Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (16 page)

“Look, Jane!” Cassandra, eyes bright, held a quartered peach in her cupped palms. “Such splendid fruit and out of season, too. I wonder from whose hothouse it came?”

Fruit was piled in a bowl, scattered on the table. Eliza, grinning widely, her mouth stained with purple grape juice, sliced a pineapple, pausing to lick her fingers.

Martha and Mrs. Austen, deep in discussion on whether they should bottle the grapes or make them into preserves, for there were too many even for the whole household to eat, looked at Jane with knowing smiles.

“The fruit came with a note addressed to us all,” Anna said. She handed a folded piece of paper, sticky with peach juice, to Jane. “Surely not another admirer, Aunt Jane!”

Jane unfolded the note.

To the Austen household with the compliments of Luke Venning.

She turned it over. Nothing more. She crumpled the note in her hand and tossed it onto the fire.

Her family watched for her reaction. Whatever they might have expected, it was not that she would sit at the table, drop her face into her hands, and weep.

Chapter 16

“W
ould you like some tea?” Cassandra asked. “A dose of salts, perhaps?”

Jane, from her place on the sofa, shook her head and summoned a smile for her sister.

Apparently it resolved as a grimace, for Cassandra frowned. “My dear, do you not think you should rouse yourself? You have hardly eaten, you have not written in these past three days, other than your letter to Edward; this is not like you, to succumb so to melancholy.”

“I regret if I cause you inconvenience,” Jane replied.

“I should hate to see you develop the habit of low spirits in which our poor mother indulges herself.” Cassandra paused. “May I inquire—you have been so open with me in the past—is this an affair of the heart that brings you so low? For you may confide in me.”

“I’m not sure our mother indulges herself. I think it is in her nature. Possibly it is in mine, too.” Jane sat up. “Where are Anna and Martha?”

“Martha has gone to visit her friend Mrs. Chapple.”

“How nice for her.”

Cassandra gave her a curious glance. “And I have sent Anna to help our mother. Anna was quite upset this morning after our walk.”

Jane shifted on the sofa to see Anna and her mother in the garden, Anna with a smear of dirt on her face and a spade in her hand and Jacques the pug frisking around them. “She looks cheerful enough now.”

“Fresh air and exercise are remarkably efficacious,” Cassandra announced.

“I hate it when you try to sound like a sermon. What happened this morning?”

“We encountered Duval Richards, but he barely acknowledged us, just raised his hat and went on his way. I thought Anna would swoon, she turned so pale, and she cried all the way home.”

“So he has tired of her.”

“Poor little Anna,” Cassandra said.

“She’s seventeen. She’ll recover, and I am glad Mr. Richards revealed his true character before she was entangled any further.” Jane stood and strolled over to the piano, relieved that Duval had lost interest in her niece. It must indicate that he was sincere in ceasing hostilities with William, or so she assured herself, for she still had doubts about the success of her endeavor.

“Sometimes you are remarkably unfeeling. I was going to invite you to visit Miss Benn with me, but if all you will do is smile satirically and make hurtful remarks, you had best stay home.”

“As you wish.” Jane played a chord and a fragment of a tune on the piano. “If everyone is out or otherwise occupied, I shall practice.”

The front doorbell rang and the kitchen door banged as one of the maids went to answer it.

Whoever it was did not seek admittance, for soon after, the front door closed, and Eliza, a letter in her hand, entered the drawing room.

“From the Great House, miss,” she said. “My, that was a handsome footman!”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Jane said.

“I was looking, that was all, miss,” Eliza said, and retreated.

“Those girls.” Cassandra shook her head. “This letter is addressed to our mother.”

“Why would someone from the Great House write to our mother?” Jane said.

Cassandra shrugged. “It has to be a formal invitation.”

Jane groaned. So this was the result of the appeal to her brother Edward to open the doors of Hampshire polite society to the Damned—doubtless her sister, niece, and Martha would be avid to attend.

“I cannot go,” she said.

“Oh,” Cassandra said, and then repeated the exclamation with a wealth of meaning. “Oh. You mean—Jane, forgive me, but is this the reason for your poor spirits? Has Mr. Fitzpatrick disappointed you once more? You said—”

“I can tell you no more,” Jane said, but at that moment she saw Martha join her mother and niece in the garden, and Cassandra opened the window and waved at them, inviting them to come into the house.

