Jane and the Damned (23 page)

Jane wandered through the dim rooms, restless and hungry once more. In her room, she untied the ribbon that held her manuscript and looked at the pages of neat, even writing. The words clanged and echoed in her head as she read. Competently done, but they no longer had any hold over her, no urge to reorder and shuffle and improve. Going back downstairs, she stopped in the drawing room to play a few chords on the woefully out-of-tune pianoforte.

She heard the front door open and Betty greet someone—Garonne, who came up the stairs and into the drawing room, a parcel beneath one arm.

“Ma‧amselle, are you not cold?” Without waiting for a reply, he called to Betty to light the fire.

“We are a little concerned for our stock of coals, Captain.”

“Oh, that? Bah, do not worry. We shall have coals.” He laid his parcel on a small table. “This is for you. Or rather, I return what you were good enough to give to me.”

Betty entered the room with a taper in her hand, and looked at them with curiosity before kneeling at the hearth.

“If you please, ma‧amselle, open it.”

“I cannot accept a gift from you, Captain.”

“So. Betty, will you open this for your mistress?”

“If you wish, sir.” Betty stood and wiped her hands on her
apron. She removed the brown paper and string. “Oh, Miss Jane. How fine it looks, to be sure!”

Jane‧s sketch of Cassandra now resided in a gilt frame.

“Captain, this sketch was a moment‧s work. It does not deserve this splendid setting.”

He made a comical face. “Well, I cannot take it back, for it is yours, and it is also of your sister.” He grinned. “My joke does not work in English. I wish you to have it, Miss Jane. Besides, I give the framer a leg of pork for this, and doubtless he has eaten it already; he cannot return my money, for there is none.”

“I see.”

“I shall hang it on the wall for you, Miss Jane. Tell me where.”

“This is not our house,” Jane said. “I thank you for the gift, Captain. Cassandra will be most pleased. I shall take it upstairs for her.”

“But, ma‧amselle! Do you not wish Mr. and Mrs. Austen to enjoy it also? Let it sit here—see, on the mantelpiece, for all to enjoy.” His face became theatrically woebegone. “I am sorry my gift does not please you.”

“It pleases me well and I thank you for it. If I seem ungracious it is because I am surprised, that is all. I had quite forgotten the sketch with all that has happened.”

“Ma‧amselle Jane, it is small pleasures that make life bearable in difficult times. Betty, you bring us hot water, eh?” He produced a small packet from inside his coat and handed it to Jane. “Yes, I am full of gifts today. Some tea, for I know you English cannot live without it.”

Betty, with an expression of delight, curtsied and then left the room, leaving Jane and the Captain alone.

He stood at the fireplace, hands beneath his coattails, and smiled at her as she turned the package of tea over in her hands,
debating whether she should fling it into his face. “It is rare I see you alone, ma‧amselle Jane. Where is your family?”

“They accompany Mr. Austen to obtain a pass.”

“I regret he will not get one.”

“You seem very sure of that.” He stood near the tea caddy on the mantelpiece, and to reach it she would have to move close to him.

“Your father is not a rich man. He cannot afford the bribe the official expects. It is best to wait. I have said that before.”

Jane nodded and absentmindedly snapped the string that held the tea in its brown paper wrapping.

Garonne‧s eyes widened.

In one swift step she was at his side. She opened the tea caddy, which held only a little dust in one of its glass containers and poured the tea inside. The tiny rattle of the leaves on the glass was loud in the silence of the room.

Garonne stared at the dark fall of the tea and then at her. She touched his wrist. His heart pounded and a torrent of French, words of desire and longing, poured from his mind into hers. She should not have revealed her strength to him, but since she had …

“Captain,” she whispered and saw his dark eyes still and soften. “Captain, when does the food arrive? And how?”

“Ce soir. Apres minuit.”
He gazed at her. “Carts come in on the London Road, where we met today. The food is taken to St. Michaels Church.”

“And how many carts? How many men guard each?”

He told her in a mixture of English and French.

“You do not need to leave guards at the church tonight,” she told him.

“Of course.”

“And one more thing—you must leave Cassandra alone.”

“Cassandra?” He sounded, even in his enchanted, drowsy state, a little surprised. “But of course.”

