Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion

by Janet Mullany

  Chapter 9

  “We shall be late!” Jane said, tapping her foot as they waited in the vestibule of the cottage that afternoon. “What on earth is Martha up to?”

  “She is arranging her hair, I believe,” Cassandra said. “Do you have your music, Jane?”

  “At her age? That is ridiculous. Now, Anna, I can understand you fussing with your appearance, but Martha looks perfectly respectable and that is adequate.”

  “Charity, dear Jane,” Mrs. Austen murmured. “We shall see how you fare in ten years, whether you are as careless of your own appearance then as you are now.”

  “She looks perfectly well without . . . without new blue ribbons on her hat. Martha, at last; we have been waiting a good ten minutes for you.”

  Martha made a careful descent down the stairs, a newly trimmed hat in her hand.

  “Oh, how pretty, Aunt Martha,” Anna said, with the easy generosity of a much younger woman aware of her own good looks.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Martha took a quick look in the mirror as she tied the blue ribbons beneath her chin. “Jane, you look excessively annoyed.”

  “You will make us late,” Jane said, relieved that she yet had a reflection to express annoyance.

  “Oh, is that all? Is it not fashionable to arrive slightly late?”

  “Maybe, but all the refreshments will have been eaten. You know our neighbors are like pigs at a trough.”

  “Now, Jane, curb that tongue of yours.” Mrs. Austen seized her umbrella. “I hope it does not rain, although the garden and crops are in sore need.”

  The ladies left their house, and Jane nudged Martha. “I expected you to speak at nuncheon.”

  “Oh. Yes, indeed. It is rather awkward.”

  “Would you like me to tell them?”

  “No. I shall speak now.” Martha cleared her throat. “Ma’am, Cassandra, Anna, I have something important to say.”

  A large cart, reeking of manure and with one sorry-looking pig in the back, lumbered past, forcing the ladies into single file. The driver touched his hat as he passed.

  “Now you can tell us,” Jane said as they turned onto the quieter fork of the road that led to the Great House.

  “Very well.” Martha cleared her throat. “I regret to tell you that Duval Richards, who has moved into Prowtings, is one of the Damned.”

  Mrs. Austen and Cassandra burst into peals of laughter.

  “I assure you, it is true. Moreover, one of the ladies in the house is a notorious adulteress.” Martha glanced at Jane for help.

  “Poor thing,” Mrs. Austen said. “If that is indeed true, we must pity her. Mr. Richards has moved into Prowtings, you say? I did hear a rumor that Mr. Prowting was summoned to London suddenly, but how very fortunate that he could let his house so quickly.”

  “Ma’am, Christian charity is all very well, but she too is one of the Damned,” Jane said.

  “Oh come,” Mrs. Austen replied, “you have joked about this long enough, Jane. How ridiculous! I am surprised you should encourage Martha in such silly beliefs.”

  “But Martha, how do you know?” Cassandra asked.

  “Oh.” Martha looked embarrassed. She twisted her hands. “It is—well, ever since my bad turn in the woods, I have been able to tell. We—Jane and I—believe one of the Damned was responsible for my . . . accident.”

  “But if that were so, how did you survive?” Mrs. Austen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Martha said.

  Jane, who did know, said nothing. What could she say, after all? That it was a generous dose of her blood, the blood of someone who was reverting to a state of Damnation, that had brought Martha back to life?

  “My dear child,” Mrs. Austen said to Martha, “I think you are unwell from your fit, or whatever it was you suffered. If you did not look so exceptionally well—is not her complexion quite splendid, girls?—I should summon a physician. But you do look so very . . . blooming.”

  “Why, thank you, ma’am,” Martha said.

  They turned into the driveway of the house, and Jane, clutching her sheaf of music in one hand, found herself anticipating a few hours of music with great pleasure. If she should encounter Raphael at the house—he might possibly attend, for his status landed him at the brink of gentility—that was all well and good; and here was William, come to greet them at the front door, looking for all the world like a respected and landed gentleman. He showed them into the Great Hall, where a handsome instrument and several music stands stood.

