Jane and the Damned (35 page)

Mrs. Austen ran to Cassandra and cradled her in her arms.

Her father blinked at her. “We—we have been at the hospital. With the wounded. Your mother … I …” He held up a copy of the New Testament and looked helplessly at Jane‧s mother and sister, both of them on the floor, weeping.

“I‧ve rarely seen a messier kill.” Luke stood in the doorway.

Cassandra looked up. She screamed. “He—he‧s dead!” She swooned again.

It was Luke who took charge, escorting them downstairs into the dining room, where he poured large glasses of brandy. There would be no dinner for hours, if at all, for the servants had only recently returned from celebrating the victory, somewhat worse for wear for drink; and the family had little appetite. Garonne, it appeared, had hidden in the house and revealed himself only an hour previously, when the house was empty except for Cassandra and Betty, and when he knew that the Austens would return soon for their dinner, at four o‧clock.

“And that very kind Mr. Fitzwilliam—I believe you are acquainted with him, Jane, for he is a friend of Miss Venning‧s—
had found us lodgings for the past couple of days for he feared the French might arrest us. We thought it was safe to return,” Mr. Austen said. “Cassandra had the headache and stayed here today while we went to the hospital. But Mr. Venning, I thought you had been hanged. And why are you here?”

I knew you were in danger, Jane.
“A case of mistaken identity,” Luke said. “Some more brandy, sir?”

“I regret I have deceived you all,” Jane said. She had intended to add that she must say farewell, but the words would not come.

“Not all of us, my dear,” her father said.

Mrs. Austen shrugged. “Who gives a damn? Both my girls are safe. I beg your pardon, I have just spent the better part of the day with cursing soldiers and I fear I picked up their foul language. Cassandra, come upstairs with me, if you please.” Murmuring comforting words about hot water—if the fire was not out—and soap (if there was any left) she led Cassandra out.

Jane watched her leave, heart heavy. She could not bear that Cassandra would remember her like this, covered with blood, an unnatural creature. Tears rose to her eyes as she relived that terrible moment, Cassandra cowering from her in terror and shock among the pages of her ruined, bloody manuscript.

“I am most obliged to you for returning my daughter, sir,” Mr. Austen said.

“I assure you, sir, you have nothing to thank me for,” Luke said. “If I may, I would speak to Jane alone.”

“Very well.” Mr. Austen bowed and left the room.

“It is always a mistake, to come back,” Luke said. He swirled the brandy in his glass. “I am sorry you felt compelled to do so, even though you have saved your sister. Do you not see how they fear you?”

“They do. But they love me too.”

“No.” He shook his head. “They love the Jane who is dead to
them now, their daughter and sister. That is the Jane they will remember, not the monstrous creature who has ripped out a man‧s throat in front of them. That, they will want to forget, if they can.” He stood and held out his hand. “Let us return home.”

“No.” She had not meant to say it as bluntly, if indeed she had meant to say it at all. “No, I cannot.”

“Ah.” He sat at the table again, shaking his head, a great wash of sadness enveloping them both. “Margaret warned me of this, William also. I trusted you, Jane.”

She made no reply.

“It is not enough to tell you that I love you passionately, more than I have ever loved before, and that I can give you an eternity of happiness? I suppose not. And I suppose it is no good to remind you that my love is returned, for you love me, Jane. I dare you to say you do not.”

She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she would never love anyone as much, but the words would not come.

“Tell me.” He seized her hands. “I know you better than I know myself, or so I thought. I will give you everything, anything your heart desires. But if you will not stay with me, I must know why.”

“Because I must write again and I must be with my sister and my family. There—it is the truth I have denied myself as one of the Damned. You may give me all the pleasures of the world, sir, you may be all things as my lover, but you cannot restore what I shall lose. I have struggled in vain to deny my heart‧s desire; I can do so no longer.”

“Your writing. And your sister. And you do not even know whether this—this
experiment
among the Damned will leave you with your talent for writing as it was.”

She flinched at the contempt in his voice but held his hands still, for she could not bear this last touch to end, even though his
pain and humiliation burned through her. “On the contrary, sir, it leaves me stronger. You told me once I listened and observed, and while I could not write I remembered and I learned. I will write again, sir.”

