Jane and the Damned

by Janet Mullany

  “Not until after dawn,” he said. “Did you not partake during the fighting?”

  She shook her head. “As much as I could, but there was not much time.” She couldn‧t understand this hunger. Normally she would have found herself eyeing the nearby mortals, scenting their blood, discovering the rhythm of their heartbeats. But this was different. She was vaguely aware of the presence of those from whom she might feed, but it was Luke who occupied her senses and whose every gesture and movement roused a response in her own blood and bone.

  Luke gazed at her, shaking his head, with a faint smile on his face.

  “And what does that supercilious smile portend?” She wanted to fight him, caress him, savage him and soothe him all at once. She wanted his blood, his breath, his strength to subdue her own. Her fangs extended.

  “I shall have to ask William‧s permission.”

  “Why? Ask William what?” She caught his hand, bewildered, as they walked away from the wagon, but the contact was too great, sending her into a spin of desire. She snatched her hand back before he could sense it, although his continued quiet amusement suggested he was very much aware of her mood.

  “It‧s rather awkward, you see. I‧ve become your Bearleader, but if I am to be your lover I must request permission from the one who created you, and that‧s William. Normally Creator and Bearleader would be one and the same and it would be a great breach of propriety.”

  “How about asking me? And what about Margaret?” Jane cried, and stamped away from him, furious and disappointed.

  Her fangs ached and for the first time in days she had trouble subduing them. She kicked viciously at a turnip that lay in her path. It sailed in a graceful arc across the church and smashed on the floor.

  “You and I must talk,” said a calm voice from behind her. She turned to see Margaret with a large sharp knife in her hand.

  Jane found herself assuming a fighting stance, light on the balls of her feet, knees slightly bent. She reached for her knife but it was gone—now she remembered removing it as she lay in the cart with Luke.

  “I am not a fool,” Margaret said. “You brought him back from the dead where I failed. Others in the household talk, but what I hear is impossible. All say that you are to be Luke‧s Consort.”

  “If that is true,” Jane said, “you should be the last person to whom I would confess it.”

  “He was my Consort for near twenty years. I am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”

  “But you are not entitled to know mine.”

  Margaret‧s fangs extended. “Obstinate, headstrong girl! He is descended from kings, as am I. He will never become connected with such a one as you. Tell me, Jane, is he your lover yet?”

  Jane, herself en sanglant, braced herself for Margaret‧s attack. “You have declared it to be impossible. I would not dare contradict you.”

  Margaret leaped with the strength of a seasoned vampire, forcing Jane against the wall of the church, the knife against her throat. “Tell me, damn you, are you his Consort?”

  “Oh, don‧t be such fools.” Clarissa strolled up to them and lifted Margaret‧s blade aside with one finger. “No gentleman is worth such passion. Come with me and help me cut up some meat. I rather think you both need to clear your heads.”

  Jane followed Clarissa, reminded briefly of fighting with Cassandra over a doll when she was quite little, and her amazement at how angry they both became; of later, when they were halfway to becoming women, great passionate arguments over books or ribbons that left them weeping or in helpless giggles. As then, the world had become an unpredictable place of seesawing emotions and urges.

  Obediently she joined some of the other vampires and a nervous, flustered townsman who was a butcher, and who winced as they hacked sides of meat into manageable lumps. The man looked wretched, torn between fear and fascination, afraid to interfere with the efforts of creatures of superior strength. Jane smiled at him in an attempt to set him at ease. “Where should I cut, sir?”

  He crossed himself and backed away, his blush flooding his face and matching his nose, red with cold. “Wherever you wish, ma‧am. It is of no consequence. But at the joint of the leg, yes, that is good—” He stared as Jane wrenched the meat apart. “There is a knife for that if you wish.”

  Clarissa smiled, en sanglant, and the butcher‧s face took on a sickly hue.

  “Pray do not tease him,” Jane said.

