Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion

by Janet Mullany

  Jane murmured a farewell and continued along the passage and then up the stairs. At the first landing she paused. She could hear no one in the house. When she turned to her right, she found herself at the end of the long Gallery and took the doorway that led to the parlor. The door stood ajar. Jane could hear the sound of sobbing.

  She rushed inside to find Martha huddled in an armchair in the small extension at the end of the room, where only a few nights earlier she had come across William and Luke together.

  “Martha, my dear!” Jane ran to her. “Oh, what has happened to you?”

  But she knew; Martha’s clothing was in disarray, her bosom half exposed, and, to Jane’s annoyance, one of her—Jane’s—silk stockings collapsing around her ankle.

  “You borrowed my stockings again!” Jane said, fury replacing fear.

  “You don’t have anyone to wear them for,” Martha said. “Why are you here?”

  “After what happened last time, I was afraid for you. But why are you crying?”

  Martha wiped her face. “I—I want to go home.” She stood, and then collapsed back into the chair, giggling. “Heavens, I must have drunk too much.”

  “Or he did.” So she needed to be revived, and to Jane’s annoyance Tom was nowhere in sight. “Why has he left you here alone?”

  “Well.” Martha’s face took on a slight tinge of pink. “He and I—well, we sat and conversed here for a little, and then we went to another room—”

  To his bedchamber, Jane supposed. “What did he do?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I am quite sure I know what you mean, but why do you cry?”

  “Another lady came to call. She—she was rude to me. And Tom laughed. And then Tom undid her gown and she asked if I wished to join them. And I said no. So I came back here to sit down and I do feel so very weak and foolish. I thought he liked me, Jane.”

  “My dear.” Jane patted her hand. “He does like you, I am sure, or as much as one of the Damned is able to feel for one of us. I fear he may like your blood better than any other of your charms.”

  “That is unkind!” Martha pushed herself up a little straighter in the chair and attempted to straighten her gown.

  Jane knelt to help her, and the scent of blood and spent pleasure made her dizzy. “I believe you need to be revived. You will feel better then.”

  She found a bellpull by the fireplace and tugged on it, angered by Tom’s behavior. After some time, a footman entered and Jane ordered him to bring some wine.

  She paced the room, knowing that what she must do would be disturbing. She did not dare try to use her own blood, even though her canines had once again assumed that disconcerting sharpness and rubbed painfully against her lip. When the footman returned, she took a sip of the wine herself for courage and, telling Martha that she would return soon, left the room.

  She stood outside, concentrating, listening, half annoyed and half grateful that her condition was not yet so advanced that she could scent one of the Damned in the act of dining. And then she heard a sound, a muffled laugh, an intimate whisper from one of the rooms, the same room where Duval had assaulted Anna.

  She knocked and threw the door open at the same time, to find Tom and a young woman together, sprawled sated on the bed.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on!” Jane said, trying to look away. It had been some years since she had last encountered a gentleman in a state of undress.

  “Who’s this?” The girl’s voice was slurred, and she ran a proprietary hand down Tom’s chest. “How many old women pursue you, my dear?”

  “Be quiet, miss!” Jane held out the glass to Tom. “If you please. Not only have you hurt Martha’s feelings, but you have left her alone and in need of revival. It was most unmannerly, sir.”

  He frowned. “I offered her further hospitality, my dear Jane. Jane, may I introduce you to Miss . . . so sorry, my sweet, I have quite forgotten your name.”

  “I am Arabella!” the young woman snapped.

  “Dear, dear, Tom, have you dined so zealously your memory is affected?” Jane waved the glass in his face. “A drop of blood, sir, and I shall bother you no more, and you may exercise your charms upon Miss Arabella’s person again.”

  “You are an infernal nuisance, Jane.” Sighing heavily, Tom sat up and raised his wrist to his mouth. Arabella stared at his canines digging into the pale skin and released a faint moan when his blood welled. She leaned forward, lips parted, but Tom pushed her away. “Later, my love.”

