Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion (3 page)

“I am a country squire,” Mr. Fuller replied. “Country squires ride. So must I, although, devil take it, this hat is ruined. The wretched beast trod upon it.” He smacked at a hoofprint denting the smooth surface of his beaver hat. “I shall talk with William about increasing the dosage. We give them a little of our blood with their feed, Jane, to accustom them to our presence, but apparently not enough. William is most anxious to see you, by the by.”

“I regret that is unlikely, Mr. Fuller. I have no intention of renewing our acquaintance. In fact, I suggest you all return to town where you and your favored activities so obviously belong.”

“Favored activities?” Mr. Fuller revealed himself
en sanglant
. “Do not deceive yourself, Jane. You are one of us. And we have every intention of staying here.”

“Jane has been so very helpful and neighborly already!” Dorcas cried. “Why, country living will suit us so extremely well, particularly with the Austens as our friends. They are to dine with us tomorrow, Tom.”

“Excellent. Until tomorrow, Jane. I must make sure my errant horse has returned safely to the stables.” He bowed and strolled away, the battered hat replaced on his head.

“I shall accompany you,” Dorcas called after him. “
Au revoir,
Jane.”

J
ane went back into the house where already Anna had brought her best gown into the drawing room and was deep in conversation with Cassandra about how it might be altered, for both of them agreed that Mrs. Kettering’s day dress was so very smart the Austens feared they would be put to shame.

Jane glanced out the window. Mrs. Austen had retired to the garden, where clad in her usual green smock, straw hat, and serviceable thick gloves, she was engaged in planting the cuttings James had brought over the day before.

Frowning, Jane retired to the dining room and drew a chair up to the table by the window. She opened her writing slope and removed a creased and stained bundle of papers, along with the clean copy she was making. Yes, it made sense, but for how long? When she had been Damned before, her words had appeared like a mystifying code, a tale told by an idiot, merely words on the page with no sense or coherence.

Or, Jane thought, maybe she had just written badly. She read through the first page in her hand. Some of it was smeared and illegible, but the rest made sense, even if the writing was somewhat clumsy. She smiled and reached for her quill, drawing her fingers down the feather.

A great bird, wings outspread, hissing through an orange beak; green grass, the glimmer of steel gray water beyond, the scent of grass and mud and rank river
—she dropped the quill. Queasily she glanced around the room, knowing that any object she touched might communicate through her skin into her mind, and that she must once again learn to control and push aside the immediate, disturbing sensations.

With great care she leaned to pick up the quill and laid it on the small table next to the manuscript.

The door creaked open and Jane turned, annoyed at the interruption.

“Oh, Aunt Jane, I am sorry to disturb you, for Aunt Cassandra said I should do so only on a very urgent matter.”

“What is it, my dear?”

“Aunt Cassandra said I must ask you if you knew where her pink ribbon has gone. She is sure we have it somewhere, but if we cannot find it we must go into Alton to buy more.”

“Pink ribbon?” Jane echoed.

Anna moved closer, leaning on her chair, her arm brushing against Jane’s.
Aunt Jane is so pretty and lively still, I wonder why she did not marry. Oh and maybe tomorrow I shall meet some handsome young gentlemen and I hope my hair curls and . . .

Jane shifted to break the contact and avoid the intrusion into Anna’s thoughts. “My dear, I am afraid I have no idea. Is it absolutely necessary?”

“It is a matter of life and death,” Anna said with a self-satirizing air that Jane appreciated. She leaned over her aunt’s shoulder. “Is this your book?”

“One of them.”

“It looks as though something spilled all over it. What a shame. But you can see some of the words. Do you make a fair copy? Did you spill tea onto it?”

“Something of that sort,” Jane said.

Even now, aided by the extraordinarily sensitive sense of smell the Damned possessed, she could pick up the scent of those faded brown stains. Repulsion and longing stirred within her.

Thirteen years ago the pages had been soaked in blood.

