Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (5 page)

“Anna?” she called.

There was no answer. She moved forward into the shadows, her step becoming soft and quiet, a huntress following her prey, and turned into the soft welcoming darkness of the hall.

She froze. A quiet sound, a breath, a sigh, came from beyond a closed doorway to her left. The room held no light; only the grayish glimmer of moonlight showed beneath the door.

She closed her hand around the handle and turned it, calf muscles tensing in preparation for the leap forward she might need. No,
would
need, for the scent of blood, mixed with Anna’s scent of apple blossom, sharp and fresh and young, was strong in the air.

She flung the door open to see Duval on the bed with Anna motionless in his arms, his mouth dark with blood. He raised his head and snarled.

“Let her go, damn you!”

He pushed Anna aside and met Jane’s attack. She went for his throat, but he gripped her wrists and they slid from the bed to the floor, Jane attempting to knee him in the groin. Long ago she’d been taught to fight in an ungentlemanly style, and her training served her well, but she was at a disadvantage against the strength of one fully Damned; moreover, one interrupted while dining, which was much like interrupting a dog at a bone. She broke a hand free and attempted to claw his eyes, but he cursed and thrust her away.

She landed in a tangle of skirts and petticoats, made worse by the heavy satin bedcover, which had been dragged from the bed by their struggle, depositing Anna, still in a swoon, onto the floor. Duval leaped to his feet, reaching inside his waistcoat; he must have a weapon there. A weapon? The Damned needed no such thing—

His arm flashed down and Jane rolled to her side and bit his ankle, ripping his silk stockings. She heard a howl of pain as her teeth slid over bone and skin.

A dull coldness radiated from her collarbone. She was hurt in a way she couldn’t quite define, injured, weakened. No, more than injured: she was fading in a chill grayness like fog where sight and sound slid away.

Pray for me, Cassandra, I beg of you. Pray for me.

Chapter 5

“J
ane! Wake and speak to me!”

She was too tired to respond to that beloved voice, and the vigorous shaking to which she was subjected merely annoyed her. The frozen grayness into which she had sunk was not welcoming, but any response would take too much effort.

“Damn you! Wake!”

“Pray moderate your language, sir,” she managed. “And have I not already been damned once?”

“That’s better. Come, drink.”

The rim of a glass nudged at her mouth, and she opened for wine flavored with the blood that once had been dearest in the world to her, a flood of desire and strength spinning through her body.

She opened her eyes before she said something foolish of love or of her injured feelings and gazed into Luke’s face. To her mortification she lay in his arms, both of them sprawled on the floor among the bloodstained folds of the satin coverlet. As her strength returned she pushed herself away.

He held his wrist out to her and a bolt of excitement ran through her, but he merely wished her to button his cuff again. She did so.

“Anna! Where is she?”

“William has escorted her back to your family. She is perfectly well. Duval had very little chance to dine from her.” His voice was cool.

“And what of him?”

“Oh, he’s perfectly well, although somewhat irritated at your most rude interruption, and he has a torn stocking.”

“Forgive me if I seem unsympathetic to his plight. He must look elsewhere for his dinner.” She disentangled herself from him and straightened her gown and cap.

“What do you expect? A pretty young girl shows her partiality and willingness to accompany one of us alone. As you should know, our nature is such that we must take advantage of such situations.” He stood and offered his hand.

“Duval is no gentleman. What did he do to me?”

“Ask your Creator,” he said. “My blood has revived you, and you will experience no lasting effect. I shall tell you no more.”

She pressed her hand to her collarbone, feeling a cold patch, and moved to the mirror that hung on the wall. Her reflection showed still, although somewhat fuzzy around the edges, and, as she expected, of Luke there was no sign at all. A mark like a bruise showed on her skin.

“I thank you for your intervention, Luke. I believe I should have been destroyed had you not come along.”

“I particularly admired the way you bit his ankle, like an enraged terrier,” Luke said. “I am sure I did not teach you that. If you are feeling well enough, may I accompany you back to the Gallery?”

