Jane and the Damned

by Janet Mullany

  Yes, apricots. Jane‧s mouth watered. The summer seemed remote, far away across a wasteland of sleet and rain.

  Miss Smith reached for her gloves. “I trust my little repair lasts for the rest of your bacchanal, Miss Austen.”

  The spell was broken. “Oh, yes, indeed. I thank you. I am much obliged, Miss Smith.” Jane snatched up her glasses of punch, her face heating. She bobbed a curtsy, clumsy and off balance; turned; walked as fast as she could across the room, dodging the people who milled about, laughing and talking while the musicians took their break; and arrived at Mrs. Bigg‧s card table only slightly out of breath.

  Chapter 2

  “Why Jane, you are quite flushed,” Mrs. Bigg exclaimed as she accepted the glass of punch. “Most kind, my dear; how very thoughtful you are. I was just telling Mr. Smith what famous dancers you and Catherine are, and how you will not be without a partner the whole evening long.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma‧am, but Catherine is by far the better dancer.” Mr. Smith? Yes, Miss Smith had mentioned a brother.

  “Now, where did he go?” Mrs. Bigg looked around. “Ah, there he is. Mr. Smith, this is Miss Jane Austen, my daughter Catherine‧s best friend.” She beamed at the gentleman as though he were an old acquaintance.

  “Your servant, ma‧am.” The gentleman bowed.

  “Sir.” She dipped a curtsy. Did not Mrs. Bigg see him for what he was? Was she spellbound, by one means or another, by the gentleman‧s extraordinary good looks, the restrained simplicity and elegance of his superb tailoring, or simply because he was what he was? She could not think that Mrs. Bigg was deflecting the gentleman away from Catherine, sensing his innate danger; that was unworthy of this well-meaning if slightly foolish woman.

  “Miss Jane, may I have the pleasure of standing up with you?”

  She could hardly refuse. Mrs. Bigg beamed approval, her good-natured face slightly flushed, as Jane accepted the offer.

  “You have met my sister, I believe,” he said as she took his arm.

  “Yes, Mr. Smith, I have. She saved my gown, and my reputation, from certain ruin.”

  “She remarked upon what lovely women you and the elder Miss Austen are, having encountered you both earlier. I was bold enough to ask for an introduction.”

  Jane smiled. “And what brings you to the wilds of Hampshire, Mr. Smith? You must find it a far cry from the elegance of town.”

  “We have acquaintances in the neighborhood, and you do yourself an injustice. I have rarely met more pleasant society.”

  Who on earth could be one of his kind in Hampshire? Before she began a mental inventory of her neighbors, he added with a slight smile, “I do not believe you know them, ma‧am.”

  The musicians assembled again, instruments at the ready, and at a nod from the fiddle player, who acted as their leader, played the opening chords of the next country dance. Mr. Smith and Jane formed a set with Miss Smith and another of the London party, a Mr. Hughes, who bowed with great affability but showed rather too many teeth in his smile.

  The dance began. “Mr. Smith” and “Mr. Hughes,” indeed. Jane was fairly sure the party traveled under assumed names but could not imagine what their purpose might be, unless it satisfied the ton‧s notorious appetite for novelty and as a solace for boredom.

  “I have the impression, Miss Jane, that you do not approve of us,” Mr. Smith murmured as he took her hand.

  “Indeed? Why would you think that, sir?”

  He smiled, his canines brushing his lower lip before turning her so that she faced Mr. Hughes.

  She was shocked at such a blatant display in public, but realized that the steps of the dance, each dancer gazing into their partner‧s eyes, made the moment as intimate as though they were alone together in a room. Probably no one else had even noticed.

  “You know why, Miss Jane. You suspect we have nefarious designs upon the good people of Hampshire,” he said when they faced each other once again.

  “And do you?”

  His dark, handsome eyes narrowed slightly. “We are what we are, Miss Jane. One could argue that what we do comes as naturally to us as, say, dancing and flirtation do to you.”

  “Alas, my reputation as a flirt precedes me as naturally as your nature does you, sir.”