She broke the connection between them as Betty entered the room with boiling water and tea things. Jane stepped away, the tea caddy in her hands, and spooned tea into the teapot. The front doorbell rang and Betty went to answer it.

Garonne blinked. “I beg your pardon, ma‧amselle. I believe you were saying …?”

“My family has returned. What excellent timing.”

There was much admiration of the portrait in its handsome frame and the gift of tea. Both Cassandra and Mrs. Austen seemed in slightly better spirits.

“But so many people who seem to have nothing better to do than stand on the street!” Mrs. Austen commented to her husband. “We should do something for them, my dear. Some beg, while others seem to wait, although I do not know for what.”

“They have no work,” Mr. Austen replied. “So much of the town‧s commerce depends upon those who come here for pleasure or for their health, and those are either cured or have run out of money themselves. You saw for yourself how few visit the Pump Room.”

“Can you not do something, Captain Garonne?” Mrs. Austen asked.

“Many will have nothing to do with us,” Garonne replied, spreading his hands. “They do not see us as friends. It is too bad. The most sensible thing for these men would be for them to join us in some way. There is much work to do to bring peace and prosperity to this new republic.”

“I don‧t believe we need your sort of peace, Captain.” Jane managed to keep her fangs under control. “And you ask men to oppose those who are their neighbors or relatives. Are you surprised they will not join you?”

“Many have,” Garonne said. “Understand, ma‧amselle Jane, we are not your enemy. Why, here we sit like old friends, and I learn to like tea. It is well done, no?”

Jane glanced out of the window at the dimming light. Soon it would be curfew and she had important news to relate to the Damned. She slipped quietly from the room when Garonne and her family were deep in a discussion of a military parade to be held soon in front of the Royal Crescent. She penned a brief note to Luke, explaining what she had discovered, and dispatched it with a footman. She resigned herself to another evening with her family: dinner, tea, sewing, her father reading aloud from Smollett in an attempt to cheer the family, and then her true life would begin again.

She retired early, claiming fatigue from the day‧s activities, changed into her men‧s clothes, and swiftly made her way to the house on Queen‧s Square.

William ran down the stairs to meet her, to her surprise. “My dearest Jane!”

She was thoroughly astonished, that one who had treated her with indifference should now show such warmth, and angry with herself that his words should fill her with painful pride.

“How is Luke?” she asked.

“Much recovered. He has the appetite of a lion. Come, we shall join the others. I am most pleased at your intelligence. But first if you wish, you may visit Luke and the others upstairs.”

Luke lolled at a card table in the drawing room with James and George. “I have a prodigious hunger,” he commented. “Is it not dark yet? George, what is your play?”

“Damnation, I suppose I shall have to offer the Royal Pavilion. I‧ve precious little else. I suppose you would not accept Caroline?”

Luke stood as Jane entered the room and took her hands, raising them to his lips. “I have you to thank for my life.”

“You are my Bearleader.”

His lips skimmed her hands, pausing at the sensitive inner wrist where his fangs touched and pressed.

“You called me lover. Is that your wish? I am of you now. We are more deeply connected than ever.” He lowered their joined hands and gazed into her eyes. “You deny your true nature, Jane, and thus you deny me and my love.”

“I am not sure this is my true nature.” How easy it would be to fall under his spell; how hard it was to resist him, with his scent and passion thrilling through her, urging her to yield to him.

“You are so stubborn, so determined. I can wait.”

“For all eternity? Besides is there not some business with another lady to conclude?”

William observed them with a cynical twist to his lips. “If I may interrupt this most tender of scenes, we have work to do, and we shall dine late tonight after we‧ve destroyed those wagons and their escort.”

“Destroy the food?” Jane turned on him. “I must insist, William, we do no such thing. People go hungry; I have seen it with my own eyes. We must give the food to the city.”

“And have the French hang anyone with a full belly? A ridiculous idea.” William took George‧s cards from him. “You‧re ruined, as usual. I suggest you stop playing immediately.”

“No, she is right,” Luke said. “I believe the evidence will be disposed of before Renard discovers the loss.”

“I trust you are right,” William said.

