Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (9 page)

“Martha!” Jane said again and shook her friend’s arm. She pulled Martha’s skirts down, noting that Martha had borrowed (without asking) a pair of her own precious silk stockings and sported garters of red silk and gold wire; heaven only knew where those originated.

“Tom, look at her! She is almost insensible. You must revive her immediately.”

“I beg your pardon. I do not take orders from you.”

“If you please,” Jane said, forcing herself into civility. She fetched a bottle of wine and a glass that stood on the sideboard. “She is your guest, after all.”

With a look of distaste upon his face, Tom bit into his own wrist and let a drop of blood fall into the wine. “This sort of activity is suited to the kitchen, not above stairs.”

“Times have changed, sir. This lady is your neighbor and now your equal.” During her time with the Damned, it had been a fledgling’s duty to provide the blood that revived the source of the previous night’s entertainment; she remembered a group of men and women—whores, servants, laborers—smiling and wobbly and sated, seated at the kitchen table and watching drops of her blood dissolving into breakfast small beer.

She slid an arm beneath Martha’s head. “Martha, my dear, please drink this.”

Martha giggled and presented her neck to Jane.

“Martha!” Jane said and slapped her.

“Oh!” Martha blinked. “What is the matter, dear Jane?”

“Please drink this.”

Martha drank, smacking her lips. “How delicious. May I have some more?”

“Certainly not.” Jane took the glass from her hand. “I believe Mr. Fuller has something to say to you.”

Tom approached, straightening his neckcloth, and bent over Martha’s hand. “Dearest creature. You have done me great honor.”

“Oh, you sweet boy.” Martha ruffled his hair. “On the contrary, you have honored me. When may we next—”

“You should apologize, Tom!” Jane said, entirely out of patience with them both. “And this is never to happen again!”

“I don’t believe that’s your decision, Jane,” Martha said, bright-eyed and energetic once more. But she smiled at Tom and slipped off the table, straightening her skirts.

The dining room door opened and William entered. “Tom, the ladies have requested that you play your flute for them. Miss Anna will accompany you.”

“He plays the flute?” One of the Damned, playing a musical instrument—Jane was dumbfounded.

“Yes, I picked it up a few months ago,” Tom said. “I believe I’m quite accomplished. I have been practicing an Irish air. Will you not come and listen, Martha?”

“Miss Lloyd to you, sir,” Jane said.

“I shall enter separately so as not to cause gossip,” Martha said. She gave a sigh as William and Tom left. “They are both so handsome, are they not, Jane?”

“Oh, Martha, that you should fall into the hands of that vile seducer,” Jane said, close to tears. “I am so sorry I could not prevent it.”

“Indeed.” Martha looked at her with very little warmth. “You interrupted us!”

“Thank God I did.”

“I wish you had not. No, let me speak, dearest Jane. I am forty-three and I have never known passion in my life, nor am I likely to. Why should I not take this opportunity to experience that of which the poets sing? Oh, Jane, it was a revelation; he made me feel beautiful, desired. Young.” She smiled. “And he was so happy to oblige, although he was a little shy at first.”

“You asked him?” Jane did not know which astonished her more: Martha’s proposition or one of the Damned assuming shyness.

“Of course. I had to; I don’t believe he would have spoken. Well, I feel most refreshed and invigorated. Let us go and hear dear Tom perform on his flute.”

“I daresay you’ve worn his own flute quite out,” Jane said, trailing after Martha as she left the room. “And next time, if you please, wear your own stockings.”

“There is no need for vulgarity,” Martha responded with crushing dignity.

Chapter 10

“O
h, I do so love Mr. Darcy,” Anna said dreamily as they sat around the fire at home later that evening.

“Indeed. How interesting. All he has done so far is refuse to dance with our heroine.” Jane laid the papers on her lap, her reading aloud concluded, and well pleased at Anna’s observation.

“Oh, yes. You know he is handsome and will be an ardent lover. How do you do that, Aunt Jane?”

