Cheers to my Chagrin

Much to my chagrin, The letter I hold in my hand is one more part of the strange occurrences here in my township of Niagra Crossing. The town sits on the shore where the Niagra meets the glory of our grandest Lake, hence its name. 

The mysterious letter arrived at midnight two weeks ago, and all the village milk goats were dead then. The first casualties were two tiny billys found torn to shreds. Then, more and more were found ravaged until all our goats were gone. And then a host of small farm animals just disappeared, leading to what was left of dogs and cats, some with not a drop of blood left. But it was after three human infants were missing from their cribs that the townspeople begged for protection. These were such strange occupancies for the Ohio Valley. 

Several of us are prepared to fight the Brits, who are a prime candidate for the cause of our disturbances; the wind and the water that blows off our great lakes keep us safe and well-watered. Several community members blamed it on what was left of the Alqonquins as attacks to get even for the Revolution. Others claimed there must be a pack of ravenous wolves. Yet I think Lord Byron was correct when he commissioned that Polidori fellow to finish his work “The Vampyre." I agree bizarre, unique species are found daily. Thus, the theory of vampires living amongst us is possible and highly probable.

In February of 1803, Congress passed an act stating that the citizens of Ohio had adopted the Constitution, and the said state had become one of the United States of America. We gained representation in Congress, and just like Louisiana, we have laws against Vampires. Our militia has the right to fight any predators, Brits or vampires. It does not matter. We will avenge with whatever weapons we can muster. 

My grandfather spoke of an outbreak of alleged vampire attacks in East Prussia as far back as 1700 and in the Habsburg monarchy twenty-five years later, which spread to the British Isles.

I must think of this truth while holding this letter from an unknown courier. I scolded God when I saw it as it had been rumored my betrothed James Milford was dead: now he writes to me, but how? 

The letter reads, “I have never stopped loving you, my dearest Abigail. I am close to you, but so far, Our ship has just entered the mouth of the Niagra. I was recruited by force by Britain. Old King George is thriving at his cruel practice of impressment, which has become an effective way of combating the manpower shortage in this navy. For a man of well-being like myself, I must hide this communication from you as I have had to hide my identity for all these years. Yours indeed, James.”

Oh, sweet James, how did I once love thee? Let me count the ways. I see him nightly in my Eigengrau as he invades my dreams. I know what could have been. No children to mix our blood drives a dagger into my stale heart. “You have ruined my life,” I cry to my love. 

When the London Season became a marriage market, all the social events and royal court parties helped us introduce courtship. My father was a man of wealth but not as extreme as Sir Mallory, Anne’s Father, nor was James a Count in his own right. What an embarrassment it was to have James teach me his version of the Cotillion while he was involved in this big announcement of his marriage to Anne. Damn him. 

I was flirting with him via my fan. My white gown suggested my virginity, and the light red overlay suggested I was fertile and ready. I wore rubies instead of my usual pearls as a device. It attracted an array of young courters as I thought it did, James. But marriage is a game of business now.

The touch of his hands as we danced will forever intrigue me. How can I feel them now as we danced so long ago? I feel bewitched as the man is not here yet, and I can vividly see him. And then the scratching faint knock came upon my door. I opened it to see nothing there. Oh my Lord, am I mad? Perhaps it was a dog or cat lost in the fog. 

The night of the great Ball back in England is when he told me the news. He expected congratulations, and all I gave was a cold shoulder to my love, my friend, who was so unlike me. He had chosen another as his bride. 

“My darling,” he said, “Tems levé in Regency dancing should be a small hop, raising one foot forward to the fourth position. Not as you are doing.” He grabbed me from behind and, with that cupid, shot a million of his tiny arrows into my heart. He continued, “ Count dear, count. All steps should be done on the half or three-quarters toe.” then he showed me how, “All leaps or hops should land on the half or three-quarter toe.” As I tried he pretended to go off balance to ensure I landed in James' arms.

“An earthly angel should know the heel should sink gently and silently to the floor. Not as if you are a prancing filly, gently, my dear.” He went to kiss my cheek, and I stopped him by showing him that I could do it. As I began moving away from him, I repeated while giggling, “Feet off the floor should have toes pointed.” 

He left me standing there as he made his announcement of asking Anne for her hand in marriage.

Once more much to my chagrin, I wasn't the chosen one, and my flirting along with my allegiance to my homeland of England ended. I appreciate that now. Cheers to my chagrin; it taught me to be faithful only to myself. A skill I would learn to rely on here in my new America. 

My common sense tells me to let it die. Love be not here, not now; I command thee! This letter delivered in the darkness piques my curiosity, “Abigail, I have never forgotten about you. I still love you and ask for a chance of courtship.”

My mind tells me this is a cruel hoax, as word came from the trickle of immigrants unhappy with King George’s Britain that James had died. One could describe his grave. 

I can see how it might happen as friends left my distant shore, thinking our rebellion offered us riches beyond measure. An enemy seeks to conquer me, and my money is still held. The truth is there are no ten coarse meals here in New England, although even mad King George must think so as his earlier taxation implied. 

But if it is James, then why now? He does not know I feel the same. I cannot tell him that the despair I once felt would indeed approach my doorstep with him. My quay has always been screeched along his shore. They are quite different and quite the same. It's that sameness that has stood between our affinity. Now, to consider being lovers again is absurd. 

Yet I miss his closeness. Or perhaps I miss him or the future I expected to have with him?

Defiance is in his nature. We were childhood companions a little too close for comfort. We grew apart when my dear James did not invite me to the dance that spring. I was 12, and he was 13, and like a painting in a dream, I thought we would be forever together, comforting each other from the same storm. But this was not in his thoughts as he invited another, much to my embarrassment. James became my unsettling storm, and I chose to let the humiliation brought on by him allow no other young courters into my heart.

Could I feel disappointed, upset, and annoyed because of my failure?

I, a wealthy Spintress, cannot be too cautious as he wishes to return to my life. At 39, I am the whole meaning of a woman beyond the usual marriageable age. I accept this with new disparaging intent or perceive no insult. I do now process negative qualities. 

Should we have another childlike spat, it would only add insult to injury by undoubtedly adding fuel to our lovers' quarrels, ending our relationship once and for all. And in time, it cost me a pretty penny. Is love worth it? I am unsure. 

Do his beautiful words have sincerity and truth at their core? It is for me to decide. I want a family, and I am approaching the end of my childbearing days. I sometimes dream of a husband riding home to me on his muscular steed bearing a bounty of nourishment. I do not want to be alone, and at the same time, I relish my quarrel-free days. Shall I let the magic of his communication through stunning prose sway me? Are his intentions pure? Is his heart filled with honesty and truth? 

I know which ones I prefer, and then maybe a few times in a lifetime, you meet someone with both beauty in their words, truth, and sincerity in their heart, so genuine they are, they shine so bright as to eclipse everything else in the sky.

After King George lost his new colonies, he resorted to using the help of the Old World Vampyre to maintain what was left of the dignity in England. By 1812, when the old King’s mind spun into turmoil, he made a terrible decision. Without his Son’s knowledge, he employed the help of a liaison made up of aristocratic yet blood quaffing vamp to help cure him for one and take down the new American militia guarding the Canadian border. The militia was far too strong to conquer alone, and England had lost most of their alley fighting power. My dear, sweet James had resorted to giving his life to the blasphemy of the undead. 

The nightly knocks at my door progress; however, whether it is James or not, I will not invite it in. It is as simple as a lesson book. Vampyres can't enter a home without an invitation from the owner. If I let it in, it can come and go freely. I am a better Patriot than that.