Jane and the Damned (32 page)

“You think I would trust your word after this?”

He fell silent.

The soldier returned with a small, silver-backed mirror, the sort a lady might have on her dressing table. Renard held it in front of Jane‧s face and gave a crow of triumph, yelling at the officer at the table to write down the evidence.

“So, Citizeness, you know what we do to your kind. You think you live forever, but Madame la Guillotine will send you to hell. Where are the others?”

“I don‧t know.”

He drew back his hand and slapped her face with enough force to knock her from the chair onto the floor. “Tell us!”

“I don‧t know,” she repeated, “and if I did, I would not tell you.”

Poulett offered Jane his hand. She ignored it and rose to her feet. Her weakness alarmed her. She knew it was not merely that last night she had barely fed; she was enervated by her isolation from her own kind.

“So. It is almost noon,” Renard said. “Tonight you wish to drink blood, I think. It is unfortunate that you are our prisoner and there will be no blood. Perhaps later, in a day or so, you will change your mind about telling us. Or we shall find them, and you suffer for nothing when you could so easily tell us and save yourself. And then, we take your head. That is all. Take her away.”

She turned her head to Poulett and showed her fangs, snarling. He stepped back, fear on his face.

“If ever I have the opportunity, I shall kill you,” she said softly. “I may be bound for hell, but I believe you shall be in a greater lake of fire than I, for I have not betrayed my friends.”

***

Cassandra, I have a fearful headache.
Something clanked as she woke, on a hard surface that was surely not any sort of bed, and neither was she in any sort of bedchamber. The ring on the wall that secured her chains and the cobbles on which she lay indicated that this room might once have been built onto the outside of an existing building. Sure enough, the wall behind her was of elegant Bath stone, marred by dripping dampness. Had she been able to feel the cold she would not survive long here.

They must have knocked her unconscious to chain her, once she had been revealed as one of the Damned; in truth she wondered why they had bothered, as weak as she felt. A very little daylight, the heavy, golden light that came just before dusk, filtered through a small high window. She listened.
Luke, where are you? Help me. I am held prisoner, in the Assembly Rooms, I believe.

From far away she heard a muffled series of thumps. Fireworks? Surely not in daylight. They must be artillery, which meant that the English resurgence, aided by the efforts of the Damned, was under way, as Luke had predicted. She wished she could tell how far off the guns were, for time surely ran out for her.

She was hungry but she would not think of how she longed to dine, or yearned for the flavor of Luke‧s blood, full of power and joy. Now she wished she had taken more from him, instead of indulging in the nips and bites of amorous play.

The door rattled. She drew her legs beneath her and sat, exploring the back of her head with one hand. Sure enough, there was a large lump there. The door opened and two French soldiers sidled in, one with a pitcher in his hand and a large bundle of straw beneath one arm.

The other kept guard as the first one took a few steps toward
her, dropped the straw, and, to her amazement, thrust a crucifix at her.

She giggled. “Put the pitcher down, if you please, so you may cross yourself,” she said in French. For good measure she displayed her fangs.

He placed the pitcher on the floor and they both dashed from the room, slamming the door behind them. She heard the rattle of the key in the lock and their footfalls in a rapid and unmilitary retreat.

Encumbered by her chains she crawled toward the pitcher of water but found she could not reach it, even with outstretched arms. Using her feet, she pulled straw toward herself, made herself as comfortable as she could, and waited. She was fairly sure either Poulett or Renard would be here to tempt or bully her, or worse.

The light faded to darkness. The far-off artillery fire continued, and inside, small noises of the night, rustles and rapid heartbeats, emerged. If she must, she could capture a mouse or rat for its blood. She followed the comings and goings of small furred creatures, hoping her stillness would accustom them to her presence.

Luke, protect my family if you will not protect me.

She saw the light first, the bobbing golden light of someone carrying a lantern, and recognized the scent of Poulett, accompanied by another man she did not recognize. For a brief moment she considered attacking Poulett—she was fairly sure she could—dining on him until he was too weak to move, for she wanted his humiliation as much as his death. She rearranged herself on the straw, ready to spring in the faint chance that he might come close to her.

