She substituted her nightgown and cap for the shift and crawled beneath the chill sheets.
She should have tumbled Raphael in a haystack when she had the opportunity, and to the devil with her reputation as a respectable spinster, daughter of the late Mr. Austen, rector of Steventon. Damn Raphael for his scruples. She thought of that one kiss and sighed, remembering the richness of his taste and smell.
She was damned one way or the other, at the very least to eternal spinsterhood.
She woke once to grayness and the spatter of rain on the window and turned to see Cassandra’s bed was empty. So it was not early, but she fell back into sleep.
“Jane! Will you not wake?” Sometime later, Cassandra shook her awake. “We let you sleep for I thought you might be unwell. Do you not want to write? It’s close to noon.”
“I’m quite well, thank you.” Jane sat and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as she did so. She was still mortal enough to feel the effects of the previous night’s energetic run through the woods and fields. “What is everyone up to? I see you’ve been outside; your skirts are sadly bedraggled.”
“It is indeed a dirty sort of day. Martha is in the kitchen. I’m afraid our mother has taken to her bed.”
“I’m most sorry to hear it.” Mrs. Austen, for all her great energy and good humor, suffered from frequent bouts of melancholy where she would spend her days in bed, the curtains drawn, and refusing any efforts by others to rouse or cheer her.
“Anna is reading to her.”
“Poor child. She’ll probably leave with a flea in her ear.” Jane looked at the rain trickling down the window and thought her mother had chosen a good day to stay abed.
When she was dressed, she retired to her usual spot in the dining room, annoyed at the extravagance of a candle, for the day was greatly overcast, and set to work. This is what she should do; she must resist the Damned and all they stood for, and she would certainly not brood over Raphael, a gentleman she barely knew. And a Catholic, she reminded herself. The house was quiet apart from the scratch of her pen and faint sounds from the kitchen.
Someone tapped at the door. “Jane?”
Jane laid down her pen. “What is it, Martha?”
A giggle and a shuffling sound. So both she and Cassandra were there. “A servant is here from the Great House with something for you.”
“Very well. Leave it outside.”
“But we want to see what it is! And which of the gentlemen sent it to you.”
Jane stood and stretched, stiff from having sat in the same position for so long. She walked to the door and opened it. Cassandra and Martha stood there, and one of the handsome footmen presented her with a parcel wrapped in paper. Inside was a large reticule, a beautiful silk and leather bag with tassels and embroidery.
Jane took the reticule, surely one of the finer items of fashion she had ever owned, and slipped her hand inside it. She pulled out a card. “It is from Mrs. Kettering. How very kind of her.” She glared at her sister and friend. “And here is the music she promised she would lend Anna.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell them the reticule also contained pistols, shot, and powder.
“Oh, how very generous!” Cassandra cried. “And Anna can copy the music, since it is too wet to go outside.”
Jane said to the footman, whose livery was dark with rain, “Perhaps you could wait in the kitchen and have some refreshment while I compose a note to Mrs. Kettering.”
Before Cassandra or Martha could inquire too closely into the contents of the reticule, she took it upstairs and stowed the pistols and ammunition beneath her bed, wishing she had some way of returning the men’s clothing to the Great House. She could return the reticule, but then how would she carry the weapons? She was determined not to succumb to the lures of the Damned, but even her pride would not allow her to turn down this opportunity to protect her family.
The letter (a polite and formal note of thanks) was written and returned to the footman, who sat with a pot of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese, his clothes steaming from the heat of the kitchen fire and not in any hurry to go back into the rain. Jane found Cassandra and Martha deep in conversation in the parlor.
“ . . . but I think it is from Mr. Fitzpatrick, not Mr. Raphael—oh, Jane, there you are. Look at this music Mrs. Kettering has sent! Some of the very latest airs and compositions that are fashionable in London. How splendid!”
“Pray do not speculate on my admirers,” Jane said. “At my age, it is ridiculous. I shall fetch Anna downstairs. She will enjoy this music, and I must bid our mother good day.”
