Jane and the Damned (6 page)

Not all of them. One crouched nearby, immobile, too panicked to run.

The little creature trembled, whiskers and ears quivering, eyes bright with fear.

“All is well,” she murmured. “All will be well.”

She stared into the dark eyes. The rabbit shuddered, eyes glazing over, and its rigid posture softened.

She could take it. Her teeth ached and extended, ready for the quick, efficient kill. The rabbit‧s pulse slowed as she crooned to it, lulling it into calm. She would be kind. Death would be fast and merciful. And its blood—oh, so warm and sweet—tasting of clover and grass and the sunshine of the creature‧s only summer …

No! She stood shuddering with disgust as the rabbit sprang to life, thumped its hind feet, and shot away into the hedgerow. A scuffle and rustle of vegetation, and the rabbit‧s escape was complete, the monster thwarted.

“I am a monster,” she said aloud.

The next day, as the hours progressed in the carriage on the road to Bath, she yearned for what she could not have, neither blood nor the ready affection and quick, loving embraces of her sister and mother. Her mother, tired and with the lines on her face all too evident, wept quietly as they traveled, despite her father‧s attempts to cheer her.

And her family watched her—that was the hardest part to bear, those quick, sidelong glances when they thought she looked away (of course she knew)—as though they feared their beloved Jane might turn on them. She feared it too.

When they stopped to change horses and take refreshment, the world was loud and overwhelming. There were so many scents and loud noises. The worst was the contact with other travelers, the inadvertent brush of a stranger‧s elbow filling her with a jumble of thoughts and concerns. One time, a gentleman, elegantly dressed, pale—too pale—touched his hat and bowed with an ironic smile, saluting one of his own kind.

A chambermaid, brushing against her, murmured, “Oh, drink from me, miss, you‧ll like the taste of me. A shilling, miss, and you can do anything you wish. My neck or thigh, miss, whatever you fancy.”

She was shocked, and tempted, and she longed for the young woman‧s surrender to her fangs (blatantly extended, her body quivering with expectation), before Cassandra drew her away, blushing, talking loudly of tea and bread and butter and the chance to have a moment of quiet away from the bumpy carriage. Poor Cassandra, trying to pretend they were going to Bath for pleasure, a visit to her aunt and uncle to enjoy the city and its entertainments; talking with great good cheer of the fashions they would encounter and new trims for gowns and bonnets that must be bought.

She did her best to add to Cassandra‧s chatter, for to think she would not be cured was unspeakable. One day, quite soon, she would write again, and laugh, and enjoy silly chatter about fashion and balls and partners, and this dreadful episode would be quite forgotten.

The day lengthened. The carriage, with its fresh horses every few miles (the expense was not to be thought of) rattled on down the Bath Road, and her father counted off the miles to their destination as they passed each milepost.

And then the carriage began the long descent into the city, Cassandra exclaiming over a house where a party was to be held.
Elegantly dressed guests spilled onto the pavement, their carriages stopped at all sorts of odd angles in the road, with liveried servants bearing flambeaux.

The Austen family arrived at the Leighs’ elegant house at Number One Paragon Place, tired, travel worn, and with one of the passengers ready to hunt for blood but too weak to do so.

“Jane, my dear. Open your eyes.”

She did so with great reluctance and found herself lying on a sofa in a well-lit room. Her father knelt at her side, a glass of brandy in one hand.

“I‧m dying,” she said and turned her head from the brandy he offered her. What was the point of delaying death? She was not afraid. Soon the hunger and fear would be over; she might be damned but she had harmed no one, not even a rabbit. The gates of heaven might not be closed against her.

“You cannot die now,” her father said.

“I appreciate, sir, that you have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense so I may die in Bath. I‧d rather have died at home and saved you the money. We are at Bath, are we not?”

“Yes, yes. We arrived but two hours ago.” Her father gripped her hand.
Not my Jenny, not the delight of my eyes. Lord God, let me keep her awhile.

“Pray let me go, sir. It is too much.”

