay in bed. The room would still glow, the way it always seemed to afterwards. The sheets

were satin, so soft and light they feel like nothing on my bare skin.

It was in those moments, when we were too drunk on love and too tired to move, I’d pull out a book.

Elise lay next to me, her arm resting on my stomach, as I begin to read to her, telling her the tales that Sir William wrote long ago.

She stared at me with eyes so wide and bright, I always had to hide my laugh. She gazed at me with such wonder and adoration, it’s as if she thought I wrote the stories myself.

It’s because of this I insisted we go to the opera house. I’ve seen how much simply hearing the stories captivates her. Seeing something performed on stage would amaze her.

Elise can only speak a few words of French, despite my efforts to teach her. She loves hearing it spoken, but she claims her accent butchers it too much, so she refuses to learn. I think her Irish burr warms the language, but she won’t be convinced.

Even with that, I took her to the opera at Salle Le Peletier. It was a performance of Le prophète, and we had balcony seats. In the beginning, I tried to translate for her, but eventually she held up her hand to silence me.

“You don’t need to tell me,” Elise whispered, as not to disturb the other patrons. “I can see it on their faces.”

By the time the opening number had ended, Elise had begun to weep. I put my hand her arm, concerned

that something was the matter, and she shook her head, dabbing at the tears on her cheeks.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything so moving.”

After it had finished, Elise was still in high spirits. She sang the songs from the opera, and her

pronunciation was a bit off but her tone was perfect. Her voice was like an angel. I took her hand, pulling her to me, and we danced along the streets of Paris. A large, slow waltz as she sang.

We met a couple, slightly drunk on wine and even more drunk on love, and they invited us up to their

flat. Elise and I were having too much fun to decline, and we followed them up to a small artist’s loft.

Paint and wine stained what little furniture they had, and the floor was littered with canvases.

The man, Luc, asked to paint Elise, and when I translated for her, she gladly accepted. She sprawled on a purple blanket, her ringlets coming loose from her hair. I understood why Luc had to paint. If ever there had been a muse, Elise must surely be one.

While Luc carefully tried to make his brush strokes match the perfection of my wife, I talked to Marie.

She spoke some English, and she used as much as she could to keep Elise in the conversation.

Marie and Luc had just come back from a holiday in Prague. It wasn’t meant to be a holiday – Luc was

supposed to be working. Marie explained that last month they’d barely eaten, and Luc had hardly

painted from lack of inspiration.

So they’d travelled to Prague, where Luc had been hired to paint portraits for a wealthy family that lived there. Only as soon as they’d gotten there, Luc had enraged the mistress of the house, and they’d been sent packing without any pay.

That hadn’t stopped them from having a marvelous time, though. Marie told us of the architecture, the

streets, the river, the people. She said we must go to Prague if we had the chance, and I realized that we certainly did.

We left before Luc could finish the painting, but I paid him for the half-finished canvas anyway. It only seemed fitting, since Elise and I had drank of them before we left. They tasted of purity and grapes, and Elise seemed a bit tipsy when she was done.

The next day, Elise and I packed our things and hopped on the train out of Paris. I know that’s not at all what I told you when I left. I said two weeks in Paris, then we’d come home.

But this is the only time Elise and I will be newlyweds. I implore you to forgive me, dear brother. I want so much to enjoy this time with my wife. I have this strange sense of urgency when I’m with her. Our

time together feels so very precious, as if there is only a finite amount left.

I know that’s not true. That we have all eternity to see the world together. But right now, I feel this is something that I must do. I must give Elise the world while I have the chance.

As I write this, we are still on the train, on our way to Prague. The sun has only just begun to rise, the pink light spilling through the windows. Soon, I’ll have to pull down the shades, shrouding us in

darkness, but for now, the light seems perfect.

Elise has her head on my shoulder, and she’s been sleeping for a while. She stirred a bit ago, watching me as I wrote this letter to you.

“Is that to Ezra?” Elise asked, stifling a yawn.

“Yes, it is,” I told her.

“Please tell him not to hate me,” she said.

“Why would he hate you?” I asked.

“For stealing you away from him. I would hate somebody that took you away from me.”

“Nothing can take me away from you, my love. You know that.” I brushed back a hair from her forehead

and kissed her gently. “I am yours forever.”

“I know.” She smiled, lopsided because she was sleepy. “But I still stole you from him.”

“I went willingly,” I assured her. “And Ezra isn’t the type to hold grudges.”

“Perhaps.” She snuggled closer to me, resting her head in the nook between my shoulder and neck.

“Does Catherine hate me for taking you away from her?” I asked.

“A little,” Elise admitted, and then giggled. Somehow, the sound was even more charming when she was

sleepy. It had an innocent quality to it that made my heart swell.