Chapter 3

T
he day consisted of dressmaking frippery that even Mrs. Austen joined, abandoning her garden and scrubbing her nails clean, and even going so far as to retrim her best turban with some feathers that had once graced one of Cassandra’s bonnets. Jane, meanwhile, retreated to her table in the dining room and glared ferociously at anyone who might dare disturb her.

“Don’t growl at me!” Cassandra said. “I wanted to tell you only that I had borrowed a pair of your silk stockings.”

Her hand over her mouth, Jane nodded. Her canines ached and stung, and she wanted to rise and pace around the room. Outside, the sun had passed its brightest and highest point of the day, and in a few hours it would be dark.

“You had best get ready,” Cassandra said. “We expect the carriage in twenty minutes, and your hands are covered with ink. How did those papers get in such a state with all those horrid stains?”

“You don’t remember?” Jane said.

“They look as though they’re fit only to start a fire.” She reached a hand out.

“No!” Jane said. “That is—see, I twist each into a spill when I have finished with it.” She looked at Cassandra’s placid, pretty face and wondered how long it would be before her sister’s composure was destroyed.

Do you not remember, Cassandra? I killed a man in front of you, ripped out his throat before he could shoot you, and you lay on the floor among these bloody papers and screamed and shrank from me, because you saw me as a monster. No wonder you wished to forget. Who would want to see their own sister so?

But instead of saying the words, she gathered her papers into a neat pile and pressed them into the storage area of the writing slope. She kissed her sister’s cheek, catching a brief hint of her scent and of her excitement at the thought of an evening out.

“Cassandra, if I said that we should absolutely not go to the Great House but I could not give you a reason why, would you abide by my wishes?”

Cassandra laughed. “When I remember the young Miss Jane who was such a determined flirt and whose only aim in life was to shock our neighbors, I’m surprised that you take such a high moral stance with Anna. Have you forgotten what it is to be young?”

“It’s not about Anna,” said Jane. “Not as much as it is about them, Edward’s tenants. I do not think we should consort with them.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish,” Cassandra said. “Doubtless they intend to invite us once, and then, their duty to our brother done, they will ignore us for as long as they stay here. I doubt whether they will stay more than a month or so, for we are so very quiet here.”

“What do you remember of Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Jane asked.

Cassandra took her arm and led her out of the dining room and up the stairs. “He was a very pleasant gentleman as I remember. He helped us find temporary lodgings when—when—” Her voice faltered.

“When the French wanted to arrest you and Mama and Papa, having arrested me.”

“Jane!” Cassandra pushed her into their bedchamber. “We should not talk of that time. We agreed not to, do you not remember? It was a very unhappy time for us, and you were unwell, and . . . I shall unlace your gown so you can put on your best one, and you should really wash your face. You have a smudge of ink here.” She licked her fingertip and rubbed a spot on Jane’s cheek.

Oh, poor Cassandra. She was so frightened of letting loose a great flood of awful memories and unanswered questions. Jane embraced her, and Cassandra gave a squeak of surprise. “What was that for?”

“Oh, I merely felt like expressing my affection for my dearest sister.”

“You squeezed me half to death!” Cassandra said, releasing herself. “Come along, you silly sentimental creature, you must hurry.”

After a little sisterly bickering—Cassandra had borrowed the pair of silk stockings that Jane herself had intended to wear, claiming that the other pair were finer, although Jane pointed out that they were held together by a cobweb of darns—the sisters descended the stairs. Mrs. Austen, majestic in her refurbished turban, stood with Anna, who was quite pale with nervousness.

“Will it be so very grand?” Anna asked.

“Of course not,” Jane said. “This is the country.”

S
he was wrong. The house was ablaze with lights, something that caused the thrifty Mrs. Austen to gasp and speculate aloud how much the household must spend a year on wax candles. Footmen, all of them young and handsome—why was Jane not surprised?—were everywhere, and she hoped she and Cassandra between them could come up with a respectable amount of pennies for vails. These footmen, however, looked as if anything below a shilling apiece was beneath their notice.

