Jane and the Damned

by Janet Mullany

  “Yet you took the risk of handing me over to the French. What if I had betrayed you all then?”

  “I knew you would not. Not then. You have greater strength under duress than you know.” Margaret shrugged. “It is when you choose to leave us that I fear for the Damned. Let us get this over with, if you please. Banish me if you will; William underestimates my power to survive. I may emerge from this better than you think.”

  “Very well. I choose to banish her.” Jane looked at Luke for guidance.

  William recited a formal phrase in a language that sounded familiar to Jane. Greek, yes, that was it—she remembered her brothers reciting their lessons, long evenings in the vicarage while her mother sewed, smiling at their accomplishments. Their youngest sister had watched and listened, and longed to know as much as her brothers.

  She would never see that drawing room again, or her family.

  William leaned to kiss Margaret on one cheek and then the other. “Go,” he said.

  She inclined her head and left the room.

  Luke drew Jane‧s arm through his and led her to the window that looked out over the meadow where the dark figures cavorted around the bonfire. They did not have to wait long. A tall figure, swathed in a long, hooded cloak emerged from the house. She strode off into the shadows and disappeared from view without looking back.

  “I shall not leave,” Jane said.

  Luke made no reply but linked her fingers in his.

  ***

  “I assure you, it‧s been an honor, Miss Austen.” George, His Highness the Prince of Wales, flanked by members of his own regiment, all jingling fashionable military splendor, took her hand as they stood outside the Royal Crescent house the next morning.

  “Shall you take the cure here, sir?”

  “Yes, but I‧ll be staying at a house outside the town. My physician says that, well, it‧s best to not be around you and the others while I recover. I might come back and beg you to bite me. Or the other way around, I‧m not sure which.”

  “I wish you a speedy return to good health, sir. I‧m sure you‧ll enjoy playing the piano again.”

  “I shall. But damnation, I‧ll have to see Caroline again. Family obligations, you know, Miss Austen. I suppose you don‧t have any of those anymore.”

  She shook her head. No family, no obligations, no Cassandra …

  The handsome young George Brummell held the carriage door open, murmuring that possibly it was time for His Highness to leave.

  “We‧ve had some fine times, haven‧t we? William says I won‧t remember much, but it‧s probably just as well.” George sighed and squeezed her hand. “You‧ll dedicate a book to me, I hope, jane.”

  She smiled and curtsied as the Prince of Wales stepped into the carriage and drove away with his regiment as escort.

  William stood in the doorway of the house. He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I hate to see my fledglings leave.”

  Jane followed him back inside the silent house. It was early in the day for them, and most of the household and their guests were still asleep.

  She trudged up the stairs—once again her bedchamber was at the top of the house—picking her way around guests who had fallen asleep on the stairs and landings. At the back of her mind a profound uneasiness stirred, a yearning for something or someone. Certainly it was not hunger, for she had dined well and often last night, until Luke had chastised her for her greed. In her former life she would have put pen to paper or played the pianoforte, or taken a long walk with Cassandra …

  “Jane?” One of the women had awoken and sat blinking at her, shoving one of the visiting vampires from her lap.

  “Polly! I am so glad you are well.”

  “What happened to you? Lord, look at your hair. Did the Frenchies do that?”

  Jane smiled, relieved to see that Polly was alive. “Would you like to come to the kitchen for some tea? Or ale?”

  Polly rose to her feet, swaying a little, and giggled. She started as Jane steadied her with a hand at her elbow. “Your hands are so cold. What an adventure, eh, Jane?”

  Jane led her down to the kitchen where she revived her with a drop of blood in a cup of tea. Polly sat, her elbows at her table, accepting slices of buttered toast from Mr. Brown, and telling him of a connection she had with a most superior farm nearby that would supply the household with all the vegetables it needed. Jane slipped out again.

  This time Jane reached her bedchamber, a small haven of quiet in the crowded house. Ann had unpacked her belongings, and her manuscript sat on a small table with pen and ink at the ready. Jane smiled at the maid‧s thoughtfulness and sat down. She pulled the ribbon undone and Cassandra‧s scent rose, a little fainter now, but still with the power to conjure poignant, loving memories of their life together. As that scent faded, so would her recollections of Cassandra.

  She must write to her family, for she knew they would be concerned, her father most of all, since he alone knew that she fought. She took the last page of her manuscript and on the blank side wrote a short note assuring them that she was still in Miss Venning‧s employ and well. She hesitated and then laid the sheet down.

  Her family should have not only the note, but the entire manuscript. Possibly Cassandra could send it to another publisher and make herself a little pin money; yes, she liked that idea, Cassandra picking through trims and fabrics with an endearingly serious look on her face, the most fashionable woman in Steventon, thanks to her sister‧s book. She retied the ribbon around the manuscript that was part of her former life.