But when she entered her mother’s bedchamber, Mrs. Austen was alone. Jane’s heart sank as she approached the bed. “How do you do, ma’am? I am sorry you are unwell.”
“Why did you not come before? Too busy writing, I suppose, to care for the duty you owe your parent.”
“Indeed not, ma’am. I was somewhat indisposed myself this morning but have felt a great deal better since rising.” She continued hastily, “I am sorry Anna is not here to keep you company.”
“That wretched poetry rants on so. I sent her away.” Mrs. Austen turned over.
“I hope you feel better soon,” Jane said. “Is there anything I may fetch you? A glass of wine? Some tea?”
As her mother made no reply, Jane left, closing the door quietly behind her. She returned downstairs and opened the parlor door, intending only to tell Martha and Cassandra that she was returning to her writing slope.
“But where is Anna?” Jane asked. “Our mother sent her away. Surely she has not gone outside on a day like this!”
The other two women exchanged a glance. “Well,” Cassandra said, “she is certainly not in the house.”
“She’ll get soaked,” Jane said. “Foolish girl. You should have—”
But at that moment she heard the rattle of the back door. Jacques the pug, who had been asleep, snoring noisily, on a cushion, jumped up and ran into the vestibule to meet his mistress. Jane followed him and found Anna standing in a puddle and shaking out an umbrella. As she had predicted, her niece was indeed soaked to the skin, but her glowing eyes and complexion indicated that the walk in the rain had been something more.
“For heaven’s sake!” Jane said, relieved that Anna was home. “Where have you been? And not to tell anyone! This was badly done, Anna. And look at you, soaked to the skin. I am certain you will catch a cold.”
“I’m very well, Aunt.” Anna stood the umbrella in a corner and tugged at her bonnet strings.
Jane reached to help her. A faint scent of blood and the feral scent of the Damned hung around Anna. She untied the bonnet strings and gathered the wet folds of Anna’s red cloak. “Did you meet Mr. Richards?”
“Yes, I did, Aunt.”
“You do not deny it!” Jane gritted her teeth. “Do you not see, Anna, this is precisely the reason why your father is so angry with you—that you pursue the dictates of your heart with so much thoughtlessness. Have we not given you warning enough to avoid Mr. Richards? If this continues, we shall have no choice but to send you to Kent.”
“Pray, how else should I pursue the dictates of my heart? With cold reason? Is that why you have never married, Aunt Jane?” Anna brushed past her into the parlor, where Jane heard Cassandra and Martha exclaim over her bedraggled appearance and urge her to sit close to the fire.
Jane dropped the sodden cloak onto the floor and followed. “Cassandra, Martha, I have reason to believe that if Anna has not yielded to Duval Richards yet, she is well on the way to becoming his mistress, and her behavior must cease immediately.”
All three of them stared at her, and then Anna cried, great childish sobs that shook her slender frame, while Cassandra and Martha comforted her and shot vicious glances at Jane.
“What is the matter with you?” Cassandra whispered to Jane. “I though Martha was the one given to odd fancies and fantasies, but you have become both vulgar and fantastical in your statements. Look at the poor child! See
how upset she is!”
“You condone her assignation with a known libertine?”
“We have only hearsay on the matter. For that matter, we know very little of Mr. Fitzpatrick and his friends. How are we to know who speaks the truth? Next time Mr. Richards calls—”
“We should not receive him—”
“Next time we shall receive him graciously and note his behavior. You, Jane, sent him from the house, and is it any wonder then that Anna met him secretly?”
“But—”
Cassandra turned away and, talking of hot possets and warm bricks, left for the kitchen.
“I’m going to write,” Jane said to no response from either Martha or Anna and returned to the bleakness of the dining room and her writing slope.
Chapter 12
The next day dawned bright and clear, and to the relief of the household, Mrs. Austen rose from her bed.
