Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (12 page)

Chapter 12

T
he next day dawned bright and clear, and to the relief of the household, Mrs. Austen rose from her bed.

Jane, after a most satisfying few hours at her writing desk, emerged refreshed and cheerful to find what the rest of the family were doing. Mrs. Austen, having decided that the garden would be too wet for her to do any work outside that day, sat in the parlor, busy at her needlework. Martha, it turned out, had gone to call on Mrs. Chapple.

“Who is Mrs. Chapple?” Jane asked.

“The housekeeper at the Great House. Doubtless Martha has gone to exchange recipes.”

“Oh, that’s right, Mrs. Kettering’s housekeeper. Hmm,” Jane said. Martha was a grown woman; her activities should be of no concern to Jane, to whom it was perfectly obvious that recipes were not what drew her to the Great House. “I shall go to meet her there. And what are you and Anna up to, this fine day?”

“We shall visit Miss Benn.”

“You look in fine fettle today, miss,” Jane said, pinching her niece’s cheek. “It’s early yet, so I hope you are up to no mischief.”

“Hardly at all, Aunt,” Anna said with a smile. “A few assignations, a handful of love letters—nothing out of the ordinary.”

Jane couldn’t help laughing, even though her niece’s remark was a little too close to the truth for comfort. She decided to accompany them to Miss Benn’s house, since it was on the way to the Great House.

Anna insisted on taking a handful of crumbs for the geese and ducks in the pond at the crossroads, a gesture Jane found endearing. She watched her niece laugh at the birds’ antics and at the pug’s excited barks. Anna was little more than a child, still.

“Oh, to be young again,” Cassandra said. “Do you ever wish for that, Jane?”

“Sometimes. I hope I grow wise as I grow older. You do, I am sure.” She linked her arm in Cassandra’s. “The child will be all over mud again.”

I
f she and Cassandra had not had a wealthy brother, this is how they would have lived: poor, dark lodgings crammed with too much furniture, the relics of happier and easier times. Miss Mary Benn rose from her chair to greet them with cries of delight, her needlework laid aside.

“Why, Miss Anna, you have grown into such a pretty young lady. And Miss Austen and Miss Jane, you must take tea. What a pleasure to see you all! And is this little dog yours, Miss Anna? What a fine fellow he is indeed.”

“Our brother Edward sent us some tea and we have brought you some; it is very good. We thought we must share our bounty with our neighbors,” Jane said. Tea was a luxury for Miss Benn, and the fabrication of a gift a way the Austens might help her without hurting her pride.

“Most generous indeed!” Miss Benn reached for the kettle that simmered at the hearth, and Anna hastened to help her. Miss Benn’s hands, clad in mittens that were for warmth as well as an attempt at fashion (for her lodgings were cold and damp), were swollen and twisted. A tray containing a teapot and cups of fine china, carefully preserved from Miss Benn’s more prosperous days, stood nearby.

“So you have heard the news?” Miss Benn asked. “My maid Fanny has told me highwaymen attacked a carriage on the London Road the night before last. A most important gentleman, an intimate of the Prince of Wales, so they say, and a lady . . .” She colored slightly, which Jane took to mean that the gentleman’s companion was probably not a lady and certainly not a wife or relative. “Is that not shocking? All dead, even the horses, they say. What sort of times are these? Although if he was a friend of the Prince I regret to say he could not be a very good sort of man.”

“Highwaymen!” Cassandra echoed. “I thought the profession had almost died out. Well, that part of the road was always thought to be notoriously unsafe.”

“Indeed, yes. I remember my father used to speak of it. But now the whole village is abuzz with the news, and you know how superstitious the common people are hereabouts.”

Miss Benn broke off her reminiscences to instruct Anna to offer the pug a saucer of milk, at which he lapped noisily.

“Why, what do the common people say?” Jane asked.

“My dear, they believe that fiends are among us, or ghosts, or some such nonsense. Is not that true, Fanny?”

Miss Benn’s maid, who had just come in with more coals for the fire, nodded. “Oh, ’tis true, ma’am. They say they’ll suck your blood and drag you down to hell, so no one must go out at night. Why, even the menfolk going for ale and shove ha’penny at the inn won’t walk alone after dark. It’s not safe, ma’am. And they say”—she looked around as though a supernatural creature were ready to burst out of the cupboard—“they say them up at the Great House are to blame.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Miss Benn said. “These ladies have paid calls at the Great House, so Mr. Knight’s tenants must be respectable. Miss Jane, you tell her she is foolish to say such things.”

