Jane and the Damned (30 page)

“It‧s
my
chicken,” the other woman said between sobs. “But I can tell a slut such as you will have no trouble getting a full belly.”

“Of any sort.” The owner of the spoon waggled it suggestively at her.

“Business is business,” the girl said. “You won‧t be so proud in a day or two.” She was younger than Jane had thought, not more than sixteen, but her cynicism and worldly bravado made her seem older.

“Aren‧t you cold?” Jane said.

“I‧m used to it.”

Jane handed over her muff.

“What do you want for it?” The girl‧s eyes were hard and suspicious.

Jane had thought to offer it as a gift but realized to do so would insult her. Everything in this girl‧s world had a price. “Very well. You owe me a favor. I may call upon you later.”

The girl nodded and held out a hand, bare and reddened with the cold. “My name is Polly.”

Jane removed her glove and took Polly‧s hand. “I am Jane.”

The contact of the girl‧s skin sent a flurry of disjointed images into her mind—a lover gone away, a French officer or two, possibly three (much brandy and rumpled sheets and lasciviousness), and a tangled mess of jealousy and anger.

Polly released Jane‧s hand to delve deep within the silk-lined fur of the muff and shiver with pleasure, not cold. “I may have to sell it. I hope you won‧t be offended.”

“Not at all,” Jane said.

The cart turned onto Brunswick Place.

“This is the Riding School,” Polly said. “They‧re going to keep us here, I think.”

A group of people who had been waiting outside ran forward, shouting to the occupants of the cart and thrusting letters and baskets into their hands, begging for them to be delivered to prisoners.

The soldiers shoved the supplicants away, but grabbed the baskets which Jane was sure would never reach those for whom they were intended. Jane tried to gather some letters that had been thrown into the cart, but a soldier snatched them from her.

“Give those to me!” he said and ripped one open. “They write dangerous words.”

“Particularly when read upside down,” Jane said in French.

He snarled and slapped her, a casual, heavy blow with the back of his hand. She tumbled over in the cart, blood trickling from her lip. Her fangs extended in anger as she thought of how she could burst her bonds and rip the life from the soldier, how she would have no mercy on him. She fought to control her fangs and assured her neighbors she was not badly hurt as she struggled to sit upright again.

“Really, it is very little,” she said, trying to sound shocked and ladylike. “Thank you, sir, I am sure it appears far worse than it is. It hardly pains me at all.” As the wound would heal in a matter of an hour or so, it was politic to make light of it.

Large gates creaked open and the cart lumbered into a cobbled stable yard. Soldiers lounged around, eyeing the new arrivals, particularly the women, made clumsy by their bound wrists as they clambered from the cart. Jane offered to hold the basket for the woman whose chicken had escaped, but she clutched it to her, shaking her head in terror.

“My good man,” the respectable shopkeeper said to the nearest soldier, “there has been a mistake. Take me to your commanding officer, if you please.”

The soldier grinned. “Yes, milord, of course, milord.” He
aimed a vicious punch at the shopkeeper‧s considerable belly, and laughed as the man sank to his knees, retching.

Polly, meanwhile, smiled at a soldier who produced a knife and cut her bonds, gazing into her bosom with great appreciation. Jane snapped the rope binding her wrists and looked about her. There were too many soldiers at the gate for her to attempt an escape, even at night. A large iron cooking pot, tended by a hefty woman in an elaborate hat, steamed on a fire in the center of the courtyard. More soldiers leaned on the stable doors that opened into the yard, looking out at the activity. A wide doorway opposite led into the large building that housed a riding ring, an area where prisoners walked and others had claimed favored spots, wrapped in their cloaks.

Polly tapped her on the shoulder. “I have sold the muff for two blankets. This one is for you.”

“Thank you.” Although Jane did not need it, she draped the large, rough fabric over her shoulders. A dozen or so fleas, panicked by her presence, leaped out and away.

“Ooh! Do that for me, if you please!” Polly handed her the second blanket. “How do you do it?”

Jane shrugged. “Fleas don‧t like me. I‧m lucky, I suppose.” She handed a blanket, free of vermin, back to Polly. “I fear they will return. After all, they must hop somewhere.”

“You could do that for money or food.” Polly‧s thoughtful expression suggested that she might offer herself as Jane‧s handler. “So, why did they arrest you?”