  A delicious scent rose from the one drop of blood that fell into the wineglass. Jane hoped she did not look as avid and helpless as Arabella, but the sight of Tom’s blood made her almost groan with hunger.

  “You refused my blood the last time,” Tom said. “I am not offended. Come, Jane. Join us. Your friend can wait. Arabella will not mind, will you, my dear? You’ll like her taste, Jane.”

  She took a step toward the bed, her canines sharp against her lip before she came to her senses and stopped. Arabella leaned to lick Tom’s arm and sagged against him, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  “Oh, pray stop behaving like a male slut!” Jane said. “And is she well? I think she has swooned.”

  “So they do if they try to take our blood unmixed,” Tom said. He shoved Arabella away. “She bores me, Jane. Your friend, Martha, for all she talks of silliness and of what she has cooked for dinner the night before—lord, how she talks—Martha entertains me more.”

  He stretched luxuriously on the sheets, smiling.

  “Indeed. Entertainment. You do not care for her.”

  “Of course not. Just as you do not care to see me in my unclothed glory.”

  Jane snorted with laughter. “Your modesty does you credit, sir.”

  “So will you see William?”

  “Possibly.” Of course she would. They both knew it. William’s presence called to her, tantalized her. “I do thank you, sir, for your generosity in allowing my friend one drop of your blood at such grave inconvenience to yourself. No, no, I assure you I am capable of opening the door myself. You must rest, Tom, to reserve your strength for the next bout with the lovely Miss Arabella.”

  He grinned. “You know, Jane, I almost forgive you for threatening to blow my head to pieces and my soul to hell.”

  “It is no laughing matter, sir.” She raised the glass of wine. “I thank you for your assistance.”

  It was but a few steps to the next room, and as she walked she argued with herself. Perhaps Martha would be recovered; perhaps Tom would grant her another drop; Jane longed to drink the wine herself, and more, to drink from Tom or Arabella or . . .

  “Martha, my dear!” Her voice sounded hoarse. She handed the glass to Martha.

  Martha’s hand shook, spilling a drop onto Jane’s wrist. “Drink!” Jane said.

  She held Martha’s hand to assist her in drinking, and the single drop rolled into her cuff, absorbed by the fabric.

  “So sweet,” Martha said, smiling. “Oh, so sweet.”

  “You may sleep now, Miss Lloyd.”

  Jane turned at the sound of William’s voice, impressed despite herself. How useful to be able to bid people to sleep and have them actually do it. Her thoughts flew to certain garrulous members of her family.

  Martha yawned. “You know, Jane, there’s something different about you . . .” She fell asleep as easily as a child.

  “Now you have no choice but to talk with me,” William said with a faint smile.

  Chapter 13

  “I cannot be all things,” Jane said. She, who had started the day off cheerful and content, now found emotions spilling over and her fists clenched in agitation. She could not sit still; she paced like a wild creature, like one of the Damned, her limbs restless. “Les Sales have been seen in the village, and people are in fear of them. I cannot protect my family—I cannot even persuade Martha or Anna not to play with fire in consorting with the Damned—and I must write, and—oh, this is hopeless, William. L
ast night I nearly destroyed Tom, and I wished to destroy you also—”

  “Oh, I would not have let you do it,” William said. He smiled faintly. “You forget I have more speed and strength, however passionate you become.”

  She swallowed. “Pray forgive me for my intemperance. But I cannot forgive you for using Raphael as your bait. Two birds with one stone, I presume? Two fledglings returned to your nest?”

  “Jane, my dear.” He stepped into her path and took her hands. His power burned into her, and as much as she could she closed her mind to him. “Let the metamorphosis take its course. Do not fight it. Last night you were so close, almost en sanglant, and I hoped you would cross the divide to us. And Raphael burns for you; has he not persuaded you of his desire? Of course you should take a lover; a woman such as yourself, denied of all passion and sensuality—it is absurd!”

