Jane and the Damned (19 page)

She kicked a glowing ember from the hearth into the fireplace. “I am to lose all I hold most dear. My family and my writing.”

“But think what you gain. Eternity, knowledge, power, beauty, love—yes, those small things. Jane, you are one of us. Come.” He stood and led her upstairs, his arm flung lightly around her shoulders.

She shook his arm off as they entered the drawing room and her feet sank into the carpet. Around her the Damned took their pleasures, the air golden with lamplight and thick with the scent of blood and desire.

“You make a handsome young man, miss.”

Jane turned to meet the admiring gaze of the young man she had met this morning. “So do you, Jack. That is, you
are
a handsome young man.”

“So I’ve been told, miss. It would be a great honor, miss, if you—”

A bolt of hunger shot through her and her canines extended with a familiar, pleasurable pain as he loosened his neckcloth. She looked to Luke for guidance; he gave a nod of approval.

You are one of us. We are your family.

She growled and pushed Jack onto a nearby sofa.

He obligingly presented his bared throat. “Would you care for me to undress, miss?”

She didn’t bother to reply as her fangs sank into his neck and his blood leaped to her tongue.

“I am happy to announce a complete cure, Mrs. Austen. Your daughter is well again.”

Jane watched in fascination as Luke, sitting next to her mother on the sofa, gazed into her eyes. Cassandra, seated in a chair nearby, let her sewing fall onto her lap and seemed equally enthralled by his presence.

“Oh, my dear child!” Mrs. Austen said to no one in particular. “Yet she looks so thin, still. Her bloom has yet to return.”

“My sister is most anxious to have Miss Jane‧s company at the Pump Room. I think those visits, and a judicious use of the waters, should put matters to rights soon enough.” He paused. “I shall continue to accompany the ladies. It is safest, you know. And Miss Jane may resume her usual social activities.”

“There, you see, Jane!” Her mother turned to her. “You are well enough to join us this evening. I do so wish you could come with us, Mr. Venning. Sydney Gardens are quite delightful and they say there will be braziers and hot punch to keep us warm.”

“I regret my sister and I are otherwise engaged, ma‧am.”

Jane was silent. As she suspected, her father had given in to her mother‧s demands.

“You and your charming sister must dine with us,” her mother said, and then looked thoughtful. An invitation to dine these days, with an uncertain food supply, was not to be issued lightly.

“When we have enough food,” Jane said.

“Now, Jane, there is no need to embarrass Mr. Venning! He understands perfectly, I am sure.”

“I am sure he does,” Jane murmured. “We should want to give the gentleman what he is accustomed to for dinner, after all.” She sent Luke a sidelong look, exposing the merest hint of canine.

“Oh, do not talk nonsense,” her mother replied.

Luke cleared his throat. Jane was sure he was
en sanglant.
“My sister has mentioned that she would like Jane to stay with us as her companion. No, you need not make any answer just now, but Clarissa would be glad of some female company. Please give the idea some consideration.”

“That is most kind,” Mrs. Austen exclaimed, “but I do not think we can spare Jane just yet.”

After a few more minutes of conversation, about the severe weather and the lack of news combined with the proliferation of fantastic rumors, Luke bowed and took his leave.

“What a charming gentleman! It is a thousand pities he cannot accompany us to Sydney Gardens. I think he is quite taken with you, Jane. But what shall you girls wear tonight?” Mrs. Austen asked. Cassandra responded with great enthusiasm while Jane picked through a pile of papers on the table that her sister had collected, ready to paste them into her commonplace book, which lay, along with a container of flour paste and a brush, nearby. The collection was of the usual sorts of odds and ends Cassandra liked—illustrations cut from a fashion paper annotated with
Cassandra‧s notes, a few scraps of fabric and trims, recipes and poems Cassandra had written out or copied, and drawings.

She paused at a sketch she had made of Cassandra and remembered vividly that day a month before the fateful Basingstoke assembly, one of the last fine days of autumn. They had gone on a long walk, finding a few late blackberries in the more sheltered spots, while Jane had talked of Marianne and Elinor and joked that the two sisters had almost as good a relationship as she and Cassandra did.

But maybe that‧s the problem with the book. Is not discord and the return to intimacy more interesting?

Maybe that‧s what she would do if, indeed, she ever wrote again.

“Leave that alone!” Cassandra smacked at her hand in a friendly sort of way and gathered her treasured collection of papers into a pile again. “Those are in order.”

“Oh, nonsense. Your commonplace book is chaotic.” She smiled at her sister. “Do you remember when I made this sketch?”

“Yes, indeed. Such a lovely day. On our walk you jumped into piles of leaves as though you were a child.”

“And you had blackberry stains around your mouth that I was kind enough to omit from this sketch.”

When they returned home, Jane had caught Cassandra in a few pen strokes as her sister tossed her bonnet aside and sat to remove her muddy boots, her cheeks pink with cold, her hair disordered, eyes bright. She looked particularly handsome and happy, and Jane believed then that Cassandra‧s pain at the death of her betrothed, Tom Fowle, had lessened, allowing her to enjoy life once more.

“Most well done,
ma‧amselle
Jane.”

She turned the drawing over, annoyed both at the interruption
and that she had been so deep in recollection that she did not notice his entry into the room. “I did not know you were here, Captain.”

“I have only just arrived. But your drawing—may I not see it again?”

She handed the paper to him, conscious that she should approach him with a little more friendliness.

He looked at her drawing, then at her sister, and smiled. “This is indeed well done. It is as though she speaks on the paper.”

“Captain Garonne,” cried Mrs. Austen. “Such news! The physician says Jane is recovered from her illness and can accompany us tonight. What do you think of that?”

He looked up from her drawing. “But I thought you were not willing,
ma‧amselle
Jane. It was a matter of principle, you said.”

