Jane and the Damned (5 page)

“Don‧t be afraid, Harris.”

He sighed and relaxed a little—oh heavens, it was so easy—but his heartbeat still thundered. His eyes became dreamy and still and he took a deep breath. A surrender.

She breathed onto his wrist, delaying the pleasure, and darted her tongue to his skin to feel the pulse.

The morning-room door opened. Shocked, she dropped Harris‧s wrist. His hand lay inert at his side.

“Good morning to you,” cried Mr. Bigg-Withers. “Why, what are you two about? Are you feeling quite well, Miss Jane? I heard you were taken ill and actually had to miss a dance. I‧m somewhat surprised to see you up and about so early. No, no, sit down, I beg you.” He tucked his newspaper beneath his arm and proceeded to carve himself some thick slices of ham. “You should be at your lessons, soon, Harris. Your tutor is looking for you. May I help you to another slice of ham, Miss Jane? By heavens, you are in good looks today, despite your indisposition. Do you not think so, Harris?”

“Thank you, sir,” she managed, severely disappointed, and her mouth watering.

Mr. Bigg-Withers placed another large slice of ham on Jane‧s plate. “There. From our own Berkshires—the best breed of pig, I always say.”

Harris blinked as though unsure of what had just happened. “Good morning, Papa.”

Jane stared at the slice of ham on her plate with loathing and listened to Harris and his father talk of his lessons and estate business, with much earnest discussion of a badger‧s sett that Harris had noticed on his walk. She dared a glance at the mirror on the wall—to her relief, she did indeed have a reflection—and saw that although pale, she was indeed in good looks. But then, their kind were noted for their beauty.

Or rather,
her
kind, for what had happened this morning left her in little doubt.

She pushed back her chair and stood; Harris and his father rose to their feet. “I beg your pardon, sirs. I am still not quite the thing. I must go home.”

“You should not have risen so early,” Cassandra said as they rode in the Bigg-Witherses’ carriage. She put her hand out to feel Jane‧s forehead and Jane shrugged away. She did not want to be touched, did not want to find herself privy to Cassandra‧s thoughts, and be reminded yet again of what she had become.

“You must rest on the sofa when we get home. I shall read to you if you like. Do you have the headache still?”

Jane closed her eyes. They were almost home now, and she knew the inhabitants of Steventon who were taking the air would notice the carriage and remark that the Austen sisters had come home earlier than usual. Soon they would have plenty to discuss over tea, or dinner tables, or card games.

And she was hungry, so hungry, yet she could barely take a mouthful of food. She dreaded Cassandra and their mother forcing delicacies upon her and being obliged to swallow small bites that stuck in her throat like sawdust. She feared she might lose control and bite her sister—oh, she could imagine it only too well, the hot, sweet pulse, the release, the gratification.

The carriage stopped. Last time she remembered descending from this carriage she had been a girl, distracted by the unhappiness of a rejected manuscript—how strange, she had barely thought of it since last night when everything changed—and now she was another creature entirely.

“We‧re home,” Cassandra said.

Jane gathered the cloth bag that held her overnight clothes
and stepped down from the carriage, slightly dizzy, to the familiar sight of the Rectory, her mother standing in the doorway.

“Why, Jane, what has happened?” her mother said. “You look most handsome, but ill … Come into the house.”

Jane evaded her mother‧s embrace and saw the hurt in her eyes. “I am unwell, I regret.”

She made her way into the drawing room and collapsed onto a chair, her eyes closed. Her mother called out to the servants for tea and hot bricks for Miss Jane‧s feet.

“Cassandra, what has happened to your sister?”

“I don‧t know, Mama. She swooned last night and we could not revive her for some time. She has been a little strange in her manner.”

Jane opened her eyes. “Ma‧am, I must talk to my father immediately.” She rose to her feet, clutching a chairback for support.

Cassandra darted forward. “Oh, Jane, my dear, I beg of you—will you not sit and rest? We can talk to Papa later; surely he must be busy—”

“I beg your pardon, I must speak to him alone.” Jane ignored her and headed down the passage to her father‧s study. She knocked and walked in, not waiting for a reply, and closed the door firmly behind her.

“My dear!” Mr. Austen rose as she entered and came around his desk to greet her. “So you are home, earlier than we expected. Is everything well? But no, I can tell it is not—”

“Sir, do not touch me!”

He hesitated and drew a chair forward for her. “Sit, Jane.” She remained standing. “Sir, I am one of the Damned. I have become a vampire.”

Her father sank back, propping himself against his desk. He took off his spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose, silent.

Jane braced herself against the closed door, as though expecting the wood to give her strength, pressingher palms against it, and saw branches reaching to the sky, heard the wind, and then the thud of the axe and rasp of the saw, smelled sap and leaves and sawdust…

“Do your mother and sister know?” Her father‧s voice was harsh, cold.

“No, sir.”

Her father straightened and retreated to the other side of his desk. He gestured to her to sit. “I trust this heinous act was committed against your will, that you didnot give in to temptation and the pleasures of the world. Who is responsible for this— your condition?”

“I am not a serving maid caught big-bellied, sir. I am responsible, as is a gentleman who called himself Mr. Smith.”

“The blackguard! I thought we were safe, here in Hampshire, from their kind.” His voice became kinder, although the hand
that gripped his pen on the desk was clenched hard. “My dear, forgive me if I am harsh. All know these creatures are full of wiles and temptations, and you have been in the world so little; how could you know what to expect? Had we known that any of their kind were to attend the assembly, of course we would never have permitted you to go.”

Her father reached for his brandy decanter and glasses and poured them each a glass. He sat at his desk looking older and diminished, his bright hazel eyes brimming with tears. “I do not want to lose you, my dear.”