“Anna!” Jane said, annoyed to see Martha nodding in agreement. “All I have done is arranged the words and made sure the characters are not in two places at once. I should never have agreed to read after dinner if I had known I was to be such a corrupting influence.”

“I do so want to know what happens next,” Anna said, stroking her pug’s head.

“I trust Mrs. Bennet is not based upon me,” Mrs. Austen said with a smile.

“Oh, no, ma’am, for you obviously lack that single-minded ferocity to get your daughters married.”

Mrs. Austen and Cassandra exchanged a glance.

Martha stood and stretched languorously as far as her stays would allow. “Ladies, I think I shall retire to bed. I find I am quite fatigued. I wish you all good night.”

“Indeed, it has been an exciting day,” Jane said. “Pray wash my stockings before you return them to me.”

“And good night to you, too, Jane. Come, Anna, you sit there yawning.” Martha and Anna took candlesticks from the mantelpiece and made their way upstairs.

Jane stood to leave for the dining room and her writing, but her mother spoke. “My dear, your sister and I are very concerned. We must speak with you.”

So they knew. Cassandra must have confided in their mother. Overcome with shame and relief, but full of gratitude too that they accepted her condition with such equanimity, she stammered, “Indeed, I cannot help it. I am shamed, for I did not expect this, and particularly at such a time in my life. I fear for my soul and that I must leave you—”

“My dear girl,” her mother said, “I hardly think your soul is in danger. Your heart, almost certainly, and that is why we wish to ask if you are engaged to Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Engaged! To William!” Oh, no. How could she have been so mistaken?

“Yes, we notice you use each other’s Christian names.”

“It is quite romantic, that you should meet again after a dozen years,” Cassandra said. “He is still very handsome. I remarked to our mother that he has hardly changed since we met him in Bath. You would not think him more than twenty-eight or so. But we did not realize how well you knew each other then, although I suppose you must have seen him when you stayed at Miss Venning’s house. Did you part on bad terms? I wish you had confided in us then.”

“He shows you marked partiality,” Mrs. Austen continued. “We cannot help but notice it, so you may be assured our neighbors do, too. It is so difficult without a man in the family, for if your father were alive, he could take Mr. Fitzpatrick aside and have the matter settled in a moment. Maybe when James or Edward visits next, we—”

“Ma’am, Cassandra, I assure you, you are mistaken. Mr. Fitzpatrick and I will never marry, and there is no need to consult my brothers.” Of that she was quite certain; among the Damned, any sort of carnal activity between Creator and fledgling was considered incest and therefore forbidden.

“And so you are not in love with him?” her mother asked.

“No, ma’am. He is a good man, and I am proud he is Edward’s tenant and one of our neighbors.”

“Except that they are such a dull lot, and Mr. Fitzpatrick is not dull,” Cassandra said. “He is quiet, but he seems possessed of good sense and manners.”

“I am much relieved that your heart is untouched,” Mrs. Austen said, “although I should like to see both Cassandra and you settled. There is yet time, for you are both handsome and clever, if no longer young.”

“I trust you did not think he pursued me for my money,” Jane said, and all three of them laughed, easy again. “But, ma’am, Cassandra, since we are to speak plain, what would you say if I were to tell you that dangers lurk in our friendly fields and woods, and that we must exercise the greatest caution?”

Cassandra looked at Mrs. Austen, and they both burst into raucous laughter.

“I should advise you, Jane, to read Fordyce’s sermons and not Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “Come, you sound like an ignorant village girl, not a rational being. Why, only the other day, Betty Cooper was saying something equally ridiculous.”

“I remember you saying Betty had suffered a fit that sounds remarkably similar to poor Martha’s,” Jane said. Poor Martha indeed! She had certainly had the best time that afternoon of any of the guests.

“I think Betty was drunk,” Mrs. Austen said. “I regret the family has a tendency to overindulge in strong drink.”

