Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (4 page)

“And a few adventurous ladies find reasons to call. They are most welcome.”

“Indeed! Now I shall wonder who among my acquaintance succumbs to the charms of your company. But you do not need to tell me, William; I shall find them out. I have an eye for an adulteress.”

J
ane enjoyed dinner, as much for the food and wine as for watching the Damned, William, and his alleged sister-in-law Dorcas and her brother Tom (the blood tie that bound them was not a human one and they might even be lovers or bound as Consorts according to the customs of the Damned). Their deception and appearance were innocent; they ate little and encouraged their guests to talk of country matters, crops and the weather, gossip of neighbors and their activities.

Anna, she was pleased to see, looked exceedingly pretty and, although shy, responded readily when those seated close to her engaged her in conversation.

After dinner, Dorcas led her female guests upstairs to the parlor, where one of the handsome footmen assisted in pouring and handing out tea.

“How very polite we—you—have become,” Jane said to her in a low voice, thinking of the activities in which the Damned indulged when she had last been among them.

Dorcas sighed. “I know. It is so very tedious. But tell me, Miss Jane”—in a slightly louder voice—“how long does your charming niece stay with you?”

“A month or so,” Jane replied.
Lay one finger, or one tooth upon her, you or any of your kind, and I shall rip out your throat.

“I am most saddened you trust us so little,” Dorcas replied quietly. “But do you not see? It is your true nature as one of the Damned that makes you so very protective of your family.”

“You are mistaken, ma’am. My family has always been my first loyalty.”

A flicker of canine appeared at Dorcas’s lip. “William is of your family. By extension, so am I and Tom. We shall stand by you, whatever you feel, although your ingratitude pains me.”

Jane bowed her head. She declined an invitation to perform at the pianoforte, a handsome instrument she envied, but encouraged Anna to do so, and was gratified at the warm applause that met the young woman’s playing.

“Charming, quite charming,” Tom announced, as he and William entered the drawing room. “You play exceedingly well, Miss Anna. Do you sing, too?”

Anna gazed at Tom with obvious admiration, making no effort to hide her attraction, and a small triumphant smile played over Tom’s beautiful lips.

Jane clapped a hand to her mouth as pain surged through her canines. Horrified, she fought to regain control. William gave her a concerned look.

“Why, what is the matter, Jane?” Mrs. Austen asked.

“Toothache,” Jane muttered from behind her hand. “Do not concern yourself, ma’am.” Sure enough, her canines were aching and sensitive and sharp to her tongue. She was not quite
en sanglant,
but it was the nearest she had come so far.

“We really must take you to the dentist if things do not improve,” Mrs. Austen said. “What do you think, Martha?”

“Dear Jane, allow me to look,” Martha said, and touched Jane’s hand with her own. They both wore lace mittens, and the effect of bare skin touching her own was too much. Martha’s anxiety flooded her mind, overwhelmed her.

Jane leaped to her feet. “I beg of you—”

“Jane, you must drink this.” William was at her side, a small glass of wine in his hand.

A drop of something dark coiled and spread in the wine, dissipating like smoke and releasing a rich scent. She reached for the glass and its precious liquid, a single drop of William’s blood dissolved in wine, the first time he had ever allowed her this great privilege. A great sense of well-being and safety spread through her as she drank her Creator’s gift.

“So. Do you feel better?” William took the glass from her and placed it on a tray held by a footman who lingered nearby. Jane suspected, from the gleam in his eye, that the footman might take the glass away and scoop out any last drops for himself.

“Much better, thank you.” Her teeth were once more under control, and her anxiety and rage had ebbed away, leaving peace and happiness in their wake.

“Let us repair to the Great Gallery, ladies!” Dorcas moved forward to take William’s arm. “I believe I can hear our musicians tuning their instruments.”

Cassandra joined Jane as the ladies, gathering shawls and fans, prepared to follow their hosts. “Fie on you, flirting so!” She giggled.

“But he is so very handsome,” Anna whispered.

“Nonsense. We are old friends, William and I, and he most kindly gave me some wine. You have such an imagination, sister. Maybe you should write a book.”

Cassandra stuck her tongue out at Jane in a most unladylike way while Anna looked on in amazement.

“Oh, behave yourselves,” Martha said. “May I help you with your shawl, Mrs. Austen?”

“Thank you, my dear. I fear my daughters are neglectful of me, so determined are they to behave like children, although I must say as young girls you two were much better behaved.” But Mrs. Austen smiled as she spoke. “I was not aware you knew Mr. Fitzpatrick so intimately, Jane. I can scarcely remember you speaking to him when we met him in Bath. But there was another gentleman, was there not? I fancied you harbored a
tendresse
for—”

“Ma’am, how can I set an example to my niece if you insist on revealing my scandalous past?” Jane took her mother’s arm. “Anna, if you are to learn anything of this, it is not to overindulge in a host’s excellent wine at dinner. I fear Martha may be busy making draughts for our aching heads tomorrow.”