  “The only difference, Miss Jane, is that flirting is what you do, and my nature, as you refer to it, is the core of my being.”

  She laughed. “You have not talked about me sufficiently with those who know me, sir.”

  He laughed and took her hand to lead her down the set. “Why, Miss Jane, should I talk about you to others when I have you here, your hand in mine? I should be a fool indeed.”

  They separated briefly to cast off around the couple at the bottom of the set.

  “I suspect you are quite a flirt, yourself, Mr. Smith,” she said as they met and took hands once more.

  “It passes the time.”

  She raised her eyebrows (arched, well-shaped—she had received compliments on her fine eyebrows). “Well, you may certainly flirt but you do not flatter.”

  “I meant, Miss Jane, that since I have much time at my disposal, I should spend it in the way I find most pleasant.”

  She flushed. That he should refer openly to his—his condition—was provocative in the extreme. They passed each other in a hey, shoulders brushing, and she caught his scent, a stronger, muskier version of Miss Smith‧s. So Miss Smith had not been wearing an expensive perfume; it was the essence of the woman, and now of her brother (if indeed that was who he was), that had captivated her senses. And Mr. Hughes—as she passed him, he too had a distinctive scent, overlaid with a sandalwood cologne—but his was not nearly as attractive as Mr. Smith‧s.

  Could they smell her as the scent of sun-warmed apricots? Did everyone have their own distinctive scent? She thought of waking with Cassandra every morning, her sister‧s sleepy, familiar smell; she had always thought that would be one of the more pleasant aspects of marriage. Why was it, then, that married women would complain (sometimes with pride) of male demands in and out of the bedchamber, but not share experiences of the more pleasant aspects of matrimony?

  Now face to face with Mr. Smith again, hands joined, they had progressed through the dance so now they formed a set with Cassandra and her partner, a Mr. Beecham who owned land nearby.

  Cassandra frowned and raised her eyebrows, her expression one of alarmed curiosity, and Jane smiled back, thinking with delight that she alone of all the women at the assembly had been chosen by one of the London visitors to dance. She managed to introduce Mr. Smith as they danced, and beheld a most correct series of exchanges between him and her sister concerning the size of the room, the weather, and the beauties of the nearby countryside.

  “What a charming gentleman!” Cassandra whispered in her ear as they passed each other. “With whom does their party stay? Do they dine with us?”

  “I don‧t know. I—” Mr. Smith took her hands and swung her away.

  “Your sister is a very lovely woman,” he commented.

  “Yes, she is generally considered the beauty of our family.”

  “And you, Miss Jane? How does your family consider you?”

  As a failure. “I should not be so immodest as to tell you, sir. You must ask my sister.” She managed a light, flirtatious laugh.

  Surely she had not said aloud the shameful words that first came into her mind? But Mr. Smith‧s eyes gleamed with a sudden quick emotion she could not fathom—sympathy, pity?

  Before he could say anything, she made a polite inquiry as to the state of the roads from London and learned they were exceedingly muddy. The dance continued with no surprising revelations, nothing more than some mild flirtation and conversation of the most conventional sort. She should have been relieved, but admitted to a slight disappointment that her brush with wickedness was so slight. It was unlikely she would meet Mr. Smith, or any more of his kind, in the future.

  The dance ended, and as Mr. Smith bowed, he said, “If
it will not cause scandal, Miss Jane, I should be pleased to stand up with you again.”

  She laughed. “I assure you my reputation will not suffer. If anything, it is you who will be talked about and speculated upon for a good many days, but as you are a visitor to the neighborhood, that would happen anyway.”

  “I am duly warned, ma‧am.” He bowed again. “Then I daresay tongues will wag if I offered to escort you to take some refreshment.”

  “It would give us all the greatest pleasure.”

  He offered his arm and led her into the side room, now busy with couples who intended to fortify themselves for the next dance. Miss Smith and Mr. Hughes were not there, and Jane saw Cassandra and Catherine briefly across the room. She knew they would grill her mercilessly later for details of her encounter and imagined their disappointment that there would be so little to tell.