“So much for Christian charity, then.” Jane rose to take her candle from the mantelpiece. “I’ll bid you good night, ma’am, Cassandra. I am going to write.”

In the dining room she gave a longing glance at her writing slope but did not open it, too unsettled by the events of the day, particularly the last conversation with her sister and mother. She placed the candlestick on the windowsill and thought longingly of when she had slipped out at night to dress in men’s clothes to hunt the French, the welcoming friendliness of the darkness and the excitement of the chase. She cracked open the shutters at the window and peered out at the night, the deep velvet shadows, the trees sculpted against a starry sky.

The moon moved from beyond the buildings opposite, spilling a little blue-gray light into the room. Around her the house creaked and settled, something small scampered with a scratch of claws beneath the floorboards (its pulse a rapid thrum, but she would pay no attention), and a distant burst of song came from the direction of the alehouse.

Jane.

The summons came as strong as though William whispered in her ear.

Come to the back door.

What are you doing here?
she replied, but there was no answer.

She should ignore the summons, but she could not. She found herself drawn to her Creator, walking through the quiet house to the back door, which she unbolted and eased open. William, Tom, and another figure a little behind them stood there.

“We’ve come to see if you remember how to fight,” William said.

“Naturally. In the middle of the night. I know how to fight; I learned in Bath, as well you know, but I see no need of it now.” She noticed the third member of the group was Raphael, and her heartbeat kicked into a slightly higher pace. She hoped William and Tom paid it no attention. And even as she spoke, the idea of going out into the darkness, of experiencing once more the freedom afforded by men’s clothing, increased her excitement.

“I doubt you have put in much practice recently. These are for you.” William pushed a bundle of clothing at her. “I hope you haven’t got fat.”

“I have not! But—” She snatched the clothes, a full suit of men’s garments and linen, from him. The pair of boots atop threatened to tumble to the floor, and she grabbed them beneath her chin. So: now she had accepted the clothes even though her natural modesty insisted she should go no further with this madness.

Additionally, there was a problem, that, to her embarrassment, she must overcome. “Is Dorcas with you?”

“No. Hurry up,” William said.

“It’s my stays.”

“What of them?”

“I need help unlacing them. I could wake my sister but then she would wonder why I did not go to bed—”

“Turn around, if you please,” William said.

Fingers tugged at the ties of her gown, but she became overcome with embarrassment. She gave a muffled shriek. “Not you, Raphael!” That Raphael should touch her when her thoughts had turned to him for most of the day was intolerable.

“Good God,” William grumbled. “And to think you were the fearless girl who hunted the French and dined with us—allow me, Raphael.”

“I, sir, am a respectable spinster in a village where everyone knows one another and what they do not know about us they invent—” Her gown, loosened, slid, and she clutched it to her body.

“Well, come, Miss Jane Austen, how would they know who unlaces your stays? Unless you boast of it to your neighbors.” William’s fingers plucked at the strings of her stays and they fell away, a breath of cool night air caressing her through the cotton of her shift.

She retreated into the house and stripped off her clothes, which she hung on a peg by the door, underneath one of the cloaks that hung there. She’d have to be sure to return before the house was stirring, or she would have to counter some very awkward questions. She paused before opening the door, accustoming herself to the unfamiliar touch of cotton encasing her legs, the stiffness of leather boots against her calves, the heavy swing of coattails against the backs of her knees; above all, the shock of moving without the rustle and drag of skirts.

But there was another detail, because although William had thought to include an extra neckcloth to bind her breasts, he had forgotten another item necessary for her to assume a truly masculine appearance. She pushed the sleeves of the coat up a little, releasing a faint scent of horse and tobacco.

“William!”

“What now?”

“I need an extra stocking.”

“What for? You do not have three legs.”

“Not as such, sir. I need to look like a man.”

To her mortification all three men laughed.

“This isn’t a social call, Jane,” William said. “If you must fill out your breeches, use one of your own stockings.”

