Behind her Jane heard the clink of china as Mrs. Andrews made tea.
“I’ve always thought her a healthy sort of lady,” Mrs. Andrews said. “Not slender, but now . . . there’s hardly anything of her. I never saw a woman so changed.”
Hardly anything of her, indeed. Flattened and inert and pale with only a thread of a pulse and only a flutter of movement at her throat to show she breathed. An odd, wild sort of scent hung about her; not an unpleasant scent, at least not to Jane; there was something familiar about it.
“We’ll send for some of the men to take her home,” Mrs. Andrews continued.
She was scarcely aware of Mrs. Andrews pulling forward a chair and placing a cup of tea upon it.
“Of course. I cannot thank you enough for looking after her.”
Mrs. Andrews turned back to her spinning wheel.
Jane took a sip from the cup of tea. It was poor stuff, probably used and dried at least once, and she reminded herself to give the Andrewses some of their own tea by way of thanks. She poured a very little into the saucer, praying that what she would do might help Martha and not kill her, although, with her powers so diminished, it might achieve nothing. She willed herself to become en sanglant, shaming herself by thinking of Luke—that is, Luke in a state of undress no gentlewoman should contemplate—and her teeth ached and smarted. She could not become entirely en sanglant, but her canines were sharp enough to do what was necessary. A quick nip into her own wrist, and a drop of her blood and then more until the tea was dark and opaque. She had no idea of the strength of her blood, but it could not be very powerful.
She stanched the wound, afraid Mrs. Andrews would turn and see what she was about, and lifted Martha’s head, tilting the saucer so that a little of the liquid ran into her mouth. Some dribbled down her chin and Jane scooped it back between Martha’s lips, not wanting to waste any. “Wake up, dearest friend,” she murmured.
Martha’s eyes fluttered beneath her eyelids as though she dreamed, and a slow smile spread over her face.
Then her eyes opened wide. Jane clasped her hand. “My dear, how do you feel? I—”
The smile on Martha’s face faded. She looked at Jane and screamed.
The whirr and thud of the spinning wheel ceased. Mrs. Andrews said, “Why, Miss Lloyd, you’re awake, thank the Lord—”
“Get her away from me!” Martha screamed. “She’s one of them!”
What could Martha see in her? She was not en sanglant. Had her appearance changed in some subtle, horrifying way?
Mrs. Andrews meanwhile bent over Martha, murmuring soothing words. She looked up at Jane. “She is not herself, Miss Jane. Whatever shall we do?”
Martha was curled upon herself, sobbing.
Jane touched her friend’s arm. “Martha, dearest, you must listen to me. Look at me.”
As Martha raised her head and met her gaze, Jane summoned the strength of the Damned to soothe her. “You are mistaken. You know me as your dearest friend, one who will never harm you.”
Martha’s face relaxed and she nodded. “Oh, dear me! Why, Jane, what has happened?”
Jane helped her to her feet and into a chair. “You swooned in the woods. Young Samuel found you, and Mr. Andrews brought you here.”
“I’m glad to see you are feeling better, Miss Lloyd,” Mrs. Andrews said. “I’ll make some more tea—”
“Pray do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Andrews. Miss Lloyd may finish mine.” Jane tipped tea from the saucer back into the cup and handed it to Martha. Her friend might as well receive as much benefit as she could from the drops of Jane’s blood.
Indeed, as Martha drank, the color returned to her face and the brightness was restored to her handsome eyes. In no time at all, she said, “I feel so much better and refreshed. I think I am ready to walk home, for I do not wish to impose upon your hospitality further, Mrs. Andrews.”
“If you think so, Miss Lloyd. We could take you in our cart, although it’s not fit for a lady. I’ll let Samuel and Mr. Andrews know you’re recovered. I know they’ll be much relieved.” Mrs. Andrews glanced at Martha in astonishment, much, as Jane thought, as Lazarus’s companions must have done. Not only had Martha come back from the dead, or as good as, but she appeared to be bursting with energy.
