The room was dark but she could see quite clearly, walk with assurance over to the window and push back the curtains. Outside, a group of late revelers weaved its way down the street, and a pair of footmen carried a sedan chair. A cat strolled across the cobblestones and faded into the shadows. She might yet live.
***
“Come, Jane.” Her mother helped her into the sedan chair, her bare fingers touching Jane‧s wrist above her glove. Always our daughters; they are all he cares for, and he is not concerned about my well-being, however ill I may feel. How dare she put herself forward so, reaching above her station …
Did her mother not know Jane knew everything that ran through her mind—the resentment and anger? If she hadn‧t felt so ill and tired, Jane might have warned her. As it was, she experienced only a very mild distress that her mother‧s cheerfulness and deference to Mr. Austen was nothing more than a façade. The sedan chair rose and wobbled and jolted its way along the streets to the Pump Room. The street was crowded, a mass of voices and scents—anonymous people who meant nothing to her. Her mother and Cassandra followed in another chair, with her father walking alongside.
She could hear their conversation with her newly sharpened senses.
“I have a recommendation for a Dr. Phelps,” her father said. “He replied to my note and said he is able to call this afternoon, but with this unfortunate timing it was of vital importance that Jane start the waters immediately.”
“The shame, that such a man will call at the house!” Her mother‧s voice was querulous. “It is bad enough that my sister and Mr. Leigh know of Jane‧s disgrace, but I daresay all the neighbors will talk of it, and the servants too.”
“I believe we may count on the family‧s good sense not to gossip,” her father replied. “And there is no point in frightening the servants by sharing the bad news with them.”
“Oh, poor Jane.” Cassandra sounded tearful. “I cannot think of her that way.”
“You must be careful,” Mrs. Austen said. “Everyone knows they have the power to sap the will of an unsuspecting girl—is not Jane herself an example of that?”
“She is my beloved sister!”
“We must pray for strength for her and for us,” Mr. Austen said after a pause. “And yes, she is still our daughter and sister, even if she has sinned.”
“I did not sin,” Jane muttered to herself. She had flirted with a gentleman at a provincial assembly, something she had done before and would likely do again; in fact, if she had the opportunity at this moment she would flirt and enchant any available gentleman and sink her teeth … But she could not think in those terms, however hungry she might be. She concentrated on the breath and smell of the two footmen carrying the sedan chair, strong men whose blood would doubtless be invigorating and cheering.
How she longed for an etiquette book for the Damned. Surely there were guidelines on whom it was permissible to drink from, rather as the Church of England dictated that cousins could marry but niece and uncle could not. Would a servant expect a vail for allowing you to open a vein, and for how much? More than for calling a carriage, certainly, or handing around a tray of wineglasses. Was it indeed proper to expect a servant to perform such an intimate act?
For it was an act of great intimacy, and surely it must be a sin to think of such a thing. She peered out of the chair at the brief glimpses of passersby and cream stone buildings stained with soot and tried not to think of her hunger and the anonymous bodies of blood that passed nearby. If only she were stronger … But she could only become stronger by drinking …
A slowing pace, the glimpses of fashionable clothing, and the deep toll of the Abbey bell indicated that they were close to their destination. A slight tremor and the sedan chair came to a stop on solid ground. Jane drew the curtains back and took her father‧s offered hand.
“So we are to be fashionable, sir,” she said—more of an effort to put Mr. Austen at ease than anything else. He gazed at her with a mixture of affection and guilt, and, yes, fear; and if their hands had been bare she would have felt his emotions. “I shall not be your partner at whist anymore,” she added.
“What do you mean, Jane?”
“Your face reveals your feelings too clearly, sir. You have nothing to fear from me.”
He tucked his hand into her arm and held out his other hand to Mrs. Austen, who ignored him, concerning herself with the set of Cassandra‧s bonnet and in guiding her eldest daughter around a puddle.
Jane caught a slight scent of something sulphurous and bitter—it must be the water—before she and her family were caught up with the swell of fashionable people who paraded into the Pump Room. The Austen family received a few glances that faded from mild interest to indifference.
“I feel quite a dowd,” Cassandra remarked to Jane.
“It‧s quite remarkable that you feel well dressed when you leave the house, yet a mere fifteen minutes later are hopelessly aware of your failings in your gown and bonnet,” Jane replied. She was rewarded with a brave smile from her sister.
The scent of the water became stronger as they made their way across the room.
“Sit, my dear. I‧ll fetch you a glass,” Mr. Austen said.
Jane sank into the chair he offered. A few feet away, Mrs. Austen and Cassandra stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple they knew slightly from a previous visit to Bath. Jane could not remember their names and did not want to waste precious energy on trivial conversation.
“I beg of you, ma‧am, do not do it.”
She turned in astonishment to see who had addressed her in a frantic whisper. A man of about thirty—or at least giving that appearance—slender and of medium height, with a fine-boned, handsome face. Dark eyes gazed at her beneath a head of tousled brown hair that sparked gold in the weak winter sunlight.
