Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (13 page)

“Oh, pray stop behaving like a male slut!” Jane said. “And is she well? I think she has swooned.”

“So they do if they try to take our blood unmixed,” Tom said. He shoved Arabella away. “She bores me, Jane. Your friend, Martha, for all she talks of silliness and of what she has cooked for dinner the night before—lord, how she talks—Martha entertains me more.”

He stretched luxuriously on the sheets, smiling.

“Indeed. Entertainment. You do not care for her.”

“Of course not. Just as you do not care to see me in my unclothed glory.”

Jane snorted with laughter. “Your modesty does you credit, sir.”

“So will you see William?”

“Possibly.” Of course she would. They both knew it. William’s presence called to her, tantalized her. “I do thank you, sir, for your generosity in allowing my friend one drop of your blood at such grave inconvenience to yourself. No, no, I assure you I am capable of opening the door myself. You must rest, Tom, to reserve your strength for the next bout with the lovely Miss Arabella.”

He grinned. “You know, Jane, I almost forgive you for threatening to blow my head to pieces and my soul to hell.”

“It is no laughing matter, sir.” She raised the glass of wine. “I thank you for your assistance.”

It was but a few steps to the next room, and as she walked she argued with herself. Perhaps Martha would be recovered; perhaps Tom would grant her another drop; Jane longed to drink the wine herself, and more, to drink from Tom or Arabella or . . .

“Martha, my dear!” Her voice sounded hoarse. She handed the glass to Martha.

Martha’s hand shook, spilling a drop onto Jane’s wrist. “Drink!” Jane said.

She held Martha’s hand to assist her in drinking, and the single drop rolled into her cuff, absorbed by the fabric.

“So sweet,” Martha said, smiling. “Oh, so sweet.”

“You may sleep now, Miss Lloyd.”

Jane turned at the sound of William’s voice, impressed despite herself. How useful to be able to bid people to sleep and have them actually do it. Her thoughts flew to certain garrulous members of her family.

Martha yawned. “You know, Jane, there’s something different about you . . .” She fell asleep as easily as a child.

“Now you have no choice but to talk with me,” William said with a faint smile.

Chapter 13

“I
cannot be all things,” Jane said. She, who had started the day off cheerful and content, now found emotions spilling over and her fists clenched in agitation. She could not sit still; she paced like a wild creature, like one of the Damned, her limbs restless. “
Les Sales
have been seen in the village, and people are in fear of them. I cannot protect my family—I cannot even persuade Martha or Anna not to play with fire in consorting with the Damned—and I must write, and—oh, this is hopeless, William. Last night I nearly destroyed Tom, and I wished to destroy you also—”

“Oh, I would not have let you do it,” William said. He smiled faintly. “You forget I have more speed and strength, however passionate you become.”

She swallowed. “Pray forgive me for my intemperance. But I cannot forgive you for using Raphael as your bait. Two birds with one stone, I presume? Two fledglings returned to your nest?”

“Jane, my dear.” He stepped into her path and took her hands. His power burned into her, and as much as she could she closed her mind to him. “Let the metamorphosis take its course. Do not fight it. Last night you were so close, almost
en sanglant,
and I hoped you would cross the divide to us. And Raphael burns for you; has he not persuaded you of his desire? Of course you should take a lover; a woman such as yourself, denied of all passion and sensuality—it is absurd!”

“I am Miss Jane Austen, spinster, sir, a respectable resident of this village where my brother is the main landowner. I have certain standards to maintain, the good name of my family to protect. I am not what you think I am.”

“You are. Come back to us, Jane.” Had he been a lover, the ardor in his voice would have thrilled her, moved her.

“I will not. But there is one thing I shall do, sir, and that is something I can accomplish as a mortal, not as one of the Damned. I shall put an end to your hostilities with Duval and his house.”

“Indeed? Why do you think you can do so?” He released her hands and gestured to a chair. From the sofa, Martha gave a faint snore.

“You sent Luke as ambassador. He has failed. He is too involved with your cause, whereas I am not yet one of the Damned and I am determined not to become one again. I think and feel like a human woman; I am impartial, yet I know a little of the ways of the Damned. So I can represent both my family and the village, as the sister of the owner of the Great House; and I can also, in a lesser extent, represent the Damned. You, my Creator, are here; and my former Consort is with them.”

She had said it as easily as she had hoped.

“Interesting.” William sat opposite her, elbows on knees, absorbed in what she had to say. “What will you ask for?”

“That attacks on any of us, particularly the innocent people in the village, should cease. That
les Sales
be treated with pity and decency and taken into households—yes, even without letters of introductions, as shocking as that may seem. You cannot take revenge against the Prince of Wales without hurting the innocent. Did that gentleman’s coachman and postilion deserve to die?”