“Well, well, Miss Lloyd, this is a welcome surprise,” Mr. Andrews said as he and his son entered the kitchen. “We feared the worst.”
“It’s a good thing Samuel found you,” Jane said. “You might have lain there for hours.”
“You say I was in the woods?” Martha looked at them all with astonishment. “Why should I be in the woods?”
“You do not remember?” Jane asked.
For a moment Martha looked troubled before assuring everyone with a gay laugh that she was exceedingly well and looking forward to her own dinner. She and Jane left the Andrewses’ house and set off for their own home.
“Why are you so angry, Jane?”
“I’m not angry with you. I was frightened for your sake. I was afraid you would die.”
“It is exceedingly mysterious,” Martha said. “I do not even remember how or why I arrived there. I had called in at some of the cottages here, meaning to return home after, and listened to the children say their lessons. I certainly did not intend to walk in the opposite direction. Jane, you do not think I am ill, do you? I have not felt better in my life, but to have such a thing happen . . . and this blood upon my bosom—how do you think it got there?”
“Maybe you had a nosebleed,” Jane said.
On their return, the Austens fussed over Martha, giving her the most comfortable seat nearest the fire and discussing whether a doctor should be called.
Jane meanwhile raged inwardly while maintaining an outward appearance of tranquillity. She played the pianoforte for the ladies, encouraged Anna to sing, and joined in a game of spillikins, a game at which she normally excelled, but which she now found tedious in the extreme. She was greatly relieved when her mother suggested they all have an early night, and Jane went upstairs with the others.
“What do you think we should do?” Cassandra asked her as soon as they were in their bedchamber. “Do you think she should see a doctor? It is a dreadful thing to have happened.”
“It is my fault,” Jane said.
“What!” Cassandra, in the act of unpinning her hair, looked at her with astonishment. “No, of course it is not. How could it possibly be your fault?”
“I should have protected her,” Jane said and floundered to a stop, not knowing how else to proceed. “Cassandra, I must confide in you. I believe I am becoming . . . unwell again.”
“Unwell?”
“You remember when I had to take the Cure in Bath a dozen years ago. The symptoms are returning.”
For a moment Cassandra looked at her with sheer terror. “No! You look so very well. It cannot be. We shall ask Martha to make you up a draught and all will be well.”
“I fear that my good looks are part of the symptoms. I know, Cassandra. Trust me.”
“We cannot go to Bath. Not after Papa . . .” Cassandra swallowed. “I shall pray for you, Jane. I shall pray you are wrong. But surely you do not think one of those vile creatures attacked Martha?”
“I think it more than likely.”
“Nonsense! This is an English village, not the sinister Italian landscape of a gothic novel. I am certain she had some sort of fit, which is worrying enough, but I do not believe she was the victim of any wrongdoing.”
Jane took one look at her sister, frightened and close to tears, and moved behind Cassandra to unfasten her gown and stays. “Nevertheless, I do not think she should walk alone. What if she were to become ill again?”
“I think that an excellent idea,” Cassandra said. “What’s the matter?”
Jane could not speak of her disappointment at Cassandra’s reaction to her confession. “I do not think I shall sleep. I think it best if I go downstairs to write.”
“Very well.” Cassandra pulled her mass
of hair over her shoulder to braid it for the night. “You may wake me to help you undress.”
“Thank you, but I should not dare do so. You are such a surly creature when awoken. I can rest well enough in my gown.” She kissed Cassandra, half expecting her sister to shrink away from her and relieved that she did not; but was not that worse, that her sister did not believe her?