“Oh, very well. But I also need a pin.”

A sigh. “We gentlemen do not carry pins. Go without.”

No, she hadn’t become fat, still strong and slender from her regimen of frequent long, energetic walks. She opened the door and took a step forward, assuming an arrogant masculine swagger, aware of Raphael’s look of admiration and William’s approval.

“I trust I will do, sirs,” she said.

“Well enough,” William said. “Into the shadows with you, then.”

She found herself standing alone in the yard.
Think of the darkness,
she reminded herself.
Think of something dark
.

Raphael’s eyes.

Absolutely not!

The black of poorly dyed mourning clothes and the darkness of their lodgings in Bath after her father’s death.

Even worse.

William appeared and touched her arm. “I see the time is not right. We must wait until the metamorphosis is more advanced. Raphael, walk with Jane, if you please.”

“Where are we going?” But their direction through the gardens was familiar, and across the fields the lights of Prowtings glimmered. “Not to Prowtings!”

“Not to Prowtings, exactly. That is, we do not pay a call. We go merely to see what is going on there,” Raphael told her. He was friendly enough, but not as familiar as she would have liked, although this was no time for amorous dalliance; he withheld himself from her.

She could not help laughing with delight as she clambered over the stile on the hedgeline that separated the properties. “Oh, what a great thing it is not to be hampered by skirts!”

Ignoring Raphael’s outheld hand, she jumped to the ground. William and Tom were somewhere close, having taken to the shadows, whereas she and Raphael walked in the full light of the moon, the night bright enough for shadows to be cast.

“We stand out like sore thumbs.”

“I regret we’re the bait.”

“The bait! You mean we are the worm on the hook?”

“Precisely so. We are safe enough. Have you ever fired a pistol?”

“No, but I have some skill—or I did have, once—in fighting hand to hand. Luke taught me. You know Luke, I suppose.”

“I do.” He paused. “I would tell you of myself, but now is not the time.”

She smiled in agreement but was alerted by a movement ahead.

Raphael’s hand moved casually to a pistol inside his coat. “Keep walking,” he said softly. “They have set guards.”

“Why?”

“Because they expect us.”

“This is madness,” Jane said.

“On the contrary, they are not mad. Would they were. They are ruthless and single-minded and dangerous.”

“So are all the Damned.”

“Indeed. But they wish to give us a demonstration of their power, so they let us approach.”

They were close to the low stone wall that separated the meadow from the garden of the house, an ancient piece of masonry with ferns and small flowers and moss sharing the space between the stones that Jane had often admired on her way to visit the house. She was barely surprised when Luke stepped out of the wall’s shadow in his shirtsleeves, a glass of wine in his hand, as though he took his ease in his own drawing room.

“Your servant, gentlemen. And Miss Jane.” He gave her a careless bow. “A fine night, is it not?”

“Where are the others?” William asked as he and Tom emerged from the shadows.

“Up to their usual mischief, or so you would call it. Do you wish to see the night’s sport?” He glanced at Jane. “Do you hunger?”

“No.”

“You will. Remember when we hunted? Here we do so once again.”

William moved forward and took Luke’s arm, engaging him in quiet, forceful conversation, but Luke laughed and broke free. “No, you should see—your two eunuchs should see also.”

“Eunuchs? He means us? There, I was right. I know I should have used an extra stocking. But why—”

“Come, we must follow,” Raphael said. Already William and Tom followed Luke, falling easily into the fast lope of the Damned, gracefully skimming over fallen logs and ducking to avoid low branches as they left the meadow for woodland. Jane, used to vigorous walking, found herself picking up their rhythm and, while lagging behind, was pleased with her strength. It was not the strength of the Damned; not quite, and pray God it would not be. Raphael, she suspected, could keep up with them, but his efforts were more mortal than vampire. He grabbed his hat as a branch swooped it from his head and cursed as he slipped on leaf mold.

“We must be close to the London road,” Jane commented, out of breath.