  “I am Miss Jane Austen, spinster, sir, a respectable resident of this village where my brother is the main landowner. I have certain standards to maintain, the good name of my family to protect. I am not what you think I am.”

  “You are. Come back to us, Jane.” Had he been a lover, the ardor in his voice would have thrilled her, moved her.

  “I will not. But there is one thing I shall do, sir, and that is something I can accomplish as a mortal, not as one of the Damned. I shall put an end to your hostilities with Duval and his house.”

  “Indeed? Why do you think you can do so?” He released her hands and gestured to a chair. From the sofa, Martha gave a faint snore.

  “You sent Luke as ambassador. He has failed. He is too involved with your cause, whereas I am not yet one of the Damned and I am determined not to become one again. I think and feel like a human woman; I am impartial, yet I know a little of the ways of the Damned. So I can represent both my family and the village, as the sister of the owner of the Great House; and I can also, in a lesser extent, represent the Damned. You, my Creator, are here; and my former Consort is with them.”

  She had said it as easily as she had hoped.

  “Interesting.” William sat opposite her, elbows on knees, absorbed in what she had to say. “What will you ask for?”

  “That attacks on any of us, particularly the innocent people in the village, should cease. That les Sales be treated with pity and decency and taken into households—yes, even without letters of introductions, as shocking as that may seem. You cannot take revenge against the Prince of Wales without hurting the innocent. Did that gentleman’s coachman and postilion deserve to die?”

  “And the weapons?” William asked.

  “Those graystone knives?” She shivered, the mark on her breast burning anew. “Abandon them. Bury them, destroy them however you may. If there is a way to take power from them, let it be done.”

  William shook his head. “They must remain. They are part of who we are. We may use them but once in a hundred years, but the gray knives are ours. But more to the point, Jane, what do you offer the Damned in return?”

  “Acceptance. There is no need to masquerade as what you are not. I can use my brother Edward’s connections to introduce you to country society here in Hampshire. A little while ago you would have thought company such as this beneath you, but consider the country squires and merchants and shopkeepers your allies. You may have lost the support of dukes and princes, but I can assure you the Prince of Wales is not much liked or respected here. And these middling people are not so likely to forget the debt they owe the Damned when our—your kind—saved them from the French. And you will also win the trust of the village, and that is important if you are to live here. Did you know the common people hereabouts consider the tenants of the Great House responsible for les Sales? They will not hesitate to rise up against you if they are roused enough.”

  “Very well. And what does Miss Jane Austen receive as reward?”

  “My freedom.”

  “Your freedom?” he echoed. “I assure you, you are in no way in bondage, unless it is to your respectability.”

  “Let me go, William. Let your fledgling go in the way she chooses, even if it is not the way of the Damned.”

  He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, silent for a moment.

  “You don’t understand, Jane. It is as much you as me. Once you were one of us. In the most secret and essential elements of flesh and bone and blood, you are one of the Damned still. You will always yearn for us; you will always have those powers of perception if not the physical strength, the ability to understand and observe—”

  “I believe, sir, that my excellent powers of perception and understanding have always been a part of me.” Her voice rose. On the sofa, Martha stirred and subsided into sleep. “William, promise me you will not try to trick me or bribe me. Do not, I pray, throw handsome footmen in my path or ask Tom to undress in front of me. He is quite shameless, and he does it so often I fear it will become as commonplace that he removes his breeches as others remove a hat. And above all, do not use Raphael as your pawn. I ask only that if I bring about peace, you leave me alone.”

  “What you suggest goes against our natures,” William said. “You will yearn for the rest of your mortal life for what you cannot have, and I . . . I must spend eternity knowing I have failed you again.”

  “I’m sure you will find comfort one way or the other.” She leaned forward and removed a long fair hair that clung to his coat. “You dine early today, I see.”

  He smiled. “I had to invite Mr. Papillon and his sister to dinner, and lest I be tempted by the lady . . .”

  “Oh, surely you jest. I doubt even you dining upon her would stop her tongue. But let us talk of tactics if I am to be your herald.”