Jane, after a most satisfying few hours at her writing desk, emerged refreshed and cheerful to find what the rest of the family were doing. Mrs. Austen, having decided that the garden would be too wet for her to do any work outside that day, sat in the parlor, busy at her needlework. Martha, it turned out, had gone to call on Mrs. Chapple.
“Who is Mrs. Chapple?” Jane asked.
“The housekeeper at the Great House. Doubtless Martha has gone to exchange recipes.”
“Oh, that’s right, Mrs. Kettering’s housekeeper. Hmm,” Jane said. Martha was a grown woman; her activities should be of no concern to Jane, to whom it was perfectly obvious that recipes were not what drew her to the Great House. “I shall go to meet her there. And what are you and Anna up to, this fine day?”
“We shall visit Miss Benn.”
“You look in fine fettle today, miss,” Jane said, pinching her niece’s cheek. “It’s early yet, so I hope you are up to no mischief.”
“Hardly at all, Aunt,” Anna said with a smile. “A few assignations, a handful of love letters—nothing out of the ordinary.”
Jane couldn’t help laughing, even though her niece’s remark was a little too close to the truth for comfort. She decided to accompany them to Miss Benn’s house, since it was on the way to the Great House.
Anna insisted on taking a handful of crumbs for the geese and ducks in the pond at the crossroads, a gesture Jane found endearing. She watched her niece laugh at the birds’ antics and at the pug’s excited barks. Anna was little more than a child, still.
“Oh, to be young again,” Cassandra said. “Do you ever wish for that, Jane?”
“Sometimes. I hope I grow wise as I grow older. You do, I am sure.” She linked her arm in Cassandra’s. “The child will be all over mud again.”
If she and Cassandra had not had a wealthy brother, this is how they would have lived: poor, dark lodgings crammed with too much furniture, the relics of happier and easier times. Miss Mary Benn rose from her chair to greet them with cries of delight, her needlework laid aside.
“Why, Miss Anna, you have grown into such a pretty young lady. And Miss Austen and Miss Jane, you must take tea. What a pleasure to see you all! And is this little dog yours, Miss Anna? What a fine fellow he is indeed.”
“Our brother Edward sent us some tea and we have brought you some; it is very good. We thought we must share our bounty with our neighbors,” Jane said. Tea was a luxury for Miss Benn, and the fabrication of a gift a way the Austens might help her without hurting her pride.
“Most generous indeed!” Miss Benn reached for the kettle that simmered at the hearth, and Anna hastened to help her. Miss Benn’s hands, clad in mittens that were for warmth as well as an attempt at fashion (for her lodgings were cold and damp), were swollen and twisted. A tray containing a teapot and cups of fine china, carefully preserved from Miss Benn’s more prosperous days, stood nearby.
“So you have heard the news?” Miss Benn asked. “My maid Fanny has told me highwaymen attacked a carriage on the London Road the night before last. A most important gentleman, an intimate of the Prince of Wales, so they say, and a lady . . .” She colored slightly, which Jane took to mean that the gentleman’s companion was probably not a lady and certainly not a wife or relative. “Is that not shocking? All dead, even the horses, they say. What sort of times are these? Although if he was a friend of the Prince I regret to say he could not be a very good sort of man.”
“Highwaymen!” Cassandra echoed. “I thought the profession had almost died out. Well, that part of the road was always thought to be notoriously unsafe.”
“Indeed, yes. I remember my father used to speak of it. But now the whole village is abuzz with the news, and you know how superstitious the common people are hereabouts.”
Miss Benn broke off her reminiscences to instruct Anna to offer the pug a saucer of milk, at which he lapped noisily.
“Why, what do the common people say?” Jane asked.
“My dear, they believe that fiends are among us, or ghosts, or some such nonsense. Is not that true, Fanny?”
Miss Benn’s maid, who had just come in with more coals for the fire, nodded. “Oh, ’tis true, ma’am. They say they’ll suck your blood and drag you down to hell, so no one must go out at night. Why, even the menfolk going for ale and shove ha’penny at the inn won’t walk alone after dark. It’s not safe, ma’am. And they say”—she looked around as though a supernatural creature were ready to burst out of the cupboard—“they say them up at the Great House are to blame.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Miss Benn said. “These ladies have paid calls at the Great House, so Mr. Knight’s tenants must be respectable. Miss Jane, you tell her she is foolish to say such things.”
