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For the longest time, he hadn't believed it could be real.
Barnabas Collins had long known himself to be damned. Regardless of his state, human or vampire, the condition of his soul had not been in doubt for centuries. He had come to take a strange comfort in it; to know that one was damned was to have a certain liberty to do as one pleased. And so his sins had mounted, one on top of another, until it seemed that reality itself had crumbled under their combined weight.
Or, possibly, that the world had simply reformed itself to match the brightness of her smile.
Because Julia Hoffman smiled at him nightly now, as she closed up whatever dusty old tome she'd been perusing and suggested that they take a moonlight walk. Her smile, innocent and trusting, secure and happy, had become as much a part of his routine in this strange new life he was suddenly living as the crunch of dew-damp leaves beneath their boots, the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm, the tang of brandy on his tongue as they warmed themselves by the fire afterwards. How he cherished those lingering drinks, as it was by the fire that they would talk and talk about everything and nothing until the brandy lent her cheeks a particular color and she gave him that smile again. And then, each and every night, he would find that he had no words left in the face of her beauty.
For she was beautiful. At first, he thought that the Julia of this world was simply a physically finer creature than that of his own: her eyes brighter, her step quicker, her laugh richer. But then he began to realize that this was simply what Julia Hoffman was like without constant fear pulling at her, without the guilt of Dave Woodward's death weighing on her heart. This brave, charming, hopeful woman was Julia before he destroyed her.
Or perhaps, in the rare moments that he allowed himself to hope, he thought that she may just be Julia in love. Julia in real love, not the pallid shadow of it that he had occasionally sensed from her in the time before. Julia in love with him, as he now knew he was in love with her.
It was strange that it would take this to make him see it, this strange reordering of reality that he thought he could finally explain. He had posited theory after theory, challenging Julia with more and more bizarre ideas under the guise of mere metaphysical curiosity. And she had rolled her large hazel eyes and indulged him. Until she had looked up from her notes one night and informed him that for the scenario he described to come to pass, she would imagine that time travel would need to be involved. A single entity changing a single event hundreds of years ago, sending ripples through temporality that no one else would notice.
"But if one person were to notice?" Barnabas had insisted. "Just one?"
"Well... then he would need to have an entirely different sort of brain than anyone else on Earth." He still remembered the look of fear creeping across her features. "Barnabas? Is there anything you want to tell me?"
"Yes." The word had escaped him before he could give it proper thought, and he had longed desperately to snatch it back. "You're brilliant." He had brushed a kiss across her temple and felt a vein pulsating there, carrying the precious blood that kept his precious friend alive. Looking back at that moment, he believed that was when he had first known.
He has imagined himself married countless times throughout his life, and the picture has always been the same. A dainty wife, slender in her corset, sitting opposite him at the end of a long table as the servants pour their wine. The little children, their faces freshly scrubbed with hot flannels, brought in by the governess to say good night. Gentle sex which he would initiate and she would accept under silk sheets in the cover of darkness, and for something wilder possibly whispered excuses and a trip to a bordello once in a while. The faces of the women in these fantasies have changed a few times, but the meat of it, the marriage itself, has always remained the same.
So he knew that he loved Julia most passionately when he began to instead imagine married life with a wife who would challenge him to spirited debates at every opportunity, who would allow the furniture to become coated in dust and cobwebs because she was too engrossed in her research to care. He had lost many afternoons since the great change occurred wondering what it would be like to hear men marvel that the new Dr. Collins was the cleverest woman they had ever met, and in his most secret heart he knew that he would trade all the limp fantasies - the corsets, the moppets, the virginity carefully preserved and then quickly spent - for the pride he would feel in such circumstances.
But it could never be.
Oh, Julia would say yes; he really did believe that. The conviviality they have found, the shared sense of spirit - they had both been lonely creatures for so long that it was impossible to think that she would not leap at the chance to cement a rare connection with another living being. And she did care for him, deeply; there could be no denying that.
Or rather, she cared deeply for the man she thought Barnabas Collins was.
For in this new world, he was her kind and gentle best friend. He was the man she knew would never harm any living creature, least of all her. That should have gladdened his heart, as any sensible woman was far more likely to want to marry a saint than a sinner. But it was there that the cruelest twist took shape.
Barnabas Collins could have married his Josette, and never breathed a word about the time he had spent with Angelique. Failing that, he could have taken any young twentieth century ingénue, slid a ring onto her finger and made her his Mrs Collins without feeling any need to disclose his past to her. But he could not make love to Julia Hoffman under false pretenses. He could not let her call him husband without knowing who and what he truly was.
And he could not tell her. Not ever.
Whenever he imagined it, his mind threw out endless possibilities to torment him with. Julia repelled, repulsed. Julia thinking him quite mad, and being forced to make arrangements to have him committed to the lunatic asylum where she worked. Worst of all is the image of Julia tearful. No. Never again by any deed of his.
Even if she would still have had him, could he honestly bear to sully her again? Their time-tossed adventurer had wiped his bloody fingerprints off of Julia, restored what he had damaged so carelessly in the past. Could he really put his murdering hands on her again? Could he kiss her with a mouth that had sucked other lives dry? It was still so hard to believe, that in this world Barnabas Collins was truly a good man, but perhaps here was his proof.
This Barnabas Collins would not contaminate Julia.
So she came to see him, night after night, smiling brightly as she accepted his arm and his liquor and his friendship. And he never let on that he wanted just to hold her, to make the most of this bizarre second chance, to love her, as he believed she has always secretly longed to be loved. He kept his two deadly confessions locked up deep inside of his soul. And if the pain that caused him was agonizing, it was also entirely to be expected.
After all, Barnabas Collins has long known himself to be damned.