“Indeed, yes, and they will taste exceedingly unpleasant!” Martha smiled. “Will you dance, Jane?”

“Of course not. I have had enough dissipation for the evening. I intend to sit by the fire and make tomorrow’s medicine worthwhile with some more wine. But I hope Anna will dance every dance.” As she spoke she guided her family toward the fireplace in the long room running the length of the house, where once ladies in outlandish ruffs and farthingales had taken their exercise. A group of musicians, whom Jane recognized as the village waits who played at Christmas and on other festive occasions, struck up a lively tune.

William approached the Austens and bowed. “Jane, you’ll dance with me, I hope. And Mr. Fuller would very much like to be introduced to Miss Anna for the first dance.”

Jane, aware that but a few minutes ago Tom Fuller’s interest in her niece enraged her, smiled as the introductions were made and rested her hand in William’s. Other couples joined them, but before the dance could begin, a footman made his way to William’s side.

“Sir, I beg your pardon, but the others, you know, sir,
they
are here, and . . .”

“Pray excuse me, ma’am.” William bowed to Jane and drew the servant aside. The man seemed to be in some state of consternation.

“Very well,” William said to him after a short exchange. “Show them in.”

But already a group of newcomers had arrived in the Gallery, half a dozen members of the Damned.

Jane gasped as pain shot through her teeth once more.

William came back to her side. “I regret I must leave you to talk with my new guests. I shall claim another dance this evening, Jane. Is everything well with you?” He added in a lower voice.

“Well enough.” She took her place on the couch next to Cassandra.

Cassandra squeezed her hand. “Never mind, I am sure you will dance again. Who are those people? The red-haired lady and the gentleman with her look very familiar.”

“Oh, yes,” Jane said. “Most familiar indeed.”

Chapter 4

W
illiam’s stance, as he moved toward his new guests, was one Jane recognized: one of the Damned ready to attack. What could this mean, that William, grieving for his fledgling, should show such aggression toward him? A brief conversation followed that Jane could not make out above the noise of the music, the thud of feet on the wooden floor, and the laughter and conversations of the dancers. At one point, Luke stepped back, hands spread, in a gesture of appeasement.

Luke Venning, for a short time her Consort, was the man she had abandoned for mortality and Cassandra. She had not seen him since their last painful exchange, although even now she would see a gentleman who would remind her of Luke and her heart would give a painful lurch. Just as some features of the Damned remained with her—her lean build and her long stride—so a part of her heart remained Luke’s.

He was deep in conversation with William, but his companion, a beautiful redheaded woman, met Jane’s gaze across the room. Her expression registered surprise and then contempt. With a slow smile she tucked one hand into the crook of Luke’s arm. So Margaret was once again Luke’s Consort.

William and Luke seemed to come to some sort of an agreement; a brief handshake followed.

The dance came to an end with a jubilant final chord, and Anna came to Jane’s side. “Aunt Jane, Mr. Fuller asked if he could dance again with me; and I said he must ask you.”

“Very proper,” Jane said to Anna and Tom. “I believe your reputation will not suffer.”

She certainly didn’t want Anna to have any contact with the Damned who accompanied Luke—they looked almost a different breed, arrogant and dangerous. She watched Anna and Tom return to the center of the room and spoke quietly to Cassandra. “My dear, pray do not encourage any of the gentlemen who have just arrived to partner Anna, even if Mrs. Kettering introduces them.”

“But they are very handsome,” Cassandra said.

“Trust me. I shall explain later.”

“Very well.” Cassandra fanned herself. “I wonder where Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Venning have gone?”

“They have left?”

“Yes, they went through the doorway we came through—Jane, where are you going?”

Bearleader and Creator together. She could not help herself. For a moment the room swam, the sound of the musicians discordant, and then she gathered her senses and strode toward the doorway that led out of the Great Gallery. A footman opened it and she passed through, guided by fierce longing.

A man stood outside the door of the Withdrawing Room where earlier the ladies had gathered for tea. Not a servant, but one of the Damned, and she suspected he was but newly created from his tentative glance at her.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. You cannot go in there.”

She bared her teeth. Even though she was not
en sanglant,
it was still a threatening gesture.

He stepped back. “I—they’ll be angry. With you as well as me.”

“Let me pass.”

As he hesitated, she pushed him aside. Whether it was the return of her strength or a natural reticence to oppose a lady’s wishes that made the man hesitate, she did not care. She flung the door open.

William and Luke stood close together in the small extension at the far end of the room, a cozy space with windows on three sides, created for a particular sort of intimacy on view to anyone else in the room. Earlier a harp had stood in the space. The instrument had been moved to one side, and the fire had burned almost out, leaving the room in darkness except for the pools of light created by candles. In the golden light Luke appeared as handsome as ever, his high cheekbones cast into relief.