“Indeed, Fanny, you are mistaken,” Jane said. “But . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Fanny looked at her, one hand on her hip, eyebrows raised.
“But you should not be out after dark,” Jane said firmly. “You must stay here and make sure your mistress is comfortable and not encourage wild stories.”
“Miss Jane is quite right,” Miss Benn said. “Back to the kitchen with you, Fanny. But Miss Jane, what a very handsome reticule that is! Is that also a gift from Mr. Edward Knight?”
“No. Mrs. Kettering gave it to me,” Jane said. “She is sister-in-law to Mr. Fitzpatrick, our brother’s tenant at the Great House.”
To her annoyance, Cassandra and Miss Benn exchanged an arch glance and Anna giggled. Jane was tempted to produce the pistol and show her skill, but not wishing to destroy any of Miss Benn’s beloved possessions (the milk jug, though; that had a crack and Jane was sure they could replace it with one of their own), she merely smiled and, making the excuse that she had another call to make, left the cottage.
When she arrived at the Great House, she went to the servants’ entrance at the side of the house. Almost certainly William knew she was there, but meeting her Creator after threatening to kill him would be exceedingly awkward. She was still too angry to apologize, yet as she neared the house anger was replaced by a familiar yearning and the stirrings of hunger. It was as Raphael had said: the very presence of the Damned heightened and intensified her body’s urge to return to being one of them.
The door stood open, and she stepped inside a dim hall lined with flagstones. The murmur of voices and clink of utensils and the scent of cooking food indicated that she was near the kitchen. The housekeeper in a house of this size would almost certainly remain aloof, keeping to her own room or suite of rooms that included living and working quarters.
Jane passed the kitchen, catching a glimpse of people hard at work—unless the Damned entertained that night, very little of the food would be eaten. A woman pushed stuffing inside a large fish, and at the table another rolled out a creamy sheet of pastry.
“May I help you, miss?” One of the handsome footmen, carrying a basket of greens, stepped from a doorway a little ways ahead.
“If you please, I’m looking for Mrs. Chapple and Miss Lloyd who pays a call on her.”
“Mrs. Chapple’s here, miss. I’ll show you. I d
on’t know if any other ladies came to call, though.”
He turned on his heel and led her farther down the passage. He was not in livery, for he was at work downstairs, but he wore a leather apron over breeches and shirt. Jane found herself admiring his broad shoulders and strong thighs and chided herself for her indecent thoughts. Yes, she could blame it on Damnation, but more and more, particularly in this house, Jane of the Damned and Miss Jane Austen blurred and blended.
“In here, miss,” the footman said, pointing to a doorway. His smile indicated that he had guessed her thoughts. “Half a crown, miss,” he said to her softly, “for anything you fancy. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
Jane’s face burned. “Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. Here, in this house, she was most definitely one of the Damned.
She tapped at the door. In the room, Mrs. Chapple—Jane recognized her now—stood at a scrubbed table, tipping the contents of a jar onto the pan of a set of scales. Whole cloves, sharp and fragrant, rattled as they fell.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The housekeeper picked a few cloves out and returned them to the jar and pushed home a cork. She tipped the spices into a small crock the size of her fist. “It’s Miss Austen, is it not?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I came to find my friend Martha Lloyd.”
“Miss Lloyd? Why, she left some time ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to have missed her. She must have gone home.”
The woman nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I have business in the kitchen.” She picked up the crock that held the cloves, considering. “I believe she went upstairs.”
“Upstairs!” Jane echoed. So her suspicions were correct.
Mrs. Chapple gestured to her right. “Continue this way, ma’am, and you’ll reach the staircase.” She ushered Jane out of the room and lifted the chatelaine at her waist, which held a variety of keys, and locked the door. “Good day to you.”
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 12