Jane went downstairs and sat in the parlor, listening to the creak of floorboards above as the household prepared for the night. A pad of footfalls the length of the house and the murmur of voices indicated that Cassandra, who liked to chat before sleep, had gone to visit Martha. Finally all was quiet, Cassandra back in her own bedchamber, and Jane took her cloak and left the house, closing the door quietly behind her. The night air smelled cool and sweet, and she fancied she could smell some early blossom on the air from the orchard. Keeping to the shadows—she was not sure she could melt into the darkness yet, a skill learned when she had been assuredly Damned—she made her way through the village and turned into the driveway of the Great House.
Since it was early yet, she was not surprised to see lights at the windows although no sound came from the house. Apparently the Damned did not entertain tonight, preferring to dine quietly at home. To her annoyance she was assailed by sudden, deep hunger. For how long would she be able to conceal her condition? How long before she became a monster, all human feelings and decency discarded?
At the front door of the house she raised the heavy knocker and brought it crashing down upon the ancient oak. The door swung open almost immediately to reveal William, in his shirtsleeves, his throat bare.
“I was expecting you, Jane.”
Chapter 7
“So this is your idea of quiet country living—preying upon innocent women.”
He stood aside and gestured to her. “Pray enter.”
“Who was responsible for this outrage?” She stepped inside the house, anger flooding her with the full strength of the Damned.
He looked at her, considering. “You should dine.”
“No! First, you should tell me who it was who attacked Martha this evening.”
“And then what?”
“I shall kill him—or her.”
“In that case you should definitely dine, although, Jane, I should not recommend your course of action. There are severe penalties among us for those who destroy their own kind.”
She walked ahead of him into the small room lined with books where they had first met two nights before. A woman sat, or rather, sprawled in a chair, smiled and held out her hand to William as they entered.
“Ah. She hungers, too?” The woman giggled and rolled her head back, exposing her neck to them. Jane recognized the euphoric tipsiness of a mortal pleasured and dined upon.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I did not realize you dined.” Her words surprised her; she must be further developed as one of the Damned than she realized, to make an appropriate apology while she seethed with mortal anger.
William took the woman’s hand and kissed her wrist. “A thousand apologies, cara, I must abandon you. You may visit Mr. Fuller, if you wish, or Mrs. Kettering.” He pushed her from the room and closed the door.
“Now, Jane, we must talk. Sit.”
She knew formalities must be observed. In the presence of her Creator, even though she believed he might be implicated in a heinous crime, she calmed and accepted a glass of wine. As she related her story, she hoped with all her heart that it was not he who was responsible.
“You are quite right,” he said, settling in the chair opposite hers, a glass of wine in his hand. “It is indeed a heinous crime, and you must believe that neither I, nor any of this household, is guilty. But . . .” He leaned forward and prodded at a smoldering log in the fireplace. “But as for responsibility, I accept that fully.”
The log fell into the glowing heart of the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney. “I don’t understand,” Jane said. “Who attacked Martha?”
“I am not sure precisely who it was, although I have my suspicions. Let me explain something to you, Jane. The Prince of Wales and the ton abhor our company in these changed times. This household is one of many where we attempt to live quietly, waiting for a return to favor, or possibly a time when we may travel abroad to a more hospitable country. It is how we have survived, for centuries. But others are angry at our fall from favor. They seek revenge on England’s displeasure by gaining sustenance, not through seduction but by force. This is a dreadful thing for us, Jane, we who have cleaved together for so long to be divided, households destroyed, and allegiances broken.
“Some who have been cast out by their fellows now hunt alone, with no society, no loyalties to any others, little better than beasts, and I believe it may have been one of them. Or, more dangerous yet, Duval’s household embraces this most abhorrent behavior and welcomes those solitary creatures into their midst. We call them les Sales, the dirty, defiled ones.”
“And Luke has joined Duval?”
“He is with them. I sent him and Clarissa as ambassadors, to persuade Duval to abandon les Sales and their unclean ways, and to destroy his weapons. I fear Luke may have cast his lot with them.”
“Weapons? What weapons?”
“A weapon like the one that made the mark upon your breast. Had you been at the height of your powers as one of us, that blow would have destroyed you. As it was, you fell into a deep swoon, and it took Luke’s blood to revive you.”