“I do not believe we have been introduced, sir.” But there was no need for an introduction; she recognized him for what he was, and allowed herself for the briefest of moments to meet his gaze. For the first time since she had become one of the Damned she felt a connection, a knowledge that she was talking with someone who understood her. She could have wept with relief.
“Luke Venning, ma‧am. You should know we do not stand on ceremony.”
“I know nothing.” She looked around for her father, who had disappeared into the throng around the fountain.
“Do not let them do it to you, ma‧am. It is against your will, is it not?”
She shook her head. “I don‧t know.”
He frowned. “You are but recently created, I believe. You need sustenance.”
“Sir, my family wishes—”
“And what do you wish, Miss …?”
“I am Jane Austen.”
He bowed. “I beg of you, ma‧am, consider carefully what you do.” His gaze shifted away from her, to a beautiful, frail woman in a wheelchair.
“Who is she?” Jane asked.
“Mrs. Margaret Cole. She risks her life for the sake of mortality. Twenty years ago she left her husband for me. Recently she changed her mind, and attempts to take the cure.”
“So that is why she looks so ill. I am so very sorry!” she exclaimed, and caught his hand in a burst of sympathy. He squeezed her hand briefly before returning it.
The woman looked near death, her lips bloodless, purple shadows beneath her eyes.
“That is what the cure does?” Jane asked.
He shrugged. “She has been one of us for some time, so the turning back is of necessity painful and dangerous. She may not survive. She turned down immortality—and myself—for twenty acres of grazing land and respectability. And children.”
A stout, balding gentleman hurried to Mrs. Cole‧s side, carrying a glass. She looked at the yellowish, steamy water and took it with one thin, blue-veined hand.
“That is Mr. Cole.” Luke shook his head.
“I see vanity is not absent,” Jane murmured. “That she should turn down a young, handsome man for that.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, I am far older than Mr. Cole,” Luke said. “But I am sure once she has the children she craves and he needs she will take a younger lover. I—oh, I do beg your pardon, sir.”
Had he deliberately jogged her father‧s elbow? Mr. Austen looked at the empty glass and splash of water on the floor with dismay. “My dear, I am afraid I must brave the fray once more.” He turned to Luke. “I regret we have not been introduced, sir.”
“A thousand apologies, sir!” Luke produced a handkerchief and patted him down. “A dreadful crush in here today, as I was mentioning to Miss Austen. You know Lord Barnhill, I believe. No? Oh, a capital fellow. He has some most interesting theories on the old Romans of the city; why, everywhere you see a hole dug in the ground there‧s all sorts of Roman rubbish—allow me to introduce you.”
“Most kind, sir, but I—”
“Do not be concerned, sir. With your permission, I shall fetch Miss Austen as much water as she can tolerate.”
Jane watched with some interest as Luke made fluent introductions and Mr. Austen was whisked away by a group of gentlemen passionately debating the ancients. Her father cast a concerned glance back at her and she smiled as best she could.
“How do you do that?” she asked when Mr. Venning returned. “Why does my father not know you for what you are? When I—the gentleman and his sister who—that is, the whole company recognized them.”
He smiled. “We learn to dissemble and of course we can charm. Sometimes it pleases us to reveal ourselves; it is most amusing to see the mortals stare and whisper and find excuses to seek us out. And there are also a few, a very few, who recognize us for what we are, whether we will or not; you must be careful of them. I can see you have a lot to learn, Jane. May I ask how long …?”
“Last Thursday.”
“Last Thursday!” He looked at her with alarm. “No wonder you are so weak. I could scarce feel your spark. What is your Bearleader about, to let this happen to you?”
She smiled a little at the term. “You mean, as though I were a young gentleman taking the Grand Tour with an unfortunate, long-suffering tutor to keep me out of trouble? Why should I have a Bearleader?”
“The one who created you, is he or she not with you?”
She shook her head. “The gentleman who—who bit me—left. I do not know what he was supposed to do. Or what I am supposed to do.”
“You‧re slipping away. He should have stayed to see you through these first few months. Who was he?”
“A Mr. Smith. I doubt it was his real name.”
“Ah. And so you have not dined since?” He gazed at her with concern and compassion.
“I‧m not hungry.”
“No, my dear Jane. Not food.”
“My father gave me his blood.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Austen has hidden depths, it seems.”
She glared at him with all the outrage she could muster in her weakened state. “He is the Reverend Mr. Austen, something you should probably know since you have greeted him as an old acquaintance, and his offer was made for love of me.”
Luke bowed. “I stand corrected.” He offered his arm. “Come with me, Miss Jane Austen.”
Chapter 5
Jane hesitated. The last time she had been alone with a gentleman—no, a vampire, and certainly no gentleman—had not been to her advantage.
“Do not fear,” Luke said.
“But—but I owe it to my family to—”
“To die? For that is what will happen if you do not dine soon.” He led her, half supporting her, through a doorway at the far end of the Pump Room into a narrow, dark passage and then into a small, dim room.
“I am come here to take the cure,” she said, her resistance ebbing away.
“A cadaver cannot take any sort of cure, my dear Miss Austen, and that is what you‧ll be soon enough. It‧s a delicate matter, the cure; you must be strong enough to withstand the poison of the waters—for such it is to us—yet the stronger you are the more difficult and painful the cure will become.”