  “Why not? I am bored. I wish to dine.” Clarissa‧s gaze raked the occupants of the church. “These are poor, skinny creatures. Don‧t you find excessive fear spoils the appetite?”

  “They can‧t help it.” Margaret drove her knife into a large piece of meat and ripped it in two.

  Hushed voices outside indicated the presence of more people from the town; curfew was over, and a swarm of people carrying baskets and handcarts entered the church, loading them with food.

  A child carrying a basket almost as big as himself sidled toward them, his eyes wide with fascination. “If you want this, pray come and take it,” Margaret said with surprising gentleness.

  “That child shows no fear,” Jane said.

  “He is too young to be frightened, but he knows we are different.” Margaret looked at the child, her face soft. She steadied the child‧s basket and tipped the meat into it. “Eat well, little one.”

  A woman ran forward and put a protective arm around her son. “Thank you, kindly, sir—milady.”

  “I do not dine on children,” Margaret said. “You need have no fear.”

  But the woman pulled the child and his basket away, scolding him in a loud and angry voice for some trivial offense. Margaret stared at the child, longing on her face.

  “Would it have been worth it?” Clarissa asked.

  “I ask myself that every day. Apparently I have all eternity to ponder my decision.” She grimaced and stuck her knife into another side of meat. “Come, let us get this business out of the way, and then we‧ll return home to dine.”

  In groups of two and three the townspeople slipped from the church. Bundled in cloaks, carrying baskets and bundles, they looked like servants and apprentices on their way to work or sent on errands, scurrying quietly in different directions through the dark town.

  “A good night‧s work,” Mr. Thomas said as he passed by, a large sack slung over one shoulder. “A very good night‧s work, Miss Austen, but I suggest you all leave soon before the French change guard. I gather they do so in half an hour.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” William nodded to Jane. “Will you come to the house?”

  “No, I shall return to Paragon Place.” How her father would grieve if he knew of this defiled church, scattered with debris, the altar smashed, tombstones on the wall defaced, and horse dung on the flagstone floor. Her hunger faded. The Damned had not been responsible for the defilement, but they seemed indifferent to the fate of the church.

  Jane washed her bloody hands at a pump in the street, the water leaving a thin glaze of ice on the cobbles. It was considerably lighter now, the city waking. She slipped into the alley at the rear of the church, and joined the early-morning jostle of people in the street, breathing in their fear and hunger and anger. A group of French cavalry clattered up the street, ignoring the clods of frozen filth and insults that were thrown their way. As they neared the church she heard urgent shouts; they must have discovered the unlocked doors, the empty interior.

  As she approached the house on Paragon Place, the front door swung open, to Jane‧s surprise and alarm. She pulled her hat over her eyes and continued to walk. Possibly their footman had opened the door for another reason, but she became aware that it was no servant who stood there.

  “Jane!”

  He had discovered her and she was too unsettled by the events of the night, and Luke‧s revelation and the discovery of her own desires, to attempt evasion.

  She turned on her heel and faced him.

  “You make a handsome boy,” Garonne said.

 
Chapter 15

  “Good day, Captain.” She stood her ground and watched him take in her breeches, her disheveled, bloodstained appearance.

  “What have you been about, Miss Jane?”

  “I regret I cannot tell you.” She walked past him and into the house.

  “But of course not. You have been with your lover. You hide it so well from your family, but I—I have observed. I see you leave the house. You break curfew. I think you bribe the servants not to tell, eh? This is not good, Miss Jane.”

  “What do you want, Garonne?” She turned to confront him, but he opened the door to the dining room and gestured that she enter.

  “Your lover must be a man of unusual tastes.”

  She shrugged and tossed her hat onto the table. “That has nothing to do with it. It is safer for me to walk the streets so. Your soldiers do not always respect a gentlewoman, I‧ve heard.”

  “They would certainly not respect a woman dressed as you are.”

  “I‧m tired, Garonne. I wish you good day. I shall change into my women‧s clothes now.”

