Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (7 page)

“I am dishonored; I am
sale
. Leave me.” The woman snarled and melted into the darkness.

“Let her go,” Raphael said. He got to his feet, brushing his coat off, and bent to retrieve the pistol that had fallen. “What do you think would happen to her if she came to the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“William would show her little clemency or mercy, ma’am.” He examined the pistol and tucked it inside his coat again. “She would receive justice. This way she survives a little longer. Shall we continue?”

Jane nodded and brushed dirt from her cloak.

The moon was a small sickle in the sky, but there was light enough from the stars for her keen sight to observe the wound on Raphael’s knuckle, a bright trail of blood that made its way with tantalizing slowness down his finger (powerful, elegant hands; how had she not noticed before?). And the scent, God forgive her, mixed with that of gunpowder and scorched fabric and flesh, which brought hurtling back memories of other nights and other hunts.

“You bleed,” she said.

“Aye, ma’am, so I do.” He was not one to be overcome by her powers (whatever they might be; she wasn’t sure of her capabilities. Had not
la Sale
thrown her as easily as a man might throw a sack of grain onto a cart?). This man would yield only if he wished; all the seductive powers of the Damned could not help her.

He raised his hand to his mouth and licked the knuckle clean, a deliberate and tantalizing gesture.

She let out a small sigh of disappointment. But the blood welled anew.

“You wish . . . ?” He offered his hand. It might have been an invitation to walk on, and she stood, frozen, watching the scarlet trail, imagining how that would feel and taste on her tongue, the pleasure of his male taste and smell, the touch of hands whose refinements were marred with a little roughness.

And if she drank his blood she was Damned and there would be no turning back; there would be no more doubt or uncertainty.

If she would not yield as one of the Damned, she could yield as a woman. She stepped up to him and kissed him on the lips, receiving the shock of an aftertaste of his blood, delicious with the flavors of almonds, of honey, and, yes, a little of bitter herbs she could not identify.

He made a soft sound of surprise and gathered her close. She clutched the lapels of his coat as though she drowned and he were her only rescue, but she wanted to sink into sweet, deep oblivion. He winced as her sharp teeth scraped the softness inside his lips, but she would not allow herself to draw blood. This, for the moment, was enough.

“So.” He put her from him, and she wondered if she too wore a look of dazed wonder, her lips swollen from kissing. “My instructions are to see you safely home.”

“You will.” She looked upon him with pleasure, a tall, well-made man, although not a young man—the silver in his hair attested to that—muscular and graceful with a body made to dance or fight or, yes, make love. Definitely a body for making love.

“Come,” he said, and led her through the starlight, onto the road and past the darkened cottages and finally by the pond where a duck gave a comical sleepy quack.

They did not speak, she wanting to savor the moment, for almost certainly she would want his blood, or another’s, and sooner than she cared to think about. She could have entered his mind, but delicacy forbade it. For all she knew, he might regard her as an easy conquest; he might be one of those who craved to provide the sustenance of the Damned as others craved gaming or strong drink or opium. For this night, she wanted to keep her illusions beautifully intact.

He kissed her hand at her front door—or, rather, he kissed her wrist at exactly the point he would have chosen had he been Damned and wished to dine—and she thought she might swoon with pleasure. He bade her good night with grave formality, and while she could not bear to let him go, she could not wait to rush inside and light a candle from the banked-up fire.

She had a lot to write about.

“G
o away.” Jane’s pen scratched over the paper before her.

“We have callers,” Cassandra said.

“I’m barely fit to be seen.”

“And whose fault is that? If you had not stayed up all night, you would not be such a bear with a sore head this morning.”

Jane leaned back in her chair and shook the sheet of paper dry. “I am a busy bear with a sore head, sister, and I am not in the mood to exchange polite idiocies over tea.”

“Not even with handsome gentlemen?”

“We don’t know any, and I doubt these mythical handsome gentlemen have come to see me. Or you, for that matter.”

“Of course not.” One of the annoying things about Cassandra was her refusal to be provoked. “They—or rather he—has come to see Anna.”