“And what of her?” William was saying as Jane entered.

Luke shrugged. “She is so altered that I would not have known her again.”

“She—” William looked up to meet Jane’s gaze.

“I do not need the powers of the Damned to know you speak of me,” Jane said.

Luke said nothing but made a stiff bow.

“Jane—”

But she did not answer William’s entreaty, turning and blundering from the room, half blinded with tears, pushing past the doorkeeper.

“Jane,” William said from behind her.

She swiped at her eyes, not wanting him to see she wept.

“I fear you injured him greatly,” William said.

“How very foolish of me. Of course he has all of eternity to nurse his broken heart. Why, near thirteen years must feel like mere seconds to him, yet he proves his inconstancy by becoming Margaret’s lover once again.”

“They are not lovers,” William said with a touch of impatience. “They are in the same household.”

“Why? Why should he leave you to go where she is?”

“I regret I cannot tell you at present.”

“Did you know he would come tonight?”

“I thought it more than likely, yes.”

She turned away, angry with him, and pretended a great interest in the tapestry hanging on the wall next to them. He should have warned her.

“You are right,” he said.

“Pray do not read my mind. It is ungentlemanly.”

He bowed and offered his arm. “Do you wish to return to your charming niece?”

She curtsied in reply, and he escorted her back to the room where the dancing continued. Having provided her with a glass of wine, William left her with Cassandra, Mrs. Austen, and Martha.

“Dear Anna is quite the success!” Mrs. Austen commented. “I hope she will not tire herself with dancing for too long.”

“Oh, we Austens are made of sterner stuff than that,” Jane replied. “Cassandra and I would dance for hours, do you not remember, ma’am?”

“She is such a pretty girl,” Martha said. “And Mr. Fuller seems very taken with her. I wonder if he will ask for a third dance?”

For at that moment the final chord sounded, and the dancers bowed and curtsied. Tom led Anna back toward the Austens, she smiling and pink in the face.

“I daresay you do not remember me, Mrs. Austen.” The lady who emerged from the shadows beyond the fireplace was handsome and beautifully dressed.

“Why—can it be—Miss Venning!” Mrs. Austen shook her hand. “Why, my dear, your hand is so cold. You must sit with us by the fire and warm yourself. These old houses can be so drafty. Jane, it is Miss Venning—you and she were almost inseparable that winter in Bath . . .” Mrs. Austen’s voice trailed into silence, but then she resumed with great good cheer. “And Miss Venning, you remember Cassandra, of course, and this is our friend Miss Martha Lloyd.”

Clarissa Venning gave Jane a cool nod. Whether she and Luke were actually siblings was highly unlikely; Jane had long suspected that the term was used to account for them sharing the same house, just as Dorcas Kettering claimed to be William’s sister-in-law.

Jane returned her nod with equal coolness.

“You left me as well as Luke,” Clarissa said to her quietly. “It was badly done, Jane. And now you return. Will you break Luke’s heart anew? Deprive William of his fledgling once again? Why, Tom!”—with a sudden coquettishness—“Your young partner is charming, but you promised to dance with me, remember. Mrs. Austen, allow me to present Mr. Duval Richards.”

Of course Clarissa would be accompanied by a young man of outstanding beauty, but even for one of the Damned he was extraordinary, with dark liquid eyes beneath a handsome head of wavy hair. An air of romance and danger hung around him, as though, Jane thought with a curl of her lip, he were an engraving of a hero in a gothic romance; he was certainly someone who should not be allowed to dance with an innocent young girl.

Clarissa’s gaze pinned Jane like a specimen on a collection board. Jane could not speak or utter any sort of warning to her family, who fluttered and smiled upon Duval, and gave him permission to dance with Anna. Anna stared at him, apparently entranced, with the pride of a woman who has been singled out by the most handsome man in the room.

“Why, Jane, you frown so!” Cassandra patted her hand. “What a handsome young man. I could not quite discern with which family he is connected, but Miss Venning knows him, so he must be genteel. You know, she puts us dowdy country spinsters to shame, for she hardly looks a day older than when we met her first.”

“No. He’s not genteel,” Jane croaked, but her voice was barely a whisper. Furious at her weakness, and at Clarissa, who was almost certainly the cause of it, she drained her glass and looked around for a footman to refill it. But William, his hand held out, had returned.

“Come, Jane, you promised me a dance and I have come to claim it.”

Her mother and sister exchanged a glance at Jane being addressed with such familiarity.

Her voice returned. “I beg your pardon, sir. I shall not dance. It is unbecoming to a woman of my age and station.”

Don’t be a ninny
. William replied aloud, “I must insist, ma’am.”

