“You do quite enough, acting as the only sensible person in this house.”
“But I don’t want to be sensible. I want to go shopping! I want to go to card parties and assemblies! I want to dance and flirt!” Cassandra gave a horrified laugh. “Oh, heavens, Jane, you know what I mean. I want none of this to have happened.” She tossed aside her embroidery and laid her face on her folded arms. “To think that a visit to Bath was once synonymous with pleasure.”
Jane patted her shoulder, helpless. “I am so sorry,” she mumbled. “Believe me, there is nothing I should like better than for everything to be as it was before.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Cassandra’s voice was muffled. “None of it was anyone’s fault.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’amselle Austen and ma’amselle Jane.” Captain Garonne stood at the doorway. He held a newspaper in his hand. “I came to bring you this … it is the newspaper. I do not wish to disturb you.”
Cassandra straightened and grabbed her embroidery, her head turned aside so the captain would not see her reddened eyes.
“Thank you, sir. Do you dine with us tonight?” Jane tried to make the question as unfriendly as possible.
“I believe so.” He crossed the room to lay the newspaper on the table. “Here it says there is to be a concert and fireworks at Sydney Gardens tomorrow night to celebrate the friendship between the French and English in this town. I should like to offer to escort you ladies, if it is agreeable with all. I know my uncle, our commander, General Renard, would find your company delightful.”
“I regret my health does not permit me to attend such events,” Jane said. “Neither do I feel, Captain, that there is much friendship to celebrate.”
He bowed. “I shall wish you good day, then.”
Cassandra waited until the front door closed as the captain left the house. “Jane, what has come over you?”
“What do you mean?”
“It is not like you to be so rude. Would it harm us to go out and have a little pleasure?” Cassandra picked up the newspaper and leafed through it. “Why, here is the announcement. There are to be refreshments and a concert and fireworks, as the captain said. You know, he is quite a handsome man now he has rested and shaved. He looked like a brigand when first he came into the house. I shall ask Mama—”
“I beg of you that you shall do no such thing!” Jane cried. “We are at war, Cassandra! He is an unwelcome guest in this house, this city, this country—our country. How can you even think of such a thing?”
Cassandra looked taken aback at Jane’s show of passion. “Don’t you see, Jane—he has high connections. Maybe he can help Papa obtain a pass.”
“Oh. I suppose he could. I beg your pardon; I never thought of that.” Jane took the now cooling cup of tea she had poured for Mrs. Austen. She looked over Cassandra’s shoulder at the newspaper. “What a sad rag—all advertisements and no news. But Cassandra, we should not fraternize with our enemies. It is not right. I am sure Papa would agree.”
“I shall ask him,” Cassandra said. She had a familiar, obstinate set to her mouth.
Jane sighed and went upstairs with the tea. She tapped on the bedchamber door and entered.
Mrs. Austen, in her dressing gown and cap, lay in the bed. “I am very ill,” she said in a voice that dared Jane to disagree.
“I am sorry to hear it, ma’am.” Jane hoped her mother would not take it into her head to visit the Pump Room, which would be exceedingly awkward.
Mrs. Austen sipped the tea. “It is stone cold.”
“I’ll fetch you more, ma’am.”
“No, I do not wish to be a burden.” Mrs. Austen closed her eyes. “It is too bad your father leaves me alone in this house full of French monsters all day.”
“The captain is out, ma’am, as are the other two soldiers.”
“I do not even wish to think of it!” Mrs. Austen groped among the bedclothes. “Where is my vinaigrette?”
Jane handed her the small silver box. “Miss Venning has invited me to attend the Pump Room and Baths with her today, ma’am.”
“What is our connection with the Vennings?” Mrs. Austen asked. “Your father was quite vague on the subject, other than saying Mr. Venning is a physician. I am not sure he would be well-bred enough to dine with us at home.”
“I believe he and Mr. Venning have some mutual acquaintances who have an interest in antiquities.”
