Jane and the Damned (34 page)

“I know,” Jane said. “Poulett—”

“No, not Poulett. Or rather, not Poulett alone.” He turned his head to Margaret, who was blatantly
en sanglant.

Luke came to Jane‧s side. “As your Bearleader, allow me to advise you. You may call for her death or banishment.”

“Her death?” Jane echoed.

“To be immortal does not mean you are invulnerable. I think you have learned something of that today and we are most distraught that it came to this pass. You see, I could not speak freely to you during your imprisonment without running the risk of Margaret overhearing. We did not wish her to know she
was discovered until you and your family were safe. I am most sorry.”

“As am I,” William said.

Jane stood, silent, considering. “If—if I choose she should be banished, what then?”

William shrugged. “She will have to find other companions, if she can. She will have no reputation, no letters of introduction. Death might be preferable.”

Jane hesitated. “I told Poulett I would kill him if I could. I took his blood. I trusted him. But …” She and Margaret had never trusted each other, bound in rivalry for Luke, but even now she could not countenance a killing in cold blood.

“Poulett is dead,” Luke said. “By his own hand, earlier today, for the shame of becoming a traitor.”

William crossed to the mantelpiece, where an elaborately carved wooden box stood. He opened it and removed a knife in the shape of a sickle, a curved blade that shone gray in the firelight. “This is what you will use, Jane.”

She went to his side and took the knife in her hand. It was of stone, ancient and deathly cold even to her touch. “No,” she said. “No, I can‧t.”

“So you are not only lowborn but a coward also,” Margaret said.

“Hold your tongue!” Luke snapped at her.

“No,” Jane said. “I would hear what she has to say.” She could not bear to hold the evil little knife anymore. She placed it carefully back inside the box, where it rested on a bed of dark red velvet, and felt a great relief as the lid snapped closed.

“You will leave us,” Margaret said. “You will destroy what we have, what Luke has given you. You know it is the truth. It makes little difference whether I cease to exist or not, but you will leave
knowing more than any mortal should of the Damned and you may destroy us all. That is why I wished you to die.”

“Yet you took the risk of handing me over to the French. What if I had betrayed you all then?”

“I knew you would not. Not then. You have greater strength under duress than you know.” Margaret shrugged. “It is when you choose to leave us that I fear for the Damned. Let us get this over with, if you please. Banish me if you will; William underestimates my power to survive. I may emerge from this better than you think.”

“Very well. I choose to banish her.” Jane looked at Luke for guidance.

William recited a formal phrase in a language that sounded familiar to Jane. Greek, yes, that was it—she remembered her brothers reciting their lessons, long evenings in the vicarage while her mother sewed, smiling at their accomplishments. Their youngest sister had watched and listened, and longed to know as much as her brothers.

She would never see that drawing room again, or her family.

William leaned to kiss Margaret on one cheek and then the other. “Go,” he said.

She inclined her head and left the room.

Luke drew Jane‧s arm through his and led her to the window that looked out over the meadow where the dark figures cavorted around the bonfire. They did not have to wait long. A tall figure, swathed in a long, hooded cloak emerged from the house. She strode off into the shadows and disappeared from view without looking back.

“I shall not leave,” Jane said.

Luke made no reply but linked her fingers in his.

***

“I assure you, it‧s been an honor, Miss Austen.” George, His Highness the Prince of Wales, flanked by members of his own regiment, all jingling fashionable military splendor, took her hand as they stood outside the Royal Crescent house the next morning.

“Shall you take the cure here, sir?”

“Yes, but I‧ll be staying at a house outside the town. My physician says that, well, it‧s best to not be around you and the others while I recover. I might come back and beg you to bite me. Or the other way around, I‧m not sure which.”

“I wish you a speedy return to good health, sir. I‧m sure you‧ll enjoy playing the piano again.”

“I shall. But damnation, I‧ll have to see Caroline again. Family obligations, you know, Miss Austen. I suppose you don‧t have any of those anymore.”

She shook her head. No family, no obligations, no Cassandra …

The handsome young George Brummell held the carriage door open, murmuring that possibly it was time for His Highness to leave.

“We‧ve had some fine times, haven‧t we? William says I won‧t remember much, but it‧s probably just as well.” George sighed and squeezed her hand. “You‧ll dedicate a book to me, I hope, jane.”

She smiled and curtsied as the Prince of Wales stepped into the carriage and drove away with his regiment as escort.

William stood in the doorway of the house. He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I hate to see my fledglings leave.”

Jane followed him back inside the silent house. It was early in the day for them, and most of the household and their guests were still asleep.

She trudged up the stairs—once again her bedchamber was at the top of the house—picking her way around guests who had fallen asleep on the stairs and landings. At the back of her mind a profound uneasiness stirred, a yearning for something or someone. Certainly it was not hunger, for she had dined well and often last night, until Luke had chastised her for her greed. In her former life she would have put pen to paper or played the pianoforte, or taken a long walk with Cassandra …

“Jane?” One of the women had awoken and sat blinking at her, shoving one of the visiting vampires from her lap.

“Polly! I am so glad you are well.”

“What happened to you? Lord, look at your hair. Did the Frenchies do that?”

Jane smiled, relieved to see that Polly was alive. “Would you like to come to the kitchen for some tea? Or ale?”

Polly rose to her feet, swaying a little, and giggled. She started as Jane steadied her with a hand at her elbow. “Your hands are so cold. What an adventure, eh, Jane?”

Jane led her down to the kitchen where she revived her with a drop of blood in a cup of tea. Polly sat, her elbows at her table, accepting slices of buttered toast from Mr. Brown, and telling him of a connection she had with a most superior farm nearby that would supply the household with all the vegetables it needed. Jane slipped out again.