“There was this French officer …” Jane let her voice trail away. She sighed.

“A respectable girl like you! Well, any woman may fall.” Polly sounded quite cheerful. She wrapped her blanket around herself. “Let us see what is going on here and how we may best settle in.”

There must have been fifty people, arrested that day, men and
women and a few children, roaming around the Riding School. Some sat huddled and wretched, refusing to talk, some weeping. One group had acquired some bottles of spirits and were busy getting drunk, playing dice on the uneven surface of the cobbled stable yard.

The woman with the feathered hat looked up from her cooking pot, flapping one arm to drive away smoke. “Sixpence a day to eat, ladies. The Frenchies will bring in bread but you may be sure it‧s poor stuff.” She eyed Jane with interest. “I‧m Mrs. Glimm. I‧ll take your gloves for food for seven days. ‘Course, if they cut off your head before the week is out, I‧ll have the better part of the bargain.” She roared with laughter and stirred the contents of the pot with a piece of wood.

“Has the tribunal tried anyone yet?”

“They‧ll start tomorrow, so Pierre says.” Mrs. Glimm nodded at a soldier, a skinny fellow half her girth who gazed at her with adoring eyes. He burst into a torrent of French that Jane recognized as a declaration of passion.

“Can‧t understand a word he says. It don‧t matter.” The woman‧s mottled face softened as she looked at him. “What he has between his legs does well enough for all it‧s a French one. Just like an English one, eh?” This last was addressed to Polly, who nodded in agreement.

“But he could not save you from arrest?” Jane asked.

“Lord love you, no, he didn‧t arrest me. He pays me to cook.” And to spy on others too, Jane thought, but she smiled politely and told Mrs. Glimm she would consider the trade of the gloves. Her hands were smaller than Mrs. Glimm‧s, but she had no doubt the gloves would be sold for something else.

“Miss Austen!” She turned at the sound of a familiar voice to see Mr. Thomas, the apothecary.

She gave him a polite nod, the condescending greeting of a lady
to an inferior, for the benefit of Mrs. Glimm, who, feathers nodding on her hat, threw a handful of dirty potatoes into the pot.

He understood; he bowed and backed away. After a few minutes, during which Polly helped put more wood on the fire, Jane strolled into the indoor Riding School and sought him out.

“How long have you been here, Mr. Thomas?”

“Since this morning, ma‧am.” He glanced around. “We must be careful. I daresay they do not know you for what you are?”

“I don‧t believe so. What do they intend to do with us?”

“The tribunal will try us soon. I‧ve heard rumors that they expect a guillotine to be delivered to the city any day.”

“And who is on the tribunal?”

“Renard, but as for the others, I don‧t know. I trust there will be men of integrity with him. But what happened to the rest of your household?”

“I believe they‧re safe, but I am concerned for my family.”

“Ah.” He looked at her with sympathy. “I am most sorry, Miss Austen.”

Overcome with emotion, she shook her head. Until now, the enormity of Luke‧s silence had not made any real impact on her. Maybe he thought that she had abandoned him and returned to her family. Once again she tried to call to him, and then to William. A faint echo of a response came to her, and then silence. For the first time she understood the immense importance the Damned placed on loyalty to one‧s fellows; to be a solitary vampire was dangerous and lonely.

She listened to the swirling emotions and thoughts of those around her. She was the only one of the Damned among mortals who did not understand her and would fear and hate her when they discovered her identity. She was not safe from the French and neither was she safe from her companions, not after the rumors spread about the explosion.

“Mr. Thomas, I know you mean well, but I beg of you, do not seem overly familiar with me. I believe there are spies all around. These are desperate times and people will do anything to save their skins.”

“I regret you‧re right, Miss Austen.” He gave a friendly nod and bow, that of one casual acquaintance to another, and strolled away.

She looked through the open door into the courtyard to see Polly, in the gathering dusk, talking to a French soldier. Jane hesitated, wondering if Polly was being threatened, but as she strained to hear their conversation, she realized that she was negotiating with him.

“Eh,
jolie fille,
I give you food, good food, the time you are here.”

Polly, even with a rough blanket around her, managed a seductive sway toward him. “Very well. You pay me a shilling first.”

“A shilling? Then I take a little taste, so.” The soldier grinned and put his hand into Polly‧s bosom.

