“What is it, sir?” she asked, touching her father’s sleeve.
“Some problem, I believe—this officer is asking for your aunt and uncle. I don’t know what to do, Jane.” He shook his head.
The officer addressed her in rapid French, too fast for her to understand, and he seemed to have some sort of regional accent that made his words even more unintelligible. He thrust a handful of papers at her that carried the pungent scent of printers’ ink. She leafed through them. “They are our identity papers. We must carry them at all times, but he needs to write in our names. I believe he is confused because we do not own or lease this house. And this … this says the officer is to be quartered with us. He is Captain Jean-Auguste Garonne.”
She explained in French that the owners of the house were not in residence. The captain frowned at her and she was struck by his youth—he could not be much older than she—and the exhaustion and the nervous energy that drove him like a man might ride a foundering horse. He must have been awake all night, if not for several nights.
“Some ink and paper, then,” Garonne said. To Jane’s surprise, his English, despite his uncouth, unshaven appearance and his uniform soiled with smoke and blood, was quite good, if hesitant.
His mouth tight, Mr. Austen led the way into the study, where Garonne sat at the desk, carelessly pushing papers aside. Jane spelled out their names.
“Here, ma’amselle. It is spelled correctly, no? You take these. You are safe. Do not forget them.”
“But we have only one paper, in my name, for the whole family,” Mr. Austen said.
“So? You will manage, monsieur.” Garonne yawned. “Later I shall make more. Now I sleep. My men, they sleep too. Your house will have food now I am here.”
He pushed past them and they heard him and the soldiers clumping up the stairs and then the outraged shriek of Betty, who was at work cleaning fireplaces.
Betty came dashing downstairs. “There’s Frenchies in the master and mistress’s bedchamber. They’ll murder us in our beds.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jane said, then addressed her father. “Sir, is it true the city has surrendered?”
“I regret it is so.” Her father adjusted his glasses and looked up from his perusal of the papers. “I see here there is a nine o’clock curfew at night unless accompanied by a French officer and we need a pass to leave the city. I shall see about applying for one directly, for as soon as you are well, my dear, we must return home. When you are ready we must venture out to the Pump Room. I hope only that we may be allowed there.”
With the identification papers tucked firmly into Mr. Austen’s pocket, he and Jane set out for the Pump Room. At first Mrs. Austen complained loud and long that she and Cassandra were to be left alone in a house full of Frenchmen, but an exploration upstairs showed all three of the soldiers asleep, still in their uniforms. Garonne had got as far as removing one boot, revealing a dirty stocking with a large hole in the heel, before falling asleep on the bed. The other two lay sprawled on the floor, and Jane was reminded with a shudder of the corpse of the French soldier the night before.
Outside, the chilly air held the scent of gunpowder and masonry and, to Jane at least, blood. The city was in disarray and chaos. She and her father walked in silence past an old woman picking over a barrow of goods and mumbling to herself, past corpses of horses and of men in what had previously been elegant and well-kept streets, although soldiers were engaged in clearing these away. A shopkeeper wept over his looted goods and nailed pieces of wood over his shutters as further protection. A woman, bright-eyed, went from one person to another, asking after her little Bill, only ten, and she was sure he would come home soon, but if you see him, sir, ma’am, he is small for his age with fair hair and the prettiest blue eyes—pray tell him to come home.
Many walls and windows bore the distinct marks of bullets and cannon shot, leaving shards of stone underfoot.
And everywhere the French, so many of them. Jane thought it might have been better if they had been hotheaded, swaggering conquerors; but they patrolled the streets, wary and thorough and coolly threatening. At every turn, it seemed, a soldier demanded to see the Austens’ papers, which were scrutinized at length, and they were questioned each time about their destination.
“Ha. Your mayor is to speak,” a soldier stationed at one of the checkpoints said. “Outside the big church with the angels.” He grinned. “We will keep horses in the church, maybe. You will see, citoyen, citoyenne.”
