Jane and the Damned (2 page)

As Catherine and Cassandra chatted of fashion, Jane pretended to listen while observing the crowd of women engaged in putting the finishing touches to their appearances, jostling to see themselves in the large mirror propped against the wall. The room rang with the patter of leather-soled dancing shoes on the plank floor, the chatter and giggles of feminine voices, the rustle of muslin and silk. A young woman exclaimed as her wreath of silk flowers slipped over one ear and she reached behind her head to twist the wire into a more secure shape. Another, her back to the mirror, turned her head to view the back
of her skirts, doubtless concerned about a scorchmark from an iron in the hands of an overenthusiastic maid.

Jane licked her fingers and reached to squeeze into shape a descending curl that brushed Catherine‧s neck. “More spontaneity to the curl, my dear Catherine. You must look as though you care not a jot for your appearance, but look like this always with the slightest of effort, not after an hour and a quarter with a curling iron and both you and your maid close to tears.”

“Oh, heavens, this damp weather.” Catherine sighed. “By the end of the evening I shall look like a furze bush, I know it.”

“But a pretty furze bush,” Jane said. She took a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror—she was tall enough to see over most of the other heads in the room and did not have to squeeze herself forward or stand on tiptoe. Adequate, she decided. But—she looked again.

How odd. The lady—the very fashionably dressed lady who stood at the back of the room, smoothing her silk gloves—did not appear in the reflection. It had to be a trick of the light, although the room was remarkably well lit with an oil lamp and several candlesticks embellished with hanging crystals to reflect the light.

“Cassandra.” She touched her sister‧s arm. “Tell me I do not imagine things. The lady at the back of the room—the one with the silver fillet on her hair and the cream gown with the Greek pattern along the hem—”

“Oh, most elegant,” Cassandra said. “Surely she did not have that gown made here. It must be a London dressmaker. And the fabric—what a beautiful drape. It cannot be a cotton, surely. I suspect it is a silk, or even, do you think, a very fine wool? I think—”

“The mirror. Now look in the mirror.”

“Oh.” Casssandra gripped Jane‧s arm. “So it is true.”

The woman moved toward the two sisters, bowing her head in acknowledgment, a faint smile on her red lips. Her feet, clad in the briefest and most delicate of red leather Grecian sandals, whispered on the floorboards as she passed them and walked toward the doorway. She left in her wake a hint of a heavy, exotic perfume, and the train of her gown lifted, floated, and caressed Jane‧s muslin skirt as she passed by.

“‘Pon my word, Miss Austen, you‧re as cool as a cucumber, whereas I …” Her dance partner produced a handkerchief with which he mopped his sweaty brow. “I beg your pardon, ma‧am.”

Jane made a polite curtsy in reply and looked for Cassandra and Catherine. Ah, there they were, laughing and chatting with the gentlemen who‧d partnered them in the lively country dance that had caused her own partner such discomfort. She might well look as cool as a cucumber, but she was a cucumber in need of refreshment. The musicians, engaged in tuning their instruments and drinking tankards of ale—playing must be as enervating as dancing—seemed inclined to linger before they began the next dance. It was the perfect opportunity to drink some tea or punch and then hope for a partner, preferably a more athletic gentleman than the last, for the next dance.

Double doors at one side of the room led to the card tables; a set of double doors opposite them led to the refreshments room, an excellent arrangement for Mrs. Bigg and the other chaperones, who could play cards and gossip, yet keep an eye on their charges.

It might be considered fast, certainly unusual, for a young woman to approach the refreshment room alone, but fetching a drink for her chaperone was surely an act of kindness, of duty even. She would pay no heed to wagging tongues—after all, if
she wished to cause talk, there were plenty of other ways to do so, many of them far more gratifying and pleasurable.

At that thought her gaze alighted on the group from London, who stood at the side of the room. She wasn‧t the only one who cast surreptitious or openly curious glances at them, for they were certainly well worth observing. The fashions of the ladies alone made Jane, in her best muslin, feel dowdy and provincial, but she could not carry off the exotic silks and glorious Kashmir shawls flung over bare shoulders with such dashing elegance. No, even Miss Jane, one of the sophisticated and learned Austens, would appear a country mouse dressed beyond her means and station, an object of ridicule. And the jewels that winked and flashed at wrist and throat—of course, at the throat—put her own modest pearl bobs to shame.

