“This must be the most exciting thing that has happened in the village since Mr. Papillon’s pigs got out last,” Jane commented. “I am most gratified that we provide our neighbors with such good sport.”
“Now, Jane, it is precisely that sort of remark which drives gentlemen away,” Mrs. Austen said. “I trust you’ll moderate your comments so that our dear Anna may not have her partners frightened off.”
“A gentleman thwarted by so little would not fare well in anything beyond a dance,” Jane replied, “but I am sure our brother would never forgive us if Anna were to fall in love again.”
“I shall never fall in love again,” Anna said, a pretty pink flushing her cheeks.
“Indeed. We must send you to a nunnery, then. You may spend your hours in contemplation in a gothic cloister. Possibly a silent order might be best, for—”
“Oh, stop talking nonsense, Jane.” Cassandra pinched her wrist.
Jane fell silent. Her chatter served to cover the unsettling swirl of emotions in the trap—she seemed particularly susceptible this evening and could only blame it on anticipation of seeing William and Luke again. Since this ball was a celebration of peace between the two households, she knew with absolute certainty that Luke would attend.
She concentrated hard on not attending to the innermost thoughts of those around her: her mother’s recollections of balls past, when her daughters were young and as eligible as they would ever be, and Mr. Austen’s pride in them; Cassandra’s romantic fancies of eligible gentlemen and many partners for Anna; Anna’s excitement and plans to dance all night and turn the heads of handsome strangers; the driver’s musing on whether his dinner would give him wind all night and how some strong ale at the Great House might cure him; and Martha—good heavens!
Jane trod on Martha’s foot.
“What’s the matter, Jane?” Martha said, her fond grin fading, but not as much as Jane would have liked.
“I beg your pardon.” Martha’s imaginings had an uncanny resemblance to Jane’s dreams, with Tom taking the place of Luke, but with Martha, subjected to vigorous dining, taking a more passive role.
“The supper room will be quite splendid, according to Mrs. Chapple,” Martha said.
“I expect you enjoy your long conversations with her,” Jane said. “Indeed, I wonder what you find to talk about for so many hours.”
“We exchange recipes,” Martha said. “It takes some time to copy them.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, look how many people have come!” Cassandra exclaimed as they turned into the driveway of the Great House. “And carriages with coats of arms on the door—do you recognize any of them, Jane?”
Jane shook her head. As they watched, a party alighted from a carriage, and from the supreme beauty and elegance of the ladies and gentlemen (and the horses’ unease), it was obvious to Jane they could only be more of the Damned. Beside her Martha, also watching, sighed softly.
“It is most unbecoming!” Jane kicked her friend’s ankle.
Martha raised her eyebrows.
Jane, aware that she had revealed more about herself than she intended, busied herself with fan and gloves, and last-minute adjustments to Anna’s headdress, a wreath of silk flowers for which everyone’s bonnets had been ruthlessly plundered. Even so, their party looked exactly what they were: gentlewomen of little wealth or status. Jane hoped no one could tell there were at least two who had no claim to respectability.
As they alighted from the carriage Jane took Martha’s arm. As Mrs. Austen and Cassandra entered the house before them, she murmured, “My dear, I must warn you—I regret that those creatures will know of your association with one of them and may consider you as their plaything, available to all.”
Her pride in her discreet euphemisms was destroyed when Martha, with a wide grin, said, “Indeed? How very . . . interesting. What a delightful prospect for the evening! And Jane, you seem exceedingly well informed.”
“My dear Jane!” William, standing in the hallway to greet his guests, stepped forward to take both her hands in his. “And Miss Martha. Well, Jane, how are you?” His concern and longing swept around her like a warm current; with all her heart she wanted to yield and become his fledgling once more. But she took her hands from his and dropped a polite curtsy, murmuring that she did very well, aware that her mother and Cassandra exchanged significant glances.
The ladies, bonnets and cloaks removed, made their way upstairs to the Great Gallery where they had danced before. Ahead of them, Elizabeth Papillon exclaimed about the beauty of the decorations, the gentility of the company, and the overall splendor of the evening. For splendid it was, the room draped with garlands of flowers and illuminated by Chinese lanterns and dozens of beeswax candles. A group of musicians Jane suspected came from London, for they were much smarter in appearance than the local waits, sat tuning their instruments.
Mr. Papillon, voicing concern that the lanterns might set the house afire, escorted his sister into the room. Jane and Cassandra exchanged a glance, both in silent agreement that they should sit as far away as possible from them without seeming entirely unfriendly. As they hesitated, Tom came to greet them, and led them to a group of comfortable chairs.
“And I’ll claim the first dance with you, Miss Anna,” he said, “for I am sure you will have partners aplenty this evening, and I should count myself a fool for not asking you.”
“We are much obliged, sir,” Mrs. Austen allowed with a regal nod of her head, and when he had gone, “Well, Anna, that is quite an honor, to be asked for the first dance in a company such as this, and by one of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s friends.”
“I daresay Mr. Fitzpatrick asked him to,” she said. “It is mere politeness, ma’am.” She sounded quite composed, but her fingers twisted and pleated the muslin of her gown as she glanced around the room.