She slapped him away. “A shilling or nothing.”

The man fumbled in his pockets and pulled out some coins.

“A shilling.” Polly swiped a half-crown from his hand and tucked it away in a pocket in the side seam of her gown. “And food for every time after.”

She led him inside the stable.

Mrs. Glimm banged on her cooking pot with a discarded stirrup, and the prisoners streamed out to be fed. A large basket of bread stood nearby and was emptied within a few seconds by those who could not afford her dubious cooking.

Jane waited until Polly and her soldier emerged from the stables, he buttoning up his breeches and whistling loudly, she with a large piece of bread, of much better quality than the prisoners’, wrapped around a slice of bacon. Polly offered Jane a bite.

She took a small mouthful as a gesture of good will. “Polly, I‧ll give you my gloves if you can find me pen and ink and a way to send a letter out of here.”

Polly fingered the leather of Jane‧s gloves. “I‧ll see what I can do.”

“You may take them now.”

Polly swallowed the last of her bread and bacon. “He says we‧ll be tried tomorrow.” She jerked her head toward the soldier. “I don‧t know how much longer we‧ll have.”

Jane considered her situation. She would need all her strength and wits and for that she needed to dine, and to dine soon. “I‧ve changed my mind, then. I don‧t think I will have time for a letter. But there is something I need and maybe you can help.”

Polly blinked as she saw Jane‧s canines emerge. “Lord love us, you‧re one of them?”

“Yes. I need to dine. I won‧t take much. Are you willing?”

She grinned. “Willing? Could be the best thing that‧s happened all day. All week, even.” She held out her wrist. “If you please.”

Jane bit into her wrist and tasted both the first surge of blood and Polly‧s shiver of pleasure. And then she tasted hostility and outrage, a small, resentful presence that made a violent protest. She drew back, breathed on the wound and licked it clean.

“Polly!”

The girl smiled, drowsy with pleasure. “Well, go on. You‧ll take more than a mouthful.”

“I can‧t. You‧re with child.”

“What!” Polly drew back. “I thought—you‧re sure?”

“Quite sure. Your child was not at all pleased that you give away the blood you share.”

“Oh, Lord. Nothing but trouble,” Polly said. “I‧m sorry I couldn‧t oblige. I can ask—”

“I beg you do not mention my nature to anyone. The townspeople have turned against us for the most part.”

Polly nodded and held out Jane‧s gloves.

“No, keep them. I don‧t feel the cold. I wear them only for propriety.”

As darkness fell, the prisoners retreated into the riding ring, huddled together for warmth. A few squabbles broke out over particularly prime spots, free of drafts, and some of the children and several of the adults sobbed or cried out in fear in their sleep. Polly retreated into the stables to sleep with her Frenchman (“He may smell, but at least he‧s warm”).

Jane crept into the riding ring and laid her blanket over a family who slept near the door, in the coldest spot. She did not feel in the least sleepy, but desired solitude and quiet. In the stable yard the soldiers on guard gathered around Mrs. Glimm‧s fire, talking softly of their homes and the families they might never see again. Jane melted into the shadows and listened to them and the small sounds of the night.

I will not forget you.

The thought came to her so distinctly she jumped as if someone had shouted in her ear.

Luke, where are you?

There was no reply. Was Luke‧s message a farewell, a promise, a reproach? She had no way of knowing.

Ice glazed the muddy cobbles. Overhead, on this rare, clear night, the stars glittered, cold and remote, and Jane stood motionless, watching their stately progress across the heavens until they faded with the dawn.

“Why, you‧re up early, miss.” Mrs. Glimm stirred an unpleasant-looking porridge over her cooking fire. “Sixpence if you‧ve changed your mind. Or the gloves.”

“Thank you, ma‧am. I‧ll take the offer under consideration.”

A commotion broke out at the gates and for one moment Jane hoped that it was a rescue. The soldiers, who had been lounging around the courtyard, sprang into action, keeping the prisoners back, as the gate swung open to admit another cartload of prisoners, terrified people, some of whom were only partly dressed and must have been hauled from their beds. They climbed out and stood looking around in disbelief and fear.

An officer on horseback accompanied the cart. His horse shied and steam rose from its damp flanks as it caught Jane‧s scent, making the carthorse in turn shift nervously in its traces.