Jane and the Damned (33 page)

“They say it‧s fast.” Mr. Thomas took her hand, partly for balance, as they stood in the cart, but mostly for comfort. He looked somewhat the worse for wear, the lenses of his spectacles cracked, bruises fading on his face.

From his touch she knew he was afraid, desperately worried for the wife and children he would leave behind, for his business had been seized, and there was no one to support them or protect them from arrest. Jane squeezed his hand back, sympathizing with his distress.

“Are you ill?” he asked. “I thought your kind did not sicken. I remember the first time you shook my hand, you had a grip like a vise.”

“I have not dined for some time. I am weak. Help me stand, Mr. Thomas. I do not want to appear frightened.”

The other occupants of the cart, a woman Jane had not seen before and the elderly aristocratic gentleman, stood in shocked silence. As she had guessed, she had been imprisoned at the Assembly Rooms, along with the other condemned prisoners, but she had no idea what had happened to the very respectable shopkeeper
or the woman with the basket. She wondered what would happen to Polly and the other prisoners at the Riding School, how soon they would stand trial. She tipped her head back to look at the sky, full of scudding dark clouds driven by a biting wind.

“The guns are closer now,” she said. “Have you heard any news?”

“I doubt English troops will gallop in to rescue us as the blade is about to fall,” Mr. Thomas said. “That is the stuff of novels and fantasy.”

“Some novels, sir.” How odd to have a literary discussion in the cart that was about to take them to their death, surrounded by French troops. “It would be an excellent scene in a play, do you not agree? For in the novels I should like to read, mostly the characters talk of such things, for they are the ones who are left at home, remaining steadfast, while others seek adventure and bold deeds.”

“Ah, the sort of book a lady would read.”

“Or write,” Jane said. “Sir, if you wish to pray, I shall stop my chatter.”

He squeezed her hand again and bowed his head.

One of the soldiers clambered aboard the cart and picked up the reins, making a clucking noise with his tongue to encourage the horse forward. Ahead of them, General Renard sat astride a spirited black horse that sidled and pranced as they moved forward, away from the Assembly Rooms and down Bartlet Street, making their way to the Pump Yard, where the executions were to take place.

People lined the street—some curious, most excited and shouting. Clods of filth and stones rained down on the cart.

“Why do they do this?” the woman standing next to Jane demanded. She had a French accent and a ravaged beauty despite
her chopped-off hair. “I come here to escape, I think it is safe here. Now it is not.”

On the horizon Jane saw a puff of smoke and heard the crash of artillery fire coming from the direction of the London Road. She could not allow herself to hope that she might be saved, but if the fighting lasted another day, and the French were defeated, maybe her family would live.

“I never liked you English,” the Frenchwoman said to Jane. Her face was bleeding from a cut.

“We‧ve never liked the French much, particularly now,” Jane said, distracted by the scent of blood, the woman‧s fear and vulnerability. What difference would it make if she were to dine on this stranger now? Yet it seemed absurd to quarrel with someone when they were both about to die. She raised a hand to ward off a particularly loathsome missile that flew toward the cart and bounced it off onto the head of one of the soldiers.

“What the devil is going on ahead?” The other occupant of the cart, the stooped, elderly man, who had coronets embroidered on the cuffs of his shirt, directed Jane‧s gaze. A great cloud of smoke hung in the sky over the city and Jane caught the scents of gunpowder and fear and panic.

“Our troops are here!” she shouted. “A
bas les français!”

“They‧re coming in on the Bristol Road!” someone called from the bystanders.

Renard reined in his horse and ordered his men to silence the prisoners, for the crowd now surged around the cart, their disdain and missiles directed toward the French soldiers. The cart slowed almost to a halt as people surrounded it, packed so closely the French could not pull their weapons.

The driver cursed and wielded his whip on the crowd and the horse‧s back, so that they set off again at a lurch, the escort running to keep up as Renard urged his horse to a canter. The
crowd fell back to let Renard and the cart pass, but then followed behind, a mob that was now becoming ugly. Filth and cobblestones showered onto the heads of the French troops; those who fell were trampled underfoot.