  “Indeed, yes. Will you come later tonight so I may instruct you? I must write a letter of introduction.”

  “Why? I have met Duval.”

  “It is good manners.”

  Jane shrugged. She had never grasped the intricacies of etiquette among the Damned, but she should let William guide her in this matter at least.

  “I am sorry I have saddened you,” she said.

  “It has saddened you, too. I hope you are successful, Jane, for despite our natural longing for sensation and the thrill of the new, I and many of our kind abhor this state of war. We shall be an example to other counties.”

  She stood. “I cannot hide the secrets of my heart from you.”

  He held her hand briefly, then raised it to his lips. It was not the kiss of a lover—that could never be—but the acknowledgment of an ally, an equal.

  Behind them on the couch Martha stirred and sighed.

  “I hope you are feeling better, Miss Lloyd,” William said.

  “Oh, indeed. Much better.” Martha blinked. “I thank you for your hospitality, but now it is time Jane and I returned home.”

  Jane detached her hand from William’s, aware of Martha’s keen glance. But Martha looked away, her lips tightening.

  Several times that evening Jane caught Martha’s curious gaze and wondered if Martha had overheard any of her conversation with William. Jane might well seem different in that house to one who possessed the gift of recognizing the Damned, but was that really what Martha’s sleepy comment meant? Or was Martha embarrassed by her experience with Tom and fearful Jane might say something about it to the family?

  After dinner, Anna played the piano and the ladies sewed, Jane glad that the music inhibited conversation. When the ladies rose to take their candlesticks upstairs, Jane announced that she would retire downstairs to write. It was easy enough by the light of two candles, and while Cassandra said her prayers, for Jane to tuck the bundle of men’s clothing beneath her arm and quietly leave the bedchamber.

  She waited in the darkened dining room for the maids, Eliza and Jenny, to finish the household chores and go upstairs to their beds. When all was quiet, she slung the reticule and its weapons over one shoulder and left for the Great House. The streets were almost deserted, apart from a few latecomers returning home from the alehouse, and only a h
andful of cottages showed the fitful dim light of candles or rushlights. She almost hoped that one of les Sales might burst from the darkness into her path, but by the time the lights of the Great House came into view the only attacker had been a stray cow that lumbered away, crashing through the furze bushes at the side of the road.

  The door opened as she approached, and Dorcas ran out to meet her. “Is that your best gown, Jane?”

  “Well, it is the one I generally wear in the evenings; the long sleeves can be removed, and I—”

  “But this will not do. No indeed.”

  “Why not?” Jane asked.

  “You must be very well dressed. When did you last take a bath?”

  Jane tried to remember. “A week or so ago, I believe. I wash my hair frequently, but we have to bathe in the washhouse, for we have no menservants to bring water upstairs, and it is a great nuisance.”

  “I thought so,” Dorcas said, to Jane’s embarrassment.

  She resisted the temptation to snuff at her own armpits. “I am perfectly clean!”

  “But you’d like a bath, wouldn’t you? And you must borrow one of my gowns.”

  “Oh, very well,” Jane said, somewhat interested in seeing more of Dorcas’s gowns and immediately regretting that she would not be able to tell Cassandra about them. “But how am I to get there?”

  “You’ll take the carriage,” Dorcas replied. “We can’t have you arriving with a foot of mud on your skirts. Come with me, my dear.”

  She led Jane upstairs and into a bedchamber where several footmen stood around chatting, having emptied buckets of hot water into a large tub.

  “How did you know I was to arrive?” Jane asked.

  “Of course we knew,” Dorcas said. “Or rather, William did. Turn, my dear, so I may unfasten your gown.”

  “Pray send the footmen out!” Jane said in horror.

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I am quite sure,” Jane replied. The scent of healthy young men and the slow thud of their heartbeats made it hard to keep her resolve. “You must understand, I go to Prowtings as a representative of the village. They will know if I have dined recently.”