The deranged woman seeking her little Billy approached the soldier, who told her with a rough kindness to go home and wait. “It is war,” he said to Jane with a shrug. “And she is mad.” He handed the papers back to them. “You go.”
Sure enough, in the Abbey courtyard a crowd gathered, silent and shocked. Only yesterday a crowd had heard the Abbey bell toll its warning of the unthinkable—the first invasion of England in nearly eight centuries. Now many of the people looked stunned, beyond tears or rage.
A rough stage had been erected outside the west door of the Abbey, and the crowd showed a little animation as three men—Colonel Poulett, a French officer, and a stout gentleman (who must have been the mayor) wearing an old-fashioned fullbottomed wig—made their way up the steps.
The French officer stepped forward. “I am General Philippe Renard. This town is under the rule of the Republic of France.”
A few soldiers called out “Vive la France. Vive la république d’Ingleterre.”
The crowd remained silent and sullen.
Renard gestured to the mayor, who stepped forward. “Good people, I am to tell you that the French are our friends, bearing liberty, equality, and brotherhood. Colonel Poulett of the Somerset Fencible Cavalry and I have negotiated terms of surrender that will avoid further bloodshed in our city. There is a nine o’clock curfew. No man may carry a weapon. None shall be allowed to leave the city unless they carry the proper papers. We shall be allowed to worship in the Abbey and the Octagon Chapel. Life in our city shall continue much as usual, and we are asked to show hospitality toward our French guests.”
“What about bread?” someone called from the crowd. “How do we feed these extra mouths?”
“Shame on you, that you give the churches of the poor to the French!”
Jane couldn’t help agreeing with the last speaker, who had drawn the obvious, and probably correct, conclusion, that only the fashionable places of worship were to be preserved. Remembering the conversation last night, she concluded that other churches might well be used to stable horses or store supplies.
“Supplies to the city will resume once the countryside is pacified and brought under French rule,” the mayor replied to the first speaker. “Commerce will take place as usual.”
Jane couldn’t tell whether the mayor’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the city’s defeat derived from shock or reflected the desperate hope of preventing further loss of life. Poulett stepped forward, drew his sword, and presented it to Renard, who smiled and extended his hand. His smile faded as Poulett made no effort to offer his own hand.
“Vive la France,” Renard called out, although again it was only a few French soldiers who responded.
The three men trooped down from the stand, and a few angry mutters were exchanged in the crowd. The French soldiers straightened, muskets at the ready, and the crowd dispersed, heads hanging.
“So, like that, it is all over,” Mr. Austen said. “If I were a younger man … but what does age have to do with honor?”
Jane gripped his hand, glad they were both gloved and she could not feel the full impact of his pain and shock. “Let us go into the Pump Room, sir.”
They made their way through the crowd and showed their identification to a soldier outside the Pump Room, who regarded Jane with much interest but finally allowed them inside.
“I shall fetch you a glass of water,” her father said.
“No, sir, do not.”
“What is this, Jane? I have heard the cure may be painfu
l—I was pleasantly surprised that you had so little ill effect yesterday—but you must bear it, my dear.”
“So I shall, when the time is right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that the Damned of the city intend to fight the French, and I shall be one of them.”
“What!” Mr. Austen looked around, but there were no French nearby, only a few invalids. “No, Jane, you cannot. I forbid it.”
“If I were your son, what would you say?”
“Well, I … but you are not! It is unseemly. And Edward or any of the others would not risk their soul in the process.”
She smiled at him and slipped her hand into his arm, leading him on a slow circuit of the room. “I am in less danger than you think, although I cannot speak for my soul. But as a vampire I am more or less than a woman. I am very strong and I will be stronger. Also, I did not take the waters yesterday. I met another of the Damned, who allowed me to feed from him, an act of supreme kindness, for in their eyes I am an orphaned and shameful creature. I regret I had to deceive you.”
Mr. Austen shook his head. “What! Surely you do not talk of that Mr. Venning?”