The door opened and Poulett stood inside, the lantern held high. He bent, retrieved the pitcher, and placed it closer to her, stepping back out of her reach.

“I have done all I can, Jane,” he said. “There is a warrant for the Austens’ arrest but I have delayed it until noon tomorrow. Time is running out.”

“I can hear the guns,” Jane said. “Time is running out for a traitor such as you.”

He ignored her and unbuttoned his coat, removing it to hang on the door.

Her fangs extended, painful and sensitive, as he loosened his shirt cuff and rolled back the sleeve.

“You must be very hungry,” he said.

“Not hungry enough to want you.” But her fangs betrayed her.

He took a small penknife from his waistcoat pocket and nicked the skin of his wrist. His blood welled and dripped.

“Can you smell it, Jane?”

“Do not flatter yourself, Poulett. Your blood is quite pleasant but nothing extraordinary. I‧d rather dine from the rat that runs along the wall behind you.”

As she hoped, he turned with a curse and lifted the lantern, peering at the bottom of the wall.

When he faced her again he was all sympathy and concern and she hated him. “Jane, my dear, let us be sensible. Think of your family, for most assuredly they will now be executed for your folly and misplaced loyalty and I can do nothing to help them. Do you think Miss Venning and the rest have even given you a moment‧s thought since your disappearance? The Damned are beautiful and seductive but faithless; they will use you and toss you aside, and that, I fear, is what has happened.” He shrugged. “But of course, that is what you are now you have become one of them. You have lost all Christian feeling; you do not care for Mr. and Mrs. Austen or your sister.”

“Why did you turn traitor, Poulett?”

He held his wrist out and blood dripped onto the cobbled
floor. “Come, Jane, I hate to think you will try to crawl here when I have left and lick this blood from the floor. You hunger for my blood. You shall have it. You know what you must do.”

She rolled over away from him and stared at the stone wall. She listened to his breathing (and his heartbeat, damn him), the rustle of cotton as he blotted the small cut closed, the slither of the silk lining of his coat as he dressed again.

“Does your new friend Renard know of your weakness for being dined upon?”

His palm caressed embroidered velvet as he straightened his coat. “I doubt whether he even cares, my dear. I‧ll bid you good night.”

She would not think of that drop of blood on the cobblestones. Instead she rinsed her mouth and washed her face, trying not to dwell on her hunger or give in to her despair.

Luke, why have you forsaken me?

“One hour, Citizeness!” Renard shouted.

Jane blinked at him in the morning light. She had slept a little since dawn, worn out by hunger and sorrow. She suspected the sounds from outside throughout the night, shouting and random loud noises, had been created specifically to unsettle her and wear down her resistance. Several times Renard, heavily guarded, had arrived to bully and threaten her.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” She had discovered that a bland, slightly stupid, ladylike air enraged him.

His bodyguard watched Jane with great attention as he bent toward her. “In one hour, Citizeness, I arrest your family. They like that, to know you
une Damnée?
And you are here, alone with all these soldiers. You are shamed! It is your fault that your family suffer and die.”

“Your soldiers fear me,” she said. “As you, General, should.”

“Silence!”

He stood breathing heavily.

She yawned.

“Well?” he said.

“I beg your pardon, I believe you told me not to speak.”

“Tell me where the Damned are.” He reached for her arm and shook her.

The soldiers closed in, ready to protect him if Jane attacked.

One hour. She could at least give her family a little time and hope that somehow they had heard rumors of her arrest and go into hiding. It was a very faint hope, but possibly she should try.

She sank back with a sigh, eyes closed.

“Ah! You swoon.” Renard kicked her. “Or you pretend. Tell us and you may drink from someone.”

She opened her eyes to see the soldiers stare at their commander in horror; doubtless they expected to be ordered to succumb to her.

Poulett had now entered the cell.

