Jane and the Damned (14 page)

Mrs. Burgess took the cleaver from her. “I’ll do that, Miss Austen. They’re not letting anyone into the city and they say the countryside swarms with French troops, Miss Jane, so heaven only knows when we can buy fresh stuff again.”

“I have been invited to dine by Mr. Venning and his sister,” Jane said, “so you do not have to worry about my share.”

“Oh, was that the young man who escorted you and Papa home?” Cassandra said. “Papa said he was very droll and a physician by profession. Is he handsome?”

“Quite handsome and his sister is most amiable.” Jane measured flour into the bowl of the scales, tipped it into the mixing bowl, and then weighed a block of lard. Calculating the amount she needed, she cut it off and chopped the fat into small pieces in the flour. How easy it was to lie, or tell a half truth. She wasn’t quite sure what Clarissa’s relationship with Luke Venning was, for she was fairly sure the Damned did not marry—on the contrary, they were notorious for their lax morals and disdain for the married state. She was also fairly sure that Luke and Clarissa were not related. But “brother and sister,” however unlikely that
might be, was a relationship that could be accepted with ease by the Austen family and thus define Clarissa and Luke as fit company for a gentlewoman.

Close by, the cleaver fell with a splinter of bone and spatter of blood.

“You should go and write after we’ve helped Mrs. Burgess,” Cassandra said. “You’ve scarce talked of your writing. Is it because you don’t feel well?”

“Partly, although today I feel better.” Upstairs, her manuscript lay in its brown paper wrapping. She dreaded having to look at those pages, remembering how unintelligible they seemed the last time she had looked at them at home in Hampshire. “It is difficult to think of our usual occupations at such a time, but I suppose we must do so.”

“I wish we could persuade our mother of that,” Cassandra said. “I shall do my best to make her dress and come down to dinner. I think it will help Papa.”

Household duties completed—Jane thought it was more that Mrs. Burgess found them only of limited use in the kitchen, and Betty had returned from the garden with an armful of cabbage and a basket of eggs, ready to be put to work—she and Cassandra went upstairs to the morning room. Cassandra picked up her sewing and Jane stared at her manuscript, turning the pages over. Now and again Cassandra glanced at her.

“You are not yourself,” Cassandra said. “Normally you talk and smile to yourself or scribble notes. Maybe you should put it aside.”

Jane rested her forehead on her hands, elbows on the table. “It is as though someone else wrote it, and not well. It does not make sense. I don’t know what to do.”

“Perhaps you could start something else? Maybe you need a change.” Cassandra rose and lit a candle from the fireplace.

Jane nodded and drew a sheet of fresh paper toward her. She sharpened a pen, dipped it into the ink, and sat staring at the blank page.

“Remember, you told me several weeks ago, when we were reading that letter from our aunt and uncle, of the idea of a novel set in Bath,” Cassandra continued. “Maybe something gothic. I remember how we laughed about the silliness of some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s books, yet we agreed that we always felt compelled to read to the end. And you said—”

Jane stood. “I—I don’t think I feel well. I shall go upstairs. No, I shall do perfectly well on my own. Please do not concern yourself.” She ran out of the room and up the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber, noting that she was not at all out of breath, and sank onto her bed.

She couldn’t write. She couldn’t talk freely to her sister, and, what was worse, yearned to be a few streets away with her own kind. She longed for nightfall. She stiffened as she heard footsteps on the stairs—not Cassandra; she would know her tread. Almost certainly a woman’s, for she could hear the rustle of skirts.

It was Betty. She could recognize her scent. The maid paused outside the room and tapped at the door.

“Enter,” Jane called.

Betty entered with a cup of tea. “Miss Austen said I should bring you this and see if you needed help in changing your gown.”

“Thank you. Put the tea on the table.”

“My mouth hardly pains me at all, Miss Jane.”

“Good.” Her voice sounded harsh and unfriendly. “You may unlace my gown.” She did not dare face Betty. It would be so easy to trap the girl here, drink from her—she could hear the pounding of Betty’s heart and smell her warmth.

“That’s a very pretty gown, miss.”

“Yes.” She held her breath as Betty dropped the gown over her head and tied the two laces, one at her neck and one at the waist. She could turn and grasp her, slake her hunger. Other than a little weakness after, Betty would never need to know.