James, Clarissa, and Margaret, who joined them soon after, were vociferous in their agreement that the food should be distributed to the hungry, and William, grumbling, was finally
persuaded to join the plan. As they talked, the doorbell rang frequently and others joined them; a few, from their easy elegance and fine manners, appeared to be gentlemen, but most of them were men in simple clothes who viewed the others, particularly the Damned, with caution and curiosity.

“Why, Miss Austen!” One of the men, spectacles gleaming, stepped forward to take Jane‧s hand.

“Mr. Thomas!” She was delighted to meet the apothecary again and wrung his hand. “How do you do, sir?”

He winced.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I‧m stronger than I realize.”

“You have decided against the cure, then, ma‧am?”

“Yes, it did not seem appropriate in these troubled times.”

“Excellent. My neighbors still boast that they fought with a she-vampire when the French invaded.”

A handful of vampires whom Jane had not seen before also crowded into the dining room, where a large wooden chest, lid flung open, revealed muskets and other weaponry.

“I suppose you have neglected to teach your fledgling how to handle firearms,” William said to Luke.

He looked up from inspecting a musket. “I beg your pardon. I‧ve been somewhat busy being dead. She‧ll help with ammunition.”

“Madness,” muttered William, “to bring a fledgling on such a mission.”

“How else shall I learn?” Jane asked.

“Damnation, come if you will. Do as Luke tells you and you may be of some use.” He pulled another musket from the chest and handed it to one of the townsmen.

“He‧s in a foul temper. He does not like to consort with those he considers below him,” Luke murmured in Jane‧s ear. “It is a
hard pill for him to swallow, that we vampires must join forces with mortals, and baseborn ones at that.”

“But they have more to lose,” Jane said.

“They‧ll be happy enough in heaven. From a theological point of view, we have more to lose than they. But enough of philosophy.” Luke handed her a large canvas bag. “You‧ll carry this over your shoulder. It holds extra ammunition.”

The Damned did not partake of the simple meal of bread and mutton that followed, although some joined their guests in drinking ale. Jane was amused to find several of the men staring at her legs, both intrigued and embarrassed by her men‧s dress.

Clarissa, typically, was more forthright in her interest with the men, attempting to engage them in conversation and asking if they had wives or sweethearts.

“It‧s not right, ladies fighting,” one of the men burst out, staring at Clarissa‧s hand on his sleeve.

“Oh, I‧m hardly a lady,” Clarissa said.

“Beg pardon, ma‧am,” said the man, confused. “But I thought you were. As well as being a—being what you are.”

“I can be very ladylike,” Clarissa said. “I can be many things.” Her fangs extended.

“Jesus Christ!” The man scrambled away from her, his beer spilling onto the table.

“Behave, Clarissa.” Luke mopped up the spill. “I apologize for my sister‧s manners. She forgets herself.”

The man looked even more alarmed, backing up against the sideboard. “You—they hanged you yesterday! I saw it with my own eyes!”

“To be sure, they did. But a French hangman, my dear sir—well, need I say more?”

The table burst into easy laughter and the man cowering
against the sideboard was persuaded to take his place once more.

“Tell me, sir,” Mr. Thomas said. “Will you, ah, gentlemen or ladies require my services as surgeon?” He hesitated and then burst out, “I should be most interested if I could but dissect a specimen. I have never had the opportunity, you see. I was rather hoping that after the hanging, I might … but I beg your pardon, I am being most untactful. My wife is forever saying I have the manners of a bull and I fear she is right.”

“Regretfully, there would be little left for you to dissect should the opportunity present itself,” Luke said. “Now, on the Continent, it is a different matter, with a free exchange of ideas between our kind and physicians.”

“Indeed, yes, I have heard your blood has remarkable restorative powers!” Mr. Thomas cried, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. “And do you use it for each other‧s injuries?”

“We do,” Luke said, smiling.

“Have you not considered what a boon for mankind this would be?”

William interrupted. “England is unusual in that here we are not persecuted, but it is not the case elsewhere. Both the Inquisition and the Revolution in France sought to destroy us. Why should we share our life essence with those who might turn on us?”

“I assure you I mean no disrespect, sir.” The apothecary raised his glass to William who, after a slight hesitation, raised his own back.