“Yes, sir. He offered to be my Bearleader—that is, a patron of sorts. I do not understand it fully myself.”
He stopped and gazed at her. “What else do you hide from me, Jane?”
She tightened her lips and shook her head. “It is of necessity that I must confide in you, sir, for the respect I bear you. I believe I can learn to hide my condition from my mother and Cassandra, and I shall do so to protect them. But you, sir, do not need my protection.”
They stood in silence for a moment while her father removed his spectacles and polished them on his handkerchief.
“Promise me, Jane, that if—or rather, when—your business is concluded you will take the cure. I fear the lure of the company of the Damned may prove stronger than the ties that bind you to your family and your God.”
“I promise.”
He nodded and they resumed their walk. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, sir.” A voice came from behind them.
Jane turned to see the fragile, sick woman in the wheelchair who Luke had pointed out to her the day before. She looked even more ill today.
“I regret we have not been introduced,” the woman said. She waved away the maid who pushed her chair. “I could not help hearing the name of Luke Venning in your conversation—I assure you I did not mean to overhear, for it was obvious that your talk was of a private nature. I am Mrs. Margaret Cole.”
Jane’s father introduced himself and Jane. “I cannot help noticing, ma’am, that you look most unwell. May I fetch you some water?”
“No thank you, sir. I know you mean well, but it poisons me, as it will poison your daughter if she takes the cure. I beg of you, tell me, how is Mr. Venning?”
“He is well,” Jane said. “If we are to speak frankly, I should tell you that I know of your former association with the gentleman.”
She straightened a little in her wheelchair. “And I heard of your decision, Miss Austen, to fight against the French. I am full of admiration for you. I may speak freely since my husband is not here. You noticed the difference in our age, yesterday? Almost twenty years have passed since our wedding day and he has aged and I have not. I truly thought I wanted children and the life of an ordinary woman, but these are by no means ordinary times. You have helped me decide what I must do. Will you take me to Luke?”
“Gladly, but …” Jane could not think of a polite way to say she thought Margaret looked on the brink of death.
“The others in the house will revive me and bring me to my strength. As for Luke, I have injured him, and I no longer know his mind.”
“I do not know if I am the right person to take you to the house,” Jane said. “I have refused Luke as my Bearleader.”
Margaret frowned. “That was unfortunate. You do not realize how great a privilege it would be to have Luke as Bearleader. I have never known him offer to do so. But I would see him and the others, for the last time, if that is what it will be. For I shall not survive the cure, I am convinced of it. I have been one of the Damned for too long. Will you call my maid, Miss Austen? I shall need my shawl. And may I presume further on your kindness, for I must ask you to help wheel my chair to their lodgings.”
“I shall accompany you,” Mr. Austen said. “I cannot condone an adulterous relationship, but neither would I see you suffer, ma’am. Besides, as a matter of practicality, I imagine Mr. Cole has your identity papers. And,” with a glint of his usual humor, “whatever you two ladies may indeed be, you look like ladies and it is only proper that a gentleman should accompany you.”
“Thank you, sir. Mr. Cole has gone to look at the houses destroyed last night by cannon fire on the Bristol Road—I regret many regard this as entertainment—and he will be some little time. I thank you for your kindness.”
In silence they left the Pump Room and set off through the streets of the scarred and battered city.
“Let us look upon this favorably,” Jane said in an effort to cheer her father. “If food becomes scarce, as I think is all too likely, you will not have to worry about providing for me.”
“Oh, dear. I suppose you are right. That is, you will, ah …” Her father suddenly started talking loudly of the weather and concentrated very hard on steering Margaret’s chair around a heap of rubble. The scent of blood was strong here, causing Jane’s canines to ache, yet the mortal side of her was repulsed and dreaded seeing a corpse among the fallen masonry.
When they arrived at the house on Queens Square, her father made no move to embrace her as he might once have done.
“I shall return home when I can, Papa,” Jane said. “I will send word. If you tell my mother and sister I visit friends, I think that should suffice.”
“Very well. I shall pray for you.”