Jane sat on the sofa again, bracing herself for the argument that would follow, the half-truths and evasions in which she would have to indulge, the hurt feelings of her family; and above all, that she had been foolish enough to agree to accept William’s invitation to the Great House. How could she explain to her sister that her very soul was endangered every time she was near William, or any one of them?

“An invitation?” cried Mrs. Austen. She pried the wax seal from the letter with agonizing slowness. “Oh, goodness, girls, they are giving a ball at the Great House. Can you imagine what that will be like with their high standards of hospitality? Think how very grand our last evening was there!”

“I don’t think we need attend,” Jane said. “He is inviting us only to be kind, because we are the relatives of the owner of the house. I am sure James would not want Anna to go.”

“But he says Edward particularly wishes us to attend, although Edward himself cannot be there. A shame, for I should have liked to have seen him and the children,” Mrs. Austen said. “Well, Anna, you shall be the handsomest young lady there, even if they do invite the best society in the county, and we have but three days to prepare. You must all go to Alton tomorrow, my dears, and buy new trims and ribbons.”

“Oh, indeed,” Martha cried. “Jane, you must buy some new silk stockings.”

“I can only imagine why,” Jane said. From Martha’s bright eyes and air of satisfied well-being it was obvious she had allowed Tom to dine on her once more, his earlier discourtesy forgotten.

“So you’re feeling better, Jane,” her mother said with a shrewd look. “Well, well. I suppose it is nothing to do with Mr. Fitzpatrick, or whoever it was who was kind enough to send the fruit? I did not realize Edward’s hothouses at the Great House were so well stocked. Life in our little village is quite exciting these days.”

“I liked it better before,” Jane said. “I am finding it very difficult to write.”

“You haven’t even tried to write these last days. You’ve been lying around feeling sorry for yourself and feigning illness,” Cassandra said.

“I have been unwell,” Jane said.

“Now, girls, let us have no quarrels!” Mrs. Austen exclaimed. “I shall begin to think you are rivals for the same gentlemen if this bickering continues.”

“You need have no fear of that,” Jane said.

“Do—do you think Mr. Richards will be there?” Anna asked, blushing.

“If he is,” Jane said, “you must look upon him coldly and flirt with other gentlemen, for he has been most discourteous. Have you not heard, Martha, from your friend at the Great Hall, that Richards is all but engaged to a young lady with a great deal of money?”

“I’ve heard nothing of the sort,” Martha said, crushing Jane’s invention. “And how did you hear about it?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. From someone else there.” As soon as she said the words, she regretted them, seeing the significant looks exchanged by the other ladies.

T
he next few days were spent in a flurry of preparation, alterations and improvements on gowns, the creation of headdresses, and speculation on who would attend among the people they knew. Jane tired of the activities soon enough and retired to the dining room to write, feeling a great sympathy for Mr. Bennet in a house full of silly women.

When her hand was too tired and stiff to write, she took long, solitary walks, carrying her pistols but not meeting any of
les Sales;
whether they were elsewhere or were safely downstairs at Prowtings wearing livery or caps with modest print gowns according to gender, she could not tell. Inevitably, if she paid no attention to the path she took, she would find herself walking in the direction of the Great House or Prowtings and, infuriated by her body’s betrayal, turn away.

But the nights were even worse.

“Jane, my Jane, how I’ve longed for you.”

“We should not.” But he left fire everywhere he touched her, with knowing skilled fingers, his tongue and mouth—oh yes, he was
en sanglant,
and willing her to become so, too. Fire and a drugged, drowsy sweetness that made her shiver with delight as they discovered each other again.

“You are so beautiful.” She touched his hair, his cheekbones, the elegance of bone and skin she loved so much. Her finger rested on his lips. “No, do not say I am. It is a lie. You’ll not lie to me, Luke.”

“I’ll lie with you.” His lip lifted and his aroused canines, as rare and hard as ivory, as fine and strong as silk, rubbed against her finger. “Now we shall be together forever, Jane. You’ll be my Consort once more.”

She could resist him no longer for he gave her worlds and time, a universe of experience and sensation when hours stretched and broke and re-formed to build again. They shared the glorious slide of skin and the touch of fang that was pain and pleasure and shock together, the slow swell and seep of blood, the scents of desire and fulfillment.

“No!” She sat up in bed, on fire still, her heart beating fast, canines sharp and aching.

She tossed the covers from her limbs and slipped to the floor, where the floorboards were a cold shock against her hot limbs, and buried her burning face in her hands.