“And you believe that one of les Sales attacked Martha? On Duval’s orders?”
“Very likely, but as to it being upon Duval’s orders, I think not. He allows them to roam as they will and gives them shelter. But soon I fear he will command them.”
“What can Duval hope to gain?”
“Who knows?” William shrugged. “He and those with whom he is in sympathy are seduced by power. It divides us, Jane, at a time when we cannot afford a schism in our ranks. It is my responsibility to seek a solution, for I am the oldest and highest in rank in this county.”
“But why should Luke revive me if he is one . . . one of them?”
“I believe you have a better understanding of Luke’s mind than I do.” He looked at her inquiringly.
“I don’t believe I do. You are his Creator! Do you not know him best?”
“Not while he is among Duval and les Sales, and that is my burden. After what happened in this house when you were here, I have forbidden Duval ever to set foot here again. But I can no longer see Luke’s mind.”
She understood that, the isolation of the Damned who could not sense the presence of the ones they loved. “So fledgling has turned against Creator.”
“So it would seem. But as you know, things have never been easy between us. We are too alike in temperament and age; I expect he told you of this.”
“Tell me more of the weapons,” Jane said, not wanting to talk of Luke. She touched the place near her collarbone as she spoke.
He stood to fetch the decanter and pour them more wine. “You may remember that after we found Margaret had betrayed you to the French, I gave you the choice of judgment: to banish or to destroy her. There was a weapon, a small sicklelike implement of graystone. You chose banishment. It is weapons like that knife that Duval and those who hold his views use. And yes, I still possess that knife, but I bring myself to that level of degradation should I, or any of my household, use it in warfare.”
Jane nodded, remembering the cold burn of the graystone against her fingertips and her reluctance to send another of the Damned to hell. One of the Damned, alone, was as good as destroyed, might even become one of les Sales. Had she really made such a wise choice? Or even a humane choice? Yet Margaret had formed, or joined, another household.
“She was luckier than most,” William said in answer to her unspoken question. “Well, Jane. Is it not time you made a decision?”
“What do you mean?”
“To throw in your lot with us and hunt les Sales.”
; “And my family?”
“You mean your mortal family. Join us, and they will be safer than if you do not.”
She rose to her feet. “You are hardly persuasive, William.”
He rose too. “I am honest. My family is my first priority. But consider, Jane. This is not a situation unique to Hampshire. All over England the Damned are divided, households and old alliances broken, fledglings turned against Creators, and more and more of us take to the ways of les Sales. It is your duty to help, as it was when the French invaded. ”
“Your indifference to my family hardly convinces me to join you, William. I regret I must decline your offer.”
“You may think differently when more fall foul of les Sales. Martha was lucky that you knew what to do.”
“I must excuse myself. I suggest, sir, you and your kind protect this village in which you have chosen to live, and upon which you have brought trouble. It is the neighborly thing to do. Since I must hope and pray a metamorphosis never takes place I can be of little assistance.”
He bent to throw a log onto the fire. They both watched as it settled in the embers, throwing off sparks, blue-gray smoke rising upward.
“If you do not dine soon,” William said, “you will not have much strength as one of us, and it may well affect your strength and health as a mortal. You put your precious family in danger.”
Tonight she had experienced the first stirrings of hunger. Time might be running out for her. He knew it as well as she.
She placed her wineglass on the mantelpiece before she was tempted to throw it in his face. “Even though you barely let me into your mind, I note you have no compunction whatsoever for roaming freely through mine. I trust you enjoy yourself there.”
William bowed. “I shall send for my steward.”
“You will excuse me. I do not wish to dine.”
“I was merely offering you an escort home.”
“I am much obliged.” She turned away from him, mortified by her mistake and insulted that he did not offer to escort her himself. Doubtless he wished to return to the harlot upon whom he dined, whoever she might be.
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 6