Jane watched her father walk away as she tugged on the bellpull. He did not look back.
“They may not yet be awake,” Margaret murmured, to Jane’s relief. She had not said a word on the way over and Jane feared she was unconscious, or worse. “Try again.”
Jane did so and after a while heard a scuffling as though someone approached while trying to force their feet into their shoes.
The door swung open to reveal a footman, bleary-eyed, his wig on crooked, coat half buttoned. “They’re not at home,” he announced, closing the door.
Jane grasped the door and held it open. Even as hungry as she was, she was stronger than the man, who stepped back, apologizing. “Pray announce that Mrs. Cole and Miss Austen are here.”
“I don’t like to wake them, ma’am.”
“Well I am certainly not going to! Go!”
“Help me,” Margaret whispered. She pushed herself up from her chair, swaying, and clutched at Jane’s arm. Tears ran down her face. “I don’t want him to see me like this. Once I was beautiful.”
Jane half carried her into the house. “He knows what you look like.”
“I can’t. You must revive me.”
Jane pushed open the door to the dining room and settled Margaret onto a chair. “What may I do?”
“Fetch me a glass of wine, if you please.”
Jane found Madeira and glasses on the sideboard and poured them both a glass.
“Now,” Margaret said, “add a drop of your blood to my glass.”
“Is my blood strong enough? I’m hardly much of a vampire.”
“Not strong enough to kill me,” Margaret whispered. “Hurry.”
Jane bit her finger and watched the drop dissipate like smoke in the wine. “Last night I cured our housemaid’s toothache with a drop of my blood.”
“Ah. Luke has taught you well.”
“He didn’t. I—” She paused as, with a sudden burst of energy, Margaret snatched the glass from her and swallowed it in one gulp, then lay back shuddering.
“Fetch me another. Two drops. No, four.”
“Two,” came a v
oice from the doorway. “You seek to destroy yourself one way or the other, Margaret.”
“No, I seek to become foxed,” Margaret said. “Good morning to you, Luke.”
Luke came into the room, yawning and rubbing his head, his hair rumpled. He wore a shirt open at the neck and breeches, his legs and feet bare as though he had risen hastily from his bed. “You’re up devilish early.”
Jane handed Margaret her second glass of wine.
“Your blood isn’t too bad,” Margaret said. “A little too much garlic, though.”
Luke dropped into a chair and called out to the footman. “Fetch Miss Austen some parsley, if you please, and bring us some tea.”
“Could I not bite someone who had eaten parsley?” Jane asked, attempting to lighten the situation.
They both frowned at her.
“Don’t be vulgar,” Luke said. He turned to Margaret. “So Mr. Cole proved incapable of providing you with babies?”
Margaret wrinkled her nose at him. “I have scarcely been able to sit up, let alone resume my marital duties.”
They sat in silence as Margaret sipped her wine, eyes closed, as though that moment of animation had cost her dearly.
Luke yawned but Jane noticed his gaze never left Margaret. Once he reached out to steady the glass, touching the back of her hand with his fingertips. She stirred and opened her eyes and Jane thought she smiled a little at him. Luke looked away as though unsettled by the brief exchange.
The footman entered with a limp bunch of parsley on a plate and tea things on a tray. “Yesterday’s parsley, sir, and yesterday’s milk, too, but I think it’s still good. The housekeeper is out looking for supplies.”
Luke directed Jane to a tea caddy on the sideboard and she made tea; after which, seeing that Luke was quite serious about the consumption of parsley, she took a handful of the sorrylooking herb.
“Do we eat in the normal course of things?” Jane asked.
“Of course. We do not need to, but it is—or should be—a pleasurable pursuit. You may have noticed how things taste and how you can sense their origin. But if you need sustenance, food or drink will be of little use.” Margaret sat up a little straighter on her chair. She was still pale, but her skin had lost its translucent fragility and Jane could see now the traces of the extraordinary beauty that the Damned possessed.
Jane and the Damned Page 9