“But Anna is not here in Chawton to see gentlemen—wait, who do you mean?” She stood, alarmed, and straightened her papers, absently wiping her pen on her handkerchief.

“Duval—Jane, you look a fright, come back.”

Jane, her appearance forgotten, ran into the parlor where Anna, Mrs. Austen, and Martha sat. Duval stood and bowed as she entered.

She longed to attack him, but the mayhem of spilled blood, the possibility of his being armed, and, not least, the cruelty of revealing her true nature to her family stilled her.

“I trust you are well, Miss Jane,” he murmured. He cast an amused glance at her. She was fairly sure she had a smudge of ink on her cheek, and her gown bore the brunt of the fight last night. Altogether she was fairly sure that she looked exactly what she was: a woman of a certain age, bedraggled and slightly grubby. He, on the other hand, was impeccably handsome and elegant, and to Jane’s dismay Anna was gazing at him with besotted admiration.

“It is most kind of you to call, sir, but I regret we must bid you farewell.”

“Jane!” her mother exclaimed.

“Have you not forgotten, ma’am, that the chimney sweep is due to visit today? We must cover the furniture.”

“No, Jane, you are mistaken,” Martha said. “Sir, my friend is all at sixes and sevens when she is writing; you must forgive her.”

“You write, Miss Jane?”

“Yes, sir. I write novels.”

“Oh. Novels.” He looked at her with some pity.

“They are very good,” Anna said. “And a publisher was very interested in one of them once, am I not right, Aunt?”

Jane sighed in exasperation. “It has been very kind of you to visit, Mr. Richards, but it is not proper for we ladies to receive you.”

He bowed and picked up his hat. “It was delightful to see you, ladies.”

After he had left, Cassandra turned on her sister. “What on earth is the matter with you, Jane? All this nonsense about a chimney sweep! Why were you so rude to him?”

“He is most unsuitable company for Anna . . .” Jane stopped as she saw Anna’s look of avid interest.

“Why, Aunt Jane?” Anna asked.

“Delicacy forbids me from saying more. He is more dangerous than you can imagine. We should not receive him again. If necessary I shall write to your father and he—” She stopped as the front doorbell rang again. “This place is a madhouse this morning, and I am busy. You must entertain yourselves and the next herd of visitors without my presence.”

As she stepped into the vestibule she heard the murmur of voices and darted forward to greet the new guests.

“My dear Jane!” Dorcas Kettering grasped her hands. “How delightful to see you. I am afraid we had to bring Raphael with us, but as William’s steward he is most respectable, almost a gentleman. What do you think of my gown today? I borrowed it from one of our servants.” She wore a striped cotton gown that revealed a lot of ankle.

“Oh. Much better, although I think the original owner must have been considerably shorter than you. The paste earrings, however—”

“Diamonds, my dear.”

“Not at all suitable, I fear. They are quite lovely, but not in the daytime.”

William, clearly annoyed by talk of feminine frippery, interrupted. “Duval was here. We saw him leave. Is everyone safe?”

“Yes. Perfectly safe. Raphael, how very pleasant to see you again.” She wondered if William knew what had transpired between her and Raphael last night and concluded he probably did. “I made Duval leave.”

“You
made
him leave? How?” William asked.

“I told him the chimney sweep was expected at any moment and I was quite rude. I embarrassed my family.”

He frowned. “Duval and his kind need stronger measures than bad manners, as you know.”

He stood back to allow her and Dorcas to enter the parlor, where Cassandra looked at Jane with a satirical air and Anna looked sulky.

“I thought you had to write, Aunt Jane.”

“Oh, I can spare a few minutes yet.” She introduced Raphael to them and prepared to enjoy the sight of her family gravely exchanging pleasantries about the weather with the Damned.

Raphael sat next to her, making her acutely aware of her bedraggled appearance.

“I have been awake all night,” she muttered to him.

“I too.”

“I was working,” she added, in case he harbored any illusions that her wakefulness was caused by thoughts of him. “Writing.”

“So was I. Hunting.” He shifted so his coat swung aside to reveal a pistol.

Finding herself gazing at his muscular thighs clad in tight-fitting buckskins, she cleared her throat. “Would you care for some more tea?” As she poured, she muttered, “Hunting
les Sales
?”