It wasn‧t what she meant, but he released her hand and his desperation and sorrow retreated from her mind. “I fear you will not survive until Monday. I am willing to do anything to keep you alive, Jane. I shall not see you drift into ash for lack of sustenance. Not my little Jenny. You are my blood, my flesh, my daughter.”

“What do you suggest, sir?”

He did not answer but brought a small penknife from his
pocket, then stood, and unbuttoned his coat. She watched, with growing fear (and anticipation, she could not deny that) as he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it over a chair. With great deliberation, he unbuttoned one cuff and rolled the linen back.

“No!” she said. “What would the bishop say?”

“The bishop is the least of my worries. I fear your mother more. Have you considered my offer, miss?” His voice was playful as though she were a child and he offered her some delicious treat.

She turned her face aside. “When I was at Manydown I almost bit Harris.”

“Poor lad. You must have scared him half to death.”

“At first, but I … I lulled him. I do not know what would have happened, whether I could stop.” She turned to see him hold the penknife over his arm, frowning.

“He‧d make a good match for you in a few years; a very good match,” her father said. “His health should be improved by then too. Now, where do you think I should cut?”

“I don‧t know,” she snapped back at him. “I haven‧t been a vampire long enough to know! I‧ve not drunk from anyone yet. And what if I can‧t stop?”

“Good heavens, I was not suggesting you drink from me. This glass of brandy should answer, I think, fortified by my blood. I read a treatise on the subject when I was young. Let us consider this a scientific experiment.”

“Papa!”

He shrugged. “Possibly I could write a treatise upon it myself, and then we‧d have two authors in the family, eh?”

“I shall only do it this once. Never again.”

The knife moved, nicked, and blood welled on her father‧s wrist and dripped into the brandy.

He held the glass to her lips and she sipped, the brandy made
stronger and more potent by the few drops of blood. If she tasted of apricots, her father had a particular scent: apples and leather, safety and comfort.

“All is well, child.” He stroked her head. “All is well. I see you rally. I think that‧s enough, eh? We don‧t want you drunk, just strong enough to continue.”

She lifted her head. “I can never thank you enough, sir.”

“Ah, nonsense. You may be one of the Damned, but you‧re still my daughter.” He blew his nose and gave her a brave smile. “Not a word to your mother.”

Later that night she lay sleepless, listening to the sounds of the city—the deep tolling of church bells, the rumble of carts, the cry of the nightwatchman. So she would live a little longer, thanks to her father‧s blood, but meanwhile the current of others like herself tugged and wakened her. The night was her element now, the time she felt most awake and alive. Others like herself walked these streets, and the urge to seek out her own and learn from them nagged at her. How long would it be before she preferred their company to that of her family? Tomorrow night, the night before she took the cure, would the urge to find other vampires and the craving for blood be stronger than it was now? Or would she be so weak that she would lapse into a half swoon, as she had by the time they arrived in Bath? She could still barely remember the arrival, although she had a vague memory of the shock on her aunt and uncle‧s faces.

The room was dark but she could see quite clearly, walk with assurance over to the window and push back the curtains. Outside, a group of late revelers weaved its way down the street, and a pair of footmen carried a sedan chair. A cat strolled across the cobblestones and faded into the shadows. She might yet live.

***

“Come, Jane.” Her mother helped her into the sedan chair, her bare fingers touching Jane‧s wrist above her glove.
Always our daughters; they are all he cares for, and he is not concerned about my well-being, however ill I may feel. How dare she put herself forward so, reaching above her station …

Did her mother not know Jane knew everything that ran through her mind—the resentment and anger? If she hadn‧t felt so ill and tired, Jane might have warned her. As it was, she experienced only a very mild distress that her mother‧s cheerfulness and deference to Mr. Austen was nothing more than a façade. The sedan chair rose and wobbled and jolted its way along the streets to the Pump Room. The street was crowded, a mass of voices and scents—anonymous people who meant nothing to her. Her mother and Cassandra followed in another chair, with her father walking alongside.

She could hear their conversation with her newly sharpened senses.

“I have a recommendation for a Dr. Phelps,” her father said. “He replied to my note and said he is able to call this afternoon, but with this unfortunate timing it was of vital importance that Jane start the waters immediately.”

