“Don‧t let him harm her!” George cried, and the others held him back as he struggled to reach her.
Luke‧s head fell back and he sagged onto the table, but now he appeared to be sleeping.
“Allow me.” William stepped forward and breathed onto Jane‧s neck, swiping one thumb over the spill of blood at her collarbone. “He lacks manners when he is brought back from the brink of hell.”
He smiled and bowed his head to Jane, a small gesture of acknowledgment that warmed and thrilled her, the fledgling receiving praise from her Creator. Yet he picked up a napkin from the sideboard and wiped his thumb clean, a refusal of her blood, and she felt like weeping.
The others gathered around the table as though keeping watch over Luke, and Jane found herself standing next to George, disconsolate and unwanted.
“I suppose I should return home.” Jane took another glance at Luke on the table and the Damned watching over him. They had cut their thoughts off from her and when she sent a tentative appeal to Luke he gave a sleepy, unintelligible reply.
“Don‧t take any notice of it,” George said with awkward sympathy. “It‧s their way. Reminds me of the cliques at court. Made me damned hungry, though. I think I‧ll pay that pretty little ladies’ maid a visit, after you‧ve changed back into your women‧s clothes.”
He held open the dining-room door for her.
“What did Margaret mean, that she was no longer Luke‧s Consort?” Jane asked as they walked into the hall.
“Ah, yes.” George looked uncomfortable. “She could not revive him, and a true Consort should be able to. They‧ve fought like cats and dogs ever since she came back. She‧s angry, for even though twenty years is nothing to the Damned, she was pledged to Luke as his Consort for most of them—it‧s like a sort of engagement, you see—and she feels she made a great sacrifice in returning to him. And for all his protestations of love when she left him and his urging her to return, now he says it‧s too late. And her failure to revive him proved it.”
“So he is inconstant.” Jane felt a pang of disappointment.
George looked uncomfortable. “I regret it‧s not altogether proper, but what do you do when love dies? Love may not be immortal. Lord, Jane, listen to me wax poetic; sometimes I‧m quite a deep sort of fellow. William is very put out about it all, for it brings discord to the household. But you were the one who brought Luke back and they won‧t forget it.”
***
Usually when Jane returned home she was able to create an illusion that she had not been out at night. If she chose to enter the house by the front door, she could meet the gaze of the footman who answered, sometimes with his wig dragged on crooked in his haste or wearing an apron, and subdue him with a glance. This time her feet dragged and she stumbled once as she walked down the street toward her aunt and uncle‧s house. As usual, one of the footmen from Luke‧s house accompanied her, and he caught her arm to prevent her falling. The events of the night and the morning, plus Luke‧s voracious feeding, had weakened her.
She mounted the steps and pulled the doorbell.
“Miss Jane!” The footman who answered the door looked at her with horror—no wonder, she had changed back into her finery from the night before, her gown stained with Ben‧s blood. “I‧ll fetch Mrs. Austen.”
“No, please do not.” She sank onto a chair in the hall.
Her mother, in nightcap and wrapper, ran down the stairs. “My dear child—what is this? We heard Mr. Venning was hanged, a dreadful business, and terrible for Miss Venning to be alone at such a time. How does she bear up, poor thing? But your gown! To think of that poor young man bleeding to death—how very sad.”
“Yes, I have been with Miss Venning. I told you I would accompany her home last night.” Jane stood. “I must go to bed.”
Although by now she had adopted the sparse sleep of the Damned she longed for her bed and for solitude—and she was equally eager to escape the cynical gaze of Garonne, who had emerged from the doorway to the servants’ quarters and stood watching, a coffee cup in his hand. He thinks I have been with a lover.
“Extraordinary, ma‧amselle. The two men who cut Venning down this morning, one could have been your brother,” he murmured. “A remarkable resemblance.”
“Good morning to you, sir.” Jane acknowledged him with a dismissive bow of her head. What could he possibly suspect?