If he was determined to be so proper, then so was she. Doubtless he felt he was justified, for had she not left him? Yet he had immediately returned to the arms of his former Consort, whereas she had mourned her loss, unsettled for years, refusing the few offers she had received.

“Margaret is not my Consort,” he said with some impatience.

“Oh, do stop reading my thoughts, Luke. It is so very tiresome.”

“I beg your pardon.”

His face was set and expressionless as he opened the bedchamber door.

“Why, Luke,” she said with unseemly delight, “surely you are not jealous that William takes such an interest in me now.”

“I assure you it is none of my business. I am delighted your Creator should guide you as is proper.”

“You
are
jealous!” She shook his arm. “Oh, come, Luke, enough of this foolishness. Tell me how you do.”

“I do well enough.” He stopped and looked at her, met her gaze for the first time. “I am surprised to see you, although doubtless your presence in the neighborhood is one of the reasons William leased this house. A Creator always wants his fledglings nearby.”

He took her arm and they strolled through the dark corridor toward the sound of music and merrymaking. “Had you been more Damned than human, you would have been in serious danger tonight. I shall say no more.”

She trod warily, feeling stiffness in her limbs and bruises from the unaccustomed exertion of a fight, and the bruise at her collarbone aching—she supposed it was a bruise; what else could it be? But she was cheered by the evidence that she was not yet fully Damned and aware that she would have to put up with a great deal of teasing from her family the next day. Any visible stiffness in her movements could be attributed to too much dancing.

Before they entered the Great Gallery, Luke took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You and I spent a great deal of time bidding each other farewell, and I must do so again. Duval will be chastised, do not fear.”

“I wish you would be more open with me, Luke. Something is wrong among our—your—kind. Will you not tell me of it?”

“Be careful, Jane.” He held her hand still.

“Be careful? What sort of advice is that? I assure you I shall have to be very careful. If the signs are correct, I have years of deception and lying to my family to look forward to. I do not want to be Damned again, Luke. And I never hoped or expected to see you again, so I shall gladly say farewell.”

She walked through the doorway ahead of him and looked for the Austen family. Yes, there they were, and the sight of them—particularly of Anna, who looked only as tired as any young lady after a night of vigorous dancing—made her smile with relief, so blessedly normal did they appear. The party was breaking up, it seemed, for people were gathering fans and shawls, and William and Dorcas were shaking hands and bidding their guests good night.

“But of course we shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Fitzwilliam!” Jane cried. She really could not resist the opportunity.

“We shall, ma’am?”

“Indeed, yes, for tomorrow is Sunday and we shall see you at church.”

It was one of the few times she had seen William at a loss for words. Indeed, she felt a little apprehensive herself; the church was old and not in good repair, and a thunderbolt could do it irreparable damage.

“A
n excellent sermon, Mr. Papillon,” William said gravely as the congregation left the church the next morning.

“Thank you, sir. I trust you did not find the church too damp. I find that I am particularly susceptible and I recommend that my parishioners dress warmly. But not too warmly, for . . .” Mr. Papillon glanced at his sister who gazed at William with the helpless, dazed look that mortals tended to assume when looking upon the Damned.

“What a charming bonnet, Elizabeth,” Jane said, and pinched the woman’s wrist.

“Oh. Oh, indeed, do you think so, Miss Jane?—I was saying to my brother—well, of course now I have seen Miss Anna’s it is—but, oh there is Miss Benn, poor thing, I must . . .”

Jane smiled as Elizabeth Papillon’s torrent of words washed over her and hoped that William would not be so indiscreet as to invite Miss Elizabeth to dine.

Do you think she’d stop talking?
Dorcas Kettering took Jane’s arm. “You must come and take tea with me, Miss Jane.”
I have a particularly delicious footman in mind for you if you want something a little more potent.
“And do bring your sister and mother and Miss Lloyd.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kettering,” Jane answered vaguely. She planned to return home and write; it probably wasn’t quite proper on the Sabbath, but she might not have much time. During the sermon she had found herself staring at her neighbors, wondering how they would taste, and picking up the seductive counterpoint of a number of pulses within an enclosed space—not to mention her neighbors’ thoughts and fantasies, some of which were most surprising.

