Jane and the Damned
Janet Mullany
In memory of my aunts Phyl and Nell Dowling,
who introduced me to Bath and the novels of Georgette Heyer.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
BOOKS BY JANET MULLANY
acknowledgements
Janet Mullany
Also by Janet Mullany
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Steventon, Hampshire, England.
November 1797.
Declined by Return of Post.
Jane stared at the words scrawled across the top page of the stack of papers. She patted the manuscript as though the pages were disordered, although they were piled neatly together, tied carefully with string. Undisturbed, untouched, unwanted.
“Do not be downhearted, my dear.” The Reverend Mr. Austen reached out his hand to his daughter. “We shall try another publisher.”
“Thank you for sending the book to them, sir. It is not your fault they did not like it; it is mine. I beg you, do not send it to another publisher.”
“Jane, you cannot give up after your hard work. Another publisher may think better of it. Your mother and I, the whole family, believe in your talent.”
“Of course you do, sir, and I am most grateful, as a daughter should be. But this gentleman”—she flicked a fingertip at the devastating statement—“does not care about my feelings and knows that he shall not have to eat dinner with me and suffer my reproachful glances across the table. Perhaps he is right. I am not giving up, sir. On the contrary, I am determined to make this book a better one. I trust we can afford the paper, sir? I shall need a quantity.”
“My dear, of course you may have as much paper as you need—all the pens and ink in the world, too.” He gestured around his study. “All of this is at your disposal, unless you are still determined to write in your parlor upstairs?”
She glanced around her father‧s room, with its book-lined shelves and shabby, comfortable furniture, its air of masculine privilege and privacy. A half-written sermon lay on the battered leather of the desk, along with a feather—blue and bright, a jay‧s feather that he must have picked up on one of his walks around the parish.
“It is very good of you, sir, and I thank you,” she said. “But I prefer my little table; and besides, I can see who comes to visit and keep an eye on the great world.”
“But the interruptions. Surely they distract you?”
“Not at all, sir. I need interruptions, else I should become a poor creature lost in her own thoughts, which, I am assured, are of little import.” She picked up the manuscript and cradled it in her arms. “I shall get to work immediately. No, not immediately. It is Thursday, sir, and today Catherine Bigg and Cassandra and I make merry at Basingstoke Assembly Rooms. We leave for Manydown Park this afternoon.”
“Promise me, dear Jane, you will put nothing of this in any of your books.”
Jane smiled at her sister sitting opposite her in the carriage that carried them to the Angel Inn in Basingstoke. “As if I should do such a thing!”
“But that is the best part of an assembly—to talk about our neighbors after,” cried Catherine Bigg. “Why, Jane has so wicked a tongue, and there is nothing I like better than to hear her recount what she has observed but which we have merely allowed to pass us by unnoticed.”
Mrs. Bigg frowned. “I know Miss Jane would not be unkind, my dear, but do you not think such frivolous behavior unbecoming?”
“Oh, Mama, you are such an excellent chaperone!” Catherine squeezed her mother‧s arms.
“But what place better to behave frivolously than at an assembly room?” Jane said. “Would it not be a different sort of frivolity, ma‧am, to not behave appropriately at such an event—to stand at the side of the room all gloom and seriousness? Besides, I expect we shall meet no one new, and as usual there will not be nearly enough gentlemen. No, do not smile, Catherine. It is a very serious matter. We shall be abandoned at the side of the room, listening to elderly ladies whisper that the Austen girls, who never had any money in the first place, are now losing their bloom. Yet I assure you it will happen.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bigg. “Still raining, I fear. I shall go first with Catherine and Cassandra and send William back with the umbrella for you, Jane.”
Jane helped her sister and friend gather fans and gloves. Here she was, twenty-one years of age, attending a ball at some provincial assembly rooms where possibly the shopkeepers would not outnumber the gentlemen and the ladies would almost certainly outnumber the gentlemen. Every day, the newspapers brought dire news of England‧s failures at sea against the French; in London the Damned of the ton gambled and whored and scandalized decent folk (they said already the Prince of Wales was in their thrall), and in the country all the talk was of militia and a possible French invasion. It was certainly not a time for trivial pursuits and merriment; or possibly it was the time for pleasure, because it was almost certainly the worst of times, and none of them knew what the future might bring.
And such dreadful weather for it, the small ironic voice in her head murmured. She must remember that.
She watched Catherine and Cassandra avoid the puddles and the worst of the dung and straw that littered the street while the Biggs’ footman held the umbrella over their heads. Mrs. Bigg, beneath her own umbrella, flitted between Catherine and Cassandra, lifting delicate muslin hems out of harm‧s way.
It was absurd to be so excited about a provincial assembly. She had been trapped in a girlhood that once seemed infinite, Miss Jane, the youngest and brightest daughter of the Austen family, the one who wrote and read and played the pianoforte with dash and flair, and was always ready with a witty comment. But now, with her twenty-second birthday occurring the next month, childhood was falling away. How many years would it be before the matrons at assemblies and balls murmured about poor Miss Jane, who almost certainly would not marry now, for she was sadly faded and had too sharp a tongue for her own good?