But it was the gentlemen she found most fascinating, even if there were not enough of them and so far none of them had made a move to dance, not even with the ladies who accompanied them. They stood among the Hampshire shopkeepers and local gentry like thoroughbred horses in a field of donkeys, beautiful and dangerous, stilled power in their limbs, mystery in their eyes.

She had dawdled as long as she dared without making herself an object of ridicule and she broke into her usual brisk walk. Arriving at the punch bowl, she instructed the servant there to pour her two glasses, and turned away to find herself face to face with the lady without the reflection. They both smiled and dipped their heads in acknowledgment, the meeting of two women a degree shy of being perfect strangers.

“Pardon me, ma‧am,” the woman said. Her voice was deep and husky. She touched a gloved hand to Jane‧s shoulder.

Enveloped in a sudden wave of warmth—oh, she hoped the woman did not know how unsettled she felt; could her kind not
read minds?—Jane stepped away, spilling a little punch onto one glove.

“A pin is loose. I fear you may lose the sleeve. You danced with such energy—my brother and I were most struck by your grace—but I fear your gown has paid the price.”

“Oh!” Jane put the glasses down onto the table. She looked around for Cassandra or Catherine, ready for a hasty retreat into the retiring room. They were nowhere in sight. If only she had allowed Cassandra to sew in the short sleeves in preparation for the evening, but no, she had assured her sister a few pins would do as well, and be less trouble when she restored the long sleeves the next day.

“Do not move.” The woman stripped off her gloves, laying them on the table. “I shall make all well. It will take but a few seconds and no one will notice. Or would you rather I introduce myself so we may observe the proprieties? I am Sybil Smith.”

“Jane Austen.” She dipped a stilted curtsy, afraid the sleeve would thoroughly disengage. “It is most kind of you, Miss Smith.”

“My pleasure, Miss Austen.” Miss Smith‧s nostrils flared slightly. She moved closer to Jane, enveloping her in perfume, as though the two of them were wrapped in a shawl lifted from a chest of exotic, fragrant wood. Her fingers tugged and straightened the muslin at Jane‧s shoulder, twisting the fabric so she could adjust the pin to its rightful position.

“It has scratched you, I fear.” The fabric settled at Jane‧s shoulder.

“No matter. I am much obliged, ma‧am …” Jane‧s voice faded into a gasp as Miss Smith raised a finger to her mouth.

“Ah,” she breathed. The small smear of scarlet had disappeared from her fingertip when she lowered her hand with a smile and a sigh.

Jane recognized it as sacrilege, decadence, as she had been
taught; a parody of Holy Communion. Yet she wondered, looking at the expression on the woman‧s face, what the equivalent would be for her: something rare and delicious, sweet …

“Apricots,” the woman murmured. “Sun-warmed apricots from a tree splayed against a stone wall. The first of the summer, the juice bursting on your tongue.”

Yes, apricots. Jane‧s mouth watered. The summer seemed remote, far away across a wasteland of sleet and rain.

Miss Smith reached for her gloves. “I trust my little repair lasts for the rest of your bacchanal, Miss Austen.”

The spell was broken. “Oh, yes, indeed. I thank you. I am much obliged, Miss Smith.” Jane snatched up her glasses of punch, her face heating. She bobbed a curtsy, clumsy and off balance; turned; walked as fast as she could across the room, dodging the people who milled about, laughing and talking while the musicians took their break; and arrived at Mrs. Bigg‧s card table only slightly out of breath.

“Why Jane, you are quite flushed,” Mrs. Bigg exclaimed as she accepted the glass of punch. “Most kind, my dear; how very thoughtful you are. I was just telling Mr. Smith what famous dancers you and Catherine are, and how you will not be without a partner the whole evening long.”

“I beg your pardon, ma‧am, but Catherine is by far the better dancer.” Mr. Smith? Yes, Miss Smith had mentioned a brother.