Jane, aware that she, too, searched the crowd for a beloved face, took a glass of wine from one of the footmen. She should not have come; she should have claimed to be indisposed and stayed home. Let Anna dance a little, she reasoned, then they could leave, for doubtless Cassandra and the others might be overawed by the sophistication of the ball. She looked around for a place to put her empty wineglass, but another footman appeared, and she exchanged her empty glass for a full one.
“Jane,” Cassandra whispered, “if you are thirsty, pray drink lemonade or tea. You know how you become when you drink too much wine.”
“Drunk?” Jane said.
“No. Excessively satirical. It is not becoming.”
“Indeed.” She waved away a footman bearing glasses of lemonade. “I must disagree.”
“Oh, thank goodness, here is that Mr. Venning and his friends, and I daresay he will ask you to dance.”
“I daresay I shall refuse.”
But she turned to watch their arrival.
Duval and William bowed and chatted with great affability. But William took Luke in his arms and kissed his cheek.
“Oh, I did not realize they were so—are they related, Jane?” Mrs. Austen asked. “You might almost think they were father and son, despite their closeness in age.”
“No, ma’am. They have known each other for most of their lives, I believe.” Maybe she had wagered peace after all, despite her misgivings, and William’s, too. It was over, finally; this was the last time she need come to this house, at least during the occupancy of these particular tenants.
She turned her head aside so none of her family could see her tears.
“Miss Austen?” Luke bowed in front of them, hand held out, but Jane realized with a shock that he invited Cassandra to dance; it was quite proper that he should invite the elder sister to dance and equally expected that Cassandra, who never danced now, should refuse.
“Pray dance with my sister before she drinks all of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s wine, sir.”
“Miss Jane?”
“Mr. Venning.” She took his offered hand. “I regret I shall dance no more.”
He l
ooked at her with pity and concern, a tenderness that nearly undid her. “Then you’ll take a turn around the room with me?”
She stood and took his arm. As they walked, they caught fragments of conversation as one might catch small fish in a net trailed through water: a woman admonishing her daughter for appearing too forward; a quarrel between a couple, she querulous, he frowning; and, to Jane’s delight, Duval and Margaret complaining about how difficult it was to get good help. Apparently les Sales proved indifferent servants.
Clarissa joined them and offered Jane her gloved hand. “I would rather embrace you, but I know you do not wish more contact than is necessary. I am most grieved that you will leave us again. But I shall speak no more of it.”
“Do you return to William’s household?” Jane asked.
“Of course. Margaret will stay with Duval, as will the others, but Luke and I were never intimate with them. Luke, you have very little to say for yourself tonight.”
“I am feeling old,” he replied.
“Old! Well, so you should.”
The musicians played an opening chord and the dancers took their places, William partnered with another of the Damned Jane did not know, and Dorcas with Duval. “William’s partner is of Duval’s household,” Clarissa said. “It is a gesture of peace between us. But what is your friend Miss Martha up to? She seems very popular.” Then she laughed. “Ah, I know why. Do you think I should rescue her, Jane?”
Jane observed the cluster of the Damned around Martha. “I’m not sure she wants to be rescued, but if you would be so good, please make sure she is not in over her head.”
Clarissa nodded and left them.
“I owe you an apology,” Luke said, his voice strained. “Had I not lingered at Duval’s and failed to fulfill the task William set me, there would have been no need for you to step in and endanger yourself.”
“Why did you?”
He shrugged. “I wished to teach William a lesson, that I was not his creature to do his bidding.”
“But he is your Creator.”
“And naturally, a fledgling should be obedient to his Creator’s wishes. You know a little how things are between us. I wished to make him uneasy.”
“You certainly succeeded in that,” Jane said.
They stood, arm in arm, watching the dancers, and Jane was pleased to see the respect and decorum that Tom showed toward Anna.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Luke said. “Almost as pretty as you were when first we met.”
“Oh, nonsense, you flatterer. She is much prettier than ever I was. You’re so old your memories are muddled; you must confuse me with another.”
“Indeed not. I remember everything about you. I trust you’ll think of me now and again,” Luke said.
“Indeed. If ever I need a handsome rake or a witty, enigmatic gentleman in a book, my thoughts turn to you.”
“I’m honored.” He lifted her gloved hand and kissed her palm.
“I must return to my family. Your behavior will give rise to talk, and I fear I have drunk enough to become maudlin.”
“Very well.” He escorted her back to her mother and Cassandra and conversed politely with them of the size of room and the number of dancers.
He made his bow and left, and Jane watched him depart, as she had so many times before, it seemed. Had he not told her once that every conversation they ever had ended with a farewell, certain they would never meet again? This time she was certain of it; she would meet him only in her imagination.
Cassandra clutched her hand. “So tell me, Jane, did he make you an offer?”
“What?”
“He kissed your hand. We both remarked upon it.”
“My dear,” her mother said, “you need not be shy with us. You are a grown woman and surely you know your own mind.”
“I do, ma’am, and there’s an end to it, tonight. Nothing more between us. It’s over.”
She reached for another glass of wine.
“Pray do not hover,” Jane said to her sister some hours later. “You remind me of a dragonfly.”