This time Jane reached her bedchamber, a small haven of quiet in the crowded house. Ann had unpacked her belongings, and her manuscript sat on a small table with pen and ink at the ready. Jane smiled at the maid‧s thoughtfulness and sat down. She pulled the ribbon undone and Cassandra‧s scent rose, a little fainter now, but still with the power to conjure poignant, loving memories of their life together. As that scent faded, so would her recollections of Cassandra.

She must write to her family, for she knew they would be concerned, her father most of all, since he alone knew that she fought. She took the last page of her manuscript and on the blank side wrote a short note assuring them that she was still in Miss Venning‧s employ and well. She hesitated and then laid the sheet down.

Her family should have not only the note, but the entire manuscript. Possibly Cassandra could send it to another publisher and make herself a little pin money; yes, she liked that idea, Cassandra picking through trims and fabrics with an endearingly serious look on her face, the most fashionable woman in Steventon, thanks to her sister‧s book. She retied the ribbon around the manuscript that was part of her former life.

She picked out a long, hooded cloak that someone had left in the bedchamber and went downstairs, the manuscript tucked safely beneath one arm, and out of the house. The formerly elegant Royal Crescent was a mess of empty bottles and discarded wine casks; a large black mound on the green pasture opposite still gave off a little smoke. On her walk through the town, she passed townspeople still celebrating, drinking and dancing in the streets. Several times she was obliged to turn down the offers of gentlemen who wished her to join in the celebrations or who invited her to more private revels indoors.

As she turned into Paragon Place, a troop of British soldiers escorting a handful of French prisoners passed her.

Her knock at the front door was not answered and the sense of unease that had plagued her since waking that day grew stronger. She stepped back into the street and observed that smoke rose from the chimneys, so undoubtedly someone was home. She listened carefully. From inside came a muffled whimper and a creaking sound, and a strong sense of fear and panic. Things were not right here.

With a silent apology to her aunt and uncle, she wrapped her
fist in the folds of her cloak and prepared to ruin their fine solid mahogany door and its brass lock. One solid blow that left her knuckles aching, and the door swung open. She stepped into the foyer and then into the dining room, where Betty, gagged and bound to a chair, let out a crescendo of squeaks and whimpers.

“Sssh.” Jane bit through the ropes. She whispered, “Tell me what is happening here, but quietly.”

Betty nodded, tears streaking down her face.

Jane untied the gag.

“Miss Cassandra, upstairs—Garonne is there—”

Jane didn‧t wait to hear any more but flew up the stairs. She could smell them, Cassandra‧s beloved scent soured by fear and Garonne‧s potent blend of exhaustion and despair.

She flung open the drawing-room door.

“Do what I say or Miss Cassandra dies.” Garonne was filthy and exhausted, stubble on his face, his eyes red-rimmed. The hand that held the pistol to her sister‧s head shook.

Cassandra sat on a chair, wrists bound, tears spilling down her cheeks. She gave a tiny shake of her head.

“Be still!” Garonne‧s voice rose to a shriek.

“Let her go,” Jane said.

Garonne watched her every move, his finger on the trigger, and Jane feared his shaking hand would accidentally fire the pistol.

“I must have a letter for a safe permit to return to France. I will not be a prisoner here. She will die if you do not.”

“Certainly, I shall help however I can.” Clearly he was mad. What influence did he think she possibly might have? “But—”

“You lie!” he screamed. “You write to Wellesley. I saw him with you yesterday.”

She hadn‧t seen Garonne in the chaos of the battle. “Very well. Pray uncock your pistol.”

“You think I am a fool? No. You write.” He swayed as if about
to fall asleep on his feet. “Or we wait for Mr. Austen to come home for his dinner and find his daughter dead, and then he writes the letter so I do not shoot you also, Miss Jane.”

“Very well. I have a package beneath my arm. I shall put it down now. Pray do not be alarmed.” Wishing she had thought to arm herself, she slowly drew her cloak back to reveal the manuscript. Clearly, this was a situation where the pen was not mightier than the sword; or was it?

“Vite!”

She had hoped her slow actions might calm him but he radiated fear and lethal tension, a man close to madness. When she attacked, it would have to be fast. Her movement had taken her closer to him and she shifted a little to choose the angle at which she would attack. She must strike the pistol away in the split second before it fired.

The clock on the mantelpiece whirred and began to strike the chimes before the hour of four o‧clock.

Downstairs the door opened and Jane heard her father and mother exclaim over the broken lock and splintered wood. She pulled the ribbon free of the manuscript and threw it at Garonne.

The manuscript, several hundred sheets of paper, burst into its individual pages in midair, falling onto and around Garonne‧s head as she leaped for his throat. The pistol exploded in her ear, the smell of powder mingling with Garonne‧s blood, bitter with madness and terror. His body convulsed under hers as he fought her and she ripped with her canines as his breath let out in a last, frantic gurgle.

She let him drop onto the carpet soaked with his blood.

Someone was screaming.

“Cassandra!”

But her sister had flung herself from the chair and was stumbling away from her, weeping with terror.

“Cassandra, it‧s over. He‧s dead. You‧re safe.”

Cassandra‧s eyes rolled up and she dropped to the floor in a swoon.

Jane looked up to see her mother and father standing in the doorway clinging to each other, regarding her and the bloody room with horror. No wonder, she was still
en sanglant,
and covered with blood.

She reversed her canines.

“You‧re looking very well, ma‧am.” Jane gave a giggle of shock at her ridiculous words, but it was true. Mrs. Austen wore a coarse linen apron with bloodsmears and worse on it, but she had a sense of purpose and energy that Jane could not ever remember seeing before.