Polly tapped her on the shoulder. “I have sold the muff for two blankets. This one is for you.”
“Thank you.” Although Jane did not need it, she draped the large, rough fabric over her shoulders. A dozen or so fleas, panicked by her presence, leaped out and away.
“Ooh! Do that for me, if you please!” Polly handed her the second blanket. “How do you do it?”
Jane shrugged. “Fleas don‧t like me. I‧m lucky, I suppose.” She handed a blanket, free of vermin, back to Polly. “I fear they will return. After all, they must hop somewhere.”
“You could do that for money or food.” Polly‧s thoughtful expression suggested that she might offer herself as Jane‧s handler. “So, why did they arrest you?”
“There was this French officer …” Jane let her voice trail away. She sighed.
“A respectable girl like you! Well, any woman may fall.” Polly sounded quite cheerful. She wrapped her blanket around herself. “Let us see what is going on here and how we may best settle in.”
There must have been fifty people, arrested that day, men and women and a few children, roaming around the Riding School. Some sat huddled and wretched, refusing to talk, some weeping. One group had acquired some bottles of spirits and were busy getting drunk, playing dice on the uneven surface of the cobbled stable yard.
The woman with the feathered hat looked up from her cooking pot, flapping one arm to drive away smoke. “Sixpence a day to eat, ladies. The Frenchies will bring in bread but you may be sure it‧s poor stuff.” She eyed Jane with interest. “I‧m Mrs. Glimm. I‧ll take your gloves for food for seven days. ‘Course, if they cut off your head before the week is out, I‧ll have the better part of the bargain.” She roared with laughter and stirred the contents of the pot with a piece of wood.
“Has the tribunal tried anyone yet?”
“They‧ll start tomorrow, so Pierre says.” Mrs. Glimm nodded at a soldier, a skinny fellow half her girth who gazed at her with adoring eyes. He burst into a torrent of French that Jane recognized as a declaration of passion.
“Can‧t understand a word he says. It don‧t matter.” The woman‧s mottled face softened as she looked at him. “What he has between his legs does well enough for all it‧s a French one. Just like an English one, eh?” This last was addressed to Polly, who nodded in agreement.
“But he could not save you from arrest?” Jane asked.
“Lord love you, no, he didn‧t arrest me. He pays me to cook.” And to spy on others too, Jane thought, but she smiled politely and told Mrs. Glimm she would consider the trade of the gloves. Her hands were smaller than Mrs. Glimm‧s, but she had no doubt the gloves would be sold for something else.
“Miss Austen!” She turned at the sound of a familiar voice to see Mr. Thomas, the apothecary.
She gave him a polite nod, the condescending greeting of a lady to an inferior, for the benefit of Mrs. Glimm, who, feathers nodding on her hat, threw a handful of dirty potatoes into the pot.
He understood; he bowed and backed away. After a few minutes, during which Polly helped put more wood on the fire, Jane strolled into the indoor Riding School and sought him out.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Thomas?”
“Since this morning, ma‧am.” He glanced around. “We must be careful. I daresay they do not know you for what you are?”
“I don‧t believe so. What do they intend to do with us?”
“The tribunal will try us soon. I‧ve heard rumors that they expect a guillotine to be delivered to the city any day.”
“And who is on the tribunal?”
“Renard, but as for the others, I don‧t know. I trust there will be men of integrity with him. But what happened to the rest of your household?”
“I believe they‧re safe, but I am concerned for my family.”
“Ah.” He looked at her with sympathy. “I am most sorry, Miss Austen.”
Overcome with emotion, she shook her head. Until now, the enormity of Luke‧s silence had not made any real impact on her. Maybe he thought that she had abandoned him and returned to her family. Once again she tried to call to him, and then to William. A faint echo of a response came to her, and then silence. For the first time she understood the immense importance the Damned placed on loyalty to one‧s fellows; to be a solitary vampire was dangerous and lonely.