“Oh, very well.” She stood and strode past him to where the dancers formed sets. “And I’m not a ninny,” she said over her shoulder.

She had never danced with William before and was surprised at how well matched they were, at the effortless touch of their hands and telling glances. Onlookers, her family included, might well think they were at the very least flirting, if not planning a liaison.

An elderly gentleman tugged them out of the dance, to compliment them on the elegance of their dancing, breathing claret fumes over them, so that when they could escape him they had lost their places entirely. Some inelegant scrambling back into the set righted matters.

As she and William progressed through the dance, they met Anna and the fascinatingly beautiful member of the Damned. Jane did her best to communicate mind to mind how strongly she disapproved of the way his hands lingered over Anna’s and that his ardent attentions to her niece smacked of impropriety. He gave a smirk in her direction and directed his smoldering gaze at Anna’s pretty white neck.

“That young man is most improper,” she said to William.

“He is not young, Jane.”

“Precisely. Do I have reason to fear for my niece?”

“I should think not, in my house, and among friends and neighbors.”

“It is not your house. It is my brother Edward’s.” She watched in annoyance as Duval’s hand lingered on Anna’s waist. “And are you sure he is a friend? I saw how you greeted his party, whom it was obvious you did not expect, or esteem them highly enough to invite them to dine—to dinner, that is.”

“Pay attention, my dear Jane, or else we shall receive no more compliments on the elegance of our dancing.” William pushed her back into place.

“Any savage can dance,” Jane said. “Whereas it takes a being of great subtlety to change the subject so adroitly. But I shall make you talk of it whether you wish to or not.”

He was not someone who smiled easily or often, and she had noticed before how she reacted with a mix of pain and pleasure; that the fleeting moment as he smiled upon her was a tiny speck even in mortal time, the swift passage of a bird flying through darkness back into the light.

“You grow philosophical,” he commented.

“I cannot help it. I have gazed upon the torments of hell and escaped—or so I thought.” She changed the subject. “Do you see how my sister and mother and Martha have their heads together? Doubtless they speculate upon your intentions. They are already most excited that you address me by my Christian name.”

“I wonder that you never married,” William said.

“It is no wonder at all. I am too sharp of tongue and have no money.” She laughed. “I shall have to put up with veiled hints and knowing smiles at home for days about how I danced and flirted with that handsome Mr. Fitzpatrick. Doubtless they discuss how at my age the candlelight is flattering and I have always been at my best when dancing.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Anna and Duval, who continued to flirt openly with each other, and for a moment envied Anna her youthful energy and boldness—or, it might not be boldness, but imprudence.

“Tell me more of Duval,” she said. “If he is to pay my niece such attention, I must be sure he means only a flirtation and nothing more serious.”

“He is my guest and will abide by my standards of propriety.”

His answer hardly satisfied her, but after all they were in public, with plenty of neighbors present, and William had told her the Damned sought to be inconspicuous. She took another glance at her family. Mrs. Austen was deep in conversation with Dorcas Kettering, and Mr. Papillon and his sister, Elizabeth, had joined Cassandra and Martha, doubtless in a discussion of needy villagers.

“Is Fitzpatrick truly your surname? William Fitzwilliam: what a dreadful name. I am not surprised you chose to change it.”

“I have long since ceased to use my real name,” he replied, “but it is not Fitzwilliam, or Fitzpatrick, or even William. We become used to changing our names.”

“And you will not tell me what your real name is.”

He shook his head with a faint smile, and she knew she must be satisfied with that answer.

The dance came to an end, with bows and curtsies and laughter, and women fanning themselves. The musicians laid their instruments down and left the room with a footman, doubtless to quench their thirst with beer. William bowed, telling Jane he must act as host and see that his guests were supplied with refreshments, and she pushed her disordered curls to rights beneath her cap, thinking more wine would be most welcome. Anna must have had the same idea, for she was nowhere in sight.

Jane threaded her way through the crowd to where the Austen ladies sat, but Anna was not there, and a faint uneasiness stirred in her mind.

She accepted a glass of wine and strolled around the room. One of the musicians had not gone with the others but sat replacing a string on his violin. Jane asked him if he had seen a pretty, very young lady and a handsome gentleman leave the room through the nearby door.

“Why, yes, ma’am, I surely did.” He tucked the instrument beneath his chin and plucked the new string, grimacing. “I wouldn’t let any girl I know go anywhere with the likes of him.”

Jane stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind her. There were no footmen present; and the gentlemanly guard who had unsuccessfully prevented her from interrupting William and Luke’s conversation was gone also. She stood listening to the sounds of a house creaking and settling as the night air chilled. A candelabra with guttering candles gave off only a dim light. The door to the parlor was ajar, a little grayish-blue moonlight spilling onto the floor, for by now the fire and candles had burned down. All was quiet.