  Chawton’s vicar, Mr. Papillon, was already there with his sister, Elizabeth; Jane could hear her talking to Dorcas and Tom, or rather at them, a flow of words with little sense and apparently little thought behind them. Elizabeth must prove an obstacle to any marital inclinations Mr. Papillon might have, but any bride moving into that household would need a great deal of patience and fortitude to deal with the vicar alone.

  Dorcas saw Jane and her family and came to greet them.

  “Do let me know if you would prefer a footman,” she murmured to Jane. “Welcome all. Pray have some refreshments. Will you take a slice of apple tart?”

  “An apple tart!” Mr. Papillon said. “A very little slice, my dear ladies, will do you no harm. It might even be wholesome, for these are apples from the Knights’ orchard and I always say they are the most healthful apples in all of Hampshire. You will find out, Mrs. Kettering, how very superior the fruits of the estate are. Mr. Knight has always made sure that a gift is given to the rectory when the first asparagus comes in; why, I think that should be quite soon.”

  “Next month,” Mrs. Austen said with an air of authority. “Now, we have been eating early greens from our garden these past few days, some lettuce and rocket, and—”

  “Oh, that reminds me—did I not say, dear brother, that I must ask Miss Lloyd for her recipe—you remember last Easter when we—for I wore a new cap and . . .”

  Jane smiled and blocked out the waterfall of words.

  “I have a pug,” Dorcas announced as though confessing to an embarrassing ailment. “You should like to see it, would you not?” She called one of the footmen over. “Where has the pug gone?”

  “Hiding, ma’am, I daresay, as usual,” the man replied.

  Jane peered over the back of the sofa on which she sat. “I thought I could smell—Dorcas, perhaps you should summon a servant with a mop—your pug is here.”

  The small, miserable furry bundle saw Jane, whined, and ran out into the room. It hesitated for a moment and then dashed to Anna, a safe haven among the Damned.

  Anna scooped the dog into her lap. “Oh, what a sweet creature! What is his name, Mrs. Kettering?”

  “His name.” Again Dorcas consulted the footman. “Oh, yes. His name is Jacques. Keep him, my dear Miss Anna. He doesn’t seem to like any of us very much.”

  Anna giggled as the pug licked her chin and wriggled with joy. “Oh, may I, Grandmother? I should so love to have a pug. But will he not miss you, Mrs. Kettering?”

  “I am sure he will be much happier with you, Miss Anna.” As she spoke, a lurcher slunk from under a table and made a dash for the door.

  “I think the dogs may feel a draft,” Mr. Papillon pronounced. “I am most susceptible to the cold, but I have found a flannel waistcoat just the thing. In June it may be safe to remove it.”

  “I wish you happy, my dear,” Martha whispered to Jane. “How will you contain yourself until the waistcoat is removed?” They both tried to stifle giggles while Mrs. Austen shot them a stern look.

  Elizabeth, despite her nervous chatter, was an accomplished musician, and she and Jane took their places at the pianoforte for a duet. How strange it was to see the Damned, for whose sensitive ears music was generally a mass of discordant sound, nodding and smiling as she played. Tom Fuller even offered to turn the pages for them, although it was obvious to Jane that he had some trouble in following the music. She had to elbow him several times to prompt him.

  But at the end of the first movement
, Jane stopped. “I think the instrument is out of tune.”

  “Impossible, my dear Miss Jane!” Tom said. “Why, we had it tuned yesterday, and this is one of Mr. Broadwood’s best instruments. It should hold its tune better than that.”

  Everyone else hastened to assure Jane that the instrument was perfectly fine, but her observation distressed her. A sensitivity to pitch and tone could mean only that her Damnation advanced. But she smiled and, striking a few notes, claimed she had been mistaken, and she and Elizabeth continued to the end of the piece.

  Jane asked Dorcas if she would care to perform, wondering exactly how far the Damned would go in their impersonation of the gentry. She declined, and the company was in agreement when Dorcas asked if Anna would sing next.