“Indeed, Fanny, you are mistaken,” Jane said. “But . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Fanny looked at her, one hand on her hip, eyebrows raised.

“But you should not be out after dark,” Jane said firmly. “You must stay here and make sure your mistress is comfortable and not encourage wild stories.”

“Miss Jane is quite right,” Miss Benn said. “Back to the kitchen with you, Fanny. But Miss Jane, what a very handsome reticule that is! Is that also a gift from Mr. Edward Knight?”

“No. Mrs. Kettering gave it to me,” Jane said. “She is sister-in-law to Mr. Fitzpatrick, our brother’s tenant at the Great House.”

To her annoyance, Cassandra and Miss Benn exchanged an arch glance and Anna giggled. Jane was tempted to produce the pistol and show her skill, but not wishing to destroy any of Miss Benn’s beloved possessions (the milk jug, though; that had a crack and Jane was sure they could replace it with one of their own), she merely smiled and, making the excuse that she had another call to make, left the cottage.

When she arrived at the Great House, she went to the servants’ entrance at the side of the house. Almost certainly William knew she was there, but meeting her Creator after threatening to kill him would be exceedingly awkward. She was still too angry to apologize, yet as she neared the house anger was replaced by a familiar yearning and the stirrings of hunger. It was as Raphael had said: the very presence of the Damned heightened and intensified her body’s urge to return to being one of them.

The door stood open, and she stepped inside a dim hall lined with flagstones. The murmur of voices and clink of utensils and the scent of cooking food indicated that she was near the kitchen. The housekeeper in a house of this size would almost certainly remain aloof, keeping to her own room or suite of rooms that included living and working quarters.

Jane passed the kitchen, catching a glimpse of people hard at work—unless the Damned entertained that night, very little of the food would be eaten. A woman pushed stuffing inside a large fish, and at the table another rolled out a creamy sheet of pastry.

“May I help you, miss?” One of the handsome footmen, carrying a basket of greens, stepped from a doorway a little ways ahead.

“If you please, I’m looking for Mrs. Chapple and Miss Lloyd who pays a call on her.”

“Mrs. Chapple’s here, miss. I’ll show you. I don’t know if any other ladies came to call, though.”

He turned on his heel and led her farther down the passage. He was not in livery, for he was at work downstairs, but he wore a leather apron over breeches and shirt. Jane found herself admiring his broad shoulders and strong thighs and chided herself for her indecent thoughts. Yes, she could blame it on Damnation, but more and more, particularly in this house, Jane of the Damned and Miss Jane Austen blurred and blended.

“In here, miss,” the footman said, pointing to a doorway. His smile indicated that he had guessed her thoughts. “Half a crown, miss,” he said to her softly, “for anything you fancy. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Jane’s face burned. “Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. Here, in this house, she was most definitely one of the Damned.

She tapped at the door. In the room, Mrs. Chapple—Jane recognized her now—stood at a scrubbed table, tipping the contents of a jar onto the pan of a set of scales. Whole cloves, sharp and fragrant, rattled as they fell.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The housekeeper picked a few cloves out and returned them to the jar and pushed home a cork. She tipped the spices into a small crock the size of her fist. “It’s Miss Austen, is it not?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I came to find my friend Martha Lloyd.”

“Miss Lloyd? Why, she left some time ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to have missed her. She must have gone home.”

The woman nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I have business in the kitchen.” She picked up the crock that held the cloves, considering. “I believe she went upstairs.”

“Upstairs!” Jane echoed. So her suspicions were correct.

Mrs. Chapple gestured to her right. “Continue this way, ma’am, and you’ll reach the staircase.” She ushered Jane out of the room and lifted the chatelaine at her waist, which held a variety of keys, and locked the door. “Good day to you.”

Jane murmured a farewell and continued along the passage and then up the stairs. At the first landing she paused. She could hear no one in the house. When she turned to her right, she found herself at the end of the long Gallery and took the doorway that led to the parlor. The door stood ajar. Jane could hear the sound of sobbing.