They turned into the Pump Yard, now a battlefield, the air thick with smoke and filled with men fighting hand to hand. A platform was erected outside the Abbey again, but this time it held the guillotine, the wooden structure twice the height of a man, looming out of the smoke. A pale winter sunlight illuminated the huge, deadly blade suspended above.

Renard, sword in hand, rallied his troops, leaving the cart unguarded but in danger from flying shot. Jane shouted to her companions to get down, and as she pushed the Frenchwoman to her knees, the woman cursed at her, screaming that she wanted to go home to Paris, away from these barbarous English. Jane supposed that the woman might look back on it, were she to live, and appreciate the irony.

Jane raised her bound hands and bit through the rope, then jumped from the cart, snatching a sword from a wounded soldier. As she did so a flash of red fire and a deafening explosion lifted the guillotine and blew it into fragments in a great cloud of smoke. Jane found herself on the ground in a singing silence.

Someone stood over her. She groped for the sword but it was not there.

The man‧s mouth moved but all she heard was the ringing in her ears.

He dropped to his knees beside her.

Jane. Jane, I am here. Jane, my love.

“You—you bastard. Where have you been?” She struggled to her feet, Luke holding her arm. He looked tired, his face dirty and covered with stubble.

Look.

He pointed to the top of the Abbey, where the
tricouleur
slid down the flagpole and the Union Jack was raised in its place, flapping in the wind. The sound returned to her, a great outcry of cheers and shouts, and hats flew into the air.

“We did it, by God, we did it!” Mr. Thomas, his ruined spectacles discarded or lost and blood spatters on his shirt, waved a sword in the air. “Miss Austen, I‧d best get back to my shop, to see my family and find my spare pair of spectacles. It has been an honor and a privilege. Ma‧am, sir.” He bowed to them and left.

The discarded French flag floated from the top of the Abbey in a leisurely, graceful descent, coming to rest on the body of Renard, who lay dead, eyes staring blankly at the city he had lost.

A British officer rode up, a weary young man with a great beak of a nose, his uniform stained and torn. “Venning, get that woman out of here.”

“She‧s one of us. Miss Austen, may I introduce Colonel Wellesley.”

“Your servant, ma‧am. Venning, you‧ll dine with the other officers tonight.”

“I don‧t believe so, Wellesley.”

“You damned Damned—pardon me, ma‧am. No discipline at all.” The colonel saluted Jane and wheeled his horse away.

“My family has been arrested—”

“No, they‧re safe. William persuaded them to move to other lodgings under a false name.”

Jane shook her head. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

“I know. I am sorry for it, but that you were able to hear me at all was remarkable for a fledgling. When we have put thoughts into each other‧s minds we have been closer to each other, and with other senses involved. William feared more knowledge would endanger you or possibly all of us.”

“William?
What of you, Luke? Are you so easily persuaded?”

“He is your Creator and mine, and has authority. There were other reasons too. You will understand, Jane.”

“No. I do not understand.” A sob burst from her. She turned her head aside, ashamed that she wept in front of him.

“When did you dine last?”

“With you.” She rubbed her face, aware that she smeared smoke and grit into her skin.

Without a word he led her to the shelter of a nearby doorway and offered her his wrist, safe in the circle of his arms while the citizens of Bath picked over the battlefield, searching for their dead, and Wellington‧s victorious regiment marched through the city. “Odd that you drink from me so close to the poisonous waters. So it happened the first time too.” His fingers traced her face. “This? Any other hurts?”

She winced, gulped greedily, and swallowed. “A stone. That was before they started throwing them at the French.”

“That‧s enough. I don‧t want you falling asleep.”

He frowned as she left a trail of blood on his cuff and presumably on her chin, for he wiped it with his thumb. “No manners. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“Not everything.” She met his gaze and held it, amorous from fatigue and shock and the richness of his blood.

“Ah. We‧ll go home.”

“And home is …?”

“The splendor of the Royal Crescent, with some very elegant French officers and their doxies as neighbors. Their soirees lasted almost as long as ours. I imagine they will have left by now.”

“Right under their noses!” She laughed in delight.