  Jane was relieved when Tom left to join the others, for the accompaniment to the Scottish song Anna wished to sing was quite simple and she could easily turn the pages herself. Tom, she imagined, wished to admire Anna without distractions. She did not entirely approve, but she trusted William would make sure his companions behaved respectably.

  Spirited applause broke out at the end of Anna’s performance, and the little pug jumped from Mrs. Austen’s lap and trotted over to her, the stump of its tail wagging as best it could. Blushing, Anna agreed to sing again and started another song, Jacques seated at her feet.

  “I have delighted them long enough,” Anna said to Jane when the second song was finished. “We should let Elizabeth play. I think Mr. Fitzpatrick finds her conversation overwhelming.”

  Sure enough, both Dorcas and William sat in astonishment as the Papillons bombarded them with meaningless chatter. Elizabeth talked (as far as Jane could tell) of embroidery thread and tea and the church roof; Mr. Papillon entertained them with an explanation of how the butter in Hampshire, particularly that of the Knights’ estate, was superior and most healthful because of . . . well, who could tell, for he certainly did not reach any conclusion.

  “Elizabeth, you must play for us,” Jane cried, feeling like a boulder swept away in the conversational stream. “I should so like to hear the new piece you were telling me about. What better place to play it than among friends!” Then, because she could not help herself, she said to Mr. Papillon, “Mrs. Kettering has a particular interest in the Sermon on the Mount. I know she would love to hear your opinions.”

  “Of course, my dear madam!” And he launched into a long-winded theological discourse.

  William gave a sigh of relief as Jane sat next to him. “I am not sure how we shall spend a decade, let alone a century, in the company of such dull people.”

  “There are superior people with interesting conversation to be found; my brothers, for instance, although I shall not introduce you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they would think what my mother and sister are thinking when they see us having a private conversation. I do not want to raise their hopes, and neither can I reveal what our true relation is. By the by, Martha is now able to identify the Damned, but she does not recognize me as such.”

  “Indeed. She will, when the time comes, and that will be soon, Jane.”

  She did not reply, afraid that he was right. But had not he himself expressed ignorance of how her metamorphosis would advance? He wished to have her return as his fledgling, after all, and would seize on anything he thought might be significant.

  “But where is Martha?” Jane, while relieved to introduce a change of topic, was concerned that Martha was missing from the room. And so was Tom.

  She rose, and William did, too. On the other side of the room, Cassandra and her mother whispered together. “Where is she?”

  “I believe they left for the dining room.”

  The dining room, indeed! “And you did not stop them?”

  “To do so would have been discourteous and ungentlemanly. I assure you she was willing.”

  “She is a gentlewoman!” Jane hissed at him and turned on her heel. “Pray do not follow me. It will give rise to all sorts of speculation.”

  As inconspicuously as she could, she left the room, hoping that Cassandra would not follow, and cursing the etiquette of the Damned. Now she remembered Martha’s speculations about the sensual pleasures the Damned could provide. It seemed as though Martha’s brush with one of les Sales and mortality had revealed hidden aspects of her friend’s character, the least of which was her ability to identify the Damned.

  She flung open the dining room door.

  Martha was sprawled upon Tom’s lap, a wide grin upon her face as he dined at her neck, one of his hands thrust into her bosom.

  “Sir! Unhand Miss Lloyd this instant!” She looked him in the eye, a direct challenge by the standards of the Damned; or, she remembered somewhat belatedly, a request to join in.

  Tom lifted his head, blood around his mouth, and smiled. “Such a sweet lady, Jane. Pray join me.”

  To her mortification, Jane’s teeth tingled and ached. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she said, “This is most improper! Martha, what were you thinking?”

  “Oh, Jane,” Martha said. “I never realized . . .” Her head lolled to the side and Tom resumed dining.

  “It’s indecent!” Jane said, outraged and aroused. “Sir, she is old enough to be your mother!”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  True enough. “Tom, if you please, have you not dined your fill?”

  “No,” they both said.

  Jane stood, tapping her foot and trying to maintain her expression of disapproval.