She rushed inside to find Martha huddled in an armchair in the small extension at the end of the room, where only a few nights earlier she had come across William and Luke together.

“Martha, my dear!” Jane ran to her. “Oh, what has happened to you?”

But she knew; Martha’s clothing was in disarray, her bosom half exposed, and, to Jane’s annoyance, one of her—Jane’s—silk stockings collapsing around her ankle.

“You borrowed my stockings again!” Jane said, fury replacing fear.

“You don’t have anyone to wear them for,” Martha said. “Why are you here?”

“After what happened last time, I was afraid for you. But why are you crying?”

Martha wiped her face. “I—I want to go home.” She stood, and then collapsed back into the chair, giggling. “Heavens, I must have drunk too much.”

“Or he did.” So she needed to be revived, and to Jane’s annoyance Tom was nowhere in sight. “Why has he left you here alone?”

“Well.” Martha’s face took on a slight tinge of pink. “He and I—well, we sat and conversed here for a little, and then we went to another room—”

To his bedchamber, Jane supposed. “What did he do?”

“What do you think?”

“I am quite sure I know what you mean, but why do you cry?”

“Another lady came to call. She—she was rude to me. And Tom laughed. And then Tom undid her gown and she asked if I wished to join them. And I said no. So I came back here to sit down and I do feel so very weak and foolish. I thought he liked me, Jane.”

“My dear.” Jane patted her hand. “He does like you, I am sure, or as much as one of the Damned is able to feel for one of us. I fear he may like your blood better than any other of your charms.”

“That is unkind!” Martha pushed herself up a little straighter in the chair and attempted to straighten her gown.

Jane knelt to help her, and the scent of blood and spent pleasure made her dizzy. “I believe you need to be revived. You will feel better then.”

She found a bellpull by the fireplace and tugged on it, angered by Tom’s behavior. After some time, a footman entered and Jane ordered him to bring some wine.

She paced the room, knowing that what she must do would be disturbing. She did not dare try to use her own blood, even though her canines had once again assumed that disconcerting sharpness and rubbed painfully against her lip. When the footman returned, she took a sip of the wine herself for courage and, telling Martha that she would return soon, left the room.

She stood outside, concentrating, listening, half annoyed and half grateful that her condition was not yet so advanced that she could scent one of the Damned in the act of dining. And then she heard a sound, a muffled laugh, an intimate whisper from one of the rooms, the same room where Duval had assaulted Anna.

She knocked and threw the door open at the same time, to find Tom and a young woman together, sprawled sated on the bed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on!” Jane said, trying to look away. It had been some years since she had last encountered a gentleman in a state of undress.

“Who’s this?” The girl’s voice was slurred, and she ran a proprietary hand down Tom’s chest. “How many old women pursue you, my dear?”

“Be quiet, miss!” Jane held out the glass to Tom. “If you please. Not only have you hurt Martha’s feelings, but you have left her alone and in need of revival. It was most unmannerly, sir.”

He frowned. “I offered her further hospitality, my dear Jane. Jane, may I introduce you to Miss . . . so sorry, my sweet, I have quite forgotten your name.”

“I am Arabella!” the young woman snapped.

“Dear, dear, Tom, have you dined so zealously your memory is affected?” Jane waved the glass in his face. “A drop of blood, sir, and I shall bother you no more, and you may exercise your charms upon Miss Arabella’s person again.”

“You are an infernal nuisance, Jane.” Sighing heavily, Tom sat up and raised his wrist to his mouth. Arabella stared at his canines digging into the pale skin and released a faint moan when his blood welled. She leaned forward, lips parted, but Tom pushed her away. “Later, my love.”

A delicious scent rose from the one drop of blood that fell into the wineglass. Jane hoped she did not look as avid and helpless as Arabella, but the sight of Tom’s blood made her almost groan with hunger.

“You refused my blood the last time,” Tom said. “I am not offended. Come, Jane. Join us. Your friend can wait. Arabella will not mind, will you, my dear? You’ll like her taste, Jane.”

She took a step toward the bed, her canines sharp against her lip before she came to her senses and stopped. Arabella leaned to lick Tom’s arm and sagged against him, her eyes rolling back in her head.