But not nearly as surprising as the Damned behaving in church with the utmost propriety, bellowing responses and taking communion along with everyone else, although they had fumbled a little with their prayer books as though they had not opened such a volume in some time.

She did not hunger, not yet, but she found an inordinate interest in the slivers of neck visible above gentlemen’s neckcloths and their male scent, which had quite enlivened Mr. Papillon’s earnest but dull sermon. Mr. Papillon, now, he would taste of honey, for he enjoyed his beehives, and. . .

“Come along, Jane.” Cassandra giggled and tugged her sister’s arm. “You are looking at poor Mr. Papillon as though you wanted to eat him. I fear you may yet scandalize the village; the sooner you are married to him, the better. I shall get Edward to write to him and tell him he must make you an offer immediately.”

“Oh, indeed, it is better to marry than to burn,” Jane murmured. Was she experiencing merely human lust and not the hunger of the Damned?

“Jane!” Cassandra led her through the churchyard. “You need dinner, that is your problem, for see how distracted and ridiculous you are. Where is Anna? Oh, here you are, my dear. I am sorry you did not see that handsome Mr. Richards at church, but I found out that he and his party are staying at the inn in Alton and they must have gone to church there.”

“We should not receive him,” Jane said, emerging from her tangled thoughts—the charms of gentlemen all tied up with her writing; she really must scribble some notes down when they were back at home—and promptly trod into a puddle.

“Oh! Why not?” Anna said.

Jane shook muddy water from her foot. “Because we promised your papa you would lead a virtuous country existence. We already let him down last night.”

Anna’s lower lip protruded a little. “It was a perfectly ordinary evening with our neighbors. What was the harm in it?”

Jane took her niece’s arm and drew her a little ahead of the others. “My dear, I must ask you something rather delicate. I hope Mr. Richards did not behave inappropriately last night.”

Anna giggled. “Indeed, no. He flirted a little while we danced and then we took a turn around the room.”

“No more?”

Anna shook her head, and Jane saw the dazed, blank look her sister and mother so often assumed when contact with one of the Damned was mentioned. So Anna remembered nothing of accompanying Duval to the bedchamber or his attack, for so she presumed it must be.

“Good. And you do not feel fatigued from dancing so much?”

“Oh, not at all. In fact, I feel extraordinarily well.”

William had revived her. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Jane knew it to be true. He had given Anna a glass of wine with a drop of his blood while Jane lay in a swoon from whatever it was Duval Richards had done to her; what else would explain the child’s vivacity and extraordinary good looks today?

“We shall not visit the Great House again,” she said. “I trust you will contain your disappointment, Anna. Mr. Fitzpatrick has done his duty to his landlord’s poor relatives, and that is an end to the matter.”

“Sister!” Cassandra, who had caught up with them, frowned at her. “There is no need for such harshness.”

“I can’t understand why Uncle Edward does not let you live in the Great House,” Anna said.

“Oh, it would be ridiculous, we three ladies there,” Cassandra said. “We are not bred to such luxury. It would not suit us at all. No, we are quite snug in our cottage. It is very good of your uncle Edward to provide for us.”

Jane, although feeling that Cassandra protested a little too much, was compelled to agree with her. “We would have so much more work with the servants and the responsibilities of the house we’d scarcely have time to ourselves.”

And time to herself was what she cherished most these days, now the words flowed easily from her mind onto paper, and she laughed aloud with pleasure at what she wrote. Or so she’d thought. Now, the prospect of time, stretching dizzily before her, and she alone and bereft of the company of Cassandra, appeared only as a curse.

Chapter 6

“I
s not Martha home yet?”

Jane, dazed from several hours of writing, looked up from her manuscript and smiled at her sister. She laid down her pen and stretched. “I thought she was helping our mother.”

“No. She was going to visit Miss Benn, but Anna and I called on our way home and she had not been there.”

Jane tapped her papers straight. “I daresay she changed her mind.”

“Now I shall have to help get dinner ready, else it will be late.”

“Anna can help you.”