“Do not fear, gentlemen,” she said. “You will find it a most pleasant experience. Ask Citizen Poulett, who enjoys having the Damned drink his blood.”

Poulett glared at her. “She deceives you, Renard.”

“Tell me, then,” Renard said to her. “It will go badly with you, if you lie.”

“Lansdown Crescent. They mentioned it. I—”

“She lies,” Poulett repeated, but already Renard was striding from the cell, shouting out orders. Poulett paused in the doorway. “You will regret this deception.”

“Oh, I don‧t think things could be much worse for me. But as for you, I believe the artillery is closer to the city, and if the English take the city, I think things could go very badly for you.”

Jane knew the fashionable crescent high on Lansdown Hill was a good half hour on horseback from the center of the city. By the time Renard‧s men had arrived and searched the houses, then returned to report that the Damned had not been found, it would be mid-afternoon or later.

She sank back onto her straw and made yet another effort to call out to Luke, but he gave no reply. The light at the window dulled and the sky became the color of pewter before Renard returned, again with a retinue of soldiers.

He was icy calm. “You lie to us, Citizeness. You know what happens now.”

He nodded to the soldiers, who hauled her to her feet and slammed her face forward against the wall. The rough stone scratched her face and she was immobilized by the hands holding her at shoulders and wrists. So, what now? Were they going to dishonor her? She heard the sound of steel behind her—not the sound of a sword pulled from its sheath, but some other implement.

Hands fumbled at her hair, pulled it free of the pins, and grabbed a handful. She felt a tug, followed by a sudden lightness at her neck as shears clacked. And again. Hanks of hair slithered against her shoulder.

“Why, you make me fashionable,” Jane said. “I am much obliged.”

“Madame la Guillotine requires a smooth surface to do her work,” Renard said. He ripped away the fichu tucked into the top of her gown, revealing her shoulders and swell of her bosom, and tossed it aside. “This also will get in the way. You are greatly honored, Citizeness Austen. You will be one of the first in the town to enjoy her embrace.”

They released her, the soldiers stepping away before she could turn.

“So now you are prepared. Make your peace with the devil, Citizeness, for tomorrow you die.”

She turned away from the wall and raised her hands to her newly shorn head. Locks of hair fell down her gown, tickling her skin, and onto the straw at her feet.

“My family …”

Renard shrugged. “We arrested them. Good night, Citizeness.”

She supposed it was hunger and weakness that made her dream so. It was night, the time for hunting and gratification and pleasure, but she dozed while outside, the wind murmured to the intermittent background of stuttering artillery, and occasional gusts of sleet pattered onto the floor.

She dreamed she was back in Steventon, with Cassandra in the upstairs sitting room between their bedchambers. Cassandra trimmed a hat, a scattering of silk flowers and ribbon on the table between them. She picked the hat up to view it in the light that streamed through the window, turned it, frowned, and added another flower.

Jane bent over her sheet of paper. Her pen scratched out an entire paragraph with supreme confidence. It was time for the creation of another character. Someone handsome and untrustworthy who would charm and entice for his own amusement. A man who would prey upon innocence and generosity, yet provide pleasure and delight. Now she understood the significance of the touch of fingertips, the intimacy of a glance, a touch; how it was possible for the greatest propriety to mask passion and desire.

She wrote, smiling, the words flowing as the white sheet filled with her regular, elegant handwriting. Time dissolved. When she laid her pen down, Cassandra had put the finished hat aside and was hemming a petticoat with small, regular stitches, sitting
close to the window to catch the rays of the late afternoon sun. Jane stretched and flexed her stiff fingers.

Her father entered the parlor. “So, you‧re hard at work, then, Jenny.”

“Indeed, yes. Papa, Cassandra, pray listen to this. Tell me what you think …”

She woke on what was to be her last day on earth with the realization that now she had become, in her dreams, at least, a writer. What a pity. It was all such a great pity.

I wish you could have known, Cassandra. Papa, you would be so proud of me.

And I wish I could have bidden you all farewell.