“Oh, certainly,” Cassandra said. “We should stay home and read sermons aloud to one another. I do think, Jane, considering the good works our mother and I do in the village—”
“It was agreed, sister, when we moved here, that I should be at liberty to write, and I too do my share of Christian duty—”
“Girls!” Mrs. Austen looked at her daughters with disapproval. “This does not become you at all, to quarrel like a pair of children.”
“As I was saying, we lead exemplary lives and we deserve the occasional visit to our neighbors,” Cassandra continued. “Besides, if we go tomorrow, Jane, you will be able to flirt with Mr. Raphael all you want.”
“I do not flirt!” Jane said with some savagery. As she left the room, she heard a burst of laughter in her wake.
She, once the most frivolous and silly flirt in Hampshire, according to some, was now turning into the sour, pious sister of the family. It certainly explained the origins of Mary among the Bennet sisters, a character who’d surprised her by emerging fully formed out of nowhere. At any moment she’d start quoting homilies from sermons and setting her cap for Mr. Papillon in earnest.
“I’d rather be Damned,” she said and was glad there was no one to hear.
Chapter 8
Exhaustion finally overtook her that day and she lay on the sofa for a while before dinner. She could barely eat, however, and the others expressed concern. Her concern was of a different sort; almost certainly her lack of appetite was another sign of her deterioration, her restlessness the beginning of the compulsion to dine. Beneath the clatter of cutlery on china and conversation she heard the others’ heartbeats and loathed herself for her inability to control the symptoms of the Damned.
Inevitably the conversation turned from her health to Martha’s, and they all agreed what a remarkable recovery she had made the day before. Anna volunteered to deliver the Andrews family some tea the next day as a gift for their hospitality, and conversation turned to the morrow’s activities and the anticipated pleasures of the music club at the Great House.
“Martha and Cassandra and I shall accompany you when you visit the Andrews family,” Jane said at breakfast the next morning.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Anna said.
“I think it would be courteous,” Jane said and caught a flash of disappointment on Anna’s face. While passing Anna a slice of toast, she brushed her hand against the young woman’s wrist, but caught only vague meanderings on what she should wear and whether she really should eat this second slice, or forgo the jam, for she did not want to get fat.
“Austens don’t get fat. We’re lucky,” Jane said, before she could stop herself.
Everyone stared at her.
“How did you know what I thought?” Anna said, blushing.
Jane wondered about that blush. What had she missed? “Why, you said so yourself. You asked for another slice of toast and said that you didn’t want to get fat but the jam was so very good. Well, of course it is good, for it is one of Martha’s recipes.”
“I don’t think I did say that,” Anna said.
“Your grandmother used to read our minds all the time,” Jane said, improvising as best she could. “Do you not remember, ma’am, when you would have your back turned to us yet you would know exactly what mischief we undertook?”
“Indeed yes,” Mrs. Austen said. “Your papa, Anna, was so often a badly behaved child, forever getting into trouble.”
“Really?” Anna sighed. “I miss Papa. I wonder if he’s still angry with me.”
“I am sure he has forgiven you, particularly if you act with good sense in the future.” Jane watched Anna. Certainly the girl was up to something, and she hoped she had not been so foolish as to agree to meet Duval secretly. But how could she have arranged such an assignment? She made up her mind that she would guard Anna very closely even if she could not convince her family of the very real danger that lurked at nightfall in the peaceful fields and woods of the village.
The devil of it was that Anna was safer with Duval than one of the Damned would be if he had only seduction on his mind; she was in no more danger than any other woman with one of the Damned. But the proprieties must be observed: Jane must accompany Anna whenever she went out. If Jane herself was in danger, William would come to rescue his fledgling, ideally with Raphael and his pistols.
It would play havoc with her plans to write this morning, and while she rather liked the idea of Raphael coming to the rescue, she was still extraordinarily offended by William’s encouragement for her to take Raphael as her lover. She was a respectable spinster who had to set an example in the village and uphold the good name of the Austen family, and moreover she was far too old for such foolish dalliance. She had kissed the man within minutes of meeting him. She wanted to do it again. And more.
