The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 61
This is the final chapter of The Vanquished & the Surviving.
Next week, I’ll begin serially publishing a gothic novel set in the same slightly different Regency England as The Vanquished & the Surviving.
Hauntings of Claverton Castle is a supernatural & queer gothic novel in a slightly different Regency England, where Samantha Ponsonby runs away from her abusive uncle to stay with her friend Harriet... whose ancestral ghosts attempt to communicate with Samantha.
But first… below is the final chapter of The Vanquished & the Surviving.
Chapter 1:
To read the climactic Chapter 60:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/the-vanquished-and-the-surviving-149?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 61
At Whisperwood Hall, Vincent peered across the room, past the dancers in the center of the ballroom floor. There he noticed someone standing over the punch bowl and not partaking of the brew, though Vincent had found it most satisfactory. This individual had abnormally pale and waxy skin and what looked suspiciously like yellow eyes. A flash of fang confirmed Vincent’s suspicion: this was a vampire. He grimaced and continued watching in as subtle a manner as he could muster.
He wondered about the guest list and his parents’ judgment in inviting a vampire, though he was under the impression that most of the guests were recently released Sensitives. Over the past three weeks, the dungeons and towers had been emptied of these families, and into the dungeons went former Marshals and tutors such as Caldecott. Vincent knew of Caldecott specifically, because the Times mentioned his residence at Bridewell Prison in a paragraph of extremely small print. His odious tutor’s punishment seemed almost trivial.
Between his parents allowing the head of Sensitive Corrections to attend dinner parties, and this vampire at the ball, Vincent concluded his parents had invited some rather dubious choices of guests. He decided to broach the topic with them. Surely they perceived him as mature for his age, now he had vanquished Fawlkin. Never mind his feelings of remorse about killing a second time.
The vampire, Vincent realized, appeared to be looking directly at him without blinking. Vincent didn’t change his dreamy facial expression as he drifted his line of vision away from the vampire and toward other guests, many of whom looked like older versions of people he knew before his imprisonment.
Vincent quietly observed couples gazing into each other’s eyes, ladies peering over fluttering fans through their eyelashes at gentlemen, and an unmarried couple flirting openly. One young lady smiled at another through her eyelashes and scooted closer to her… friend. Vincent shrugged, looked down at his glass of sherry, raised it and sipped the sweet alcoholic beverage. It was clear to him that others experienced certain emotions he didn’t—at the very least, lust. He wondered if he could fall in love—but he chose not to let it trouble him. It was simply how he was. Indeed, such matters of the heart appeared to cause drama and distress, and he desired no part of it.
For that matter, Vincent didn’t… terribly much… mind moments such as this, when he was what others might consider socially awkward. In short, he wasn’t conversing with anyone during a social occasion. But at least he wasn’t stepping on someone’s toes during a ball, or tripping over his own feet, or saying something foolish and inappropriate. No, he was behaving in a civil manner and was much more comfortable back in society now than upon first returning to society after his three years’ incarceration. He felt content.
Above all, he felt relieved that the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections was in the past, and all the captive Sensitives were free. Vincent hoped none of them were hindered with melancholy or nightmares.
Vincent sighed shakily, knowing full well that all these meandering thoughts were merely a distraction from his troubled conscience. He wished he could have done away with the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections differently. He wished he could have managed a gentler method of toppling Cornelius Fawlkin from power. Perhaps another Sensitive might have shrugged it off easily, but not Vincent.
He wondered if he were much better than those who murdered his brother. He gave his head a little shake and recalled the gloating looks of Lady Hester and Sir Hubert on that frightful night. No, he was far better than they.
Margot sank into a chair beside Vincent and, holding a glass of sherry, sat back with a contented smile. “It seems the Bow Street Runners have taken up a temporary address at the Queen’s Palace. Meanwhile, they have made certain the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections is entirely disbanded.”
An affectionate, beaming smile came to Vincent’s countenance, as he raised his glass of punch. He would’ve smiled regardless of what his cousin said, for he relished her presence and hoped she and Roland would abide in London for a while. “Let us hope it remains that way.” Recalling how the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections initially began as a branch of the Bow Street Runners, he added, “Doubt not, the Runners won’t be trusted for quite a long time.”
“I heard rumors a greater, more effective and organized police force will soon take over.”
“That hardly seems necessary, if nothing like Sensitive Corrections takes over the Bow Street Runners again.” They both sipped from their glasses and surveyed the crowded ballroom. Vincent didn’t see the vampire.
Margot sipped from her glass and exhaled. “Roland and I are glad to be back in England, although it is a disturbingly altered England. It feels…less jovial. The Ministry of Sensitive Corrections harmed a great many people.”
Vincent recognized a middle-aged couple flawlessly participating in a country dance. They were Charlotte Albemarle and Thomas Albemarle-Jenkins, old friends of his parents. Charlotte was long known for her ability to make carriages levitate, so they never required horses, and Thomas had prophetic dreams. The couple didn’t look three years older than last he saw them—they looked a decade older. Their countenances were remarkably pale, with shadows under their eyes. They both appeared haunted, with their eyes darting about the room, and seemed as though they might jump straight in the air if someone whispered to them.
Vincent shook his head slowly but took comfort in the fact that they were no longer imprisoned and would surely recover from the trauma. He sighed and wondered if anyone ever fully recovered from trauma. Scanning the room, he observed similarly haunted expressions on the countenances of many recently-released Sensitives.