“Oh, old things. It is all very well for you, Jane, but I do not know a soul here and the town is full of marauding Frenchmen. It is too bad and Cassandra is in a most provoking mood.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Maybe it is better you rest abed until you are stronger.”
Her mother insisted, however, that she should rise, and spent a good quarter hour complaining about Jane’s help with her hair and gown before descending the stairs.
“We cannot receive Miss Venning in our morning room. Jane, Cassandra, we must have the fire lit in the drawing room.”
“But that room is freezing, ma’am,” Cassandra said. “It takes a good half hour for the fire to warm it. Furthermore, the chimney smokes if the wind is from the west. Consider that both you and Jane are unwell and—”
“Just because the town is overrun with dreadful French does not mean we should let our standards decline.” Mrs. Austen led the way into the drawing room and tugged on the bellpull, and then proceeded to make the life of their two remaining footmen wretched.
Jane, glad she no longer felt the cold, poked the sullen fire into life, and was rewarded by a gust of smoke. Cassandra meanwhile talked of the entertainment at Sydney Gardens the next evening and Captain Garonne’s offer to escort the ladies.
“How very thoughtful of him!” cried Mrs. Austen. “And nephew to the general—why, he is better connected than I thought!”
“Is he not one of those marauding and dreadful Frenchmen of whom you were complaining, ma’am?” Jane could not resist. “Besides, I am sure Papa will forbid it, and quite rightly. They are our enemies.”
The jangle of the front doorbell announced the arrival of a visitor, who turned out to be Clarissa, much to Jane’s relief.
To her mortification, Mrs. Austen invited Clarissa and her “brother” to join the party going to Sydney Gardens the next evening, despite, Jane was sure, her father’s anticipated refusal to allow the family to attend.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, I must refuse. We are otherwise engaged,” Clarissa replied, and turned the conversation to the weather. Jane was relieved when they managed to escape the house after some more trivialities. A troop of French soldiers passed them as they walked the short distance to Luke’s house.
Clarissa growled softly, en sanglant.
“I do so agree,” said Jane as they entered the house.
“Yes, a young man in uniform is exceedingly tempting.”
“That wasn’t quite what I meant.” If it were not physically impossible, a blush would have overtaken her.
Clarissa led the way upstairs. “I really don’t understand why you stay with them,” she said over her shoulder.
“They are my family.”
“No, my dear Jane. We are your family. There is no need to dissemble or deceive here. You are with your own kind.” Clarissa pushed open the door of the bedchamber where Jane had bathed and dressed two nights ago. Before Jane could formulate an appropriate response, Clarissa added, “You had best mention to Luke they have a Frenchman in that house. He will not be best pleased that you conceal such a thing from us.”
“But …”
To Jane’s surprise a young man lounged on the bed in his shirtsleeves, directing Ann the maid as she unpacked garments from a large trunk. “That will need ironing, and see if you can remove the spot on the cuff. No, those will not do—I can see the moth holes from here. Why, Jane, you have come at exactly the right moment.”
Jane blinked. The “young man” was none other than Margaret. Ironed shirts, neckcloths, and stockings lay over the bed and on the ba
cks of chairs, and a pile of boots lay on the floor.
“You look much improved,” Clarissa said.
“Thank you. I am a little weak, but getting stronger by the hour.”
“Does Luke sulk still?” Clarissa pinched Ann’s cheek. “You look very plump and biteable today.”
“Thank you, miss.” Ann giggled.
“I have not seen Luke since yesterday,” Margaret replied. “Clarissa, if you distract Ann we shall appear as male slatterns, for she has a great deal of ironing to do. Jane, you must find a pair of breeches to fit you.”
“Breeches?” She knew she would fight, and had thought vaguely that skirts were perhaps unsuitable—but men’s clothing? On the other hand, Margaret looked quite well in hers, and Jane had always secretly been rather proud of her long legs, strong from walking and dancing.
“Now, don’t be a ninny,” Clarissa said, noticing Jane’s hesitation. She turned so Ann could unlace her gown and then her stays. “I think you’ll make an excellent young gentleman.”