“I have taken guidance from my father, sir.” She did not want to appear too enthusiastic and rouse his suspicions. “He has persuaded me.”

“Ah. Very good.” He gazed at Cassandra. “A remarkable likeness. May I keep this drawing?”

Jane hesitated. No good could come of the captain‧s evident admiration of her sister—for she was certain his interest in the drawing and the subject could mean only one thing. Cassandra, meanwhile, on the other side of the room, was deep in discussion about gloves and muffs and whether her cloak would look dowdy.

“Very well.” Jane watched as he rolled the drawing and placed it inside his coat.

“Your family must be very happy that you are returned to health. The waters are extremely beneficial, I believe. Many of our officers take advantage of them.”

Not wishing to prolong the conversation, Jane excused herself
and went upstairs to dress. Cassandra joined her, much excited, chattering of how many woolen petticoats they should wear, and how fortunate they were that it was a fine, if cold, night.

“I believe the captain admires you,” Jane said.

“Indeed? I find him quite agreeable. I hope my ears will not turn red in the cold, although he told us there will be braziers and the temperature will be quite adequate. I intend to dance all night to keep warm. I hope you are strong enough to dance. I believe we shall not lack for partners.”

Jane made a noncommittal answer and dropped her gown over her head. “Cassandra, do you think my book would be better if Marianne and Elinor did not agree with each other so much?”

“But I love that about the book. They are so like you and me.” Cassandra turned so Jane could tie her gown closed.

“But it does not make for a good story. They are too much alike. What if they did not confide so freely in each other?”
As I am compelled to do now.

“I don‧t think I‧d like that.” Cassandra sat on the bed to pull on a fresh pair of stockings. “But I understand what you mean. Harmony is for real life, not for literature. But how can you convey the keeping of secrets if we read only letters between them?”

“Maybe there should be narrative, too.”

Cassandra paused in fastening a necklace. “I am so happy you feel well enough to write again.”

Jane tried not to watch the pulse beat in her sister‧s neck. The only positive thing she could find about the night‧s outing was that she would not need any woolen petticoats.

Garonne escorted the Austen family into the inn that served as entry to Sydney Gardens, Cassandra and Mrs. Austen on his
arms, while Jane and her father followed behind. Jane could tell her father was dispirited and gloomy, both at his failure to procure passes for them and at his surrender to Mrs. Austen‧s demands.

Garonne helped the ladies to punch, from one of many large silver bowls that stood on tables heaped high with fruits and other delicacies.

“Why, Captain, how does this food arrive in the city?” Jane asked innocently. “We haven‧t seen anything as delicious as this since you were kind enough to invade.”

“After curfew, ma‧am, but I am not allowed to tell you more.”

“Your secret would be safe with me, sir!” She managed a delighted giggle while determining she could easily find out more from Garonne. “No, really, I cannot—well, half a glass more. Oh, Captain, that is another full glass. I shall scarcely be able to dance.” She let the captain give orders to a waiter and then the group went outside into the grounds, where braziers and flambeaux provided light and scattered pockets of warmth. An orchestra, the musicians wearing woolen gloves with the fingers removed, played at a little distance. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the scene, the gaily colored paper lanterns hung from trees, and the well-dressed and elegant crowd. Doubtless if she had any appetite for food, she would have been roundly scolded by her sister for being greedy. Waiters flocked around their table, bearing china and cutlery and bottles of wine.

Cassandra looked particularly handsome in her fur tippet and matching muff, a small feathered hat perched on her head, and she and Jane entertained themselves with comparing their dress to that of other ladies present.

“It has happened again,” Jane murmured to her sister. “We have failed in sartorial matters by an unnatural desire not to
catch our deaths of cold. Observe that lady on the French officer‧s arm—she might as well be wearing her shift, and does she not realize the fabric is almost entirely transparent?”

“How dreadfully immodest! I don‧t know that I approve of headdresses based on Phrygian caps—and oh, even more shocking, some actually sport
tricouleur
cockades!”

“But they are the colors also of
your
flag, ma‧amselle Austen.” Garonne raised his glass. “I propose a toast to a greater friendship with the Austens.”

The stem of the wineglass snapped in Jane‧s fingers and blood dripped onto the white tablecloth. She caught a strong sense of others of the Damned nearby and then the sensation was lost as her family exclaimed, and Garonne offered her a napkin. A waiter arrived to clear up the broken glass and provide her with a new wineglass.

“I am so dreadfully clumsy,” she said. “No, sir, it bleeds very little now. I have wrapped it in my handkerchief, and I shall hide the offending digit in my muff so I do not cause offense. I believe enough blood has been spilled already in this city.”

“True,
ma‧amselle.
Your shopkeepers and militia put up a most gallant defense.”

That Garonne did not attempt to deny the bloodshed in the city raised a grudging admiration in Jane‧s perception. The waiters approached again, with platters of food and small lamps on which to keep them warm, and the party‧s attention was turned to the food, which was of high quality and excellently prepared. Garonne turned out to be an attentive host, making sure everyone‧s glass was filled and that every dish was shared. He questioned Cassandra and Mrs. Austen about parties and assemblies in Hampshire and with great politeness asked if he could partner the Miss Austens when the dancing began. Even Mr. Austen began to unbend a little.

“But Mr. and Mrs. Austen, here is my uncle, General Renard. I have told him so much of you and your hospitality.” Garonne introduced them. Jane noticed the similarities between the two men, and suspected that their relationship was in fact father and son; they had a similar scent.

Renard bowed over the ladies’ hands and begged that they might each dance with him. He was an observant and clever man, that much was clear, and Jane was surprised that her family welcomed him into their midst, her father offering him a glass of wine. “No, no, I shall not intrude. But we shall see each other later, eh?”