“What is it to you? Why will you not leave me alone?” She hated herself for the whimper in her voice.
He pushed her into a chair. He stood over her, hands moving to the buttons of his coat. “My honor, as one of my kind, demands it, Miss Austen. This Mr. Smith abandoned you, a most dishonorable act, and it is my duty, honor, and privilege to do what he should have.” He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it fall.
“But what about me? My family fears me and rushes me to take the cure. Your honor, frankly, is no business of mine. No one asks me what I want … I …” Her voice faded away as Luke unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He raised his wrist to his mouth and breathed upon it, then showed her the blue veins against his pale skin.
“I cannot,” she said faintly. “Please, sir, do not …”
“My name is Luke.” He bent and held his wrist to her lips. “Your canines extend. We call it en sanglant. You cannot help yourself. You feel pain but that‧s only because it is a new sensation. With time you‧ll recognize the condition of en sanglant as a sign of desire, of need, of the pleasure you‧ll anticipate—oh, I beg your pardon, you are the daughter of a clergyman; I doubt you‧ll appreciate the—”
“Hold your tongue!” She grabbed his wrist and bit, hard.
“Ouch! A little more finesse, Jane, but no matter, you‧ll learn.”
Through a mouthful of blood she growled—yes, Jane Austen, the cultured and respectable daughter of the Austen family growled, and then laughed messily.
And the taste—like lightning, like the way she felt once, in another life, when the words flowed and she laughed aloud at her own cleverness and the delicious interplay of her characters. This was a far cry from the tender comfort of her father‧s blood.
She raised her head and looked up at him, a warm trickle running down her chin.
“Dear, dear, you are a sight. No manners at all,” said Luke, handkerchief in hand.
“You taste like … like heaven.”
“Of course I do. I‧m old. Now, hurry up before we‧re discovered.”
“I don‧t care if we are.”
He laughed. “Spoken like a true vampire.”
She drew away. “I am not a vampire.” Even as she spoke she flicked out her tongue to catch the last few precious drops.
“Indeed. You sit there en sanglant, blood on your lips, and claim you are not a vampire? By the way, it‧s customary to breathe on the wound, a small courtesy, if you have finished.”
“I beg your pardon.” She did so.
He dabbed at his wrist with the handkerchief, a pained expression on his face, and she became aware that she had breached etiquette once more in not cleaning the wound.
“I meant,” she said, “that I shall not be a … that is … I shall take the cure.” For the first time she looked at their surroundings, a dusty room with a pile of chairs, some with broken legs, in one corner. A dirty window let in a little light. “Now I feel a little more revived, I must return to my father.”
He knelt in front of her, not attempting to hide his extended canines, and placed a hand on hers. “Say it, Jane. Say what you are.”
She shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir, I cannot.”
He stood, his hand still resting on hers. “Very well. How do you feel, now?”
She considered. “Strong. As though a new world opens up. Excited.” She shivered. “No, I really cannot … But will you tell me something, sir? Why is it that your kind do not drink only from each other? For then you would be no threat to the rest of us.”
He let her hand drop and reached for his coat. “Ah, you have a lot to learn. It is considered a high honor for one of the Damned to drink from another; such occasions as the present do not count, of course, for I seek only your survival, whichever path you may choose.
“Besides, there are many mortals who wish us to drink from them. They find the sensation stimulating and delightful, the lightheadedness that follows enjoyable. In
short, it is a sensual experience. And of course, we vampires have both charm and skill in the amorous arts that often accompany such an experience—we‧ve had years to practice them. Oho, now you look shocked, Miss Jane.”
“Of course I am.” She hesitated. “On the journey, a maid at one of the inns offered herself to me. She wanted money.”
“Indeed, that is also a possibility for us, that we buy mortals’ favors. A pity you did not accept her, for you would be much stronger now. But as to why we do not dine often from each other—we are vampires, dear Jane, put upon the earth to seduce and delight mortals. However, when one of us becomes a Bearleader, it is his or her duty to teach the fledgling manners.”
“Oh. You mean you have become my Bearleader?” And then, “But I don‧t feel wicked. And my manners are generally acknowledged to be beyond reproach. What you have just described sounds dreadful.”
He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “You are quite charming. I am sure that under my tutelage you will assume what you call ‘wickedness,’ and we ‘polish,’ soon enough.”
“But I don‧t want to.” She stood. “I thank you—at least, I think I do. I am not sure, although I do feel much better. But, Mr. Venning, my family cares for me deeply and it is my duty to take the cure.”
“You‧d turn down immortality?” He raised an eyebrow as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat.
“Yes, sir. I would.” She stood and bounced a little on the soles of her feet. How she would like to run, or at least take a vigorous walk. “I love my family, my friends. I have no wish to outlive them.”
“You feel well, I see,” he said. “Well, my offer stands, for the moment, Jane. And if you refuse, you‧ll surely have a story for your grandchildren. We must return so your reputation may be preserved.”
Jane and the Damned Page 5