Jane accepted Margaret’s offer to unlace her and, still wearing her shift, picked out one of the shirts that lay on the bed. It had the familiar, homely smell of recently ironed cotton.
“Wait. You’ll need this.” Margaret held out a long length of cloth.
“I shall?”
“You can’t be a gentleman with a bosom.” “Oh. Oh no, of course not.”
“And these.” Margaret held out a garment that Jane had only seen previously in the family laundry, a pair of gentleman’s drawers.
“How very odd these are,” Jane commented as she tied the drawstring at the waist. She tied the strip of cloth around her chest, and giggled a little at the wickedness of it all, trying to ignore Clarissa, who flounced around the room stark naked, obviously enjoying herself.
Jane slipped the shirt over her head and her arms into the sleeves. After several tries she found a pair of fawn breeches that fit her quite well and she struggled with the brass buttons of the fall. Without stays she felt undressed, her posture entirely changed. Stockings and boots went on next. The waistcoat, a colorful striped one George might admire, helped matters a little, but it was not until the coat was on, her shoulders drawn back by the cut, that she was able to swagger around the room. She loosened her hair and tied it back in a queue—old-fashioned, but possibly she could conceal it beneath a hat—and admired herself in the mirror.
“Not bad.” Luke stood in the doorway. “Enjoy the reflection while you can, for you won’t have one for long. Put some clothes on, Clarissa, you’ll be late. You’ve forgotten one small detail, jane.”
He handed her a rolled-up stocking.
“What’s this for?”
“In the front of your drawers, at the top of the thigh; possibly you’ll need to pin it into position. Pick one side and stay with it.” He placed his hands on his hips, feet slightly apart, providing her with an eloquent demonstration of what the rolled-up stocking would provide.
Margaret raised a hand to her lips in a gesture Jane recognized. Either her fangs had extended or she was simply amused and hid a smile—or her anger. Yes, anger, that was it, at Luke’s attention to Jane.
“Possibly I may be of some assistance.” Luke took a step toward Jane.
Margaret growled, quite definitely en sanglant.
“I think I can manage. I’d hate to prick you.”
As Jane hoped, for an instant Luke looked startled at her mild innuendo. She snatched the stocking from his hand and a pin from the dresser and turned her back to him. So she was about to learn how to fight. She was more than ready.
Chapter 11
They gathered in the drawing room, Jane, William, Luke, and George. George Brummell, it appeared, had departed again for London. Others drifted in, and introductions were made, until a dozen or so had assembled. Two footmen brought in a large, heavy trunk with contents that rattled and clattered.
Luke flung the lid of the trunk open, revealing a collection of large, dangerous-looking knives, many with misshapen, notched blades that suggested former, lethal uses.
“Choose a weapon and practice,” he said. “But not you, Jane and George. You need to be taught.”
“Beg your pardon, Luke, I know how to fight,” George said. “I’ve had a fencing tutor since I was five years of age.”
“Not that sort of fighting,” Luke said. “You know only how to fight like a gentleman, and that’s not adequate for what we are to do.”
“Very well.” George shrugged.
“I’ll teach George; William, teach Jane, if you please.”
In the silence that fell, William looked Jane up and down. “I beg you will excuse me. She is not vampire enough to tempt me.”
Luke stepped forward to lay a restraining hand on Jane’s arm as she stiffened, her fist closing around the knife hilt, canines extending. “Come, William, we cannot have this sort of division in our midst, not at this time.”
“Look, I don’t mind, damn it,” George said. “I’d be honored, whoever cares to teach me, and if William doesn’t wish to teach Jane, that’s his loss. Look how devilish fierce she is—she scares me half to death.”
Luke nodded. “Thank you.” He laid his arm on Jane’s shoulder, led her away to the far end of the drawing room, and spoke softly. “I beg your pardon. Generally it’s best not to have a Bearleader teach his own—without realizing it he’ll be too protective of his or her ward.”