  He stopped her with an arm across the doorway. She considered: she could take him easily enough with her fangs if she did not have time to reach the knife in her boot. But she had scarcely dined, and desire and hunger weakened her. If she revealed herself and failed, the consequences could be dire.

  Even as she considered her course of action, the two French soldiers who were also quartered in the house came running up the stairs from the basement, talking loudly of the stolen supply wagons. Garonne closed the door, leaving Jane alone in the dining room, and she heard a brief conversation that ended with the front door opening and closing, and silence. But Garonne had not left; he came back into the dining room, leaning against the door, one booted foot crossed over the other.

  “You and I, we talk,” he said. “Our supplies have been stolen, many men killed. You know anything of this, ma‧amselle?”

  “I have little enough to say to you, sir, and I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I have word from London,” he said. “You have friends, relatives, there? Ah. There is a tribunal set up. We seek out the enemies of the republic. Your mad King, he is still hiding somewhere, but we shall find him. And then—” He brought one hand down in a sudden, eloquent gesture.

  So it was happening.

  “And then, in the provinces, tribunals set up, and here, soon, in this city. Your father, Miss Jane, to us he is the enemy. He is a man of the church.”

  “Even you can hardly make the claim that my father is a member of the corrupt and powerful second estate. This is not France, Captain.”

  “No.” He cocked his head to one side and folded his arms across his chest. “But it is not up to me to decide who is a threat, who is not. I know Mr. Austen is a good man. But others … well, they do not know that. A tribunal would not know.”

  “Then help my family get a pass so they may leave the city.”

  “You think your family will be safe in the country? For a little, maybe. Not for long.”

  Jane had a sudden urge for, if not some blood, at least a cup of tea. She strode to the bellpull and wrenched at it.

  “You call for help?” Garonne said.

  “I want tea!” she snapped.

  “Of course. Your servant should not see you dressed like that.” He opened the door and ordered Betty, who came in response to the bell, to bring tea.

  “For a revolutionary, Garonne, you are quite a prude,” Jane said as they waited for the tea things to arrive.

  “Not at all. But Betty, she will be shocked. Me, I admire you greatly.” His gaze was warm and appreciative.

  “So you have said, sir. What do you suggest our family can do if you are indeed correct that a tribunal and the guillotine will be set up here?”

  “I think you know, Jane.”

  Why did men so enjoy exasperating riddles?

  In answer to the knock at the door, Garonne opened it long enough to receive the tray, which he brought over to the table, and stood aside for Jane to make tea. “We are wrong. It is tea that is the religion in this country.”

  “And beer. Gaming. Dogs.” Jane spooned tea into the pot.

  “You and I, we get on well,” Garonne said.

  “As well as an unwelcome guest and his hostess can.”

  “Ah, but this is not your house. You say so often.”

  She looked up. “You have word of my aunt and uncle?”

  “Regrettably, no.” He watched as she poured the hot water over the tea leaves.

  She replaced the lid on the teapot and settled herself to wait while it brewed. She assessed him carefully and sensed nervousness, desire. “What were you about to suggest, Captain? I trust whatever you suggest has nothing to do with my sister.” If he expected Jane to plead his cause with Cassandra she would kill him, and devil take the consequences.

  “Your sister?” He threw up his hands. “Ah. No, it is nothing to do with your sister. But it is everything to do with you, chère jane.”

  “But—but you have made your intentions toward Cassandra quite clear, sir, if not the nature of them.”

  “I have?”

  “You showed a marked partiality in the matter of the picture that you had framed.”

  “Oh, the picture. No, the picture was of value to me only because you drew it.”

  “I see.” She poured tea in a dreadful parody of polite behavior, wondering that she could have been so mistaken. “And now you suggest I become your mistress so I may save my family‧s heads.”

  “You are direct. I admire that.” He nodded with great energy and stretched a hand across the table toward her. She pushed a cup of tea into his hand.

  “I have not given my assent, Captain.”