“Now, where did he go?” Mrs. Bigg looked around. “Ah, there he is. Mr. Smith, this is Miss Jane Austen, my daughter Catherine‧s best friend.” She beamed at the gentleman as though he were an old acquaintance.

“Your servant, ma‧am.” The gentleman bowed.

“Sir.” She dipped a curtsy. Did not Mrs. Bigg see him for what he was? Was she spellbound, by one means or another, by the gentleman‧s extraordinary good looks, the restrained simplicity and elegance of his superb tailoring, or simply because he was what he was? She could not think that Mrs. Bigg was deflecting the gentleman away from Catherine, sensing his innate danger; that was unworthy of this well-meaning if slightly foolish woman.

“Miss Jane, may I have the pleasure of standing up with you?”

She could hardly refuse. Mrs. Bigg beamed approval, her good-natured face slightly flushed, as Jane accepted the offer.

“You have met my sister, I believe,” he said as she took his arm.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, I have. She saved my gown, and my reputation, from certain ruin.”

“She remarked upon what lovely women you and the elder Miss Austen are, having encountered you both earlier. I was bold enough to ask for an introduction.”

Jane smiled. “And what brings you to the wilds of Hampshire, Mr. Smith? You must find it a far cry from the elegance of town.”

“We have acquaintances in the neighborhood, and you do yourself an injustice. I have rarely met more pleasant society.”

Who on earth could be one of his kind in Hampshire? Before she began a mental inventory of her neighbors, he added with a slight smile, “I do not believe you know them, ma‧am.”

The musicians assembled again, instruments at the ready, and at a nod from the fiddle player, who acted as their leader, played the opening chords of the next country dance. Mr. Smith and Jane formed a set with Miss Smith and another of the London party, a Mr. Hughes, who bowed with great affability but showed rather too many teeth in his smile.

The dance began. “Mr. Smith” and “Mr. Hughes,” indeed. Jane was fairly sure the party traveled under assumed names but could not imagine what their purpose might be, unless it satisfied the ton‧s notorious appetite for novelty and as a solace for boredom.

“I have the impression, Miss Jane, that you do not approve of us,” Mr. Smith murmured as he took her hand.

“Indeed? Why would you think that, sir?”

He smiled, his canines brushing his lower lip before turning her so that she faced Mr. Hughes.

She was shocked at such a blatant display in public, but realized that the steps of the dance, each dancer gazing into their partner‧s eyes, made the moment as intimate as though they were alone together in a room. Probably no one else had even noticed.

“You know why, Miss Jane. You suspect we have nefarious designs upon the good people of Hampshire,” he said when they faced each other once again.

“And
do
you?”

His dark, handsome eyes narrowed slightly. “We are what we are, Miss Jane. One could argue that what we do comes as naturally to us as, say, dancing and flirtation do to you.”

“Alas, my reputation as a flirt precedes me as naturally as your nature does you, sir.”

“The only difference, Miss Jane, is that flirting is what you do, and my nature, as you refer to it, is the core of my being.”

She laughed. “You have not talked about me sufficiently with those who know me, sir.”

He laughed and took her hand to lead her down the set. “Why, Miss Jane, should I talk about you to others when I have you here, your hand in mine? I should be a fool indeed.”

They separated briefly to cast off around the couple at the bottom of the set.

“I suspect you are quite a flirt, yourself, Mr. Smith,” she said as they met and took hands once more.

“It passes the time.”

She raised her eyebrows (arched, well-shaped—she had received compliments on her fine eyebrows). “Well, you may certainly flirt but you do not flatter.”

“I meant, Miss Jane, that since I have much time at my disposal, I should spend it in the way I find most pleasant.”

She flushed. That he should refer openly to his—his condition—was provocative in the extreme. They passed each
other in a hey, shoulders brushing, and she caught his scent, a stronger, muskier version of Miss Smith‧s. So Miss Smith had not been wearing an expensive perfume; it was the essence of the woman, and now of her brother (if indeed that was who he was), that had captivated her senses. And Mr. Hughes—as she passed him, he too had a distinctive scent, overlaid with a sandalwood cologne—but his was not nearly as attractive as Mr. Smith‧s.