He nodded.

“Do you kill them?”

“What are you two talking about so very seriously?” Mrs. Austen found it necessary to intervene.

“We are talking of vermin, ma’am,” Raphael replied.

“How charming,” Mrs. Austen replied. “More tea, Mrs. Kettering? My son sends us this tea from London. It is a most superior blend, do you not agree?”

“What are you, Raphael?” Jane asked in a whisper. “You are not one of the Damned, yet you—”

“Oh, how very kind!” Cassandra cried. “Jane, Mrs. Kettering has offered to let us copy some of her music. My sister, Mrs. Kettering, has the clearest penmanship on a manuscript; it is as good as printed music.”

“Most kind indeed,” Jane said, trying not to look at William.

You hunger?

I’m not sure.
But she looked at Raphael and couldn’t tell exactly what she hungered for.

He is my servant, but you could do worse than to take him as a lover. You will have need of him, or another, when you wish to dine.

You, sir, are offensive, and I assure you once again I shall fight a metamorphosis with all my strength.

“I think, Miss Jane, you and I must establish a musical club and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours,” Dorcas cried.

Jane glanced around the parlor, trying to imagine it crammed not only with the gentry of Chawton but also with a cluster of the Damned, notorious for their indifference to music, wondering on whom they should first dine. “That is a very fine idea, but—”

“We are in agreement then! What do you think, William?”

“Excellent. Since it is Dorcas’s idea, we should play host first. I invite you all to the Great House tomorrow afternoon, if that is convenient. Raphael will see to invitations to others in the village.”

“Will Mr. Richards attend?” Anna asked.

“Regretfully, no, Miss Anna,” William replied. “He is not at all suitable company for a gently bred young lady like yourself. He has a reputation as an unscrupulous rake who is heavily in debt and gambles—”

“Quite unsuitable, as I have told you,” Jane said, dismayed by Anna’s avid interest.

“But my brother, Mr. Fuller, will be there,” Dorcas said. “He is very fond of music.”

“I regret we cannot attend,” Jane said, but she was interrupted by her sister, mother, and Martha, exclaiming that the family would be delighted to attend, while Anna beamed with pleasure.

Shortly after, their guests took their leave, with Jane unable to continue an unspoken conversation with William or a whispered one with Raphael.

“Why, we are becoming quite fashionable,” Mrs. Austen commented. “And Mr. Raphael seemed quite gentlemanly for a steward, although when I was a girl it was a very respected profession for a younger son. I think, however, that Mr. Fitzpatrick is an old-fashioned sort of gentleman. I do wonder why he has not married. But who is this Mr. Raphael? He sounds foreign.”

“I am sure Aunt Jane can tell us more of him. She talked only to him the whole time,” Anna said.

“A slight exaggeration,” Jane said. “May I remind us all that Anna has not been sent to stay with us to enjoy society but to reflect upon her errors. We should not visit the Great House tomorrow.”

“Oh, certainly,” Cassandra said. “We should stay home and read sermons aloud to one another. I do think, Jane, considering the good works our mother and I do in the village—”

“It was agreed, sister, when we moved here, that I should be at liberty to write, and I too do my share of Christian duty—”

“Girls!” Mrs. Austen looked at her daughters with disapproval. “This does not become you at all, to quarrel like a pair of children.”

“As I was saying, we lead exemplary lives and we deserve the occasional visit to our neighbors,” Cassandra continued. “Besides, if we go tomorrow, Jane, you will be able to flirt with Mr. Raphael all you want.”

“I do not flirt!” Jane said with some savagery. As she left the room, she heard a burst of laughter in her wake.

She, once the most frivolous and silly flirt in Hampshire, according to some, was now turning into the sour, pious sister of the family. It certainly explained the origins of Mary among the Bennet sisters, a character who’d surprised her by emerging fully formed out of nowhere. At any moment she’d start quoting homilies from sermons and setting her cap for Mr. Papillon in earnest.

“I’d rather be Damned,” she said and was glad there was no one to hear.

