Jane and the Damned (27 page)

Jane, her mouth full, nodded eagerly as Mr. Jacques Brown the cook placed another delectable profiterole onto her plate.

Whatever else she had expected with her arrival at Queens Square, it was not to end up in the kitchen being fed treats by the staff.

Clarissa, after her enthusiastic welcome, had yawned and apologized, and retired to her room. Every other one of the Damned was asleep, or taking whatever sort of rest they required after the long night. With some timidity she had tried to announce her arrival to Luke, who had sent a distinctly grumpy reply into her mind that he would be available later in the day. Disconcerted, reluctant to stay in the dining room (gloomy and with gossiping footmen cleaning the furniture), and equally reluctant to view the squalid aftermath of the usual drawingroom debauchery, she had wandered into the kitchen in search of company and sustenance. It might not be the sort of sustenance she really wanted, but Mr. Brown was so pleased to feed
someone who appreciated his cooking that his enthusiasm was quite as satisfying as his pastries.

“A little apple tart, next?” Mr. Brown dipped a spoon into a bowl of clotted cream, rich and heavy. “Very nice, miss, with cream. You will like it.”

“Thank you. I‧m sure I will.” She held her plate out yet again.

A couple of men, Jack and another she did not recognize, and a woman came down to the kitchen as she finished her slice of tart. From their careful gait—she imagined their descent of the steep kitchen stairs must have been exceedingly cautious—and their satisfied, sleepy smiles, she gathered they had entertained in the drawing room.

Her offer to revive them was met with bright smiles and Mr. Brown grumbled as he drew them off glasses of ale and set the visitors to toasting bread on the kitchen fire. She bit into her finger and dripped a little blood into each glass.

“You will burn your toast,” Mr. Brown chided them—for they watched her bloodletting with avid, greedy eyes. “Thank the lady now, if you please.”

Footfalls pattered down the stairs, and Ann entered the kitchen. “Your bedchamber is ready for you, Miss Jane.”

She wasn‧t ready to sleep, but she thought she might as well get some rest. Her plate scraped clean, she followed Ann upstairs—right up to the top of the house, where normally servants would sleep. But servants’ bedchambers would not be as richly appointed as this, with a curtained bed, expensive mahogany furniture decorated with a tasteful ivory inlay, and a fire lit in the small fireplace. Her box of possessions, looking distinctly shabby, stood on the intricately patterned carpet.

“Where do you sleep, Ann?” Then, seeing a knowing smile spread over the girl‧s face, she added, “Don‧t any of the servants sleep in?”

“Mr. Brown has a room off the kitchen, and I generally sleep with Miss Clarissa. She likes to have me close to hand. All the others come in by the day or by the night. It‧s best that way, for when we move.”

“A move is planned? Where to?”

“Oh, yes. Sometime, that is, but I don‧t know where or when. They don‧t usually tell me until the same day. It‧s their way, for they are used to not staying in one place for too long.” She bent to unfasten Jane‧s box. “I can help you unpack, miss. Why, what‧s this writing?”

“Nothing!” Jane snatched the manuscript from her hands. Cassandra must have slipped it into the box when Jane wasn‧t looking.

“You wrote all that, miss?”

“Yes. It‧s a novel.”

“Goodness.” Ann bent over the box. “They‧re not much for reading although George has a few books. He‧s next door to you, miss. You may want to lock your door. Or not.” She giggled and pulled out one of Jane‧s gowns. “This needs ironing. Is this your best?”

“I‧m afraid so.” Her best gown, the same muslin she had worn when she had been created, looked sadly drab.

“Miss Clarissa will lend you hers. She has lots of gowns.” Ann made a face as she shook out one of Jane‧s morning gowns, a striped cotton. “If there‧s cloth to be had in the town, I daresay you‧ll order some new ones.”

“I regret I can‧t afford it.”

“Mr. Luke will pay.”

“Oh.”

“It‧s what a Bearleader does.” Ann rummaged in the box again. “Or a protector.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“Oh, he doesn‧t, miss. Not much. Neither he nor Mr. William. They‧re old, you see. They usually rest a little after they dine, but they don‧t go to bed like others.”