In the dining room for the ball dinner, finally beginning at nearly midnight, Vincent sat near Roland and Margot. He hoped nobody heard the growling of his stomach, but the conversations surrounding him drowned it out.
Margot twirled her wine glass while she thoughtfully scanned the faces around the long dining room table. “Was Samantha Ponsonby not invited to this ball?”
Vincent smiled. “Oh, yes, she was, but she wrote that she couldn’t depart from Bath.” His smile fell. “Her aunt is terribly ill, it seems.”
Margot set down her glass and sighed. “What a pity. I do so enjoy her company. I must call on her in Bath quite soon.”
A young woman to Roland’s left giggled so loudly he widened his eyes in alarm and slowly leaned away from her. Vincent began laughing and choked on his soup, so he hastily grabbed his napkin and wiped his chin.
The young lady in question leaned forward and, with eyes sparkling—perhaps in connection to her empty wine glass—she didn’t so much as glance toward Vincent before speaking in too loud a voice. “Did you know the former Viscount of Whisperwood was working for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections?”
Vincent froze.
The lady’s neighbor to her right shook his head. “I seem to recall reading something of the sort in the papers. But it is probably slander. I say, why would the founders have killed him if he worked for them?” He opened his mouth to say more but glanced nervously toward Vincent, who narrowed his eyes. The man hastily lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.
The lady wasn’t finished waxing enthusiastic on her topic. “Oh, don’t you see? The government has been looking through the paperwork of Sensitive Corrections. It has just come out that Nathaniel Montmorency was, during the last sennight of his life, working on an invention that would wipe Organization members of their memory or otherwise help to destroy the Organization, as they called the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections back then.”
Vincent’s lower jaw dropped. He openly stared at the woman who had at first irritated him with her silly giggle. He made a mental note to search Nathaniel’s lab for proof of this experiment. If this were true, Cornelius Fawlkin surely lied about Nathaniel attempting to create something that would destroy Sensitive powers.
A middle-aged matron glared at the loud young woman. “Enough of your gossip! You’re doing a grave discourtesy to your hosts.”
The table fell into silence for a few seconds before the murmur of conversations rose to a normal pitch. Vincent considered asking his parents to never invited that individual again. But her news filled him with hope that changed his mind.
After dinner, while most of the guests returned to the ballroom, Vincent slipped into a hallway alcove mostly hidden behind a maroon velvet curtain. Sinking onto the upholstered bench, he took a deep breath and leaned back. Although he had a significant role in bringing down the menacing organization that attempted to eliminate the Sensitives of England, he felt profoundly guilty his means of doing so weren’t entirely peaceful. A lump formed in his throat, and his eyes stung. This alcove was private, he thought. In silent agreement, his cat, Fitzbottle, slipped past the curtain, jumped, and settled down in his lap with a loud purr.
Though Vincent was under the impression that everyone else had returned to the ballroom, he heard footsteps in the hallway. Stroking the cat’s velvety fur, he attempted in vain to gulp down the lump in his throat.
Vincent gasped out heavy sobs and burrowed his face in his hands. Beyond Fitzbottle’s purr, he heard the rustle of fabric and soft footfalls. He looked up to see Margot sinking onto the bench beside him. She lightly placed her hand on his shoulder. “What troubles you, dear cousin?”
Vincent continued weeping. He removed his hands from his face long enough to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, turn away from Margot, and wipe his face and blow his nose. Fitzbottle licked his damp cheeks. “I am absolutely appalled that I ended the life of another human being, and for the second time, no less! I am a murderer!”
“Shhh, enough. You acted in self-defense, did you not?”
Vincent squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“It was therefore justifiable. Furthermore, you have saved the country, saved all the Sensitives of England. They have all been set free. Do you not understand the importance of what you accomplished in a desperate situation?”
“I understand it, intellectually, at times. Yet my conscience is damaged for it. Killing is so against my nature, against my beliefs.” Fitzbottle put her paws on Vincent’s shoulders and licked his face as though he were a kitten.
“Don’t vex yourself.” Margot sighed. “I fear I know not what words of consolation I can say to you, under these circumstances. I’ve certainly banished a great many demons and sent many a spirit to rest, but the only sentient beings I’ve slain were vampires.”
Fitzbottle froze and, with prickling ears, sat up to stare at the curtain. Vincent sensed someone approaching them with footsteps muffled by the rug. He wiped the last of his tears and resolved to show enough restraint to refrain from weeping before others. He might resume his grievous tears after the party, after everyone departed, but surely not now. Soft footsteps paused in front of the curtained alcove.
Roland pulled back the curtain. He knelt before Margot and Vincent, who widened his eyes and blinked rapidly at his cousin. He wondered what Roland could mean by this humble position. Fitzbottle purred and leaned forward, sniffing at Roland.
Roland reached out and took Margot’s hand and Vincent’s hand simultaneously. He turned to Margot and whispered, “He is grieving, and he has a healthy conscience. Please allow him to grieve.”
Roland joined them on the bench. In the alcove, the three sat in silence, except for the cat’s soothing purrs. They scanned each other’s faces. Steps muffled by the hallway rug passed their alcove. Vincent glanced toward the curtain between them and the footsteps, sat back, and sighed. He reminded himself that he was young, and perhaps by the next time he had a quandary over nonviolence versus violence, he would know how to prevent strife and needless deaths.