She listened to the swirling emotions and thoughts of those around her. She was the only one of the Damned among mortals who did not understand her and would fear and hate her when they discovered her identity. She was not safe from the French and neither was she safe from her companions, not after the rumors spread about the explosion.
“Mr. Thomas, I know you mean well, but I beg of you, do not seem overly familiar with me. I believe there are spies all around. These are desperate times and people will do anything to save their skins.”
“I regret you‧re right, Miss Austen.” He gave a friendly nod and bow, that of one casual acquaintance to another, and strolled away.
She looked through the open door into the courtyard to see Polly, in the gathering dusk, talking to a French soldier. Jane hesitated, wondering if Polly was being threatened, but as she strained to hear their conversation, she realized that she was negotiating with him.
“Eh, jolie fille, I give you food, good food, the time you are here.”
Polly, even with a rough blanket around her, managed a seductive sway toward him. “Very well. You pay me a shilling first.”
“A shilling? Then I take a little taste, so.” The soldier grinned and put his hand into Polly‧s bosom.
She slapped him away. “A shilling or nothing.”
The man fumbled in his pockets and pulled out some coins.
“A shilling.” Polly swiped a half-crown from his hand and tucked it away in a pocket in the side seam of her gown. “And food for every time after.”
She led him inside the stable.
Mrs. Glimm banged on her cooking pot with a discarded stirrup, and the prisoners streamed out to be fed. A large basket of bread stood nearby and was emptied within a few seconds by those who could not afford her dubious cooking.
Jane waited until Polly and her soldier emerged from the stables, he buttoning up his breeches and whistling loudly, she with a large piece of bread, of much better quality than the prisoners’, wrapped around a slice of bacon. Polly offered Jane a bite.
She took a small mouthful as a gesture of good will. “Polly, I‧ll give you my gloves if you can find me pen and ink and a way to send a letter out of here.”
Polly fingered the leather of Jane‧s gloves. “I‧ll see what I can do.”
“You may take them now.”
Polly swallowed the last of her bread and bacon. “He says we‧ll be tried tomorrow.” She jerked her head toward the soldier. “I don‧t know how much longer we‧ll have.”
Jane considered her situation. She would need all her strength and wits and for that she needed to dine, and to dine soon. “I‧ve changed my mind, then. I don‧t think I will have time for a letter. But there is something I need and maybe you can help.”
Polly blinked as she saw Jane‧s canines emerge. “Lord love us, you‧re one of them?”
“Yes. I need to dine. I won‧t take much. Are you willing?”
She grinned. “Willing? Could be the best thing that‧s happened all day. All week, even.” She held out her wrist. “If you please.”
Jane bit into her wrist and tasted both the first surge of blood and Polly‧s shiver of pleasure. And then she tasted hostility and outrage, a small, resentful presence that made a violent protest. She drew back, breathed on the wound and licked it clean.
“Polly!”
The girl smiled, drowsy with pleasure. “Well, go on. You‧ll take more than a mouthful.”
“I can‧t. You‧re with child.”
“What!” Polly drew back. “I thought—you‧re sure?”
“Quite sure. Your child was not at all pleased that you give away the
blood you share.”
“Oh, Lord. Nothing but trouble,” Polly said. “I‧m sorry I couldn‧t oblige. I can ask—”
“I beg you do not mention my nature to anyone. The townspeople have turned against us for the most part.”
Polly nodded and held out Jane‧s gloves.
“No, keep them. I don‧t feel the cold. I wear them only for propriety.”
As darkness fell, the prisoners retreated into the riding ring, huddled together for warmth. A few squabbles broke out over particularly prime spots, free of drafts, and some of the children and several of the adults sobbed or cried out in fear in their sleep. Polly retreated into the stables to sleep with her Frenchman (“He may smell, but at least he‧s warm”).