He released her hands and stood. “Consider, Jane. You‧ll marry some bore of a country gentleman who‧ll kill you in childbed and who won‧t want a bookish wife anyway. Perhaps you‧ll stay a spinster and lose your bloom and die young of some disease they‧ll find an easy cure for in a hundred years or so. Or you‧ll see your sister die first.”

“Now you‧re cruel.”

“No, it is the truth. But let us paint a happier picture for Miss Jane Austen. You write a few books that entertain your family and you win a little fame, perhaps even some money, while you live. And after, what then? Your books languish forgotten on dusty bookshelves and you are but a name on a binding that disappears with decay and time. You think your books offer you a chance at immortality? Oh, Jane, do not delude yourself. Come back to me. To us.”

“No. No, I cannot.”

“You break my heart. And it‧s an old heart, and a tough one. That is your final answer?”

“Yes.”

“I will regret it forever. I hope you shall not.”

She stood and blundered from the room as though all the strength and grace of the Damned had deserted her. Her father stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for her, so she thought, but he gave her a sorrowful look and continued up the next flight of stairs to the bedchambers.

She went back into the drawing room, still splattered with blood, although a sheet had been thrown over Garonne‧s corpse. From the window, she watched Luke walk away and wept. Her
Bearleader, her love: a slender man whose step was usually jaunty and graceful. But now she saw one who faced an eternity of sorrow, for despite years, centuries, in which he had played at love, she was the one who had broken his heart.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and bent to pick up a page of her book. And another, where the ink had run with blood. Jane waved it dry and reached for another, speckled with blood. And another; so many pages to collect and sort and cleanse.

It was a beginning.

The vampire stood at the doorway of the Pump Room. He did not want to go further inside, for the vapors of the poison water made him uneasy, but he had to see her for the last time before she took the cure. It was crowded today, with wounded officers and townspeople thick at the counter where glasses of steaming mineral water were dispensed. He searched the crowd for her; he knew she was here but he could not yet see her for the throng of people.

He stepped back and bowed as a woman, a pug running at her heels, entered the Pump Room. The pug showed its teeth and growled, but its owner glanced at him with a flirtatious smile; not recognizing him for what he was, but seeing a man who excited her desire. Later, she might blush at her brazen invitation.

He was not interested. There was only one woman he wished to see here, and he had failed her.

And there she was, taller than most of the women in the room, and to him, the most beautiful; bright hazel eyes, cheekbones too sharp for fashion, glossy chestnut hair, pale skin which some might envy and others might consider a sign of ill health. Others were interested in her too, young bucks ogling her through quizzing glasses, people wondering who she was because there was something different and exotic about her, even though her dress
was modest and her companions seemed to be middling sort of people. The aunt and uncle, returned from their enforced country visit; her parents, tired and anxious; and her sister hovered protectively around her.

Her father handed her a glass of water. She made a face, wrinkling her nose for comic effect, and her companions laughed, but with some anxiety, he could tell.

She walked, no, she strode—for the moment, she still had that grace and wondrous flow of movement their kind possessed—into a patch of sunlight that streamed through one of the tall glass doors and inspected her glass, as one might contemplate a fine wine, as the steam rose into the air.

She looked straight at him, smiling faintly, and raised the glass in a gallant, ironic toast.

THE RULES OF GENTILITY

A NOVEL

ISBN: 978-0-06-122983-1 (PAPERBACK)

S
o begins a most unusual and engaging novel about Miss Wellesley-Clegg, a young woman living in Regency London who struggles to find the perfect man—and the perfect bonnet.

JANE AND THE DAMNED

A NOVEL

ISBN: 978-0-06-195830-4 (PAPERBACK)

W
hen aspiring novelist Jane Austen becomes one of the Damned—the beautiful, sexy vampires of Georgian England—she regards her transformation to be a gift; she rejects the only cure available and discovers a world of freedom, love, and adventure as a vampire.

But as an immortal, Jane will have to decide whether eternal life is too high a price to pay for the loss of what means most to her as a mortal.

Thanks to my brother Martin for helping me come up with the original idea (and for the suggested titles of
Austen Powers
and
Blood Bath);
to May Chen for suggesting I try a paranormal starring Jane Austen, and for her firm, smart editorial hand; and to Lucienne Diver for her firm, smart agently hand.

T
HE
R
ULES OF
G
ENTILITY