She trudged up the stairs, bone weary, feeling less like an immortal being than a tired woman who held herself responsible for the death of an innocent young man.
Later that day she and Mr. Austen sat in the kitchen of a small house on New King Street, in a less fashionable section of the town where artisans mostly lived. She had refused tea, knowing how short supplies were, and also declined to view Ben‧s body, which lay in the parlor of the house awaiting burial. She had found out where he lived from the inn at Sydney Gardens and, with her father accompanying, now paid a call on his grieving family.
“They told me and I said it must be a mistake,” Ben‧s father, Mr. Weaver, said. He had said it several times before, as his hands moved mechanically, assembling and gluing fans. This was the family business, it seemed. Three children also sat at the table working, eyes shocked and blank above skilled, busy hands.
“He did not suffer long,” Jane said.
“He fought when they invaded, until the militia told everyone to stop and go home,” Mr. Weaver said. “I did not think he would be killed by an Englishman.”
“Would you care to say a prayer?” Mr. Austen asked.
“Won‧t do him any good now, will it? Thanking you kindly, sir,” Mr. Weaver replied.
“It might bring you comfort,” Jane‧s father said.
Mr. Weaver‧s hands stilled. “Nothing shall bring me comfort, sir. Nothing. My son is dead. I thank you for coming.” He reached for a handful of fan sticks, sorting, stacking.
Jane caught her father‧s eye and they both rose.
“I am so very sorry,” she said again to Mr. Weaver.
“It was kind of you to come, miss.” He didn‧t look at her. Maybe she should have accepted his offer to see Ben‧s body, but she remembered the boy‧s warmth and his hand on hers, the roughness of his cheek against her lips. She wanted to think of him like that, an ardent young man. She did not want to remember him in agony begging her to finish him.
She and her father left the house. They passed a group of people gathered around a brazier, who looked at them with open hostility as though guessing the prices of their clothes. This was not a poor area of the city, but these people looked wearied and worn down, despair and anger in their eyes. A pot of food steamed atop the coals, but with very little odor.
“They boil flour and greens in water,” Jane said to her father. “Things must be dire indeed, that they must share their coals and food.”
“We should help,” her father said. “We complain at the house, but so far we have coals and enough food. Maybe I should ask Garonne—”
“I beg of you, do not ask Garonne for any favors.”
They continued through the town, walking in silence along Westgate Street and Cheap Street and turning north through Bear Inn Yard to go onto Milsom Street, the fashionable shopping area of the town. There were no signs here of hardship; well-dressed people, many accompanied by French officers, strolled the street, gazing into well-stocked shop windows. Mr. Austen shook his head in disbelief. “You would never think … Jane, I do not ask you of your activities, but do you put yourself in danger? What happened last night?”
“I cannot tell you, sir.”
He nodded. A group of French officers with fashionably dressed women on their arms forced Jane and her father off the pavement and into the muck of the road.
At the top of the street they turned right onto George Street and onto Bladud Buildings. They passed Paragon Place, soldiers and crowds increasing as they neared the London Road, until they came to the crossroads at Walcot Church, where the French had set up a guard.
; “I come here every day,” her father said. “A group of us wait to see if anyone who comes through has word of what goes on in the country. We are quite an exclusive club.” He raised his hat to some other men who stood waiting, and they returned his gesture. Some held letters in their hands, asking the drivers of the few vehicles allowed to leave if they would act as unofficial postmen. Jane saw a soldier dash a letter from a woman‧s hands into the dung on the road and laugh when she wept.
“There‧s no news, Mr. Austen,” one of the men said. “Rumors, as always, and precious little food or anything else coming into the city, but they say the French and their whores—begging your pardon, miss—have plenty. They send food in, but we don‧t know when.”
“Shame on them! People are hungry in this town,” Mr. Austen exclaimed. “And the use to which they put this church …” He gazed at the entrance of Walcot Church. Soldiers lounged at its elegant classical façade. He said to Jane, “Your mother and I married here. She wore a red wool riding coat and she was full of courage and gaiety. And now it is a barracks, defiled.”