She would have liked a leisurely stroll across town arm in arm, talking lovers’ nonsense. In reality, it was a stroll through the margins of a battlefield, although most of the French soldiers they encountered were frightened and demoralized and more inclined
to run away. When they entered the Circus, a woebegone group of the enemy approached with a white flag, and Luke told them in no uncertain terms to find someone else to accept their surrender. His fearsome
en sanglant
drove his point home and they scattered.

They continued along Brock Street with some caution. The architects of the city intended this modest street to emphasize the sudden space and elegant proportions of the Crescent, but who knew what surprises might await them. Happily, the Royal Crescent showed no signs of fighting, although many houses showed signs of a hasty retreat: front doors flung open, and looters carrying out furniture and bottles of wine. Now Luke and Jane‧s progress was impeded by an impromptu celebration as men and women stopped them to demand that they drink toasts to the army and to the King.

Luke led Jane into one of the houses that was full of the Damned drinking champagne, most of them battle-stained and weary—after all, this was the time of day when generally their kind would rest. Many of them greeted Luke, in a variety of languages, and regarded Jane with curiosity.

A woman smiled at her. “I trust you remember me, Miss Jane Austen, who tastes of ripe apricots. I am delighted to see you again, and William tells me you have played a major part in the protection of His Highness.”

Smeared in dirt and blood, and wearing torn men‧s clothes, Sybil was worlds away from the elegant creature who had dazzled Jane at the Basingstoke Assembly. Jane offered her hand, gratified that her Creator had spoken well of her. “Indeed, yes, I‧m very fond of George.”

Sybil raised her eyebrows at Jane‧s familiarity, smiled, and moved away to talk to other members of the Damned.

Jane reached for a glass of champagne from a tray offered by a waiter, all of whom, she had noticed, were extremely goodlooking and would probably be available for more intimate forms of refreshments later in the evening.

“They tell me you were there when the cannons got the guillotine, miss,” the footman said with a shy smile. “And that you fought like a lion.”

“Why, Jack! I didn‧t recognize you in livery,” Jane said. “I think that‧s something of an exaggeration. But you‧ll be pleased to know that quite a bit of damage was done to the Abbey. I expect you‧ll have to repair your angel again.”

William pushed his way through the crowd. To Jane‧s surprise he bowed and bent over her hand (which she noticed, to her embarrassment, was filthy with dust and dried blood). “Welcome back,” he said. “The fledgling has proved her worth.”

“Lord, your hair‧s a mess, miss,” Ann said as she brandished a pair of scissors and a comb. “But then I wouldn‧t expect French soldiers to do much of a job. I‧ll tidy it up for you. You can‧t go to see Mr. William looking like that.”

“I have to see William?”

“Yes, and it‧s time to get dressed, if you please, ma‧am.”

So it was; it was already dark, but there was a glow outside. Jane got out of bed, for she had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and crossed to the window. Outside a great bonfire blazed on the field that gave the occupants of the Royal Crescent the illusion of pastoral life with the pleasures of the town a short chair‧s ride away. Dark figures danced around the fire, singing and brandishing bottles.

“So we‧ve won, miss,” Ann continued. “All the Royal Family safe, and the Frenchies on the run all through the country, so
I heard. I expect George will go back; ‘tis a pity, he gave me a guinea every time.”

“I shall miss him too,” Jane said. Despite the triumph of the day and the knowledge that her family was safe, she felt a weary sadness. Part of it, she knew, was that her abandonment by Luke was not fully explained, and her dream about writing lingered still. Of course George would return; she felt a pang that the man she had grown to like so much would become once again a plump, spoiled, dissolute figure of fun.

She listened to Ann chatter while her hair was dressed—a few combs and a spray of silk flowers hid much of the damage—she supposed it would grow again, for did not the male Damned shave? Clarissa had lent her a gown of gorgeous gray and gold silk that slithered and shimmered as she moved and a sumptuous pair of clocked stockings. Fan in hand, she descended to the drawing room, where Luke and William, handsome in their silk coats and breeches, greeted her with formal bows.

There was one other in the room: Margaret, who inclined her head to Jane with a look of scorn.

“You were betrayed,” William said.