“It is not like Martha.” Grumbling, Cassandra left the dining room, and Jane stood to look out the window. Outside, a cart lumbered by, a boy sitting on the tail, swinging his legs and trailing a stick in the dirt of the road. It was the Monday after the Austens’ eventful weekend, and everything was back to normal again; everything except herself, that is.

She picked up a cup of tea, long since grown cold, and sipped. She was pleased with the day’s work and knew that now she should probably assist Cassandra and Anna in the kitchen, but a few minutes’ leisure appealed to her. She wiped her pen clean, packed her papers into her writing desk, and adjusted the chemisette at her neckline. A little fresh air might be pleasant, and she could see how her mother’s labors in the garden progressed.

Her fingertips brushed the strange grayish mark on her breast. She had examined it in the mirror in the bedchamber that morning and seen not a bruise as she had first thought, but something similar to a stain on her skin, regular in color, and still cold to the touch. She considered consulting a physician, but possibly modern medicine might have no explanation; besides, she might be obliged to explain how she had received the injury. Almost certainly she would be declared insane.

Her writing things tidied away, she left the house through the back door and spotted her mother with a watering can, tending to the cuttings she had planted the other day. Jane bent to scoop up a pile of weeds. “The garden looks very fine, ma’am.”

“It does, and it gives me great pleasure, which I admit is more important,” Mrs. Austen replied. “We may have some early lettuce and cabbage soon, the boy tells me.”

“I’m looking for Martha,” Jane said. “Have you seen her, ma’am?”

“I daresay she is out and has lost track of time,” Mrs. Austen said, clearly finding the subject of little interest. “I shall have to give this slip of lavender a firm talking-to. It is really not trying hard enough!”

“Quite so, ma’am,” Jane said. “I shall continue my search.”

She walked out through the yard, dodging past the kitchen windows again, afraid that she might be summoned to help with dinner preparations, and this one time might turn into many times and cut into her precious writing time. She returned to the dining room, put thoughts of Martha and household matters from her mind, and became absorbed once more in her work.

When she looked up next, it was to see Cassandra urging her to help her set the table for dinner.

“But where is Martha?” Jane asked.

“Possibly she dines with Miss Benn. I wish she had told us, though.”

The four ladies dined alone, but by the time they had finished and had drunk tea in the parlor, Jane was concerned. Her mother and sister were busy with their sewing and Anna read aloud; normally Jane would have enjoyed her niece’s musical voice and sensitive reading of Cowper, but now it was almost dark and she announced she would walk to Miss Benn’s and bring Martha home.

Outside the house she looked up and down, hoping to see the familiar figure of Martha, bonnet slightly askew and her red cloak billowing as she strode down the road.

Jane pressed herself against the wall of the house as a carriage passed with a thunder of hooves and splash of mud and continued smartly on the Winchester Road toward Alton. Now she could see someone hurrying toward her, but as the figure drew near she recognized it as the youngest boy of the Andrews family, Edward’s tenants at New Park Farm, accompanied by a dog. He had a look of great agitation and, when he saw her, increased his pace.

“Miss Jane!” he cried. “ ’Tis Miss Lloyd. You must come at once, if you please, that is, ma’am.”

She searched for and remembered his name. Samuel, that was it. She crossed the road to meet him. “Why, Samuel, what’s wrong?”

“We found her in a swoon in the woods, ma’am. Peter, my dog here, was much agitated and led us to her, and my father and one of the men brought her into our house on a hurdle, ma’am, and we cannot rouse her.”

She hurried along the muddy road, the boy’s head bobbing at her elbow as he ran to keep up with her long stride, the dog staying close to him and occasionally showing his teeth at her. “How long since did you find her?” she asked.

“Half an hour, I think, for I had to run to the house and tell my father. My mother fears the lady may be hurt and did not want to move her again, for fear of hurting her further. So they sent me to tell you.”

They passed a scatter of cottages, where this was any ordinary evening, a few men working in their gardens in the last of the daylight, smoke rising from chimneys and the scent of dinner lingering still on the air. Why on earth had Martha gone into Chawton Park Woods alone? Maybe she fancied the exercise, for it was a favorite spot for walks and, in warmer weather, picnics.