Chapter 8

E
xhaustion finally overtook her that day and she lay on the sofa for a while before dinner. She could barely eat, however, and the others expressed concern. Her concern was of a different sort; almost certainly her lack of appetite was another sign of her deterioration, her restlessness the beginning of the compulsion to dine. Beneath the clatter of cutlery on china and conversation she heard the others’ heartbeats and loathed herself for her inability to control the symptoms of the Damned.

Inevitably the conversation turned from her health to Martha’s, and they all agreed what a remarkable recovery she had made the day before. Anna volunteered to deliver the Andrews family some tea the next day as a gift for their hospitality, and conversation turned to the morrow’s activities and the anticipated pleasures of the music club at the Great House.

“M
artha and Cassandra and I shall accompany you when you visit the Andrews family,” Jane said at breakfast the next morning.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Anna said.

“I think it would be courteous,” Jane said and caught a flash of disappointment on Anna’s face. While passing Anna a slice of toast, she brushed her hand against the young woman’s wrist, but caught only vague meanderings on what she should wear and whether she really should eat this second slice, or forgo the jam, for she did not want to get fat.

“Austens don’t get fat. We’re lucky,” Jane said, before she could stop herself.

Everyone stared at her.

“How did you know what I thought?” Anna said, blushing.

Jane wondered about that blush. What had she missed? “Why, you said so yourself. You asked for another slice of toast and said that you didn’t want to get fat but the jam was so very good. Well, of course it is good, for it is one of Martha’s recipes.”

“I don’t think I did say that,” Anna said.

“Your grandmother used to read our minds all the time,” Jane said, improvising as best she could. “Do you not remember, ma’am, when you would have your back turned to us yet you would know exactly what mischief we undertook?”

“Indeed yes,” Mrs. Austen said. “Your papa, Anna, was so often a badly behaved child, forever getting into trouble.”

“Really?” Anna sighed. “I miss Papa. I wonder if he’s still angry with me.”

“I am sure he has forgiven you, particularly if you act with good sense in the future.” Jane watched Anna. Certainly the girl was up to something, and she hoped she had not been so foolish as to agree to meet Duval secretly. But how could she have arranged such an assignment? She made up her mind that she would guard Anna very closely even if she could not convince her family of the very real danger that lurked at nightfall in the peaceful fields and woods of the village.

The devil of it was that Anna was safer with Duval than one of the Damned would be if he had only seduction on his mind; she was in no more danger than any other woman with one of the Damned. But the proprieties must be observed: Jane must accompany Anna whenever she went out. If Jane herself was in danger, William would come to rescue his fledgling, ideally with Raphael and his pistols.

It would play havoc with her plans to write this morning, and while she rather liked the idea of Raphael coming to the rescue, she was still extraordinarily offended by William’s encouragement for her to take Raphael as her lover. She was a respectable spinster who had to set an example in the village and uphold the good name of the Austen family, and moreover she was far too old for such foolish dalliance. She had kissed the man within minutes of meeting him. She wanted to do it again. And more.

“What are you thinking about, Aunt Jane? Can anyone tell what my aunt is thinking about?”

Sometimes the child was too sharp for her own good. “I was thinking about how I, too, enjoy Martha’s jam,” Jane replied. “It is so very sweet and dark and delicious and . . . well!” She jumped to her feet, sending her knife clattering to the floor. “Look at the time! Let us put our bonnets on and visit the Andrewses.”

Mrs. Austen, muttering of an assignation with a boy who was to spread manure, left for the garden, and the four ladies set off on their visit. Almost to Jane’s disappointment, no sinister figures lurked behind trees; and even though she revisited the scene of her attack for the first time, Martha had no recollection at all of what had happened to her.

“D
o you remember the picnic we had in the woods the last time I visited?” Anna said as they returned. “That was such a happy time, but I was young then.”

“Indeed, you are now all of fifteen, quite in your dotage,” Jane replied teasingly with a smile and stopped dead as a figure materialized from the darkness of the trees ahead of them.

“Why, is not that one of the ladies who attended the dancing at the Great House?” Cassandra said.

“Wait here!” Jane snapped to her companions.