  As Mr. Smith returned with two glasses of punch, the music struck up again. “I fear I shall ruin your reputation,” he remarked. “It seems you are not destined to dance every dance tonight. Shall we sit and talk awhile, or does your chaperone wish you to join her?”

  “Mrs. Bigg is happy playing cards. I shall not disturb her.”

  He drew out a chair for her at a recently abandoned table—most of the occupants of the room had hastily downed their punch or lemonade and rushed out to dance again—and sat opposite her.

  “Now, Miss Jane, we have satisfied the conventions with talking of the weather, the roads, and the assembly, so we may now talk of more interesting things.”

  “What topic would you suggest, sir?” She took a sip of punch.

  “Yourself.”

  She placed her glass of punch carefully on the table and prepared to say something quite original and witty, a lighthearted, self-deprecating quip. Instead she was struck dumb, a lump forming in her throat.

  She managed to recover herself. “I suggest we choose another subject. I …”

  “Ma‧am, I did not mean to cause you distress.” He leaned forward, concern on his face, and every piece of advice she had heard concerning his kind rushed into her mind. They seek to seduce you … They cannot feel as we do … They are not to be trusted … They despise those they consider beneath them and regard them as their playthings …

  “I suffered a grave disappointment today, sir. I shall not bore you with the details, but I thought to come here and seek solace in dancing and conversation. I find I am unsuccessful and worse, prove bad company.”

  She stood and he rose to his feet too.

  “You, Miss Jane, could never be bad company.”

  “It is most kind of you to say so, sir.”

  “But should you wish to unburden yourself, you might find it easier to do so to a stranger, rather than one whom you will see every day.”

  “Most generous, sir.” She spread her fan. “But why should you wish to be the recipient of my woes?”

  He took the step that brought him to her side of the table. “Because you interest me, Miss Jane. I see in you … something unusual: not what I expected, or dared to hope to find in a young lady in the country.”

  “The last gentleman who flattered me so was not able to make me an offer of marriage because he had no money. You, sir, are likely only to offer me debauchery or ruin.” She snapped her fan shut. “I had best join the others in my party, sir, as had you yours.”

  “Afraid, Jane?”

  She gazed at him, desirable, sinful, damned. “No sir, but neither am I fool to take the challenge.”

  “Then leave me, Miss Jane.” He swept a low bow that had something of mockery about it.

  “Damn you!” She‧d never dared speak those words aloud to anyone, however much she had wished to. “Damn you, Mr. Smith. Very well, I shall bare my soul to you, a creature with no soul. My disappointment in love, although I am recovered from it now, took place last year and created much bitterness in my heart. This year my dear sister‧s betrothed died far from home. And this very day, I received word that a London publisher was pleased to send back my first book, unread.”

  “Your first book? That is to say, a love affair gone awry is not a surprise in such a young and pretty woman. But a book—will you tell me of it?”

  She shrugged. “It is a novel, a story of two sisters who live unfashionably in the country and who have little money but wish to marry well and for love. I flatter myself—or rather I flattered myself when I thought well of my work—that my work resembled that of Mr. Richardson, whom I much admire. But now, I see I must abandon my original plan and start afresh. I am not sure how, however.”

  “Interesting. I should mention, Miss Jane, how handsome you are when you are passionate.”

  “Of course I am,” she murmured. “A lady is always aware of how to present herself to her best advantage.”

  He offered his arm. “Shall we take a turn around the Assembly Room and continue to talk?”

  She glanced around the refreshment room, empty except for a manservant gathering glasses and plates from tables onto a large tray. The man glanced at Mr. Smith and made a slight gesture with one hand: forefinger and little finger extended, the other two tucked beneath—the traditional sign against evil. His tray fully laden, he hefted it and left through a side door, leaving Jane and Mr. Smith alone.

  Music, the thud of dancing feet, and merry laughter drifted into the room.

  “If we return to the other rooms, I shall be obliged to introduce you to everyone I know there, which will prove a grave obstacle to conversation.”

  “Indeed. So you suggest we stay here?”

  “Yes. The dance will last a good twenty minutes more.”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “We shall take a turn around this room, then, and I shall serve as your confessor.”