“How is your reading coming along, Samuel?” Jane asked, remembering that Cassandra frequently called at the farm to teach him and his brothers and sisters their letters.

“Pretty well, ma’am.” His step slowed and he clutched his side. “Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, I have a stitch from running.”

“No, I am sorry for rushing you so. I shall go ahead—”

“Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, but father said I should not let you walk on your own. He made a point of it, Miss Jane.” The boy’s chest heaved with exertion.

What on earth had happened to Martha? Jane’s sense of unease grew. Had Martha been attacked in some way, assaulted?

“That’s most thoughtful of you and your father,” she said. “When you are ready to walk again, we shall proceed, and I promise I shall not rush you too much. But tell me, are there gypsies abroad?”

“No, ma’am, he says worse than gypsies.”

Jane, seeing her young companion’s fearful glance at the woods at the side of the road, did not pursue the topic further. Only a few more minutes, and they had arrived at New Park Farm, and Jane splashed her way across the muck of the cobbled farmyard. Mr. Andrews, who sat outside smoking a pipe, rose to his feet as she approached.

“Mrs. Andrews wanted me out of the house, Miss Jane. This is a sorry business.”

“Has she regained her senses?” Jane asked.

“Not yet.”

Jane nodded and tapped at the farmhouse door. The door opened a crack and Mrs. Andrews peered out. “Oh, thank heavens, ’tis you, Miss Jane. She won’t rouse at all. I have burned feathers under her nose.”

Sure enough, as Jane stepped inside the house, the pungent scent of feathers mixed with the scents of the dinner cooked at the open hearth.

“You’ll take some tea, Miss Jane?”

Jane didn’t answer her. The hurdle that had borne Martha lay on the floor, and Martha was stretched upon it, inert and pale, diminished, a smear of blood on her bosom.

“Martha, my dear.” Jane knelt and took Martha’s cold limp hand in her own. “Can you hear me?” To Mrs. Andrews she said, “Where is she hurt?”

“I can’t rightly tell, Miss Jane. I can see no mark, but maybe she took a hit to the head.”

Jane eased off Martha’s cap. Her bonnet was gone, maybe fallen off. She ran her hand over Martha’s scalp and felt nothing. No telltale bump, or heat, and certainly, with the part of her mind that was of the Damned, no thought or memory. Nothing.

“I have bricks beneath her feet and at her sides to warm her,” Mrs. Andrews said.

“Thank you for all you have done.” Jane chafed her friend’s hand and shook her gently. “Martha! Martha, wake up!”

But Martha didn’t move.

Behind her Jane heard the clink of china as Mrs. Andrews made tea.

“I’ve always thought her a healthy sort of lady,” Mrs. Andrews said. “Not slender, but now . . . there’s hardly anything of her. I never saw a woman so changed.”

Hardly anything of her, indeed. Flattened and inert and pale with only a thread of a pulse and only a flutter of movement at her throat to show she breathed. An odd, wild sort of scent hung about her; not an unpleasant scent, at least not to Jane; there was something familiar about it.

“We’ll send for some of the men to take her home,” Mrs. Andrews continued.

She was scarcely aware of Mrs. Andrews pulling forward a chair and placing a cup of tea upon it.

“Of course. I cannot thank you enough for looking after her.”

Mrs. Andrews turned back to her spinning wheel.

Jane took a sip from the cup of tea. It was poor stuff, probably used and dried at least once, and she reminded herself to give the Andrewses some of their own tea by way of thanks. She poured a very little into the saucer, praying that what she would do might help Martha and not kill her, although, with her powers so diminished, it might achieve nothing. She willed herself to become
en sanglant,
shaming herself by thinking of Luke—that is, Luke in a state of undress no gentlewoman should contemplate—and her teeth ached and smarted. She could not become entirely
en sanglant,
but her canines were sharp enough to do what was necessary. A quick nip into her own wrist, and a drop of her blood and then more until the tea was dark and opaque. She had no idea of the strength of her blood, but it could not be very powerful.