“What’s the matter?” Martha asked, but Jane ignored her. She walked forward, her tread becoming light and wary.

Margaret stood still, waiting for Jane to reach her.

Jane wished she could become
en sanglant,
but nothing happened. Margaret smiled. “You’re not so advanced as I had been led to believe.”

“Do you carry a weapon?” Jane said, annoyed that Margaret saw her deficiencies so clearly.

“Would I tell you if I did?”

“What do you want?” Jane asked.

“Why, Miss Jane, I am merely taking the air in these most pleasant woods. This is very pretty countryside.”

Jane laughed. “Mrs. Cole—I presume you still use your husband’s name?—I have to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“Oh yes. You have proved very useful to me. I remembered a certain conversation we had regarding my intentions toward Mr. Venning, and a character in one of my books spoke your words exactly. I raised her a little higher, however; she was a lady of quality, and not a known adulteress. I trust you have not come to ask me the same question again.”

Margaret smiled, very slightly
en sanglant:
enough to indicate that she felt the sting of Jane’s words. “Yes, I am still Mrs. Cole; I begin to believe Mr. Cole is immortal too. I wish to give you some advice, Jane. Do not become Raphael’s
amorata
and do not trust William. I know he is your Creator, but remember he rejected you as such once before.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I trust you do not set your cap—or your teeth, rather, I should say—for Raphael or William. May I give you some advice, also—or rather, advice for one of your companions? If Duval comes near Anna again, I shall kill him.”

“She is not handsome enough to tempt
him,
I assure you, other than as an easy conquest; no more. Besides, I doubt whether destruction of one of us is within your grasp, although Duval complained that you bit his ankle like an annoying puppy.”

“He seemed to be perfectly recovered when he came to call upon us yesterday. Pray convey him our thanks for his civility, but he—none of you—is welcome in our house.”

“Jane.” Margaret touched her wrist, and bolts of power and sensation tore through her; to her surprise there was some genuine friendliness there, some regret, all mixed with distrust. “Once we fought side by side. Do not forget that. I have paid dearly for the wrongs I did you.”

“Jane, will you not introduce us?” Cassandra tugged at her arm.

Jane made introductions and watched, appalled, as Margaret turned her easy charm on the women.

“Oh, but we have met your brother, Mr. Richards,” Cassandra said. “He called upon us yesterday.”

“Yes, he was here to supervise the unpacking, but now we are quite snug.”

“Why, you have moved into our village? He did not tell us; how like a man. But how very delightful,” Martha cried. “Which house have you taken, Mrs. Cole?”

“We are very close neighbors indeed to you. We have taken Prowtings.”

This was far worse than Jane had anticipated. Only a stile and a meadow, a walk of a few minutes, separated the handsome house from the Austens’ cottage. “Where are Mr. Prowting and his daughter? I had not heard they left.”

“Mr. Prowting’s business demanded that he go to London,” Margaret replied, “and of course Miss Prowting accompanied him. Such a pleasant gentleman! He was so pleased to have us as tenants at such short notice. Duval’s great friend Luke Venning and his sister, Miss Clarissa Venning, whom I believe you know, will move into the house with us today or tomorrow. They stay at the inn in Alton at present.”

Somehow Jane doubted that Mr. Prowting would be pleased to hear that he had rented his house to the Damned.

“We shall interrupt your walk no further,” Jane said hastily before Martha or Cassandra could invite more of the Damned to take tea, discuss the drains or chimneys at Prowtings, or fulfill other social niceties. She grabbed her sister’s arm. “Come, Cassandra, we must return home.”

Cassandra gave her a curious glance, but polite farewells were said, and the Austen ladies set off toward home.

“What a handsome lady,” Anna said. “I never saw anyone with such beautiful red hair before.”

“I regret to tell you that her presence at Prowtings makes it impossible for us to have any contact at all with her, Duval Richards, or the Vennings,” Jane said. She was about to play her trump card, and, even better, it was absolutely true. She lowered her voice. “Forgive me for the indelicacy, but I must tell you that we cannot receive anyone from that household—Mrs. Cole is an adulteress.”

“Oh dear,” Cassandra said. She stopped walking. “I have a stone in my shoe. Pray wait while I undo the laces.”