  She gasped in mock horror. “Worse and worse. Now you confess to papism? I hardly know which is more dreadful.”

  “I suppose, in your view, either way I am condemned to eternal damnation.”

  “It is no laughing matter to me, sir. I pity you.”

  “You pity me?” His lip curled. She caught the gleam of white beyond the ruddiness of his lips.

  “Yes, sir. You have all of the world and all of time, yet your kind fritter away their gifts. Have you not considered the good you could do and the wisdom you could share with us? Yet you are notorious for your debauchery and wickedness, and worse, you spread corruption throughout society with your evil ways.”

  “Spoken like a true daughter of the Reverend Mr. Austen of Steventon,” he responded. “I must admit, I am disappointed in you, Miss Jane. I did not think you should grasp at the straws of conventional morality. Would you turn down immortality if it were offered you?”

  “I would. It is against my faith and I should not wish to injure my family.”

  “But if you were to undo the damage my kind has done; to do good in the world with your gifts? Would not that be worth losing your soul?”

  “Nothing is worth that, sir. Nothing.”

  “You grow passionate again.” He stopped and turned to clasp her hands in his. “You are a brave woman, to argue thus with me. Should you not be afraid to challenge me, so?”

  “I don‧t know, Mr. Smith. Should I be afraid?”

  He said nothing, but a wildness entered her mind, a swirl of sensation that made her gasp in shock. The wooden planks of the floor beneath her feet spoke of wind-tossed branches and the swirl of leaves; the silk against her feet and calves became a thousand patient creatures encasing themselves in cocoons, and a clattering loom spun and blurred.

  “Stop!” She closed her eyes to block the images and sounds, but more came—grapes beneath a hot sun and cool casks in a deep, stone-lined cellar; the punch, and yes, the glasses, blown in a hellish space of heat and smoke, and the gritty pour of sand.

  “A little taste,” Mr. Smith murmured. Cool air caressed her hand and forearm as he peeled away her cotton glove. Somewhere, dark-skinned people, mournful and angry, plucked white buds from bushes b
eneath a burning sun while an overseer on horseback rested his whip on the pommel, a cigar clenched between his teeth. The smoke mingled acrid with the stink of sweat and misery. Looms thrummed, filling the air with snow—no, not snow, fragments of cotton, and small, exhausted children darted beneath the unforgiving, deadly machinery.

  His lips were on her arm now, and then more than his lips, a sting and wetness.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  But the heat and glory of the moment whirled her away from the savagery and sorrow she had seen, into a place where the throb of her blood became a pleasure too great to bear.

  The vampire who called himself Mr. Smith lowered the unconscious woman onto a chair. The room was still empty, and the dance, with its imperfect harmonies and clumsy thudding of feet, continued. They would not find her for a good fifteen minutes, a tiny grain of dust in time.

  He licked the last of the blood from her arm and breathed the wound closed.

  She was pretty, intelligent, and—although certainly able to enjoy life—unhappy. Her distress and vulnerability had called him to her. Now her troubles would soon be over, and she would go to her Christian heaven. Her handsome sister would mourn; so would her friends and family. Her novel—doubtless some earnest, girlish attempt—would remain only as a treasured family memento, to be placed in a box with a lock of her hair and other possessions. She would never fall in love, marry, or have children. With cool detachment, he recognized in himself a spark of regret, something he remembered vaguely from long, long ago.

  But as he replaced the glove on her arm, pulling the tight cotton over her too-pale flesh, he remembered her passion, her courage in lecturing him on how he squandered immortality.

  Miss Jane, the respectable vicar‧s daughter, as one of the Damned. It was unthinkable. She could be little more than the descendant of country gentry with possibly some distant aristocratic relations’ blood in her veins (very little of anyone‧s blood ran in her veins at the moment). How would she fare if granted the gift herself?

  It was almost time for him to depart, to leave this company with his sister and the others. Whatever the temptations a provincial assembly such as this could offer him, he must not forget the great undertaking to which he was entrusted, with the fate of Britain in his hands.