“I see it takes an injury to your private parts to make you summon your servants, something you could have done some time ago and saved yourself a great deal of pain and humiliation,” she said to Duval, who lay huddled on the floor still, looking unwell.
He snarled at her in reply.
Les Sales gathered around Jane.
“Pray escort this woman out,” Duval said.
“May we dine on her?” one of them asked.
“Not yet,” Duval said. “If she returns to this house, you may drain her dry. Good morning, Miss Austen.”
“Good morning, sir.” Surrounded by les Sales and with one last despairing glance at Anna, who had slipped from her chair to kneel at Duval’s side, Jane was escorted to the front door of the house.
The door banged shut behind her.
What now? As if in reply, she heard the thud of a horse’s hooves approaching the house at a gallop, and she looked up to see William.
He reined in the horse. It sidled, froth at its bit, flanks wet with sweat. “Are you well? I knew you were in difficulties.”
“Quite well if somewhat humiliated, although not so much as Duval. He has Anna.”
“Damn him!”
“He is Damned,” Jane said. “It is a pity you did not arrive sooner.”
“The horse would not come willingly with me,” William said. “Must you get into trouble so early in the morning? Pray do not roll your eyes at me so.” He leaned from the saddle and gazed at her eye and forehead. “Did Duval do that? May I?”
His breath would heal her; it would also bring her closer to Damnation, and she had been compromised enough already by Duval.
She shook her head and leaned her face against the horse’s neck, allowing herself comfort from the creature when she really yearned for William’s touch. Its skin twitched a little at the contact, but the animal allowed her to stay. “He threatens to create her. If he does not create her, he will dishonor her further. She is his creature already, desperately in love with him, and ready to cast off her family. And he—”
“You need tell me no more, but I believe you have compromised yourself. You should have come to us first.” William dismounted and pulled the reins over the horse’s head to lead it.
“So I failed as your emissary,” Jane said.
“Do not blame yourself,” William said. “You did more than I expected or hoped and gave us a few days’ respite. So, we’re at war again, Duval and I.”
“A plague upon both your houses,” Jane said. “What of my niece? She is my concern now.”
“I’ll take you home. We shall rescue her, never fear.”
“We?” Jane stopped.
William stopped also, and the horse began to tear at tufts of grass at the side of the road. “Jane, the doings of the Damned are no longer your concern, as you have made clear. We have a bargain, you and I. Let my household right this wrong.”
“No! Forgive me for saying so, William, but I know well the Damned are concerned only with their own. I will not see Anna become a casualty of your discord, nor the innocent people of the village, my brother’s tenants, harmed. I must be with you on this. Her soul is at risk now, as is mine. Besides, honor demands my involvement.”
“Your honor as one of the Damned?” William smiled.
“It sounds that way, does it not? Well, so be it. My honor as an aunt, as an Austen, as a woman. That is all.”
They resumed walking. “What shall you tell your family?” William asked.
“The truth. I should have done so long ago. My father took my secret to his grave, and my sister and mother chose to forget what they had seen, just as so many wish to forget the dishonor England suffered then.” She reached to pluck a handful of grass from the side of the road and offered it to the horse.
“Do you wish me to be there when you tell them?”
“No, I thank you. I must do it alone. And then I shall come to see you.”
A few minutes more brought them to the Austen house, and they stopped outside the gate to the yard. William mounted the horse again and raised his hat. “I shall rouse the others. We outnumber Duval’s household, or at least may match them, for we have some guests who stayed to dine.” He smiled. “It was quite like happier times.”
Jane pushed the gate open and walked across the yard to the kitchen door. She hesitated, not wanting to frighten the servants, and removed her hat. At least they would recognize her, even if scandalized by her men’s clothes.
She pushed the door open, and the two maids, Jenny and Eliza, looked up from their work.
“It was you!” Jenny said. “Miss Jane, that is. Why, you gave me such a fright.”
“Jane!” Martha came into the kitchen from the house. “Jane, you cannot dress like that; it’s indecent. And we sent one of the men to the Great House to see if Anna—”
“She’s not there. Where are Cassandra and my mother?”
“In the dining room. But Jane—”
“Come with me,” Jane said. “I shall tell you everything. But my mother and sister must hear, too.”
As they entered the dining room Jane’s mother rose to her feet and regarded her with horror. “What are you about, Jane? Your face! Did you fall? We have no word of Anna, and you bring more shame on the family by dressing in men’s clothes!”
Knowing she was to cause her family pain, Jane said, “I shall explain. But I beg of you, ma’am, sit.”
“Will you take some tea, Jane?” Cassandra’s eyes were downcast and red rimmed. She must have received the brunt of their mother’s anger for both Anna’s disappearance and Jane’s shocking behavior.
Jane accepted a cup of tea but remained standing, too restless to sit, afraid for her family. How would they react at her news, at the resurrection of distressing memories? She would be cast out, she was certain, for after this they could not allow her to stay in the house. It did not matter that she had tried to rescue Anna; Jane’s unwillingness to speak, to try and confide in her loving family, was the cause of her niece’s ruin as much as Duval’s lust. Duval, after all, acted only as his kind did.