  “But you will.” His smile became knowing. “I think you will find your family gives you no choice. After all, you have eaten the food I bring into this house; you accept my protection as escort; why, even now you drink the tea I have brought. Already you are halfway to saying yes to me, and your family, they will not argue too much.”

  “You are mistaken.” She pushed away her cup of tea and thought longingly of tearing into his throat. “You insult me, sir.”

  “Bah. These are unusual times, Jane. You, a respectable unmarried woman, take a lover beneath their noses. You think they do not know? Already you are dishonored. Naturally you will take another lover before long and it shall be me, and why not? Your family may pretend to object, but they will thank you.”

  “I doubt it very much, Captain.” Her tea finished, she stood.

  He lounged in his chair, eyeing her. “You had best consider what you do, Jane. Do not think too long. I think you and I, we shall do well. I like you, as a man likes a woman, eh? And I think you like me a little too.”

  “Good morning.” She left the room. Thank God Cassandra was safe from his advances. She ran up the stairs, tore off her wet and dirty men‧s clothes, hid them beneath a loose floorboard in her bedchamber, and then changed quickly into shift and petticoats as though she had recently risen from her bed. Not a moment too soon. She heard Cassandra outside and her tentative tap at the door.

  “Jane? May I enter?”

  “Of course. I‧m up.”

  Her sister, fully dressed and wrapped in a large shawl, ran across the room to the bed, kicked off her shoes and snuggled under the coverlet. “Ooh, I‧m so cold, Jane, but it doesn‧t seem to affect you. I wish we could have fires in our bedchambers, but we have to be careful of our use of coal. Captain Garonne does not know whether he can help us get any more.”

  “I pray you will not ask the captain for help. He is our enemy,” Jane said.

  Cassandra frowned. “You smell strange.”

  Sure enough, she reeked of bacon and animal fat. “Yes, I woke early and went to the kitchen to make sure the meat in the larder was still fresh.”

  Cassandra gave her an odd look. “We have no meat.”

  “Then it must be the rushlight
. I think I held it too close to my hair.” For someone who was Damned her ability to tell lies was quite dreadful.

  “Will you visit your friend Miss Venning again today? How does she do, poor thing? She must miss her brother dreadfully.”

  Jane thought of Clarissa en sanglant prowling around the mortals in the church. “Oh, she bears up remarkably well.” She hesitated. “Cassandra, I must confide in you. Pray do not tell Mama or Papa, for it will only distress them. Garonne has told me that in London a tribunal has been set up to try those who are against the French and that they will put to death any they consider guilty.”

  “The guillotine!” Cassandra covered her mouth.

  “Indeed, and as in France, tribunals will be set up in other cities and towns—here, for instance—and as you know, this revolutionary French government has no great love for the church.”

  “What shall we do?” Cassandra was almost as pale as Jane. “And Papa—he will not be safe. Oh, I do wish we could leave this place!”

  “I too. Our only hope is that the French will be driven out.”

  “Garonne told you of this? Then it must be true, although we have heard all sorts of wild rumors. But there is something else—what is it?”

  Jane poured water from the ewer on the washstand into the bowl. It gushed out with a thin layer of ice. She splashed it onto her face and attempted to raise a lather with the tablet of soap. “Garonne asked me to become his mistress. He said he could protect us against a tribunal and thinks, because we have accepted his gifts of food and tea, that already I am inclined to accept his offer.”

  “Oh, Jane!” Cassandra burst into loud sobs, huddled beneath the bedclothes.

  Jane took the few steps between them and hugged her fiercely, making Cassandra squeal with alarm. She lessened her grip and held her sister, who wept as though her heart were broken, the pent-up tears of the past few days, of the last year, all the sorrow rushing out of her like blood. After a while Jane pulled the ribbon from Cassandra‧s hair and reached for her hairbrush. She drew it through the waves of Cassandra‧s rich brown hair, darker than her own, knowing this would soothe her sister.