An officer approached and the soldiers snapped to attention. “Garonne.” Mr. Austen gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.
“Go home, Mr. Austen,” Garonne said. “There is no point in staying here on such a cold day, particularly if Miss Jane is in poor health. I would assist if I can, but, alas—” he gave an expressive shrug.
Mr. Austen escorted Jane to Paragon Place, where he left her, saying he must attempt once more to obtain a pass for the family, but Mrs. Austen and Cassandra insisted on accompanying him. The housekeeper and footmen were also out, standing in line for whatever fresh foodstuffs were available, leaving Jane and Betty, the housemaid, alone in the house.
Jane wandered through the dim rooms, restless and hungry once more. In her room, she untied the ribbon that held her manuscript and looked at the pages of neat, even writing. The words clanged and echoed in her head as she read. Competently done, but they no longer had any hold over her, no urge to reorder and shuffle and improve. Going back downstairs, she stopped in the drawing room to play a few chords on the woefully out-of-tune pianoforte.
She heard the front door open and Betty greet someone—Garonne, who came up the stairs and into the drawing room, a parcel beneath one arm.
“Ma‧amselle, are you not cold?” Without waiting for a reply, he called to Betty to light the fire.
“We are a little concerned for our stock of coals, Captain.”
“Oh, that? Bah, do not worry. We shall have coals.” He laid his parcel on a small table. “This is for you. Or rather, I return what you were good enough to give to me.”
Betty entered the room with a taper in her hand, and looked at them with curiosity before kneeling at the hearth.
“If you please, ma‧amselle, open it.”
“I cannot accept a gift from you, Captain.”
“So. Betty, will you open this for your mistress?”
“If you wish, sir.” Betty stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She removed the brown paper and string. “Oh, Miss Jane. How fine it looks, to be sure!”
Jane‧s sketch of Cassandra now resided in a gilt frame.
“Captain, this sketch was a moment‧s work. It does not deserve this splendid setting.”
He made a comical face. “Well, I cannot take it back, for it is yours, and it is also of your sister.” He grinned. “My joke does not work in English. I wish you to have it, Miss Jane. Besides, I give the framer a leg of pork for this, and doubtless he has eaten it already; he cannot return my money, for there is none.”
“I see.”
“I shall hang it on the wall for you, Miss Jane. Tell me where.”
“This is not our house,” Jane said. “I thank you for the gift, Captain. Cassandra will be most pleased. I shall take it upstairs for her.”
“But, ma‧amselle! Do you not wish Mr. and Mrs. Austen to enjoy it also? Let it sit here—see, on the mantelpiece, for all to enjoy.” His face became theatrically woebegone. “I am sorry my gift does not please you.”
“It pleases me well and I thank you for it. If I seem ungracious it is because I am surprised, that is all. I had quite forgotten the sketch with all that has happened.”
“Ma‧amselle Jane, it is small pleasures that make life bearable in difficult times. Betty, you bring us hot water, eh?” He produced a small packet from inside his coat and handed it to Jane. “Yes, I am full of gifts today. Some tea, for I know you English cannot live without it.”
Betty, with an expression of delight, curtsied and then left the room, leaving Jane and the Captain alone.
He stood at the fireplace, hands beneath his coattails, and smiled at her as she turned the package of tea over in her hands, debating whether she should fling it into his face. “It is rare I see you alone, ma‧amselle Jane. Where is your family?”
“They accompany Mr. Austen to obtain a pass.”
“I regret he will not get one.”
“You seem very sure of that.” He stood near the tea caddy on the mantelpiece, and to reach it she would have to move close to him.
“Your father is not a rich man. He cannot afford the bribe the official expects. It is best to wait. I have said that before.”
Jane nodded and absentmindedly snapped the string that held the tea in its brown paper wrapping.
Garonne‧s eyes widened.