How long before she sat behind the matrons, a spinster‧s cap on her faded hair, and listened to the malice and gossip, herself an object of pity and mild derision—the gentlewoman of limited means with a small talent for music and writing.
There would never be any malicious gossip about Cassandra, only sighs and gentle comments that it was a pity the eldest Austen daughter would never marry now poor Tom Fowle was dead; as though her status imposed upon her some sort of honorable discharge from husband-hunting. Unkind, Jane. Unkind. Cassandra had been so sad, and she and Jane had wept together, all of the Austens mourning the loss. Jane‧s tears had been real.
She was being unkind because a day or so ago an unknown clerk in a publisher‧s office had been instructed that polite novels by ladies were of no interest and he should take care of the stack of paper forthwith. On receiving the bad news she had put a good face on her disappointment. She had smiled and joked, and proclaimed that she would write more and better. If necessary, she would tear the book apart with a ruthless hand and eye and begin again; she could not let her family down. But inside, resentment and anger burned, forcing its way to the surface in uncharitable thoughts, angry
actions—like clenching her hands so hard that even in this dim light she could see the deep crease in her gloves.
“Are you ready, Miss Jane?” The door opened to reveal William, the shoulders of his livery already darkened by rain, his nose red with cold.
She nodded and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and fixed a polite, agreeable smile on her face. Publishers’ minions could go to the devil. She had her fan, her gloves, her pretty gown, and her reputation as a bright-witted, pretty girl; a dashing, high-spirited girl who tossed her chestnut curls, picked up her skirts, and skipped away from the footman and his umbrella to weave between the puddles and dirt as though performing a particularly complex and pleasurable dance step. She arrived inside the door of the Angel Inn with a few dark spots of rain on her muslin, some specks of mud on her stockings, and, she knew, a becoming pinkness in her cheeks.
Mrs. Bigg tut-tutted and, murmuring of finding others who would enjoy a young women to the ladies’ retiring room and ascended the staircase that led to the Assembly Room. Bright candlelight glowed at the top of the stairs, and a small ensemble played a country dance with great vigor. The hum of lively conversation indicated that festivities were well under way.
“Jane! I do not think that muslin will clean well,” Cassandra said. She leaned forward to whisper, “Some of the gentlemen remarked upon your behavior. You must be careful.”
“Indeed? Which ones?”
Cassandra slid her eyes sideways with a small tilt of the head as Jane slipped her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to
William.
“Those ones? I did not expect to see any of their kind here.” “I fear so. We must be very careful.”
“But—here? Does London prove too tedious? Oh, how foolish I am. Doubtless they wish to make the acquaintance of the famous authoress Miss Jane Austen and her beautiful, virtuous sister and their most elegant friend Miss Catherine Bigg.” She rubbed at a speck of mud on her skirts. “But it is still the same, is it not? Too many ladies and not enough gentlemen.”
“Jane!” Cassandra giggled. “Oh, pray, do not say such things. Catherine, that is such a pretty ribbon. Did you buy it in Basingstoke?”
As Catherine and Cassandra chatted of fashion, Jane pretended to listen while observing the crowd of women engaged in putting the finishing touches to their appearances, jostling to see themselves in the large mirror propped against the wall. The room rang with the patter of leather-soled dancing shoes on the plank floor, the chatter and giggles of feminine voices, the rustle of muslin and silk. A young woman exclaimed as her wreath of silk flowers slipped over one ear and she reached behind her head to twist the wire into a more secure shape. Another, her back to the mirror, turned her head to view the back of her skirts, doubtless concerned about a scorchmark from an iron in the hands of an overenthusiastic maid.
Jane licked her fingers and reached to squeeze into shape a descending curl that brushed Catherine‧s neck. “More spontaneity to the curl, my dear Catherine. You must look as though you care not a jot for your appearance, but look like this always with the slightest of effort, not after an hour and a quarter with a curling iron and both you and your maid close to tears.”
“Oh, heavens, this damp weather.” Catherine sighed. “By the end of the evening I shall look like a furze bush, I know it.”
“But a pretty furze bush,” Jane said. She took a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror—she was tall enough to see over most of the other heads in the room and did not have to squeeze herself forward or stand on tiptoe. Adequate, she decided. But—she looked again.
How odd. The lady—the very fashionably dressed lady who stood at the back of the room, smoothing her silk gloves—did not appear in the reflection. It had to be a trick of the light, although the room was remarkably well lit with an oil lamp and several candlesticks embellished with hanging crystals to reflect the light.
“Cassandra.” She touched her sister‧s arm. “Tell me I do not imagine things. The lady at the back of the room—the one with the silver fillet on her hair and the cream gown with the Greek pattern along the hem—”
“Oh, most elegant,” Cassandra said. “Surely she did not have that gown made here. It must be a London dressmaker. And the fabric—what a beautiful drape. It cannot be a cotton, surely. I suspect it is a silk, or even, do you think, a very fine wool? I think—”
“The mirror. Now look in the mirror.”