Jane, aware that she clutched her abandoned manuscript to her chest, walked the few paces over to the dressing table and laid it down carefully. “Could you bring me a pen and ink, when you‧ve finished with my clothes?”

“Certainly, miss. I‧ll darn these stockings for you too.”

Ann left with her arms full of clothes, and Jane paced the small room and peered out of the window at the gray day and the stark, bare trees of Queens Square. The surrounding elegant, beautifully proportioned houses that on a sunny day would appear the color of Mr. Brown‧s clotted cream today looked merely drab and brownish. She lay on the bed, wondering if she could sleep, but was too restless. And hungry, but she could wait until nightfall.

A footman brought her pen and ink, and she drew a chair up to a small folding table and gritted her teeth. She would write. She had to write.

But this was dreadful stuff. Why, her sentences barely made sense—they were clumsy and ugly but she could not see how to improve them. She turned the page and read on until she realized she had lost the narrative thread entirely. Was it her or was it what she had written?

She considered. Maybe she was thinking like one of the Damned, contemplating eternity and the knowledge that nothing needed to make sense; that there was no form or structure because life continued, whatever sort of pattern you attempted to apply. She thought back over the events of the last several days.

She had been created.

She came to Bath.

The French took the city.

She fell in love with Luke—no, that was nonsense, particularly falling in love with Luke. If she had not become one of the Damned, she would not have come to Bath. If Margaret had not come to Bath, Luke and the others would not have come here. There were no connections, no patterns. She might as well argue that the French invaded England because Jane Austen attended an assembly in a country town.

As for Luke, he would not allow her to read his mind or give any sign that her regard was returned, although he would flirt with any pretty woman, she suspected—and then there was his earlier attachment to Margaret. Well, she had all eternity to sigh over him, a thought that did not appeal overmuch.

Better to think that there was this brief day to get through, after which the others would awake, and they would dine and dance, and possibly kill some Frenchmen.

“So you are here.”

Jane whirled around. Margaret stood in the doorway of the room. Despite the earliness of the hour she appeared elegant in a morning gown of a soft blue, her hair held with a matching fillet. A subtle perfume wafted from her. She had completely recovered her strength and beauty, her red hair striking against her white skin, a far cry from the frail, half-dead creature Jane had met in the Pump Room.

“Will you not come in?” Jane asked, but Margaret had already entered and sunk gracefully onto the bed.

“What is it that you do?” Margaret asked.

“I‧m writing.” Jane tapped her manuscript into a neat pile, and tied the ribbon around it—how like Cassandra to replace the workaday string with one of her own ribbons. As she knotted the ribbon, a faint scent, a memory of her sister, arose.

“I did not mean that. I mean, why are you in this house? Why have you joined us?”

“I thought it was time,” Jane said.

“I see.” Margaret toyed with a lock of her hair that had fallen over one shoulder, like a streak of blood on her skin. “It is usual for the company of the house to decide among themselves who shall live with them. I am surprised Luke or William has not told you this. You see, not everyone wants you here.”

“You mean you do not.”

“I was not consulted. Neither was William, to whom you can only be an embarrassment.”

“But Luke is my Bearleader. Where else should I go?”

Margaret shrugged. “He is your Bearleader because he pities you and because your Creator has more important concerns. Do not flatter yourself that it is anything more.” She rose to her feet in one long, sinuous movement. “Be careful, Miss Jane Austen. You have no power here. You should go.”

“Go where?” Jane produced the words with difficulty. She was so tired. It would be easier to just agree with Margaret, to leave the house, to … “Stop!” she said, gathering the last of her strength, and it was as though she took a long, refreshing draught of clear, cold water.

Margaret briefly showed her fangs and left the bedchamber in a swirl of drapery and a waft of perfume that now seemed rank and bitter.

Jane must have fallen asleep, for in the next moment, it seemed, Clarissa was shaking her awake. The fire had burned down and the daylight was fading, the room filled with shadows. Jane‧s former self would have found the room gloomy, but now the shadows were friendly and warm, an invitation to the night and its pleasures.

