Jane and the Damned (8 page)

A man passed by pulling a handcart piled with a heap of possessions, a bird in a cage on top of a motley collection of furniture and clothes, a couple of children and a dog running alongside. A woman followed, a baby in her arms.

“What‧s happened?” Luke asked.

“The French have taken Bristol,” the man replied. “My advice is to get out of the town, sir, for they‧ll be here soon enough.”

“What!” Luke exclaimed. “You‧re sure?”

“Boney eats babies,” one of the children gravely informed them, glancing at the bundle in his mother‧s arms.

The man shrugged and bent his shoulders to the cart again, threading his way through the crowd.

A gentleman approached Luke and Jane, clearly agitated. “A horse, sir, do you have a horse I could buy? Or do you know of any who might have a nag to sell?”

“I‧m afraid not, sir,” Luke said.

The gentleman wandered to another group.

A cry came up from the depths of the crowd. “Soldiers!”

“Don‧t be a fool, it‧s the militia,” someone shouted back and sure enough, a troop of men on horseback entered the square, harness and weapons jingling.

“I don‧t care overmuch for our chances,” Luke murmured.

Jane was inclined to agree. The pasty complexions of several of the soldiers and their awkwardness with their mounts suggested they had but recently abandoned shop counters and warehouses. Their leader was a middle-aged, handsome man, sharp-eyed and alert, a retired officer for sure, Jane thought.

The officer held up a hand and reined in his horse, and the soldiers behind came to a ragged halt. “Good people!” he called. “Pray, calm yourselves.”

A silence fell for a moment before people started shouting questions. Where were the French, was it true they‧d taken Portsmouth and London, what about the King, was it true they were cutting off heads already?

Again the officer called for silence. “We are here to protect you and we shall fight the French for it is almost certain they shall try to take our city. We expect them to arrive by nightfall. They have taken Bristol and many inhabitants of the city rallied to them, but it shall not happen here. Any gentlemen who wish to join us may do so, although you will be obliged to find your own weapons and mounts. Good people of Bath, pray go to your homes and stay calm. God save the King!”

There were a few ragged “Huzzahs!” and near them a man muttered to his companions, “I daresay the French might have more to offer us than poor, old, mad George. Everyone can vote there, they do say.”

“Unless you‧re a woman,” Jane said.

Luke smiled.

The gentleman of Jacobin leanings regarded her with horror and then addressed Luke. “My good sir, your wife is obviously
unwell, distressed by this news. You must take her home, sir, for she will not be safe in the streets.”

“Oh, she‧s not my wife,” Luke said, with a genial smile. “And in quite good health, are you not, Jane?”

At that moment Jane‧s father came pushing through the crowd toward them. “Mr. Venning, my thanks for looking after my daughter. Jane, I have sent your mother and sister back to Paragon Place already. We must follow them. This is a dreadful day, indeed—the French on our shores; it is hardly to be countenanced.”

Luke bowed. “I was honored to be of service, sir. Miss Austen is altogether charming.”

“Do you intend to join the militia, Mr. Venning?” Jane asked.

“Oh, I don‧t know if my tailor could run me up anything before the French arrive, which I imagine will be a matter of hours,” he replied. “A dreadful inconvenience, but I am afraid they will have to do without me.”

Mr. Austen stared and then laughed. “Why, for a moment I thought you were serious, my dear sir. Good heavens, Jane, such a time we live in.” His eyes filled with tears. “The shame,” he said. “The shame that the men of Bristol rallied to the French; I can scarce believe it.”

“Come, Papa.” She took her father‧s arm and turned him slightly so that Luke would not see him weep. “Good day, Mr. Venning.”

Luke stepped forward. “I insist, Mr. Austen, Miss Austen, that I escort you home. Doubtless there will be unrest on the streets. I am at your service.”

“Most kind,” her father murmured to Jane‧s dismay and stared aghast at the hubbub in the square. “A chair, do you think, Jane? No, I do not think it will be possible. We must walk, if you are strong enough.”