On the opposite side of the room, Cassandra stirred and murmured something in her sleep. Would she awaken? Could Jane stop herself from confessing her craving for Luke, her horrifyingly sensual and vivid dreams?

And if you caused this, Luke, I hate you for it. No, do not reply. Only take heed and, I beg you, stay out of my dreams.

Elbows on the bed, she prayed as fervently as any Methodist to be spared, delivered, that her true release from the Damned might come about. She opened her eyes and gazed at the bedchamber wall, expecting to see some sort of papish sign that her prayer was heard and her wish granted. But all that happened was an awareness of the cool cotton of her nightgown against her skin—far too much awareness, she reflected grimly—and at last the gradual slowing of her pulse and breath. Cautiously she explored her canines with her tongue and found them still sensitive but returning to their normal state.

How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?

How long will You hide your face from me?

How long before she was Jane Austen again, her own woman, cool and satirical and ironic; a gentlewoman, no longer young but accomplished and clever, a beloved and respected friend, daughter, sister, aunt?

Sleep would not come again tonight. She reached for her shawl and wrapped it around herself, sitting on the bed to pull on a pair of stockings. Her nightcap was buried somewhere in the sheets, but she could not yet bear to don her spinster’s cap for the day. Anna was right; the cap was unflattering, but Jane had seen it as a proud statement of her status:
Yes, here I am, take me for what I am. I am past having to inconvenience myself for the game of husband hunting.

Now she hated it, but village life had taught her the folly of changing the style of her cap, or making any other fundamental change in her dress. She would be exposed to vulgar speculation on her intentions—doubtless toward a gentleman—and there was little hope that Cassandra and Martha would defend her. More likely they would be the worst of the gossips.

She tiptoed downstairs and into the dining room, where she roused the banked fire into life, quietly so the rattle of the poker would not disturb her mother sleeping in the room above. She lit a candle and reached for her writing desk.

This, at least, she could and must do.

A
t last the day of the ball arrived. A trap must be hired at the inn to take the ladies, and there was much concern over the possibility of rain that would splash mud onto their gowns. The arduous task of bathing was undertaken, with Anna, befitting her youth and beauty, allowed her very own tub of water, as was Mrs. Austen in deference to her age. Cassandra and Jane shared, as was their usual practice; Cassandra as the eldest bathed first, and Jane inherited the cooling water.

Both maids were put to work helping Mrs. Austen and Anna dress, while Cassandra and Jane fended for themselves. Cassandra looked on in astonishment as Jane retrieved her new silk stockings from their hiding place beneath her mattress.

“Well, what was I to do? Martha will borrow them, and my old pairs are so darned, hardly any of the originals remain.”

“She goes out more than you do,” Cassandra said, “but I really don’t understand why she should borrow them without asking you, or indeed why she should need them on her visits to her friend Mrs. Chapple.”

“I suppose she wants to impress her,” Jane said, wriggling her foot into a stocking. “But she is certainly not impressing anyone tonight at my expense. Besides, we shall all be the poor spinster wallflowers, doing our best to impress upon the company that we are having as good a time as any of them. All of us except Anna.”

Stockings on, gown tied, she picked up her cap with distaste.

“What’s wrong?” Cassandra asked. She shifted the candle a little closer to the looking glass and pinched and twisted curls into position to lie in an orderly row across her forehead. Satisfied with her appearance, she placed her cap on her head.

“I don’t think I want to wear this,” Jane replied.

“But what else would you wear?” Cassandra, ever practical, replied. “It’s a very proper cap for you to wear.”

“Precisely. Very proper.” Jane thought with regret of the ruined ostrich feathers of a few nights ago, which she had considered rather elegant, and sighed. “Do you ever get tired of being proper, Cassandra?”

“What a ridiculous question. Of course I do. But I daresay I shall never have the chance to be anything else.”

“Maybe it’s worse if you have had an unusual episode in your past, for you would then have to accustom yourself to everyday life again. But would not many say our experiences in Bath when the French invaded—”

“Oh, heavens! Is that the church clock striking the hour? We must hasten, Jane. Come, on with your cap.” Cassandra sprang to her feet. “You have ink on your fingers still. Come here, let me scrub it off.”

Jane subjected herself to a vigorous scrubbing that almost left her fingers raw and received Cassandra’s muddled emotions of excitement, nervousness, and vague romantic longings.