“But he is my Creator!” She sniffed and lifted a cuff to wipe her eyes.
“That’s true. But consider that as your adopted Bearleader, I lack a vital protective instinct toward you, and I’ll train you better. I shall be far less gentle, far less solicitous.”
“And that was why you wanted William to train me, because you would do a better job of training George.” She glanced over her shoulder.
“I do not mean to offend you, but he is of far more importance in the larger scheme than you.” He gave her a friendly smile that took the sting from his words. “Good. Now, let us commence. You may remove your coat and waistcoat and neckcloth—you did a dreadful job of tying it, by the way. I shall have to teach you the finer points of male fashion.”
She removed her outer clothes as he suggested.
William and George joined them and closed the connecting doors that made two smaller rooms into one large drawing room.
Grunts and thumps from behind her indicated that George’s lesson had already begun.
She straightened, feeling awkward and self-conscious and took a firmer grip of the knife.
“No, no.” Luke adjusted her grip. “Forget the way actors hold daggers. You are not playing Brutus, you know. So. Try to kill me.”
“But I can’t kill you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Imagination, dear Jane. You have some I believe, as a writer—” He laughed and swayed aside. Something tickled and scraped along her side. “Now, if I’d put a little weight behind that, I’d have hurt you. Speaking of which, if you make me bleed I’ll reward you with a little of my blood.” He turned his back on her. “I’ll make it easy for you.”
“Are you sure I cannot kill you?”
“Absolutely.”
She ran at him, dagger poised upward, and the room whirled as she was deposited neatly on her back, the breath knocked from her.
“Oh, that’s not fair!” she gasped. “You knew I was attacking.”
“Certainly I did. You came at me like an elephant.”
“You are exceedingly rude.” She scrambled to her feet, or rather, began to, but he was too fast for her, disarming her and pinning her to the ground.
“Now what?”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “That hurt.”
He frowned.
Triumphant, she reared up and aimed a swing at his jaw with one hand.
Luke cursed as he fell back and his head bounced on the carpeted floor.
She threw herself onto him, grabbed the knife, and held it to his throat, grasping his wrist with her
other hand. Her knee on his other arm and her weight on his belly immobilized him.
“Good God, you females need no encouragement whatsoever not to fight like gentlemen.” Luke twisted a leg around hers in an attempt to dislodge her. “Fangs, Jane.”
“I beg your pardon—” She raised a hand to retract her errant canines and found herself flat on her back, disarmed once more, flattened by Luke’s weight.
“‘Pon my word,” said George, peering down at them. “May not one of the ladies teach me?”
“Concentrate!” William grabbed him by the collar and threw him down.
“Let us assume you have stabbed me or bitten me by this time,” Luke said. “We’ll start again. Most of the killing you do must be quick and clean, and above all, silent.”
“May I dine when I kill?” Jane found herself anticipating dining this evening; her fangs had extended again. She got to her feet.
“If you have time, certainly,” Luke said, “but surely you noticed with your Frenchman that it was not particularly quiet?”
She remembered the guttural bubbling wheeze of the dying man and nodded.
“So.” He stepped close to her. “Give me your hand. Here, at my back. Aim upward, and you will reach the heart through the ribs. Now try again. Walk quietly. You don’t want to arouse my suspicions. And Jane, if you please, save my shirt and do not use your knife. I promise you’ll have opportunity enough to make me bleed, and besides, it will hurt like the devil.”
He turned away from her and lounged against the mantelpiece, whistling softly to himself, and she stalked up on him, planting the knife precisely, or so she hoped, in the right spot on his ribs.
“You’re dead,” she said.
He spun around, grasped her wrist, and tossed her onto the floor, his own knife point pressing against the binding on her chest. “No, you are.” He paused. “What will you do? Consider, I cannot kill you—or at least, not like this—but I can certainly injure you and weaken you enough to take you into captivity. Or I can call to my companions to help overpower you.”
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