“And the weapons?” William asked.

“Those graystone knives?” She shivered, the mark on her breast burning anew. “Abandon them. Bury them, destroy them however you may. If there is a way to take power from them, let it be done.”

William shook his head. “They must remain. They are part of who we are. We may use them but once in a hundred years, but the gray knives are ours. But more to the point, Jane, what do you offer the Damned in return?”

“Acceptance. There is no need to masquerade as what you are not. I can use my brother Edward’s connections to introduce you to country society here in Hampshire. A little while ago you would have thought company such as this beneath you, but consider the country squires and merchants and shopkeepers your allies. You may have lost the support of dukes and princes, but I can assure you the Prince of Wales is not much liked or respected here. And these middling people are not so likely to forget the debt they owe the Damned when our—your kind—saved them from the French. And you will also win the trust of the village, and that is important if you are to live here. Did you know the common people hereabouts consider the tenants of the Great House responsible for
les Sales
? They will not hesitate to rise up against you if they are roused enough.”

“Very well. And what does Miss Jane Austen receive as reward?”

“My freedom.”

“Your freedom?” he echoed. “I assure you, you are in no way in bondage, unless it is to your respectability.”

“Let me go, William. Let your fledgling go in the way she chooses, even if it is not the way of the Damned.”

He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, silent for a moment.

“You don’t understand, Jane. It is as much you as me. Once you were one of us. In the most secret and essential elements of flesh and bone and blood, you are one of the Damned still. You will always yearn for us; you will always have those powers of perception if not the physical strength, the ability to understand and observe—”

“I believe, sir, that my excellent powers of perception and understanding have always been a part of me.” Her voice rose. On the sofa, Martha stirred and subsided into sleep. “William, promise me you will not try to trick me or bribe me. Do not, I pray, throw handsome footmen in my path or ask Tom to undress in front of me. He is quite shameless, and he does it so often I fear it will become as commonplace that he removes his breeches as others remove a hat. And above all, do not use Raphael as your pawn. I ask only that if I bring about peace, you leave me alone.”

“What you suggest goes against our natures,” William said. “You will yearn for the rest of your mortal life for what you cannot have, and I . . . I must spend eternity knowing I have failed you again.”

“I’m sure you will find comfort one way or the other.” She leaned forward and removed a long fair hair that clung to his coat. “You dine early today, I see.”

He smiled. “I had to invite Mr. Papillon and his sister to dinner, and lest I be tempted by the lady . . .”

“Oh, surely you jest. I doubt even you dining upon her would stop her tongue. But let us talk of tactics if I am to be your herald.”

“Indeed, yes. Will you come later tonight so I may instruct you? I must write a letter of introduction.”

“Why? I have met Duval.”

“It is good manners.”

Jane shrugged. She had never grasped the intricacies of etiquette among the Damned, but she should let William guide her in this matter at least.

“I am sorry I have saddened you,” she said.

“It has saddened you, too. I hope you are successful, Jane, for despite our natural longing for sensation and the thrill of the new, I and many of our kind abhor this state of war. We shall be an example to other counties.”

She stood. “I cannot hide the secrets of my heart from you.”

He held her hand briefly, then raised it to his lips. It was not the kiss of a lover—that could never be—but the acknowledgment of an ally, an equal.

Behind them on the couch Martha stirred and sighed.

“I hope you are feeling better, Miss Lloyd,” William said.

“Oh, indeed. Much better.” Martha blinked. “I thank you for your hospitality, but now it is time Jane and I returned home.”

Jane detached her hand from William’s, aware of Martha’s keen glance. But Martha looked away, her lips tightening.

S
everal times that evening Jane caught Martha’s curious gaze and wondered if Martha had overheard any of her conversation with William. Jane might well seem different in that house to one who possessed the gift of recognizing the Damned, but was that really what Martha’s sleepy comment meant? Or was Martha embarrassed by her experience with Tom and fearful Jane might say something about it to the family?

After dinner, Anna played the piano and the ladies sewed, Jane glad that the music inhibited conversation. When the ladies rose to take their candlesticks upstairs, Jane announced that she would retire downstairs to write. It was easy enough by the light of two candles, and while Cassandra said her prayers, for Jane to tuck the bundle of men’s clothing beneath her arm and quietly leave the bedchamber.

She waited in the darkened dining room for the maids, Eliza and Jenny, to finish the household chores and go upstairs to their beds. When all was quiet, she slung the reticule and its weapons over one shoulder and left for the Great House. The streets were almost deserted, apart from a few latecomers returning home from the alehouse, and only a handful of cottages showed the fitful dim light of candles or rushlights. She almost hoped that one of
les Sales
might burst from the darkness into her path, but by the time the lights of the Great House came into view the only attacker had been a stray cow that lumbered away, crashing through the furze bushes at the side of the road.

