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.”
Chapter 4
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.
Not all of them. One crouched nearby, immobile, too panicked to run.
The little creature trembled, whiskers and ears quivering, eyes bright with fear.
“All is well,” she murmured. “All will be well.”
She stared into the dark eyes. The rabbit shuddered, eyes glazing over, and its rigid posture softened.
She could take it. Her teeth ached and extended, ready for the quick, efficient kill. The rabbit‧s pulse slowed as she crooned to it, lulling it into calm. She would be kind. Death would be fast and merciful. And its blood—oh, so warm and sweet—tasting of clover and grass and the sunshine of the creature‧s only summer …
No! She stood shuddering with disgust as the rabbit sprang to life, thumped its hind feet, and shot away into the hedgerow. A scuffle and rustle of vegetation, and the rabbit‧s escape was complete, the monster thwarted.
“I am a monster,” she said aloud.
The next day, as the hours progressed in the carriage on the road to Bath, she yearned for what she could not have, neither blood nor the ready affection and quick, loving embraces of her sister and mother. Her mother, tired and with the lines on her face all too evident, wept quietly as they traveled, despite her father‧s attempts to cheer her.
And her family watched her—that was the hardest part to bear, those quick, sidelong glances when they thought she looked away (of course she knew)—as though they feared their beloved Jane might turn on them. She feared it too.
When they stopped to change horses and take refreshment, the world was loud and overwhelming. There were so many scents and loud noises. The worst was the contact with other travelers, the inadvertent brush of a stranger‧s elbow filling her with a jumble of thoughts and concerns. One time, a gentleman, elegantly dressed, pale—too pale—touched his hat and bowed with an ironic smile, saluting one of his own kind.
A chambermaid, brushing against her, murmured, “Oh, drink from me, miss, you‧ll like the taste of me. A shilling, miss, and you can do anything you wish. My neck or thigh, miss, whatever you fancy.”
She was shocked, and tempted, and she longed for the young woman‧s surrender to her fangs (blatantly extended, her body quivering with expectation), before Cassandra drew her away, blushing, talking loudly of tea and bread and butter and the chance to have a moment of quiet away from the bumpy carriage. Poor Cassandra, trying to pretend they were going to Bath for pleasure, a visit to her aunt and uncle to enjoy the city and its entertainments; talking with great good cheer of the fashions they would encounter and new trims for gowns and bonnets that must be bought.
She did her best to add to Cassandra‧s chatter, for to think she would not be cured was unspeakable. One day, quite soon, she would write again, and laugh, and enjoy silly chatter about fashion and balls and partners, and this dreadful episode would be quite forgotten.
The day lengthened. The carriage, with its fresh horses every few miles (the expense was not to be thought of) rattled on down the Bath Road, and her father counted off the miles to their destination as they passed each milepost.
And then the carriage began the long descent into the city, Cassandra exclaiming over a house where a party was to be held. Elegantly dressed guests spilled onto the pavement, their carriages stopped at all sorts of odd angles in the road, with liveried servants bearing flambeaux.
The Austen family arrived at the Leighs’ elegant house at Number One Paragon Place, tired, travel worn, and with one of the passengers ready to hunt for blood but too weak to do so.
“Jane, my dear. Open your eyes.”
She did so with great reluctance and found herself lying on a sofa in a well-lit room. Her father knelt at her side, a glass of brandy in one hand.
“I‧m dying,” she said and turned her head from the brandy he offered her. What was the point of delaying death? She was not afraid. Soon the hunger and fear would be over; she might be damned but she had harmed no one, not even a rabbit. The gates of heaven might not be closed against her.
“You cannot die now,” her father said.
“I appreciate, sir, that you have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense so I may die in Bath. I‧d rather have died at home and saved you the money. We are at Bath, are we not?”
“Yes, yes. We arrived but two hours ago.” Her father gripped her hand. Not my Jenny, not the delight of my eyes. Lord God, let me keep her awhile.
“Pray let me go, sir. It is too much.”
It wasn‧t what she meant, but he released her hand and his desperation and sorrow retreated from her mind. “I fear you will not survive until Monday. I am willing to do anything to keep you alive, Jane. I shall not see you drift into ash for lack of sustenance. Not my little Jenny. You are my blood, my flesh, my daughter.”
“What do you suggest, sir?”
He did not answer but brought a small penknife from his pocket, then stood, and unbuttoned his coat. She watched, with growing fear (and anticipation, she could not deny that) as he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it over a chair. With great deliberation, he unbuttoned one cuff and rolled the linen back.
“No!” she said. “What would the bishop say?”
“The bishop is the least of my worries. I fear your mother more. Have you considered my offer, miss?” His voice was playful as though she were a child and he offered her some delicious treat.
She turned her face aside. “When I was at Manydown I almost bit Harris.”
“Poor lad. You must have scared him half to death.”
“At first, but I … I lulled him. I do not know what would have happened, whether I could stop.” She turned to see him hold the penknife over his arm, frowning.
“He‧d make a good match for you in a few years; a very good match,” her father said. “His health shoul
d be improved by then too. Now, where do you think I should cut?”
“I don‧t know,” she snapped back at him. “I haven‧t been a vampire long enough to know! I‧ve not drunk from anyone yet. And what if I can‧t stop?”
“Good heavens, I was not suggesting you drink from me. This glass of brandy should answer, I think, fortified by my blood. I read a treatise on the subject when I was young. Let us consider this a scientific experiment.”
“Papa!”
He shrugged. “Possibly I could write a treatise upon it myself, and then we‧d have two authors in the family, eh?”
“I shall only do it this once. Never again.”
The knife moved, nicked, and blood welled on her father‧s wrist and dripped into the brandy.
He held the glass to her lips and she sipped, the brandy made stronger and more potent by the few drops of blood. If she tasted of apricots, her father had a particular scent: apples and leather, safety and comfort.
“All is well, child.” He stroked her head. “All is well. I see you rally. I think that‧s enough, eh? We don‧t want you drunk, just strong enough to continue.”
She lifted her head. “I can never thank you enough, sir.”
“Ah, nonsense. You may be one of the Damned, but you‧re still my daughter.” He blew his nose and gave her a brave smile. “Not a word to your mother.”
Later that night she lay sleepless, listening to the sounds of the city—the deep tolling of church bells, the rumble of carts, the cry of the nightwatchman. So she would live a little longer, thanks to her father‧s blood, but meanwhile the current of others like herself tugged and wakened her. The night was her element now, the time she felt most awake and alive. Others like herself walked these streets, and the urge to seek out her own and learn from them nagged at her. How long would it be before she preferred their company to that of her family? Tomorrow night, the night before she took the cure, would the urge to find other vampires and the craving for blood be stronger than it was now? Or would she be so weak that she would lapse into a half swoon, as she had by the time they arrived in Bath? She could still barely remember the arrival, although she had a vague memory of the shock on her aunt and uncle‧s faces.
Jane and the Damned Page 4