“You look most elegant, miss.”

“Thank you. Go.” Jane turned her head to the window, willing darkness to fall.

“Yes, Miss Jane.” A rustle of fabric, a breath, and Betty turned and left the room.

An hour later Jane, her pass tucked securely into her stays, left the house again. Her father had come downstairs, complimented her on her looks and offered to escort her. She forced a smile, looked into his eyes, and told him with great firmness she had no need of an escort. Her father meekly called for a chair and allowed his daughter to leave the house in the dark of the early evening in a city full of an occupying army. Little did he know that any stray soldier would be in more danger from this elegantly dressed lady than she from him. Her canines extended. She was hungry, so hungry.

She reversed her
en sanglant
as she stepped up to the front door of Luke’s house, once again its every room glowing with candlelight and full of the sound of music and laughter. The footman asked her to wait in the hall.

After a little while Luke came down the stairs, wearing a coat and breeches but with his shirt open at the neck. He looked at her and nodded as though finding her appearance satisfactory.

“Yes, indeed, the headdress is a new style,” Jane said with an elaborate curtsy. “Most kind of you to admire it so, sir. My sister thought I should add more feathers but instead I used the silk flowers, and I think it most elegant—”

“Come with me.” His stern look cut off her facetious chatter.
He opened the door to the dining room and ushered her inside, shrugging his coat off. He unbuttoned his cuff. “Drink.”

With a whimper of relief she grabbed his wrist and bit, rewarded by a surge of blood that thrilled through her body. Just one gulp, and Luke lifted her chin away. “Enough.”

She only just remembered to breathe on the incisions and lick the wound clean. He nodded and wiped her chin with his thumb. “Thank you,” she said, confused. Was that all she would be allowed?

“Good.”

“Luke, is this some sort of game we play, that I speak, and you answer with one word? I assure you I am able to talk at great length, but such an unequal conversation may bore me. I—”

“Let me explain, Jane. You are to dine upstairs tonight in company, and I need the edge to be taken from your hunger so that you do not shame me or yourself.”

“You mean, I have to drink from someone I do not know in the drawing room? In front of everyone?”

“Oh, you’ll know the person quite well by the time you have finished, I should think.” He smiled. “Or as much as you care to. I assure you no one will take much notice; the others will be busy too.”

“But—that’s shocking.” She had a fairly good idea what sorts of activities would keep them busy.

“So shocking you are
en sanglant
again.” He pulled two chairs out from the wall and placed them together. “Sit.”

He took the chair next to her and undid another button on the ruffled placket of his shirt, tilting his head away from her. “Do be careful not to get blood on my shirt, Jane.”

“You want me to bite your neck?” She was appalled, ravenous, afraid.

“Oh, yes—yes, if you please,” he breathed, in a parody of genteel
surrender, and winked at her. “Now, gently, Jane, do not chomp at me, if you please. Put your lips on my neck first. Ah.” He gave a long sigh.

“You are laughing at me.”

“No, I assure you I am not.” He had achieved full
en sanglant;
his eyes were bright and his scent filled her nostrils.

“Where do I put my hand?”

“What a question to ask a gentleman. First, allow me to place your fan aside, so. On my other shoulder will do quite nicely, although if you wish to—”

“I believe you are not entirely indifferent to my intentions.” She blew gently on his neck and saw him shiver.

“And why should I not enjoy it, my dear Jane? I find bearleading to be a tedious occupation. I deserve some reward.”

She gazed at his neck, at the pale skin with a hint of stubble where his razor had missed a spot. She had never been so close to a gentleman before—but of course she had, when William had created her, although she remembered it only as a swirl of confusing, startling pleasure.

“Don’t be afraid,” Luke said. “You decide when you are to bite. Slowly. Allow your canines to sink in; it’s easier than a wrist, the skin is softer. Ah, very good.”

She whimpered as his blood flowed onto her tongue, a sweet flood of power, before pulling away. She breathed on his neck, licking the last drops. “I can’t drink any more from you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re so sad.”

He grinned and wrapped an arm around her waist. “On the contrary, my dear, I am quite cheered at the moment.”

“Consider the gravitas of your position as my Bearleader, sir.”