She agreed and they set off through streets where shopkeepers boarded up their windows and, according to their irate and voluble customers, had hastily marked up prices. People seemed to be dashing around buying up the oddest articles in some sort of desperate panic, as though shopping would hold back the French, or that the possession of half a dozen stone crocks and a couple of brooms could be wielded against the might of the invading army.

Mr. Austen stopped outside an apothecary‧s, where the owner of the shop was engaged in nailing boards across his shop window. He tapped the apothecary on the shoulder and asked if he could make a purchase.

“Very well, sir, but I will take coin only. I regret I cannot extend you credit.” The apothecary led them inside, although Luke announced that he would wait outside, and gave Jane a piercing look. “The young lady has come to take the cure, I see.”

“I—yes—that is correct.” Mr. Austen glanced at Jane and then at the apothecary. “With this unfortunate occurrence, it is possible we shall not be able to take the waters. Do you have any remedy that may ease her?”

The man laid his hammer on the counter and took several jars from the shelf behind him. “I can mix a draught that may ease the cravings. It will not effect a cure, sir. Only the waters can cure the condition.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Mr. Austen laid a sovereign on the counter.

“No, no, sir. A shilling will suffice.” The apothecary measured, stirred, poured ingredients into a bottle, and topped it up with liquid. “I trust this will give the young lady some comfort.” He pushed a cork into the bottle and sealed it with wax from a candle. “I would suggest some laudanum, too.”

“That may help your mother,” Mr. Austen murmured to Jane. Placing both bottles carefully in his coat pockets, he led Jane outside.

A crowd of drunken men surged onto the street, their arms full of bottles of wine, shouting and swearing they‧d kill half a dozen Frenchies each before they saw the
tricouleur
fly over their city. “You‧ll drink a toast with us to the King!” one of them demanded, waving a bottle in their faces.

Luke paused to draw a blade from his cane and the man with the bottle took a step back, tripped, and fell flat on his back onto the refuse of the street to the great amusement of his companions.

“Mad, quite mad,” murmured her father as two women shrieked over a length of calico cloth, eventually ripping it in half. The shopkeeper‧s howls of rage mingled with those of her customers, who immediately began bickering over who had the greater length.

They passed more families, struggling elderly people, and weeping small children, carrying a few hastily snatched possessions—one woman carrying an iron pot that, from its scent, held the day‧s dinner—trying to escape. Her father tried to remonstrate with them that they might well be safer to stay in the city, but fear of the French left them beyond reason.

“What do you think will happen?” Jane asked.

“I trust that
fraternité
will hold sway,” her father responded with a flash of his usual spirit. “But I fear there will be bloodshed. We must be brave, my dear. I fear your mother will not take it well.”

They passed a trap stuffed full of people. “Five guineas each, sir, to escape the French,” the driver shouted to them.

“Where on earth does he think we will sit? On their laps?” Jane felt sorry for the horse, an old and bony specimen that struggled
to pull its load. Several of the passengers looked exceedingly stout, stuffed like sausages into several layers of clothes.

“Outrageous!” Mr. Austen exclaimed. “Yet we shall leave the city, for I am sure we shall be safer at home, and take your aunt and uncle with us.”

“We do not know the state of the surrounding countryside, sir. You may do better to shutter your windows and sit tight until more is known,” Luke said.

“You may be right, sir, but Mr. and Mrs. Leigh—my sister-inlaw and her husband—keep a carriage and horses. We must discuss it with them.”

They continued through streets full of hurrying, anxious people, passing houses with the shutters closed tight, until they reached Paragon Place. Luke refused Jane‧s father‧s offer of refreshment.

“I must return home to shutter my windows and take stock,” he said. “If I may be of service, my lodgings are on Queens Square—here is my card. I am generally home unless I am visiting patients.” He shot Jane a glance as he handed the card to her father.
Find me there, Jane, you will need to dine again, whatever the French do. Or I shall find you, now I know where you are.