“What are you thinking about, Aunt Jane? Can anyone tell what my aunt is thinking about?”
Sometimes the child was too sharp for her own good. “I was thinking about how I, too, enjoy Martha’s jam,” Jane replied. “It is so very sweet and dark and delicious and . . . well!” She jumped to her feet, sending her knife clattering to the floor. “Look at the time! Let us put our bonnets on and visit the Andrewses.”
Mrs. Austen, muttering of an assignation with a boy who was to spread manure, left for the garden, and the four ladies set off on their visit. Almost to Jane’s disappointment, no sinister figures lurked behind trees; and even though she revisited the scene of her attack for the first time, Martha had no recollection at all of what had happened to her.
“Do you remember the picnic we had in the woods the last time I visited?” Anna said as they returned. “That was such a happy time, but I was young then.”
“Indeed, you are now all of fifteen, quite in your dotage,” Jane replied teasingly with a smile and stopped dead as a figure materialized from the darkness of the trees ahead of them.
“Why, is not that one of the ladies who attended the dancing at the Great House?” Cassandra said.
“Wait here!” Jane snapped to her companions.
“What’s the matter?” Martha asked, but Jane ignored her. She walked forward, her tread becoming light and wary.
Margaret stood still, waiting for Jane to reach her.
Jane wished she could become en sanglant, but nothing happened. Margaret smiled. “You’re not so advanced as I had been led to believe.”
“Do you carry a weapon?” Jane said, annoyed that Margaret saw her deficiencies so clearly.
“Would I tell you if I did?”
“What do you want?” Jane asked.
“Why, Miss Jane, I am merely taking the air in these most pleasant woods. This is very pretty countryside.”
Jane laughed. “Mrs. Cole—I presume you still use your husband’s name?—I have to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Oh yes. You have proved very useful to me. I remembered a certain conversation we had regarding my intentions toward Mr. Venning, and a character in one of my books spoke your words exactly. I raised her a little higher, however; she was a lady of quality, and not a known adulteress. I trust you have not come to ask me the same question again.”
Margaret smiled, very slightly en sanglant: enough to indicate that she felt the sting of Jane’s words. “Yes, I am still Mrs. Cole; I begin to believe Mr. Cole is immortal too. I wish to give you some advice, Jane. Do not become Raphael’s amorata and do not trust William. I know he is your Creator, but remember he rejected you as such once before.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I trust you do not set your cap—or your teeth, rather, I should say—for Raphael or William. May I give you some advice, also—or rather, advice for one of your companions? If Duval comes near Anna again, I shall kill him.”
“She is not handsome enough to tempt him, I assure you, other than as an easy conquest; no more. Besides, I doubt whether destruction of one of us is within your grasp, although Duval complained that you bit his ankle like an annoying
puppy.”
“He seemed to be perfectly recovered when he came to call upon us yesterday. Pray convey him our thanks for his civility, but he—none of you—is welcome in our house.”
“Jane.” Margaret touched her wrist, and bolts of power and sensation tore through her; to her surprise there was some genuine friendliness there, some regret, all mixed with distrust. “Once we fought side by side. Do not forget that. I have paid dearly for the wrongs I did you.”
“Jane, will you not introduce us?” Cassandra tugged at her arm.
Jane made introductions and watched, appalled, as Margaret turned her easy charm on the women.
“Oh, but we have met your brother, Mr. Richards,” Cassandra said. “He called upon us yesterday.”
“Yes, he was here to supervise the unpacking, but now we are quite snug.”
“Why, you have moved into our village? He did not tell us; how like a man. But how very delightful,” Martha cried. “Which house have you taken, Mrs. Cole?”
“We are very close neighbors indeed to you. We have taken Prowtings.”