Dorcas moved forward to greet them as the Austens were shown into what had once been the Great Hall of the house several centuries before, where about a dozen people were gathered.

“Why, Jane, you sly thing! You quite outdo me in taste and elegance.” Dorcas, whose luxurious, flowing gown was the height of fashion along with the silver and paste comb in her hair, linked her arm in Jane’s.

“You flatter me,” Jane said.

“Nonsense! Such elegance of figure and face—yes, you are one of us, it is clear to all now. Come, you must see William. I assure you he has been in such a state, anticipating your reunion.”

“Indeed? And what sort of state would that be?” Jane cast a glance over her shoulder. She was relieved to see her mother, sister, and niece talking to Mr. Papillon, the curate, and his sister, but as she was led across the room, a wake of whispers followed, as her neighbors speculated upon Miss Jane Austen and her handsome friend. Had she been a good ten years younger and the comments related to her looks and gown, she would have been mightily flattered. Now, she was alarmed to be associated with Dorcas.

“I think my mother may need me,” she managed feebly.

“Good heavens, no, she is deep in the subject of herbaceous borders with her neighbors.” Dorcas led her back into the entrance hall and past the Jacobean staircase. A footman sprang forward to open a door into a small book-lined room.

Jane took a deep breath.

“My dear Jane.” William stepped forward and took her hands, and thirteen years of pain and longing dropped away.

He looked the same; of course he would, and he would do so for centuries more, tall and dark haired, handsome. He regarded her gravely.

“You need not tell me I am changed,” she said. “Consider that I am older and wiser.”

“You are still the most handsome woman of my acquaintance,” William said.

Jane considered shrieking and slapping him with her fan—the Misses Steeles, recent literary inventions whom she was enjoying immensely, would almost certainly have done so. But instead she basked in his warmth and welcome.

“I was most sorry to hear of Mr. Austen’s death,” William said.

“I miss him still.” She withdrew her hands. “What do you want, William? You are behaving almost as—as any normal gentleman might, yet I know you for what you are.”

“So you should. I am your Creator.”

“A pity you did not say so with such ardor thirteen years ago.”

“It was a—a difficult time.” He spread his hands in supplication. “Can you forgive me for my callousness and neglect?”

Jane walked away from him and took a turn of the room, noting the ancient mullioned windows and tapestries, faded with age, that adorned the walls. The planks beneath her feet were wide and glowed with the patina of centuries.

She turned back to him. “Sir, you created and abandoned me, breaking the rules of your own kind—and pray do not bleat of difficult times, for you sound like my sister and mother at their most peevish. No one will speak of what is past. Yet it is done and we live with the consequences, I with my decision to become mortal again, and you—”

“You? Mortal?” He moved to her side, fast and graceful. “I think not, Jane.”

She glared at him. “Oh, very well. At the moment I am neither fish nor fowl.”

He reached out to her again, but she evaded his hand. “Over a decade, William, I have wandered, unable to settle because of family circumstances. Now and again I would take out my manuscripts and look at them, yet I could not bear to return to what had given me so much joy. I was afraid that I had lost everything, that my small gift as a writer had faded. And now, now when we are settled and my mother and sister have as much happiness as women in their situation can expect, I have started to work once more, and it is the greatest delight of my life. Shall it be taken from me again, William?” She stamped her foot like a younger Anna in a rage. “It is so damned unfair!”

“I will atone,” he said. “I swear it.”

She snorted. “Oh, certainly. You sound like someone in an Italian opera. Or in a book—a bad one. Some gothic horror with an ancient house and mysterious creatures dwelling therein.”

He smiled. “Life imitates art, my dear Jane.”

“It depends entirely upon your definition of life, sir.”

“Still as witty and as passionate as ever, Jane. Jane, let me be your Bearleader. Let me guide you through this maze. I abandoned you the first time. I will not do so a second time.”

She had forgotten his power over her, the seductive thrill of his voice and person, but he had failed her before.

“Enough of your high-flown eloquence, William. Now tell me what you want from me.”