Jane crept into the riding ring and laid her blanket over a family who slept near the door, in the coldest spot. She did not feel in the least sleepy, but desired solitude and quiet. In the stable yard the soldiers on guard gathered around Mrs. Glimm‧s fire, talking softly of their homes and the families they might never see again. Jane melted into the shadows and listened to them and the small sounds of the night.
I will not forget you.
The thought came to her so distinctly she jumped as if someone had shouted in her ear.
Luke, where are you?
There was no reply. Was Luke‧s message a farewell, a promise, a reproach? She had no way of knowing.
Ice glazed the muddy cobbles. Overhead, on this rare, clear night, the stars glittered, cold and remote, and Jane stood motionless, watching their stately progress across the heavens until they faded with the dawn.
“Why, you‧re up early, miss.” Mrs. Glimm stirred an unpleasant-looking porridge over her cooking fire. “Sixpence if you‧ve changed your mind. Or the gloves.”
“Thank you, ma‧am. I‧ll take the offer under consideration.”
A commotion broke out at the gates and for one moment Jane hoped that it was a rescue. The soldiers, who had been lounging around the courtyard, sprang into action, keeping the prisoners back, as the gate swung open to admit another cartload of prisoners, terrified people, some of whom were only partly dressed and must have been hauled from their beds. They climbed out and stood looking around in disbelief and fear.
An officer on horseback accompanied the cart. His horse shied and steam rose from its damp flanks as it caught Jane‧s scent, making the carthorse in turn shift nervously in its traces.
“Citizens!” the officer called out. “If I read your name, you come here.” He pulled a list from inside his coat and read out some half dozen names.
Jane‧s was among them, as was that of the very respectable shopkeeper, who looked somewhat the worse for wear after his ill treatment and a cold night in the Riding School, and the woman who still clutched the basket that had once held her chicken.
“It must be a mistake,” the very respectable shopkeeper said to Jane as they were chained together. “A mistake, I assure you. I shall send for my lawyer as soon as I am able. And character witnesses, yes. They will see that they should not have arrested me.”
“It is more than likely we shall be tried under the laws of the French Republic,” Jane said. “I believe that French law does not allow for a presumption of innocence.”
“But—but this is England!” the shopkeeper cried in bewilderment. “I have done nothing wrong. As I told the officers, I must make a profit, for it is my livelihood and how was I to know that …”
Jane put a finger to her lips, chains clanking, to warn him that silence might be the wiser course, but the gentleman continued to bemoan his fate and declare his innocence.
Surrounded by soldiers, they were marched out of the Riding School and a short distance down Russell Street to the New Assembly Rooms.
Jane thought of when she had last roamed these streets, learning to use the darkness, hunting with Luke. She remembered the soft pressure and taste of his mouth, sweeter than the fresh blood on his lips, that surprising first embrace, her fear at her own boldness.
Jane gazed at the portico of the building, where, formerly, sedan chairs had plied their trade. Now soldiers stood on guard. They were escorted into the foyer of the building, where, to Jane‧s relief, the chains that bound them together were removed, although the shackles on their wrists remained.
The first time Jane had been to the New Assembly Rooms she had clutched Cassandra‧s hand so tightly she feared she might split her glove, overwhelmed by the fashionable elegance of the crowd and the brightness of the many wax candles. Through the doors there, flung open to admit newcomers, a large crowd had danced with an elegance far surpassing similar gatherings in Basingstoke or Portsmouth.
But now the doors were closed and a French soldier stood on guard. The air was dim and cold, the stone floor clammy.
“You wait,” a soldier told them. “You do not talk.”
Jane was relieved, knowing that otherwise the respectable shopkeeper would once again run through his usual complaints and denials. She sank to the floor, leaning against a pillar, and observed her fellow prisoners; in addition to the ones she already knew there was an elderly man with an unmistakably arrogant, aristocratic bearing, and a young, well-dressed couple who held hands and whispered together.