“I am lost. I am damned.” She warmed the glass in her hands. It might be more palatable if warmed.

“What are we to do, Jane?”

“I don‧t know, sir.”

His eyes glittered; she sensed his fear and anger and helplessness. “Tell me, child, that Cassandra is untouched.”

“She is well. At the moment I still feel some family connections, but I fear the craving for blood is strong and becoming stronger.” Her mouth watered. “Sir, you must send me away.”

“Jenny …” He had not called her that since she was very young. “Jane, there is one way we can take. We shall go to Bath and you can take the cure.”

She nodded. The cure. If she did not fade away entirely from lack of sustenance, the waters at Bath might cure her; but the cure itself could kill. “It is a risky business,” she said. “I may not survive.”

“It is possible,” her father said. “I have heard you will become exceedingly ill, for the waters are poison to their kind.”

“To my kind.”

He flinched. “It is my duty. I could cast you out, send you to London to fare for yourself, to sink into dissipation and vice with them, but I will not lose you.” He picked up a knife to sharpen
his pen and regarded his trembling hands with dismay. “Some would say it would be the correct way to proceed. Tell me, Jane, this Mr. Smith did nothing more to you? No further violation?”

“No, sir.” Oh, the irony. What if he had? Everyone knew vampires could not carry diseases or bear children. As for her virtue, she might not survive long enough to congratulate herself on its preservation. “Allow me, sir.” She took the pen and knife from him, not wanting to embarrass him. If his hand slipped and he cut himself—but she could not think of that.

“I shall write to your aunt and uncle and send the letter on the next post,” her father continued, drawing a fresh sheet of paper toward himself. “We shall arrive tomorrow, shortly after they receive the letter. It is our only hope, but you will not be able to start the waters until Monday. What may we do to keep you alive, Jane?”

She took a deep breath to ward off unseemly laughter. “I need blood, sir.”

“Would our dinner suffice? In a raw state, that is?”

She handed him the sharpened pen and laid the knife on the desk. “I shall visit the kitchen, sir. I hope it will sustain me.”

He dipped the pen into his inkwell. “I know only a little of these matters, but I am sure time is of the essence. I fear by Monday it may be too late, but we must try.”

She sat and listened to the scratch of his pen and, although she tried not to, the steady beat of his heart.

Mr. Austen sprinkled sand on the letter, folded it, and held a stick of sealing wax to melt over the candle on his desk. The wax dropped, heavy and liquid, scarlet, onto the creamy paper. He sealed it with his signet ring and turned it over to address it.

“I cannot thank you enough, sir, for all you do for me.”

“You may repay me by becoming well and proceeding with your writing.” He tapped the letter on his desk. “I shall talk to
your mother and Cassandra and you must begin packing for Bath. I expect you will want to buy a few new things when you‧re better.”

“Yes, I look forward to it.” She smiled, sustaining the pretense that the cure would be successful and that the trip would become the usual sort of Bath visit—shopping and plays and concerts. Her father knew as well as she that the more her condition advanced, the more dangerous and painful the waters would prove. She knew too that the longer she went without blood, the weaker she would become. He might lose his daughter yet.

She left the study and found Cassandra and her mother in the morning room, both of them settled with tea and sewing, talking of the ball. They fell silent as she entered the room.

“Well, now, Jane!” Her mother reached for the teapot. “Some tea will set you up, I am sure.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, no, ma‧am. Father wishes to see you, if you please.”

Her mother and sister exchanged a long, eloquent look before they busied themselves in putting sewing and teacups aside. They glanced at her with mingled concern and hurt that she had chosen to confide in Mr. Austen first, and apprehension at the undoubted severity of what had happened.

She watched them leave and tap at the door of her father‧s study, and then went upstairs to the small parlor between her bedchamber and Cassandra‧s. Her manuscript, still neatly tied with string, lay where she had left it.

She pulled at the knots, wishing her sailor brother Edward was there to help her, and the stout hemp cord snapped in her hands. Her newfound strength horrified her.

She read and turned a page. It could have been written by a stranger. Had she written those words, read them aloud to friends and family? She remembered the delight and laughter
her words had caused, but she might as well have been reading, or attempting to read, something in Latin. The words were familiar, but the phrasing, the sentences, did not make sense.

With an impatient gesture she flung the pages aside. She yearned for fresh air—this was odd, surely. Did not the Damned of London sin all night and sleep the day away? But she must guard her strength. In three days she would take the cure and she must not exert herself, for if she did she would require sustenance.

She wandered downstairs, hoping to take solace in music, but as soon as she touched the keys she was assailed by visions of great gray beasts, the elephants from whom the ivory had been taken, moving in stately procession along a wide, flat landscape of high golden grass broken by an occasional graceful tree. And the notes sounded wrong; her hearing had sharpened, making her aware of infinitely subtle faults in the tuning of the pianoforte.

She would walk; she would find the solace she craved. Snatching her hat and cloak from the row of pegs near the front door, she let herself out. A cat, lurking outside to gain entrance to the house, fluffed up its tail and arched its back, hissed, and fled from her.

“Unfriendly creature. I‧ll have your blood for your bad manners,” she muttered, and wondered whether she was serious.

She set out away from the house, onto a favorite walk where she and Cassandra gathered blackberries and hazelnuts in season, the hedgerows now frozen into a tangle of bare branches and tattered leaves. A few birds whistled in the gloom. The sun was low in the sky and the promise of darkness had to be responsible for the surge of energy in her limbs. She turned aside to climb a stile into a meadow, and instead of using the wooden steps—skirts modestly tucked around her ankles—ran and vaulted over, with
a rip of fabric. She landed clumsily, exhilarated, and a series of thumps and scampers of small furred bodies toward shelter told her she had disturbed rabbits at their evening feed.