She placed her cup and saucer on a small table nearby, her throat too constricted with grief and fear to allow her to swallow. She looked at the women in the room, dearest in the world to her, whom she was about to injure so terribly. “What I have to tell you will distress you and bring back unpleasant memories, and I am grieved that it should be so. But I must speak. You may remember some years ago that I was ill and we went to Bath—”
“What does this have to do with Anna? She must be our first concern.” Cassandra’s hands were knotted on her lap, her face flushed.
“I shall explain. It has everything to do with Anna. We went to Bath because I had been created one of the Damned—”
“Yes, yes,” her mother interrupted. “And you took the Cure and all was well. We do not want to dwell, I am sure, upon those unpleasant times.”
“You are right, ma’am. Yet it was the Damned who were our saviors then, in ridding us of the French invasion. I have never spoken much of those times for fear of causing you distress, but let me say merely that you saw me as one of the Damned and shrank from me and I do not blame you.”
“But you’re cured!” Cassandra insisted.
“Edward’s tenants at the Great House are some of the Damned; so are Duval and his companions,” Jane said.
“But what of Anna?” Mrs. Austen said, flushed with anger. “You spin a fantastic tale—now, miss, get to the point, if you will.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Pray bear with me.” She took a deep breath. “Anna has become a pawn in the enmity between William and Duval. As you know, the Damned are out of favor, rejected by the Prince of Wales and polite society. There is a schism between those of the Damned, like William, who wish to live quietly, harming none, until things are forgotten, and others like Duval who resent the fall from favor and wish to retaliate. Duval has also taken in members of the Damned who, because of opposing views on the
matter, were cast out from their households; you must know that the Damned cleave to one another. To be rejected from one’s home is a deep disgrace and may lead to destruction. It was one of those cast-out creatures we call les Sales who attacked Martha and who makes our village unsafe.”
“You knew this, yet you did not speak when Duval cast his sights upon Anna?” Mrs. Austen’s lip curled.
“I have done what I could, but—”
“You have allowed us to associate with these creatures and not said a word!” Mrs. Austen said. “I shall certainly speak of this to Edward, letting his house to such tenants.”
“It is not his fault, ma’am. I doubt he knew. But I did, and I am to blame for my niece’s ruin. Now I must ask Mr. Fitzpatrick for help.”
“And your own virtue?” Her mother’s eyes were as hard as stone. “What of that? You have deceived us all these years. Are you Mr. Fitzpatrick’s mistress?”
Blood rushed to Jane’s face. “Mr. Fitzpatrick—William—created me. He is not my lover, for any amorous relationship between Creator and fledgling is deemed unnatural. Mr. Venning is—was—my Bearleader, the one who showed me the ways of the Damned. I became his Consort. It is a form of—of marriage among the Damned. I left him to return to you, my beloved family, and I never thought—”
“Jane!” Cassandra, hands at her mouth, stared at her.
“You refer, I assume, to a union without the blessing of the church or society.” Mrs. Austen’s voice was deceptively cool. Beneath, anger simmered. Jane feared her mother’s anger and her sister’s shame far more than any encounter with the Damned.
“I never thought I should meet him again, or that I would be judged for past sins by my family.”
“You shame us!” Mrs. Austen stood and struck Jane on the cheek. “You have lied to us all these years! What would your father say?”
Shocked, Jane cupped a hand to her burning cheek. “My father, ma’am, knew nearly all of what happened in Bath. He did not know of my liaison with Luke, although he may have guessed it. He and I made the decision—which may well have been unwise—to not share my experiences with anyone, not even you, ma’am. What no one has known until recently is that, as much as I have wished to deny it, the symptoms of the Damned have never entirely left me. Being in proximity to the Damned, and with those whom once I loved, I fear again for my soul. And now I fear for Anna, for both her body and soul. I have asked William for help, for I tried and failed this morning to rescue her. But to return to William is to risk my own Damnation.”
In the silence that fell, Cassandra stood and took Jane’s hand. “My dear, I fear you are not well. We must put you to bed and we shall send for the doctor. You have always had a great imagination, and I fear that you are overexcited. You are sadly out of sorts to think such things might happen here! You have been unwell lately, and—”
Jane shook her sister’s hand away. “You think I am mad? Don’t you remember, Cassandra, how you saw me kill a man to save you? How I ripped into his throat and he died in front of us? You feared me then. I know you do not like to think of it. You, too, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Austen. “You were there. So was Papa. I started the course of the waters the next day and I suffered greatly, for the Cure is difficult and painful. The waters are like poison to the Damned. You—”
“She’s right!” Martha said. “You should listen to her.”
Mrs. Austen said, “I beg your pardon, Martha. I know you and Jane are great friends, but you should not let your partiality stand in the way. She is clearly unwell, and you do her no favor in supporting these preposterous and indecent claims.”
Martha said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I have no knowledge of what happened in Bath, but she is right in all she says. I have become one of those who can identify the Damned, and I am particular friends with one of them at the Great House. I, too, knew the true nature of the inhabitants of the Great House and Prowtings, and Jane has tried to warn us about Duval.”