“Oh, if only we had a gentleman,” Cassandra said, looking around the ballroom as though she were ready to pounce upon the nearest male and demand an escort.
“What on earth for? I have a headache. Gentlemen usually cause them.” Jane pressed a glass of iced wine to her aching head. “I am quite capable of going downstairs on my own and having a footman send for the driver. No one will notice I have gone, and at my age surely I do not have any worries about my reputation. I have put in my appearance and stayed long enough to be civil.”
“Yes, but there is drinking down there,” Cassandra said.
“There’s drinking up here, too, much of it by me. Never fear, I can look after myself.” The pounding feet of the dancers formed a counterpoint to the thudding of her headache. She thought longingly of bed and rising early to write, of enjoying once more the calm routine she had craved for so many years.
“And I have no idea where Martha is,” Cassandra continued.
“Oh, pray do not concern yourself. She’s probably visiting Mrs. Chapple.”
“I know it is hard,” Cassandra said, pressing her sister’s hand.
“What is hard?”
“That your friend has deserted you for another. It seems she wants to spend every hour she can with Mrs. Chapple, and I can see it distresses you. But may I advise you, Jane? Your sarcasm will only drive her further away. She knows you are a good friend and will turn to you again. Mrs. Chapple cannot supplant you in her affections, I am sure.”
“I daresay you’re right. Does Anna dance still?” She peered into the tossing mass of dancers.
“I hope she does not overtire herself,” Cassandra said. “What energy the child has. She reminds me of you at seventeen.”
“Ah, I, too, was young and silly and pretty once. I shall leave before I give way to any embarrassing display of sentiments. Pray give our hosts my thanks and apologies, for I have not seen them in some time.”
She would not allow herself to dwell on what sort of activities might draw Dorcas and William away from a party in full swing. As she left the Gallery, stepping onto the crooked corridor that led to the staircase, she could tell the Damned took their pleasure nearby. Currents from the darkened part of the house spun around her, the pulse and spill of blood, desire, laughter—she forced them out of her mind and continued down the stairs.
A few lanterns stood in the flagstone hall, where a couple of footmen lounged on wooden settles, pots of ale in their hands. They jumped to their feet at her approach, the pots of ale placed out of sight on the floor, and she asked them to seek her cloak and bonnet and send for her driver.
A maid, somewhat rumpled and her face flushed with drink, led Jane to a side room where cloaks and bonnets hung from pegs or were laid upon a table. Jane had little trouble identifying her modest cloak and bonnet, but when she returned to the hall, Raphael stood there.
“Miss Austen, I fear your driver is somewhat the worse for drink.” He bowed, very correct.
“In that case, sir—”
“In that case, Miss Austen, may I drive you home? It is the task assigned to me this evening, for outside they have strong ale and a whole ox roasting, and I fear there will be some aching heads tomorrow.”
“That is most kind, sir.” She dipped a small curtsy. Let them duel to the end with civility, then.
A footman opened the door and she stepped outside. The scent of roast meat was strong in the air, and the sounds of good-natured, if somewhat tipsy, revelry came from the side of the house. A fiddle squeaked with energy if not accuracy. She tipped her head back to gaze at the stars. A good night, clear and bright; a good night to be alive and know that life would continue now with no great disturbance or passion, for as long as her mortal span allowed.
The stamp of a horse’s hoof on the gravel roused her from her reverie. Raphael stood waiting with a gig, and for the first time Jane felt at peace with him and offered him a
friendly smile. “I beg your pardon; I contemplate the heavens.”
He looked upward. “Yes, they change little. There is some comfort there.”
“You have seen them change?”
“Stars die in their time.” He held his hand out to assist her into the gig. “I trust you’ll be warm enough.”
“Oh, yes. It was a dreadful crush in there and the cool air is pleasant.” What a relief to have a normal conversation with him, although she found she looked aside, simply because the sight of him was too much pain and regret mixed with the pleasure. She willed herself to gaze at his strong profile and wave of silvery hair as he touched the whip to the horse and turned the vehicle. She placed her hand on his; they were both decently gloved, and she was grateful for it. “I do not wish us to part with bitterness, for part we must. William has released me.”
“Ah. As much as Creator and fledgling can be released.”
“He will not pursue me. I shall visit the Great House no more while William is tenant. Tonight I have said my farewells.” She removed her hand from his.
He nodded and flicked the whip to urge the horse into a trot.
“What shall you do, Raphael?”
“Continue with my scientific research and try to resist a metamorphosis as best I can.”
“You and I are alike then. We both plan to be busy. But shall you stay with William?”
“I don’t know.” They were almost at the cottage now. “For that matter, I don’t know if he intends to stay in Hampshire. He is becoming restless.” He reined the horse in. “Would it be improper to ask if I may write to you, Miss Austen?”
“Not at all improper, but I think probably not advisable. I wish we could have met under other circumstances.”
“I, too. But neither of us is willing to risk our soul, and quite rightly so, having escaped hellfire once.” He hooked the reins aside and stepped down to assist her from the gig. “Ah, well, Luke and I would probably have torn each other’s throats out over you. It’s for the best.”
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 17