This was far worse than Jane had anticipated. Only a stile and a meadow, a walk of a few minutes, separated the handsome house from the Austens’ cottage. “Where are Mr. Prowting and his daughter? I had not heard they left.”
“Mr. Prowting’s business demanded that he go to London,” Margaret replied, “and of course Miss Prowting accompanied him. Such a pleasant gentleman! He was so pleased to have us as tenants at such short notice. Duval’s great friend Luke Venning and his sister, Miss Clarissa Venning, whom I believe you know, will move into the house with us today or tomorrow. They stay at the inn in Alton at present.”
Somehow Jane doubted that Mr. Prowting would be pleased to hear that he had rented his house to the Damned.
“We shall interrupt your walk no further,” Jane said hastily before Martha or Cassandra could invite more of the Damned to take tea, discuss the drains or chimneys at Prowtings, or fulfill other social niceties. She grabbed her sister’s arm. “Come, Cassandra, we must return home.”
Cassandra gave her a curious glance, but polite farewells were said, and the Austen ladies set off toward home.
“What a handsome lady,” Anna said. “I never saw anyone with such beautiful red hair before.”
“I regret to tell you that her presence at Prowtings makes it impossible for us to have any contact at all with her, Duval Richards, or the Vennings,” Jane said. She was about to play her trump card, and, even better, it was absolutely true. She lowered her voice. “Forgive me for the indelicacy, but I must tell you that we cannot receive anyone from that household—Mrs. Cole is an adulteress.”
“Oh dear,” Cassandra said. She stopped walking. “I have a stone in my shoe. Pray wait while I undo the laces.”
“I said, Cassandra,” Jane said, “Mrs. Cole is an adulteress. Did you not hear me? It is well known that she left her husband and now enjoys illicit relationships with others.”
“Truly?” Anna cried, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Anna, it is wicked!” Jane said. “Martha, Cassandra, pray acknowledge the truth of the matter. We cannot let a delicately bred young lady like Anna associate with such people. Our brother would be most displeased.”
Cassandra, standing on one foot, shook her shoe to dislodge the stone. “Oh, come, Jane, did not Our Lord forgive the woman taken in adultery?”
“The difference being that the woman in question repented. Margaret—Mrs. Cole—is entirely unrepentant.”
“But we should set an example of Christian charity to our neighbors,” Cassandra said. “To err is human, my dear Jane. Besides, how do you know about this?”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick told me of it. He was most displeased when Mrs. Cole and her party arrived at the party in his house, but he could not ask them to leave without causing his guests embarrassment.”
“But he and Mr. Venning seemed to be the best of friends,” Martha said. “And in a village this size, and with so few families of quality, it is almost certain that our paths shall cross. We must be civil.”
“We should not receive their calls,” Jane said, annoyed at the outflowing of Christian charity that Martha and her sister displayed, and she was appalled at the dreamy wonder on Anna’s face.
“But that is so romantic,” Anna said. “To sacrifice all—one’s reputation and honor—all for love. It shows great courage. Is it not like Admiral Nelson and Lady Hamilton?—I know you admired him greatly, Aunt Jane.”
“You are mistaken,” Jane said. “He was England’s hero and much can be forgiven him. This is merely tawdry and a stain upon our pleasant village. I deeply regret such people are our neighbors.”
Cassandra’s shoelace now tied, the party continued forward.
“Jane, help me look for mushrooms,” Martha said.
Jane saw they were close to the cluster of cottages where the path turned onto the road known as the Shrave and considered that Cassandra and Anna, deep in conversation about naval heroes, would be safe enough. She followed her friend into the stillness of the woods, where the grass was still wet with dew and the trees bright with early greenery. A few birds twittered overhead.
“Oh, you know I am no good at this. I shall poison us all.”
“No, you won’t. I am extremely knowledgeable.” Martha prodded at some half-rotted leafy matter with her toe and turned it over. “Jane, what troubles you?”
“You are very perceptive,” Jane said, wishing she could confide in her friend. “There is something that weighs heavily upon my mind, but I regret I cannot tell you what it is.”