“The shame, that such a man will call at the house!” Her mother‧s voice was querulous. “It is bad enough that my sister and Mr. Leigh know of Jane‧s disgrace, but I daresay all the neighbors will talk of it, and the servants too.”

“I believe we may count on the family‧s good sense not to gossip,” her father replied. “And there is no point in frightening the servants by sharing the bad news with them.”

“Oh, poor Jane.” Cassandra sounded tearful. “I cannot think of her that way.”

“You must be careful,” Mrs. Austen said. “Everyone knows they have the power to sap the will of an unsuspecting girl—is not Jane herself an example of that?”

“She is my beloved sister!”

“We must pray for strength for her and for us,” Mr. Austen said after a pause. “And yes, she is still our daughter and sister, even if she has sinned.”

“I did not sin,” Jane muttered to herself. She had flirted with a gentleman at a provincial assembly, something she had done before and would likely do again; in fact, if she had the opportunity at this moment she would flirt and enchant any available gentleman and sink her teeth … But she could not think in those terms, however hungry she might be. She concentrated on the breath and smell of the two footmen carrying the sedan chair, strong men whose blood would doubtless be invigorating and cheering.

How she longed for an etiquette book for the Damned. Surely there were guidelines on whom it was permissible to drink from, rather as the Church of England dictated that cousins could marry but niece and uncle could not. Would a servant expect a vail for allowing you to open a vein, and for how much? More than for calling a carriage, certainly, or handing around a tray of wineglasses. Was it indeed proper to expect a servant to perform such an intimate act?

For it was an act of great intimacy, and surely it must be a sin to think of such a thing. She peered out of the chair at the brief glimpses of passersby and cream stone buildings stained with soot and tried not to think of her hunger and the anonymous bodies of blood that passed nearby. If only she were stronger … But she could only become stronger by drinking …

A slowing pace, the glimpses of fashionable clothing, and the deep toll of the Abbey bell indicated that they were close to their destination. A slight tremor and the sedan chair came to a stop
on solid ground. Jane drew the curtains back and took her father‧s offered hand.

“So we are to be fashionable, sir,” she said—more of an effort to put Mr. Austen at ease than anything else. He gazed at her with a mixture of affection and guilt, and, yes, fear; and if their hands had been bare she would have felt his emotions. “I shall not be your partner at whist anymore,” she added.

“What do you mean, Jane?”

“Your face reveals your feelings too clearly, sir. You have nothing to fear from me.”

He tucked his hand into her arm and held out his other hand to Mrs. Austen, who ignored him, concerning herself with the set of Cassandra‧s bonnet and in guiding her eldest daughter around a puddle.

Jane caught a slight scent of something sulphurous and bitter—it must be the water—before she and her family were caught up with the swell of fashionable people who paraded into the Pump Room. The Austen family received a few glances that faded from mild interest to indifference.

“I feel quite a dowd,” Cassandra remarked to Jane.

“It‧s quite remarkable that you feel well dressed when you leave the house, yet a mere fifteen minutes later are hopelessly aware of your failings in your gown and bonnet,” Jane replied. She was rewarded with a brave smile from her sister.

The scent of the water became stronger as they made their way across the room.

“Sit, my dear. I‧ll fetch you a glass,” Mr. Austen said.

Jane sank into the chair he offered. A few feet away, Mrs. Austen and Cassandra stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple they knew slightly from a previous visit to Bath. Jane could not remember their names and did not want to waste precious energy on trivial conversation.

“I beg of you, ma‧am, do not do it.”

She turned in astonishment to see who had addressed her in a frantic whisper. A man of about thirty—or at least giving that appearance—slender and of medium height, with a fine-boned, handsome face. Dark eyes gazed at her beneath a head of tousled brown hair that sparked gold in the weak winter sunlight.

“I do not believe we have been introduced, sir.” But there was no need for an introduction; she recognized him for what he was, and allowed herself for the briefest of moments to meet his gaze. For the first time since she had become one of the Damned she felt a connection, a knowledge that she was talking with someone who understood her. She could have wept with relief.