  She picked out a long, hooded cloak that someone had left in the bedchamber and went downstairs, the manuscript tucked safely beneath one arm, and out of the house. The formerly elegant Royal Crescent was a mess of empty bottles and discarded wine casks; a large black mound on the green pasture opposite still gave off a little smoke. On her walk through the town, she passed townspeople still celebrating, drinking and dancing in the streets. Several times she was obliged to turn down the offers of gentlemen who wished her to join in the celebrations or who invited her to more private revels indoors.

  As she turned into Paragon Place, a troop of British soldiers escorting a handful of French prisoners passed her.

  Her knock at the front door was not answered and the sense of unease that had plagued her since waking that day grew stronger. She stepped back into the street and observed that smoke rose from the chimneys, so undoubtedly someone was home. She listened carefully. From inside came a muffled whimper and a creaking sound, and a strong sense of fear and panic. Things were not right here.

  With a silent apology to her aunt and uncle, she wrapped her fist in the folds of her cloak and prepared to ruin their fine solid mahogany door and its brass lock. One solid blow that left her knuckles aching, and the door swung open. She stepped into the foyer and then into the dining room, where Betty, gagged and bound to a chair, let out a crescendo of squeaks and whimpers.

  “Sssh.” Jane bit through the ropes. She whispered, “Tell me what is happening here, but quietly.”

  Betty nodded, tears streaking down her face.

  Jane untied the gag.

  “Miss Cassandra, upstairs—Garonne is there—”

  Jane didn‧t wait to hear any more but flew up the stairs. She could smell them, Cassandra‧s beloved scent soured by fear and Garonne‧s potent blend of exhaustion and despair.

  She flung open the drawing-room door.

  Chapter 21

  “Do what I say or Miss Cassandra dies.” Garonne was filthy and exhausted, stubble on his face, his eyes red-rimmed. The hand that held the pistol to her sister‧s head shook.

  Cassandra sat on a chair, wrists bound, tears spilling down her cheeks. She gave a tiny shake of her head.

  “Be still!” Garonne‧s voice rose to a shriek.

  “Let her go,” Jane said.

  Garonne watched her every move, his finger on the trigger, and Jane feared his shaking hand would accidentally fire the pistol.

&n
bsp; “I must have a letter for a safe permit to return to France. I will not be a prisoner here. She will die if you do not.”

  “Certainly, I shall help however I can.” Clearly he was mad. What influence did he think she possibly might have? “But—”

  “You lie!” he screamed. “You write to Wellesley. I saw him with you yesterday.”

  She hadn‧t seen Garonne in the chaos of the battle. “Very well. Pray uncock your pistol.”

  “You think I am a fool? No. You write.” He swayed as if about to fall asleep on his feet. “Or we wait for Mr. Austen to come home for his dinner and find his daughter dead, and then he writes the letter so I do not shoot you also, Miss Jane.”

  “Very well. I have a package beneath my arm. I shall put it down now. Pray do not be alarmed.” Wishing she had thought to arm herself, she slowly drew her cloak back to reveal the manuscript. Clearly, this was a situation where the pen was not mightier than the sword; or was it?

  “Vite!”

  She had hoped her slow actions might calm him but he radiated fear and lethal tension, a man close to madness. When she attacked, it would have to be fast. Her movement had taken her closer to him and she shifted a little to choose the angle at which she would attack. She must strike the pistol away in the split second before it fired.

  The clock on the mantelpiece whirred and began to strike the chimes before the hour of four o‧clock.

  Downstairs the door opened and Jane heard her father and mother exclaim over the broken lock and splintered wood. She pulled the ribbon free of the manuscript and threw it at Garonne.

  The manuscript, several hundred sheets of paper, burst into its individual pages in midair, falling onto and around Garonne‧s head as she leaped for his throat. The pistol exploded in her ear, the smell of powder mingling with Garonne‧s blood, bitter with madness and terror. His body convulsed under hers as he fought her and she ripped with her canines as his breath let out in a last, frantic gurgle.

  She let him drop onto the carpet soaked with his blood.

  Someone was screaming.

  “Cassandra!”

  But her sister had flung herself from the chair and was stumbling away from her, weeping with terror.

  “Cassandra, it‧s over. He‧s dead. You‧re safe.”

  Cassandra‧s eyes rolled up and she dropped to the floor in a swoon.

  Jane looked up to see her mother and father standing in the doorway clinging to each other, regarding her and the bloody room with horror. No wonder, she was still en sanglant, and covered with blood.

  She reversed her canines.

  “You‧re looking very well, ma‧am.” Jane gave a giggle of shock at her ridiculous words, but it was true. Mrs. Austen wore a coarse linen apron with bloodsmears and worse on it, but she had a sense of purpose and energy that Jane could not ever remember seeing before.

  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 hu
ndred 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.