The door opened as she approached, and Dorcas ran out to meet her. “Is that your best gown, Jane?”

“Well, it is the one I generally wear in the evenings; the long sleeves can be removed, and I—”

“But this will not do. No indeed.”

“Why not?” Jane asked.

“You must be very well dressed. When did you last take a bath?”

Jane tried to remember. “A week or so ago, I believe. I wash my hair frequently, but we have to bathe in the washhouse, for we have no menservants to bring water upstairs, and it is a great nuisance.”

“I thought so,” Dorcas said, to Jane’s embarrassment.

She resisted the temptation to snuff at her own armpits. “I am perfectly clean!”

“But you’d like a bath, wouldn’t you? And you must borrow one of my gowns.”

“Oh, very well,” Jane said, somewhat interested in seeing more of Dorcas’s gowns and immediately regretting that she would not be able to tell Cassandra about them. “But how am I to get there?”

“You’ll take the carriage,” Dorcas replied. “We can’t have you arriving with a foot of mud on your skirts. Come with me, my dear.”

She led Jane upstairs and into a bedchamber where several footmen stood around chatting, having emptied buckets of hot water into a large tub.

“How did you know I was to arrive?” Jane asked.

“Of course we knew,” Dorcas said. “Or rather, William did. Turn, my dear, so I may unfasten your gown.”

“Pray send the footmen out!” Jane said in horror.

“Are you quite sure?”

“I am quite sure,” Jane replied. The scent of healthy young men and the slow thud of their heartbeats made it hard to keep her resolve. “You must understand, I go to Prowtings as a representative of the village. They will know if I have dined recently.”

“They will know you hunger, also, but if it is your wish . . .” Dorcas shrugged and nodded to the footmen, who gathered up the buckets and left.

A maid at the far end of the room took gowns from a linen press and laid them on the bed, and while Jane enjoyed the steaming water, Dorcas and the servant discussed which gown she should wear.

“No, I do not think she has the complexion for that . . . oh, you dirty girl, why did you not clean the blood from this one? He was a very enthusiastic gentleman. I think with the right jewels this might do. Jane?”

Jane, who was scrubbing the back of her neck, alarmed that she had patches of grime detectable only by the Damned, looked up. “Yes?”

“What do you think of this one?” Dorcas held up a gown of shot silk, gold that turned to crimson as she turned it.

“Too ostentatious.”

“This one, then?” A striped green satin.

“Better,” Jane said. “But is not the neck cut a little low?”

“Not at all,” Dorcas said.

“I should wear a lace scarf if you have one.”

“Nonsense. You have a fine bosom. Don’t you think so, Maria?”

“Indeed, yes, ma’am,” the girl said. “We’ll lace you as much as we need to.”

“Very well,” Jane said, resigned to having her bosom presented to the world, or at least to the Damned at Prowtings. She knew they would be more interested in looking at her neck, that portion of the anatomy having more appeal for the Damned than any other female attributes.

Her bath over—she was grateful that Dorcas did not make any comments on the cloudy quality of the water—she dressed with the help of the maid.

“I’m too old for this,” Jane said, regarding her expanse of revealed bosom.

“You know what the cure for that is,” Dorcas said. “I’ll invite a footman back in, if you like.”

“No!”

Dorcas shrugged, amused by Jane’s vehemence. “You’ll do well enough by candlelight. By town standards you’re quite decent, and I’ve seen women twice your age display more bosom.”

“Very true, miss,” the maid said with bored insolence. “Sit down, if you please, and I’ll dress your hair.”

She had the attitude Jane had noticed in London servants of performing their work as an extraordinary favor to those they served.

When Jane sat in front of the mirror, her reflection was still there, to her relief; and despite the immodesty of the gown, she thought she looked well. Not only did the maid dress her hair, but she added a headdress of tall ostrich feathers.

“I feel like a fool,” Jane grumbled. “I’ll have to bend my knees every time I pass through a doorway, and if I can step into the carriage managing the train and the feathers both, it will be a miracle.”

“You’ll do well enough, miss, I daresay,” the maid said with a distinct lack of interest and a toss of her head.

Jane stood and walked across the room, accustoming herself to the drape of the train (she had not worn a gown with a train in some years) and the constriction of her stays, laced far tighter than normal. She glanced in the tall mirror that stood in a corner of the room—Dorcas and the other occupants of the house would have little need for it—and was surprised at her own elegance.

“You need a fan.” Dorcas pressed one into her gloved hand. “There. Now you must speak with William.”

Jane followed Dorcas out of the room and into the parlor, where William and Tom, both in breeches and silk stockings, bowed to her. She saw the admiration in Tom’s gaze and fluttered her fan at him.