The door to the ballroom opened a crack and the soldier on guard held a whispered conversation with whoever was inside.
“Citizen Green.”
“That is I,” said the respectable shopkeeper. “And it is Mr. Green, if you please.”
The soldier at the door sniggered and made a chopping motion with one hand. With the butt of the soldier‧s musket, the respectable shopkeeper was shoved through the door.
They waited. The young couple whispered together while the elderly gentleman folded his hands, eyes closed as though in prayer; the other woman continued to clutch her basket as though it represented safety and normalcy.
Jane closed her eyes. She imagined attending an assembly here. What sort of gown would she wear? Possibly something like Clarissa‧s, white with silver net, and with a few silk flowers in her hair. She would like to have sandals that laced in the classical style and showed off her narrow feet and slender ankles. As she moved into the brightly lit room where a dance was already under way, a handsome gentleman—Luke, of course—would approach her and ask for the next dance, bowing low. Walking around the ballroom, greeting friends and acquaintances, she would hear whispered comments on the elegance of her gown and what a handsome couple they made.
She hoped Luke did not overhear her daydream; how embarrassing to have one‧s fantasies, however innocent, known. And it certainly was an innocent fantasy—as one of the Damned, should she not be daydreaming of spurting blood and athletic carnal relations with the gentleman? But she would be willing to undergo any amount of ridicule from him if he would send her word again.
Mr. Green, the emphatically innocent shopkeeper, had not returned. She could hear, very faintly, a murmur of voices, but even her keen hearing could not distinguish words.
The door cracked open again and a whispered consultation took place between whoever was inside and the soldier on duty.
“Citizeness Austen.”
She stood, straightening her skirts and bonnet as best she could and walked forward. The soldier opened the door a little more and pushed her inside.
“You may approach, Citizeness Austen.”
The main room of the Assembly Rooms had a dingy, dim appearance and a strong scent of blood. She saw it now, a large puddle on the wooden floor, straight ahead of her. A little weak winter sunlight came through the elegant arched windows. A dozen or so soldiers lined the walls. They stared at her with curiosity. At the end of the room, on the small stage where the musicians played, a table was set up. Three men sat there; one was Renard, who had commanded her to approach, and the other wore the uniform of a high-ranking French officer.
And the third man—oh, thank God. Everything would be well now.
Chapter 19
Colonel John Poulett l
eft the table and stepped down from the stage.
He took her bare hand in his gloved one and spoke softly. “Miss Austen, pray have no fear. I regret deeply that you have been inconvenienced.”
“Thank you, sir. Or should I address you as Citizen?”
He grimaced. “It might be best.”
He turned to the other men at the table and addressed them. “General, Citizen, I assure you Citizeness Austen is of no threat to the Republic or any of you. You should release her immediately.”
“Ah.” General Renard winked at her. “So, you break my nephew‧s heart, eh, Citiziness?”
“That is my offense, General? It seems rather a hard price to pay, if every woman who refused a gentleman‧s attentions were to be arrested and flung into prison. It certainly does not endear the captain to me.”
“Ah, you English, you joke under bad circumstances; it is admirable.” He called to a soldier to bring Jane a chair. “In prison, you say?”
“Yes, General.”
“But—but when I heard of your arrest, I gave orders that you were to be placed in the very best accommodation, Citizeness, since I could not free you without many papers and the formality of this trial. Surely they did not put you in with the common traitors and criminals!”
“I have been at the Riding School.”
“This is unconscionable!” Poulett rose and addressed the other officers at the table. “Miss Austen is a gentlewoman.”
“A thousand apologies!” Renard gave a wild wave of both hands. “I am desolated. Sit, sit, Poulett. But you shall go free soon, Citizeness. Now, just a very few questions. I must fill out these papers, you see …” He perched a pair of spectacles on his nose, which gave him the appearance of a short, kindly cleric, and rummaged among the papers on the table.
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