“More hunting tonight,” Clarissa said with relish. “Up with you, sleepyhead.”

Yawning, Jane sat up and reached for the men‧s clothes, now cleaned and pressed and accompanied by clean linen, that Clarissa had laid on the bed.

“What do we hunt?”

“You‧ll find out. I can promise you better fireworks than anything Sydney Gardens can produce.”

Downstairs, where they gathered in the dining room, Jane was aware of a subtle shift in regard toward her; Margaret, who stood quietly to one side, was silent but showed none of her earlier venom.

William bowed, one gentleman to another. Luke stepped forward and retied her neckcloth for her. “Much better,” he said, and turned her toward the mirror over the fireplace.

“Much better,” Luke said again, although this time he referred to her fuzzy and faded reflection. George‧s reflection was barely visible and Margaret‧s showed only as a faint shimmer.

William poured wine and handed glasses to them all. “To Jane, who is now one of us, and to good hunting tonight.”

Luke touched her wrist.
You‧re making nearly as much noise as that great oaf George.

I heard that,
came a petulant reply in the dark.

She was tempted to giggle.

I‧m hungry.

George‧s complaint startled her into a breath of nervous laughter.

Hold your tongue,
said several silent voices at once.

She was hungry too. Luke had smiled with his usual charm and assured her she would dine after the night‧s mission had been accomplished. They would work better hungry than if they were stupidly sated. She had to admit there was a definite logic
to it, but was disappointed. Under other circumstances her stomach would have growled, but as she was now she experienced a nervous alertness, senses magnified and highly tuned, aware of the unspoken currents that passed among the Damned as they quietly made their way through the dark streets.

William, leading the way, made a small gesture with one hand, and they melted into the shadows, into doorways, and down a dark alley as a troop of French cavalry passed them, clattering down the street. Several of the horses seemed to be aware of their presence, sidling and showing the whites of their eyes before their riders took charge, gathering the reins and collecting their mounts.

The sound of the hooves died away.

Luke moved forward and conferred with William in a series of gestures, then waved the company back into the shadows.

The streets here were unfamiliar to Jane but she could smell the river close by, and the scents of tobacco and coal. She knew they must be near the Methodist chapel the French used to stable their horses, and to the west of that lay their destination, the quay on the Avon.

Sure enough, the troops gathered outside the chapel, the breath of men and horses steaming in the night air. Most of the cavalrymen had dismounted, some gathering around a brazier, hands held out to the warmth, making conversation.

Luke led them down another narrow dark alley and the smell of the river became stronger, the stars bright overhead despite the city smoke. They had reached the quay, which was scattered with barrels, a small crane, and piles of rope. Fragments of ice floated gray and crackled on the river. He made a small gesture with one hand and the vampires sank into the shadows. He and Jane settled into a space between two barrels.

A rat nearby stopped and raised itself on its hind legs, snuffing the air, then dropped to run in a panicked circle before darting away.

They sense us,
Luke said.

Why are we waiting?

You‧ll see.
A guard came into view, beating his arms against his sides. He passed within a foot of the concealed vampires, bringing with him a scent of tobacco, sweat, and blood.
Count. One, two, three …

The guard reached the end of the quay, turned, stamping his feet against the cold, and passed them again. Another guard approached, and they passed, pausing to nod and exchange a few words. Jane couldn‧t understand what they said.

I wouldn‧t expect a lady, however educated, to understand that. They speak in vulgar terms of the weather. Keep counting.

As she counted, the guards passed and each turned to march down the side of a small stone building. In all, four men kept guard, their paths crossing every few seconds.

What is in that building?

Powder.
Luke laid his fingers on Jane‧s wrist and conferred with the others, mainly William. His touch dulled the others’ comments—they both knew she was too inexperienced to interpret all the voices.

He nodded.
We wait until William gives the signal before we take them.

They watched as the soldiers circled, disappeared, returned, passed, creating an uneven, lumbering pattern.

He laid a hand on hers again.
It is time.
Luke slipped away from her into the shadows, moving closer to the padlocked door. For a moment he was exposed as he ripped the hasp and padlock apart, fangs extended, before slipping into the warehouse.