“I said, Cassandra,” Jane said, “Mrs. Cole is an adulteress. Did you not hear me? It is well known that she left her husband and now enjoys illicit relationships with others.”

“Truly?” Anna cried, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Anna, it is wicked!” Jane said. “Martha, Cassandra, pray acknowledge the truth of the matter. We cannot let a delicately bred young lady like Anna associate with such people. Our brother would be most displeased.”

Cassandra, standing on one foot, shook her shoe to dislodge the stone. “Oh, come, Jane, did not Our Lord forgive the woman taken in adultery?”

“The difference being that the woman in question repented. Margaret—Mrs. Cole—is entirely unrepentant.”

“But we should set an example of Christian charity to our neighbors,” Cassandra said. “To err is human, my dear Jane. Besides, how do you know about this?”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick told me of it. He was most displeased when Mrs. Cole and her party arrived at the party in his house, but he could not ask them to leave without causing his guests embarrassment.”

“But he and Mr. Venning seemed to be the best of friends,” Martha said. “And in a village this size, and with so few families of quality, it is almost certain that our paths shall cross. We must be civil.”

“We should not receive their calls,” Jane said, annoyed at the outflowing of Christian charity that Martha and her sister displayed, and she was appalled at the dreamy wonder on Anna’s face.

“But that is so romantic,” Anna said. “To sacrifice all—one’s reputation and honor—all for love. It shows great courage. Is it not like Admiral Nelson and Lady Hamilton?—I know you admired him greatly, Aunt Jane.”

“You are mistaken,” Jane said. “He was England’s hero and much can be forgiven him. This is merely tawdry and a stain upon our pleasant village. I deeply regret such people are our neighbors.”

Cassandra’s shoelace now tied, the party continued forward.

“Jane, help me look for mushrooms,” Martha said.

Jane saw they were close to the cluster of cottages where the path turned onto the road known as the Shrave and considered that Cassandra and Anna, deep in conversation about naval heroes, would be safe enough. She followed her friend into the stillness of the woods, where the grass was still wet with dew and the trees bright with early greenery. A few birds twittered overhead.

“Oh, you know I am no good at this. I shall poison us all.”

“No, you won’t. I am extremely knowledgeable.” Martha prodded at some half-rotted leafy matter with her toe and turned it over. “Jane, what troubles you?”

“You are very perceptive,” Jane said, wishing she could confide in her friend. “There is something that weighs heavily upon my mind, but I regret I cannot tell you what it is.”

“Is it to do with Mr. Fitzpatrick? Mrs. Austen said your family met him in Bath, but I did not know you were acquainted with him. It is some years since you and he last met, but I can tell there is—or was—something between you.”

“It is like a novel,” Jane said. “It would actually make a very good novel, if anyone wished to read about a woman who ages and displays none of the usual characteristics of a heroine.”

“The usual characteristics? What are those?

“Oh, the long golden hair, the wealth of accomplishments, the extraordinary beauty, the unassailable virtue; and the tendency to explore secret passages in sinister buildings at dead of night during thunderstorms while wearing a nightgown. You know of what I speak.” Jane smiled.

“Oh yes, indeed. They are so tiresome, those girls. Promise me you will never write such a paragon of excellence, or possibly a paragon of stupidity; I do not think I could bear it.”

Jane idly poked a fungus growing on a tree. “I could not bear it, either, and I would be stuck with the wretched girl for three volumes. Martha, what of this one?”

“Certain bellyache, although it would not kill you. But what of Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“No bellyache, I am glad to say. Or a big belly when I was young and foolish. But yes, there was an understanding of sorts between us.”

“Oh, Jane!” Martha cried. “Don’t you realize?”

“Realize what?”

Martha looked around her with great caution. “He is one—one of
them
. One of—one of the Damned.” Her face pinkened a little at the word. “Yes, I can tell. Some people can, you know, but this is something I only recently acquired. Only, in fact, since my—my mishap of a couple of days ago. And I believe our visitors this morning and Mrs. Cole are, too.”

“Dear me. Is there anyone else?” Jane waited.