In one swift step she was at his side. She opened the tea caddy, which held only a little dust in one of its glass containers and poured the tea inside. The tiny rattle of the leaves on the glass was loud in the silence of the room.
Garonne stared at the dark fall of the tea and then at her. She touched his wrist. His heart pounded and a torrent of French, words of desire and longing, poured from his mind into hers. She should not have revealed her strength to him, but since she had …
“Captain,” she whispered and saw his dark eyes still and soften. “Captain, when does the food arrive? And how?”
“Ce soir. Apres minuit.” He gazed at her. “Carts come in on the London Road, where we met today. The food is taken to St. Michaels Church.”
“And how many carts? How many men guard each?”
He told her in a mixture of English and French.
“You do not need to leave guards at the church tonight,” she told him.
“Of course.”
“And one more thing—you must leave Cassandra alone.”
“Cassandra?” He sounded, even in his enchanted, drowsy state, a little surprised. “But of course.”
She broke the connection between them as Betty entered the room with boiling water and tea things. Jane stepped away, the tea caddy in her hands, and spooned tea into the teapot. The front doorbell rang and Betty went to answer it.
Garonne blinked. “I beg your pardon, ma‧amselle. I believe you were saying …?”
“My family has returned. What excellent timing.”
There was much admiration of the portrait in its handsome frame and the gift of tea. Both Cassandra and Mrs. Austen seemed in slightly better spirits.
“But so many people who seem to have nothing better to do than stand on the street!” Mrs. Austen commented to her husband. “We should do something for them, my dear. Some beg, while others seem to wait, although I do not know for what.”
“They have no work,” Mr. Austen replied. “So much of the town‧s commerce depends upon those who come here for pleasure or for their health, and those are either cured or have run out of money themselves. You saw for yourself how few visit the Pump Room.”
“Can you not do something, Captain Garonne?” Mrs. Austen asked.
“Many will have nothing to do with us,” Garonne replied, spreading his hands. “They do not see us as friends. It is too bad. The most sensible thing for these men would be for them to join us in some way. There is much work to do to bring peace and prosperity to this new republic.”
“I don‧t believe we need your sort of peace, Captain.” Jane managed
to keep her fangs under control. “And you ask men to oppose those who are their neighbors or relatives. Are you surprised they will not join you?”
“Many have,” Garonne said. “Understand, ma‧amselle Jane, we are not your enemy. Why, here we sit like old friends, and I learn to like tea. It is well done, no?”
Jane glanced out of the window at the dimming light. Soon it would be curfew and she had important news to relate to the Damned. She slipped quietly from the room when Garonne and her family were deep in a discussion of a military parade to be held soon in front of the Royal Crescent. She penned a brief note to Luke, explaining what she had discovered, and dispatched it with a footman. She resigned herself to another evening with her family: dinner, tea, sewing, her father reading aloud from Smollett in an attempt to cheer the family, and then her true life would begin again.
She retired early, claiming fatigue from the day‧s activities, changed into her men‧s clothes, and swiftly made her way to the house on Queen‧s Square.
William ran down the stairs to meet her, to her surprise. “My dearest Jane!”
She was thoroughly astonished, that one who had treated her with indifference should now show such warmth, and angry with herself that his words should fill her with painful pride.
“How is Luke?” she asked.
“Much recovered. He has the appetite of a lion. Come, we shall join the others. I am most pleased at your intelligence. But first if you wish, you may visit Luke and the others upstairs.”
Luke lolled at a card table in the drawing room with James and George. “I have a prodigious hunger,” he commented. “Is it not dark yet? George, what is your play?”
“Damnation, I suppose I shall have to offer the Royal Pavilion. I‧ve precious little else. I suppose you would not accept Caroline?”
Luke stood as Jane entered the room and took her hands, raising them to his lips. “I have you to thank for my life.”
“You are my Bearleader.”
His lips skimmed her hands, pausing at the sensitive inner wrist where his fangs touched and pressed.
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