  Tom raised his head again and a trickle of blood ran like a small scarlet stream into Martha’s bosom. “Jane, you are spoiling my appetite with your sourness.”

  “I am delighted to hear it.”

  He snarled, and his voice became cold. “Your behavior is most improper. William will not be pleased to hear of your discourtesy.”

  “Damn William and damn you. Let her go!”

  Tom snarled again and breathed on Martha’s neck to close the wound, licking it clean. Jane remembered doing that herself, and the small gesture brought desire and memories rushing back.

  “Are you satisfied, madam?” he said to Jane.

  “No. Do it again,” Martha said, her eyes closed.

  “Martha!” Jane stared helplessly as Tom hoisted her friend onto the table, where she sprawled, skirts awry, bosom half bared.

  Tom put his own clothing to rights, finally reaching for his coat that hung neatly on the back of a chair. That enraged Jane more than anything, that his dining upon Martha was so calculated a seduction that he had taken care not to crease his clothes.

  “Martha!” Jane said again and shook her friend’s arm. She pulled Martha’s skirts down, noting that Martha had borrowed (without asking) a pair of her own precious silk stockings and sported garters of red silk and gold wire; heaven only knew where those originated.

  “Tom, look at her! She is almost insensible. You must revive her immediately.”

  “I beg your pardon. I do not take orders from you.”

  “If you please,” Jane said, forcing herself into civility. She fetched a bottle of wine and a glass that stood on the sideboard. “She is your guest, after all.”

  With a look of distaste upon his face, Tom bit into his own wrist and let a drop of blood fall into the wine. “This sort of activity is suited to the kitchen, not above stairs.”

  “Times have changed, sir. This lady is your neighbor and now your equal.” During her time with the Damned, it had been a fledgling’s duty to provide the blood that revived the source of the previous night’s entertainment; she remembered a group of men and women—whores, servants, laborers—smiling and wobbly and sated, seated at the kitchen table and watching drops of her blood dissolving into breakfast small beer.

  She slid an arm beneath Martha’s head. “Martha, my dear, please drink this.”

  Martha giggled and presented her neck to Jane.

  “Martha!” Jane said and slapped her.

  “Oh!” Martha blinked. “What is
the matter, dear Jane?”

  “Please drink this.”

  Martha drank, smacking her lips. “How delicious. May I have some more?”

  “Certainly not.” Jane took the glass from her hand. “I believe Mr. Fuller has something to say to you.”

  Tom approached, straightening his neckcloth, and bent over Martha’s hand. “Dearest creature. You have done me great honor.”

  “Oh, you sweet boy.” Martha ruffled his hair. “On the contrary, you have honored me. When may we next—”

  “You should apologize, Tom!” Jane said, entirely out of patience with them both. “And this is never to happen again!”

  “I don’t believe that’s your decision, Jane,” Martha said, bright-eyed and energetic once more. But she smiled at Tom and slipped off the table, straightening her skirts.

  The dining room door opened and William entered. “Tom, the ladies have requested that you play your flute for them. Miss Anna will accompany you.”

  “He plays the flute?” One of the Damned, playing a musical instrument—Jane was dumbfounded.

  “Yes, I picked it up a few months ago,” Tom said. “I believe I’m quite accomplished. I have been practicing an Irish air. Will you not come and listen, Martha?”

  “Miss Lloyd to you, sir,” Jane said.

  “I shall enter separately so as not to cause gossip,” Martha said. She gave a sigh as William and Tom left. “They are both so handsome, are they not, Jane?”

  “Oh, Martha, that you should fall into the hands of that vile seducer,” Jane said, close to tears. “I am so sorry I could not prevent it.”

  “Indeed.” Martha looked at her with very little warmth. “You interrupted us!”

  “Thank God I did.”

  “I wish you had not. No, let me speak, dearest Jane. I am forty-three and I have never known passion in my life, nor am I likely to. Why should I not take this opportunity to experience that of which the poets sing? Oh, Jane, it was a revelation; he made me feel beautiful, desired. Young.” She smiled. “And he was so happy to oblige, although he was a little shy at first.”