“Is it to do with Mr. Fitzpatrick? Mrs. Austen said your family met him in Bath, but I did not know you were acquainted with him. It is some years since you and he last met, but I can tell there is—or was—something between you.”
“It is like a novel,” Jane said. “It would actually make a very good novel, if anyone wished to read about a woman who ages and displays none of the usual characteristics of a heroine.”
“The usual characteristics? What are those?
“Oh, the long golden hair, the wealth of accomplishments, the extraordinary beauty, the unassailable virtue; and the tendency to explore secret passages in sinister buildings at dead of night during thunderstorms while wearing a nightgown. You know of what I speak.” Jane smiled.
“Oh yes, indeed. They are so tiresome, those girls. Promise me you will never write such a paragon of excellence, or possibly a paragon of stupidity; I do not think I could bear it.”
Jane idly poked a fungus growing on a tree. “I could not bear it, either, and I would be stuck with the wretched girl for three volumes. Martha, what of this one?”
“Certain bellyache, although it would not kill you. But what of Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“No bellyache, I am glad to say. Or a big belly when I was young and foolish. But yes, there was an understanding of sorts between us.”
“Oh, Jane!” Martha cried. “Don’t you realize?”
“Realize what?”
Martha looked around her with great caution. “He is one—one of them. One of—one of the Damned.” Her face pinkened a little at the word. “Yes, I can tell. Some people can, you know, but this is something I only recently acquired. Only, in fact, since my—my mishap of a couple of days ago. And I believe our visitors this morning and Mrs. Cole are, too.”
“Dear me. Is there anyone else?” Jane waited.
“Oh, you do not believe me!”
“I do. Why should you make up such a thing? It is shocking, I admit, for Mr. Fitzpatrick seems such a gentlemanly man, but it explains certain eccentricities.”
“Yes, it is quite surprising. Of course I know things were different in Bath in ’97 when . . . but possibly you were forced to consort with those wicked beings when things were in such turmoil.”
“Those wicked beings saved us from the French, Martha, whatever other depravities they commit.” She stopped, realizing that she damaged her own case.
“But Martha, my dear, I do not at all like the idea of Mr. Richards, if he is one of them, making love to Anna. We have yet another most excellent reason to prevent Mr. Richards and others of his household from visiting us, and we must tell Cassandra and my mother immediately.”
“But what of Mr. Fitzpatrick and his relatives?”
“What of them?”
“He is your brother’s tenant, and I feel that it is our duty to the Knight family to be good neighbors,” Martha said, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink again. “I think, if it does not sound absurd, that he is a better one of their kind.”
“Ah. If by that you mean you wish to attend the music party this afternoon—”
“Oh, yes! I mean, of course we should. It would be impolite to not go after saying we shall.” In some agitation, Martha plucked a pallid mushroom, examined it, sniffed its root, and threw it away.
“Calm yourself, my dear. We do not want you to poison us for dinner. I think it may be correct for us to attend the Great House today. After all, we escaped one evening there unscathed.” Mostly, she added silently. “And, as you say, Mr. Fitzpatrick is quite gentlemanly.”
“Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!” Martha beamed. “Come, let us catch up with the others.”
“But the mushrooms?” Jane said.
“The mushrooms,” Martha said with a giggle, “may go to the—well, I mean we shall not find any, and . . . Jane, have you heard that when one of the Damned feeds upon someone that it is intensely pleasurable? For the one who is being fed upon, that is.”
“It is indecent. No virtuous woman would contemplate such a thing.”
“That’s not what I have heard,” Martha said with great cheer.
“I fear you are asking the wrong person,” Jane said.
She followed Martha out of the woods and back onto the path, relieved that her friend, with her newfound perception, did not recognize Jane as one of the Damned. And Margaret, who had little reason to lie, had scoffed at what powers of the Damned Jane possessed. Maybe she could remain mortal after all.
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 8