“You are quite right. I am behaving disgracefully.” He released her, and pulled his shirt front straight.

“Not a drop spilled,” she said, cheered by her success.

“Excellent. Now remember that if the person is excited, which invariably he will be, the blood will pulse. Take care not to choke, and pray he has not eaten onions recently.” He handed her her fan.

“How will I know when to stop?”

“You’ll know. If you seem a little too, ah, enthusiastic, I shall let you know. I shall be nearby.” He rose and, pulling his coat on, walked to the sideboard, where a decanter of wine and wineglass stood. “Some Madeira? Now, others will be dining when you enter the drawing room. Pray do not express too much interest; it will be considered excessively vulgar. In particular you must avoid meeting the eye of one who dines, for he or she will consider it a request to join. Since you are a fledgling it would be monstrously improper of you to solicit an invitation thus, and you should await for one senior to you to make a proper introduction—”

“Good heavens!” cried Jane, nearly choking on her wine. “It reminds me of a Basingstoke assembly!”

“As I was saying: if, on the other hand, another of us invites you to join, it is considered proper to accept, for it is a high honor. If you wish to decline, you may do so by bowing your head and dropping a curtsy.”

“And at what point should I remove my gloves?” Jane asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

Luke shot her a stern glance. “If one of the mortals requests you dine from him or her, you must be careful they do not ask to stir up trouble between us. Some of our group are jealous of mortals they consider their own.” He added, “Unless it is Ann, for she is with the household, although Clarissa tends to regard her as her property. Apparently Ann has a certain way of darning stockings that is most rare.”

“I see,” Jane said, again suppressing a smile. “But she does not darn stockings while one dines upon her, I think.”

“Indeed not.” Luke took her empty wineglass and held the dining-room door open. “Let us proceed to your debut among the Damned. By the by, George told me he very much enjoyed meeting you. It is good for him to have the company of another fledgling.”

“I must admit, I liked him better than I should have expected.”

“Oh, he’s a good enough fellow.”

They started up the stairs.

“How is Margaret? Is she recovered?”

“She is well enough, I believe.” Luke’s voice was cold and formal once more, his playfulness gone. He walked ahead of her into the drawing room, and a woman ran forward and grasped her hands, leaning to whisper in his ear. He put her aside and gestured with his head for Jane to follow him.

The woman gazed at Jane with curiosity, but most of the other occupants of the room, intimately twined together in groups of two or three, gave her only the most cursory of glances. She was careful to keep her gaze modestly lowered. To her relief she could not see William although she knew that almost certainly he was nearby.

“Luke bearleads her,” she heard someone say. “It is most good of him to take her on.”

“Ah, she is the one who fancies William is the one who created her. She aims high.” An insinuating laugh.

She raised her head and followed Luke across the room. He stood with someone who looked familiar, although it took her a moment to recognize him in evening clothes and not regimentals. He was one of the few men in the drawing room who wore a neckcloth. He bowed low over her hand. “Miss Austen, the pastrycook. Your servant, ma’am.”

“Colonel Poulett! How delightful to meet you again. Do you come to talk tactics with Luke?”

“Heavens, no, ma’am. I abide by the terms of the truce.” He winked at her. “But Venning suggested I offer my services to you.”

“Your services?” she repeated.

“Indeed, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “That is, my blood.”

Her canines shot out and Luke glared at her.

“I beg your pardon,” she muttered, restoring her canines to their normal state.

“If you’ll have me, that is, ma’am. When I was younger I frequently indulged myself, but of late … Well, Luke thought you might be more comfortable with me rather than one of the others.” He smiled, but she could see he was ill at ease. “Do have me, ma’am.”

“That is most considerate,” Jane said. “Shall we sit? You realize, I hope, that I am somewhat inexperienced, but Luke will be nearby to make sure no harm comes to you.”

Poulett threw up his hands. “Good heavens, ma’am, I trust you implicitly. You are a gentlewoman!”

“And a vampire.” She sat on a nearby sofa and after a moment’s hesitation Poulett sat next to her and untied his neckcloth. He unbuttoned his coat, waistcoat, and the placket of his shirt with a determined, if not enthusiastic air. Jane sighed. Was she destined to drink from reluctant military men? She wished she had not thought of the French soldier at that moment.