“Mrs. Chapple is one of the Damned?” Cassandra said.
“No, my dear. I visit one of the gentlemen there.” Martha blushed.
“What!” Mrs. Austen rose to her feet in outrage. “You, too, commit acts of impurity with one of those creatures? What would your father and mother say?”
Martha shrugged. “I doubt they’d like it much either, ma’am, and I daresay they’re spinning in their graves. But I’m thankful it’s not cards or drink or laudanum, and it makes me feel years younger.”
“Yes, your complexion is much improved,” Cassandra said, and fell silent at her mother’s furious expression. “Jane, I—I am sorry. I am sorry you had to bear all of this alone. What shall we do?”
“You must wait here and pray both Anna and I return safely home,” Jane said. She turned to her mother. “Ma’am, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
She flinched as Mrs. Austen approached her, wondering if her mother would strike her again. But her mother’s voice was gentle and hesitant, tears standing in her eyes. “My dear, I shall pray for you. But will garlic help? I could dig up the garlic beds, although I fear mice may have eaten them—”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I regret that is merely rumor.”
“Who did this to you?” Mrs. Austen touched Jane’s bruised face with gentle fingers roughened by her work in the garden.
“Duval, ma’am. It will heal.”
“I should like to hit him! How dare he!” Apparently having forgotten she herself had struck Jane minutes ago, Mrs. Austen gathered her daughter into her arms. “My poor child. My poor, brave child. Bring my granddaughter home, I beg you. And guard your soul against those wicked creatures.”
Chapter 19
She had tried to be calm and rational with her family, fearing hysteria or helpless weeping, and she thought she had succeeded, but at a cost to herself. As she left, she pulled the brim of her hat low over her face to hide the tears. She had not dwelled upon the dangers that might lie ahead, moved to pity at the sight of Cassandra’s shocked incredulity. They had immense faith in her, her sense and courage, but would those qualities be enough? She wondered when she had stopped being the flighty one, the irresponsible youngest child, and suffered a sea change into becoming a responsible woman.
She wished she could undo these past couple of weeks, don her spinster’s cap with pride, and settle herself in the dining room with pen and ink and paper, retreating into the worlds of her own creation. She touched her finger to her hat as she passed the Reverend Papillon, who, prayer book tucked beneath one arm, was doubtless off to perform good works among his (mostly) exasperated parishioners. Papillon raised his hat and looked at her in confusion, almost certainly finding her familiar but not able to identify the strange young gentleman.
She turned into the driveway of the Great House and saw a familiar figure walking toward her. She would know that arrogant, graceful strut anywhere, the tilt of his head, the angle of his hat, the way he swung the walking stick that contained a deadly blade; the features that all these years had haunted her dreams and assembled themselves into the faces of her fictional gentlemen, from the wicked to the virtuous, but never the foolish ones.
Yet she saw how grave his face was as she approached, his usual expression of detached irony replaced with an uncharacteristic seriousness.
He bowed. “I should not embrace you, as much as I should like to, for I see you are in some distress.”
“I have spoken with my family.”
“William said you would do so. And . . . ?”
“They were not particularly receptive. At first they thought I was mad, and despite my efforts, I think they have little conception of the danger Anna is in.”
“And what of your danger?”
She shrugged. “Oh, they think me equal to the task, whatever the task might be. None so capable as Jane, you see. I suppose it comes with donning breeches.”
“Did the breeches shock them?”
“More than anything, I think.”
They h
ad reached the front door of the Great House, and Luke led her into the Great Hall where the household had gathered. They stood in a silent semicircle around the great stone fireplace, their attention drawn to the box of mahogany and ivory that William held. When he saw her, he placed the box carefully on the mantelpiece and came to greet her.
“I must ask again: You are sure you wish to join us, Jane?”
“I am, sir.”
“You are more at risk than any of us. You wish to remain mortal, yet you place yourself among us when passions run high and you are exceptionally vulnerable, ready to hurtle into a metamorphosis. Similarly, you are not so mortal that a graystone knife cannot cause you grievous harm. There is no dishonor in retiring from the fray.”
“It would be a great dishonor to me if my niece came to harm, sir.”
There was a murmur of approval from the assembled Damned, who certainly valued loyalty among family members.
“I shall fight, sir. You taught me well. But I shall have nothing to do with your knives.”
“I should not expect it of you. You were with us at a time of great disorder, when we abandoned many of our proper traditions. Today you will see how these things are done.” He smiled at her with great sweetness, but his kindness made her want to weep. This, she was planning to give up, these most perfect friendships with William and Luke, and with Clarissa who came to her side and affectionately tipped the hat from her head.
“What an ill-mannered young sprig you are,” she said. “I am glad you are with us, Jane.”
She drew Jane aside. William and Luke and Dorcas were deep in conversation, the box taken down from the mantelpiece. “You are not the only one who will not use graystone blades. I shall not. William and Luke must, because of their status among us. Do you want a knife—by that, I mean a regular weapon?”
“What will happen?” Jane asked.
Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion Page 19