Oh, do leave me alone.

“You are a physician, sir?” Mr. Austen asked.

“Indeed I am. May I be of some assistance to you and your family? I see that Miss Austen is indisposed; it shows quite clearly to me, for I have had much experience with cases such as these.”

Jane opened her mouth to tell her father he was deceived, but the words failed to come. Her father instead gripped Luke‧s hand with his own, expressing his extreme gratitude, and begging him to call on them the next day for a consultation.

Luke smiled and bowed. Jane watched him walk away. Her
Bearleader. A slender man who walked like a dancer and twirled his blade as though it were a toy; she did not doubt he could use it. He had had years, possibly centuries, to practice swordplay.

“Quite a gentlemanly sort of man, but somewhat whimsical,” her father pronounced. “My dear, the waters have made an improvement already, I can tell—you look quite remarkably well, and I am most grateful for Mr. Venning‧s kind offer.”

As the footman opened the door to the house, Mrs. Austen hurried to meet them, Cassandra following close behind.

“My dear, this is dreadful indeed, and what‧s worse, my sister and her husband are out goodness only knows where—”

“There was talk of a christening, some distance outside the city,” Cassandra added.

“Yes, they left shortly after we did, according to the servants, the few that are left, and have not returned. And they have the carriage!” Mrs. Austen wrung her hands. “Oh, if only we could afford our own carriage we could escape the horror. What shall we do, sir?”

“Why, make the best of things, Mrs. Austen. Come, we‧ll close the shutters. How many servants are left?”

The news was grim indeed, with only two footmen, the housekeeper, and a maidservant currently suffering from the toothache to run the large house. All the others had fled.

“We must all keep calm,” Mr. Austen declared. “Possibly you and the girls could help the housekeeper prepare dinner, for I am sure we shall all feel better for dining.”

Mrs. Austen drew herself up, her whole body expressing outrage. Once again Jane heard her mother‧s inmost thoughts.
Why, I thought to have a rest from drudgery and this is the best he can do? How dare he look so cheerful while I suffer so?

“Here‧s a small consolation, ma‧am. We may be murdered by the French within hours, thus saving you years more in servitude.” The words burst from Jane‧s lips before she could restrain herself.

Her mother glared at her, and forcing a smile, declared there was nothing she liked better than to help prepare dinner. She led her two daughters downstairs to the kitchen, where the housekeeper and the maid, her jaw swaddled in a poultice, labored at preparing dinner.

Jane, knowing her hands would be the coldest, offered to make pastry for the oyster pie. She could see the history of the ingredients in her mind, the fields of grain rippling in the wind, a pig rooting in mud, a cow standing docile in the stall for milking. Around her the air was thick with fear and apprehension as the other women exchanged speculation on what would happen to them. One time the clatter of hooves and jingle of harness on the street brought the conversation to a sudden, frightened stop, until they heard the reassurance of a shouted command in English.

“Heavens, must they make such a noise!” her mother exclaimed at a distant burst of gunfire.

“Very inconsiderate, indeed, ma‧am,” Jane said. She clumped the pastry into a ball and reached for a rolling pin.

The strongest emotion Jane could feel was that of Betty the maid, in agony from the toothache. She could bear it no longer. Dusting her hands clean on her apron, she went over to the girl, who peeled potatoes at the other end of the long scrubbed table.

“Your tooth pains you greatly, I believe,” she said.

“Yes, ma‧am, it does,” the girl replied. “I tried cloves and willow and some other stuff that tasted nasty, but nothing helped.”

“Let me help.” She wasn‧t even sure what she was about to do, but she leaned forward and unwrapped the bandage around the girl‧s face. To her embarrassment her canines popped out and she clamped her mouth firmly shut—it had to be the proximity to another, that was it; surely she did not wish to feed again?