He walked past her to the window and leaned his forehead on the glass. “In a matter of hours it will be dark, and every night I hope . . . Jane, you are the last of my fledglings. Do not leave me.”

A long silence. The timbers of the ancient house made small sounds as it settled with the fading warmth of the day, and a shower of sparks arose as a log shifted in the fireplace.

“Luke?” Jane said, her voice tight and the sadness that she had worked so hard to conquer rising in her. “What has happened to Luke?” Her former lover was old, for one of the Damned, almost as old as William, his Creator. He might well be gone to dust and to the fires of hell.

“He lives still,” William said. “But he is—he left to join another household. There is a rift between us.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Jane said.

“And as for George, well, he is the Prince of Wales and his memory is short. He is ungrateful and intemperate. He has thrown us over entirely, Jane, as a child throws away the toys he has tired of.”

“So I have heard.” She smiled, but she was anxious not to talk of Luke. “And so that is why you try so hard to be country gentry.”

He gave a rueful laugh and turned from the window. “And how do we do?”

“Quite badly, I fear. You really must do something about the horses, you know. People like them in the country, and dogs, too.”

He grimaced. “We have some dogs for appearances’ sake. They hate us. Quite often I’m tempted to bite them back. ”

“Most unfortunate,” Jane said, relieved that they no longer spoke of Luke. “But why? Why do you go against your nature so?”

“We are out of fashion,” William said. “It has happened before and it will happen again. We have found it wisest to lie low, to practice discretion in our ways. It is how we survive. We shall wait a century or so and see how taste and fashions change, and when the time is right, we shall take our rightful place in society once more. Consider, for example, that once we could not go out in the daytime; we have changed over the centuries.”

“I must say I was astonished to meet one of the Damned fully dressed—although very badly—at ten of the morning, when Dorcas came to call,” Jane said.

“She told me of it. Join us, Jane. It is time.”

She shook her head. “No, William. I cannot. I shall pray, for myself and for you, but I will not hurt my family.”

He strolled to the fireplace and kicked the logs into a blaze. “At the least, be good neighbors to us, Jane, for I must care for my family, too, this household. And I shall help you, for I see a metamorphosis has begun in you. So it is with those who take the waters as Cure; often it is not complete. Have you been
en sanglant
yet?”

“No, but my teeth ache. Of course, at my advanced age that is to be expected, but this is different. Of late I have been able to feel things and hear others’ thoughts. I hate it, William. I should rather do anything than become one of the Damned again.”

“And—this is indelicate, forgive me—you feel no urge to dine?”

“I should quite like some dinner, William, but I know that is not what you mean. No. Not yet, but I fear I shall hunger.”

“You must come to me when it happens. Promise me.” He held out his hand to her. “I shall help.”

She took his hand and allowed herself to be lulled into the web of warmth and safety and, yes, love that he spun around her. But it was not enough, and it was not what she wanted.

“You know I shall never leave Cassandra again,” she said. “I value my soul, sir, and I value my small gift for writing. I shall fight with prayer and all human means to preserve myself. But if my metamorphosis continues, I wish to know what I may expect.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I admit we chart unknown waters. I cannot tell you how long it will take the metamorphosis to take place or what human qualities you will lose.”

“If I were able to write still . . .” She looked away, horrified. Was her soul of so little concern that she should place her writing above everything?

He shook his head. “I wish I could set your mind at ease.”

For a moment she almost pitied him, her once-powerful Creator admitting that even despite his centuries of existence, his knowledge was limited.

“Do we dine?” she said. “I mean—that is, maybe it is time we should go into dinner. I trust you do not have designs upon your neighbors’ persons.”

“Ah. Once . . .” William smiled. “But no, those days are past. We are entirely respectable now. But it is time for me to play host, and we shall join the others.”

He offered his arm to escort her.

“Then how do you . . . I trust I am not indelicate, but I hardly think you have developed a taste for good English beef. I could not help but notice your footmen.”

He cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

“How very convenient that there are so many and all so handsome,” Jane commented as they entered the Great Hall again.