She stanched the wound, afraid Mrs. Andrews would turn and see what she was about, and lifted Martha’s head, tilting the saucer so that a little of the liquid ran into her mouth. Some dribbled down her chin and Jane scooped it back between Martha’s lips, not wanting to waste any. “Wake up, dearest friend,” she murmured.

Martha’s eyes fluttered beneath her eyelids as though she dreamed, and a slow smile spread over her face.

Then her eyes opened wide. Jane clasped her hand. “My dear, how do you feel? I—”

The smile on Martha’s face faded. She looked at Jane and screamed.

The whirr and thud of the spinning wheel ceased. Mrs. Andrews said, “Why, Miss Lloyd, you’re awake, thank the Lord—”

“Get her away from me!” Martha screamed. “She’s one of them!”

What could Martha see in her? She was not
en sanglant
. Had her appearance changed in some subtle, horrifying way?

Mrs. Andrews meanwhile bent over Martha, murmuring soothing words. She looked up at Jane. “She is not herself, Miss Jane. Whatever shall we do?”

Martha was curled upon herself, sobbing.

Jane touched her friend’s arm. “Martha, dearest, you must listen to me. Look at me.”

As Martha raised her head and met her gaze, Jane summoned the strength of the Damned to soothe her. “You are mistaken. You know me as your dearest friend, one who will never harm you.”

Martha’s face relaxed and she nodded. “Oh, dear me! Why, Jane, what has happened?”

Jane helped her to her feet and into a chair. “You swooned in the woods. Young Samuel found you, and Mr. Andrews brought you here.”

“I’m glad to see you are feeling better, Miss Lloyd,” Mrs. Andrews said. “I’ll make some more tea—”

“Pray do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Andrews. Miss Lloyd may finish mine.” Jane tipped tea from the saucer back into the cup and handed it to Martha. Her friend might as well receive as much benefit as she could from the drops of Jane’s blood.

Indeed, as Martha drank, the color returned to her face and the brightness was restored to her handsome eyes. In no time at all, she said, “I feel so much better and refreshed. I think I am ready to walk home, for I do not wish to impose upon your hospitality further, Mrs. Andrews.”

“If you think so, Miss Lloyd. We could take you in our cart, although it’s not fit for a lady. I’ll let Samuel and Mr. Andrews know you’re recovered. I know they’ll be much relieved.” Mrs. Andrews glanced at Martha in astonishment, much, as Jane thought, as Lazarus’s companions must have done. Not only had Martha come back from the dead, or as good as, but she appeared to be bursting with energy.

“Well, well, Miss Lloyd, this is a welcome surprise,” Mr. Andrews said as he and his son entered the kitchen. “We feared the worst.”

“It’s a good thing Samuel found you,” Jane said. “You might have lain there for hours.”

“You say I was in the woods?” Martha looked at them all with astonishment. “Why should I be in the woods?”

“You do not remember?” Jane asked.

For a moment Martha looked troubled before assuring everyone with a gay laugh that she was exceedingly well and looking forward to her own dinner. She and Jane left the Andrewses’ house and set off for their own home.

“Why are you so angry, Jane?”

“I’m not angry with you. I was frightened for your sake. I was afraid you would die.”

“It is exceedingly mysterious,” Martha said. “I do not even remember how or why I arrived there. I had called in at some of the cottages here, meaning to return home after, and listened to the children say their lessons. I certainly did not intend to walk in the opposite direction. Jane, you do not think I am ill, do you? I have not felt better in my life, but to have such a thing happen . . . and this blood upon my bosom—how do you think it got there?”

“Maybe you had a nosebleed,” Jane said.

On their return, the Austens fussed over Martha, giving her the most comfortable seat nearest the fire and discussing whether a doctor should be called.

Jane meanwhile raged inwardly while maintaining an outward appearance of tranquillity. She played the pianoforte for the ladies, encouraged Anna to sing, and joined in a game of spillikins, a game at which she normally excelled, but which she now found tedious in the extreme. She was greatly relieved when her mother suggested they all have an early night, and Jane went upstairs with the others.

“What do you think we should do?” Cassandra asked her as soon as they were in their bedchamber. “Do you think she should see a doctor? It is a dreadful thing to have happened.”