“Oh.” Casssandra gripped Jane‧s arm. “So it is true.”
The woman moved toward the two sisters, bowing her head in acknowledgment, a faint smile on her red lips. Her feet, clad in the briefest and most delicate of red leather Grecian sandals, whispered on the floorboards as she passed them and walked toward the doorway. She left in her wake a hint of a heavy, exotic perfume, and the train of her gown lifted, floated, and caressed Jane‧s muslin skirt as she passed by.
“‘Pon my word, Miss Austen, you‧re as cool as a cucumber, whereas I …” Her dance partner produced a handkerchief with which he mopped his sweaty brow. “I beg your pardon, ma‧am.”
Jane made a polite curtsy in reply and looked for Cassandra and Catherine. Ah, there they were, laughing and chatting with the gentlemen who‧d partnered them in the lively country dance that had caused her own partner such discomfort. She might well look as cool as a cucumber, but she was a cucumber in need of refreshment. The musicians, engaged in tuning their instruments and drinking tankards of ale—playing must be as enervating as dancing—seemed inclined to linger before they began the next dance. It was the perfect opportunity to drink some tea or punch and then hope for a partner, preferably a more athletic gentleman than the last, for the next dance.
Double doors at one side of the room led to the card tables; a set of double doors opposite them led to the refreshments room, an excellent arrangement for Mrs. Bigg and the other chaperones, who could play cards and gossip, yet keep an eye on their charges.
It might be considered fast, certainly unusual, for a young woman to approach the refreshment room alone, but fetching a drink for her chaperone was surely an act of kindness, of duty even. She would pay no heed to wagging tongues—after all, if she wished to cause talk, there were plenty of other ways to do so, many of them far more gratifying and pleasurable.
At that thought her gaze alighted on the group from London, who stood at the side of the room. She wasn‧t the only one who cast surreptitious or openly curious glances at them, for they were certainly well worth observing. The fashions of the ladies alone made Jane, in her best muslin, feel dowdy and provincial, but she could not carry off the exotic silks and glorious Kashmir shawls flung over bare shoulders with such dashing elegance. No, even Miss Jane, one of the sophisticated and learned Austens, would appear a country mouse dressed beyond her means and station, an object of ridicule. And the jewels that winked and flashed at wrist and throat—of course, at the throat—put her own modest pearl bobs to shame.
But it was the gentlemen she found most fascinating, even if there were not enough of them and so far none of them had made a move to dance, not even with the ladies who accompanied them. They stood among the Hampshire shopkeepers and local gentry like thoroughbred horses in a field of donkeys, beautiful and dangerous, stilled power in their limbs, mystery in their eyes.
She had dawdled as long as she dared without making herself an object of ridicule and she broke into her usual brisk walk. Arriving at the punch bowl, she instructed the servant there to pour her two glasses, and turned away to find herself face to face with the lady without the reflection. They both smiled and dipped their heads in acknowledgment, the meeting of two women a degree shy of being perfect strangers.
“Pardon me, ma‧am,” the woman said. Her voice was deep and husky. She touched a gloved hand to Jane‧s shoulder.
Enveloped in a sudden wave of warmth—oh, she hoped the woman did not know how unsettled she felt; could her kind not read minds?—Jane stepped away, spilling a little punch onto one glove.
“Oh!” Jane put the glasses down onto the table. She looked around for Cassandra or Catherine, ready for a hasty retreat into the retiring room. They were nowhere in sight. If only she had allowed Cassandra to sew in the short sleeves in preparation for the evening, but no, she had assured her sister a few pins would do as well, and be less trouble when she restored the long sleeves the next day.
“Do not move.” The woman stripped off her gloves, laying them on the table. “I shall make all well. It will take but a few seconds and no one will notice. Or would you rather I introduce myself so we may observe the proprieties? I am Sybil Smith.”
“Jane Austen.” She dipped a stilted curtsy, afraid the sleeve would thoroughly disengage. “It is most kind of you, Miss Smith.”
“My pleasure, Miss Austen.” Miss Smith‧s nostrils flared slightly. She moved closer to Jane, enveloping her in perfume, as though the two of them were wrapped in a shawl lifted from a chest of exotic, fragrant wood. Her fingers tugged and straightened the muslin at Jane‧s shoulder, twisting the fabric so she could adjust the pin to its rightful position.
“It has scratched you, I fear.” The fabric settled at Jane‧s shoulder.
“No matter. I am much obliged, ma‧am …” Jane‧s voice faded into a gasp as Miss Smith raised a finger to her mouth.
“Ah,” she breathed. The small smear of scarlet had disappeared from her fingertip when she lowered her hand with a smile and a sigh.
Jane recognized it as sacrilege, decadence, as she had been taught; a parody of Holy Communion. Yet she wondered, looking at the expression on the woman‧s face, what the equivalent would be for her: something rare and delicious, sweet …
“Apricots,” the woman murmured. “Sun-warmed apricots from a tree splayed against a stone wall. The first of the summer, the juice bursting on your tongue.”
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