With that, she drifted off to sleep. So I beg of you, Ezra, if you cannot forgive me for leaving you now, please at least do not hold it against my young bride. She cares for you, not as much as I do, but as much as she can.

We only wish to make each other happy, but we don’t want to do it at your expense. Let us have a few

more weeks to be free and unfettered, and in love and foolish the way only the young can be.

Then I’ll return home. I will work with you to open the business. Elise will work in the gardens and fields of her farm. We’ll build a house together, but the life we build will include you. You are as much a part of my life as my beloved Elise.

I want you to know that. Just because I am married now it doesn’t change a thing between us. I still love you as much as I ever have, brother. And when I return, I will set about proving it to you. I don’t want there to ever be a doubt about my loyalty to you.

I hope things are well with you, and you are checking in on Catherine to make sure she’s alright. Elise has been afraid that the farm will fall apart in her absence, but I assured her that you will keep Catherine in line.

Take care, dear brother, and I will see you soon.

Yours,

Peter

December 24, 1860

To Elise, with all my love –

On this Christmas, I wanted to give you something to show you how much you mean to me, how

grateful I am that you’ve let me spend these past eight years with you.

I would buy you a new house, if you’d let me, but I know how much you love this old farm. I’d take you on another trip, if I hadn’t already taken you everywhere you asked to go.

I’ve given you everything I have to give, and so much more. I’d give you the moon and the stars, if you asked for it, but I know that’s not what you need.

Love, my love, is the thing you crave the most. I’ve heard you talk of your family, the stories growing with increasing frequency. Our small home has become too large for you. I hear your footsteps echoing

as you walk about during the day, and I reach over to your spot in bed, finding the sheets cold.

When did you stop sleeping? When did this ache begin to fill you?

I offer myself to you, completely, eternally, humbly yours, but I feel it in your touch. In your smile that never seems quite true. A sadness. You miss something. Is it something you lost? Or is it something you never had?

My love, my true, my only. What is that you lack that I cannot give?

I think I know the truth, but I’ve been afraid to speak it. I fear if I form the words, it will become a real. A solid entity that will take over our lives. That will ruin everything I have worked for to create with you.

It’s the stories of your younger sister Charlotte that haunt me the most. You talk of her running down the hall, her feet pattering on the floor, her laughter filling the house, her hair flowing with pink ribbons.

Is that the sound you miss? Is that the color you crave? The one thing that we can never be? A family?

I lived for fifteen years as a vampire before I met you. It doesn’t seem that long compared to forever, but when I think of the days, the long nights I spent lost without you, it feels so endless.

The truth is – the truth you mustn’t ever tell Ezra – is that I think I missed you before I knew you. The absence where you should be had been in my heart the second I was born. Even as a human, I’d denied

all potential suitors.

I’d always been waiting for you.

But it wasn’t quite the same for you, was it? Not that I’m doubting your love. I know you love me. I know how deeply that flows within your blood. We are bound together forever, and I know you are as happy

for that as I am.

I refer to the life before me. Before you knew me. I don’t think you felt the absence quite as sharply as I did. You had wanted more. You had wanted a life, before it was taken from you. And this is a life that I can never give you.

Love, my love, is something I can give. You have my whole heart, my whole being, and if that is not

enough, then I will find you more love. More to have, more to give, more to take.

Our house will be empty no more, and there are only so many visits from Ezra and Catherine we can

take. I’ve found you the closest thing to life I can give you – a puppy.

I saw him in the market three days ago, and Ezra’s been holding him in secret until now. He’s a small

mongrel, something between a collie and a wolfhound I’ve been told. When I first spotted him, I

thought, What an ugly little creature.

But then I looked at him the way you would, tilting my head and seeing past his wiry tufts of fur. I saw the love and the hope and the joy inside him, and I knew that he would belong to you. He was meant for you as much as I was.

I can only pray he helps to fill the hole in your heart, the one that even I cannot touch.

You are my love, my true, my only, my Elise.

Merry Christmas

Peter

January 8, 1863

My beloved Elise –

The waves will not stop crashing. I’ve written you three letters that have gotten swept away to the sea. I meant to write you a cheerful letter, to keep all my nausea to myself, but you see through all my words anyway.

I hate this damnable ship.

Its ceaseless rocking. Its constant dampness. Every bit of it is wet, no matter how low or high I go.

Everything smells of mold and filth. These humans are far more disgusting than I remembered them

being, but I haven’t had to live in such close quarters with them in a very long time.

Ezra finds this whole thing amusing, but he always does. He’s maddening.

I’ve had to find new and inventive ways to vomit, since I can’t let the other passengers see my blood red emesis. The food here is horrible, as well. We’ve been at sea for over a week, and I’ve yet to eat.