Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion

by Janet Mullany

  “I don’t mean at this moment. I mean it is not enough to sustain me for—for a longer time.”

  “What would you like?” He shrugged his coat on and knelt at her feet, taking her hands in his. “I will give you whatever you want, Jane. Anything. I love you. Pearls as big as pigeon’s eggs, cloth of gold, jewels, houses. We’ll go abroad. You’d like Italy, or I hear the Americas are interesting.”

  She smiled and shook her head, knowing suddenly what she missed above all. “Ah, my tastes are more modest than that. Give me paper, Luke. Paper and ink and pens, and above all, solitude. I want to write.”

  Chapter 23

  “So what is it about?” Luke said, a hip propped on the table where she worked in a small room in an older part of the house.

  She tapped the thick stack of paper into shape, the work of the past few days. “It’s about me, or someone very like me. She is a woman of modest means who is created and goes to live with strangers.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll never get it published, not while the Damned are so out of favor. Am I in it?”

  “Yes. You’re always in my books. So is William.”

  “Will—will you read it to me? Before we dine?” He looked shy at making such a request. She was touched by his uncertainty, proud that she had introduced a new pleasure to someone of such vast and ancient sensual experience. Her canines popped out in vulgar readiness.

  “I beg your pardon.” She righted her teeth. “Luke, when I was Damned before, I could not write. Why is it different this time?”

  “I don’t know. We know little of those who undergo a second metamorphosis. Possibly more of your human qualities remain this time, since you are older in human years and your character and abilities more fully formed than at the age of twenty-one. By the by, have you dined today?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been busy. I shall.”

  “Jane, my love.” He picked up her inky hand and kissed it. “You delay your full metamorphosis, and I long to make you my Consort. Pray try. You’d like some tea, would you not?”

  “Oh, Luke.” She leaned back in her chair and laughed. They both knew that he offered her not only tea but the one who would bring it, one of the house’s handsome footmen. “I’m afraid I’m not thirsty.”

  He laughed. “You are impossible, Jane. Do you fear that you will lose the ability to write entirely if you complete your metamorphosis? On my honor, I doubt it will happen. You’re so close, a hairsbreadth away.” He sighed and closed his thoughts abruptly from her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “A passing sorrow, that is all. Let us speak of more cheerful matters. Your new gowns should arrive today, and the other ladies are most excited to see them. Shall I mend your pen for you?”

  “If you wish.” She stroked his cheek. “Pray be careful. The knife is exceedingly sharp.”

  As usual, the pen slipped, and between kisses she licked the blood from his finger. She had never loved him more, but she pushed him out of the room to continue writing undisturbed.

  Writing as one of the Damned was quite wonderful. She had enormous stamina—her hand never tired, and she filled sheet after sheet, thrilled by the speed of her writing and the surprising twists of her imagination. Yet she missed the slow revelation, the thoughtfulness that used to accompany her writing, the knowledge that she worked toward a certain resolution and balance. This was more like riding in a carriage drawn by runaway horses.

  “Ma’am?” A servant knocked at the door.

  She sighed. Luke had ordered her tea—and more, if she wished it. She bade the footman enter and watched him with growing appetite. He was good to look upon—Clarissa and Dorcas had chosen the footmen, who were all tall and dark-haired, with as much care as a gentleman might choose a matching team of horses. Their livery was cut to show off their long, handsome legs and broad shoulders.

  And they all had delicious smiles.

  She looked at her manuscript again and then at the footman, who, caught balancing the tray on one hip while unfolding a small table, smiled at her with a flash of white teeth and blue eyes. She struggled to remember his name. Simon, that was it.

  “Simon.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She lost her nerve entirely. “Pray leave the kettle on the hearth. I’ll make the tea.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  She continued to watch as he leaned to place the kettle next to the coals where it would keep warm. He was so handsome and his scent was equally pleasurable, and she wished she was not so nice, or squeamish, or, as Luke would say, such a clergyman’s daughter.

  He straightened and caught her gaze and her unmistakable condition of en sanglant. “Will there be anything more, ma’am?”

  She sighed. “I suppose Mr. Venning instructed you.”

  “He did, ma’am, and I’m willing.” He gave a cheerful grin. “Throat or wrist or—”

  “Throat. No, wrist. No—I’ve changed my mind.” She stood. “No, wait.”

  “My, it’s hot in this room, ma’am.” It wasn’t, but she loved him for saying it, and for unbuttoning his coat. “But then I suppose your kind run cold.”

  “Well, no, our skin is cold to the touch but . . . and . . .” Her voice faded away into a growl of lust.

  He folded the coat and laid it on the sofa, the act of a man trained to take care of his uniform, and began on his waistcoat buttons. “Throat or wrist, whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

  “Lock the door, if you please.” She didn’t want any other of the Damned coming in to observe; no, she didn’t want any of the Damned trying to share her pleasure. And she particularly didn’t want Luke coming in and advising her on how best to go about the business.

  The waistcoat was folded and laid atop the coat. He was down to shirtsleeves now, and as he turned to lock the door she observed the fabric was slightly damp, clinging to his magnificent shoulders.

  He pulled his neckcloth off in one splendid swoop of linen and unbuttoned his shirt placket with the other hand. “Where will you have me, ma’am?”

  “Sit on the sofa.”

  Alarm flared in his eyes; no wonder, she trod toward him like a beast attacking its prey, and as she passed the table, her gown brushed against the pile of paper and set it fluttering to the floor. No matter. His pulse beat fast at his neck, and he leaned his head back obediently as he had been taught, offering himself to her, his arms spread wide on the back of the sofa.

  He groaned as she settled on his strong thighs and touched her tongue to the blue vein that arose on his neck in response to her.

  She wanted this, to be strong and an equal partner to Luke. But she wanted this for herself, for a taste of youth and beauty, for the sweet, simple act of taking blood without complications, without sadness, without regret.

  She made tea while Simon sat, pale and smiling, on the sofa, embarrassed to sit in her presence but not able to stand without swaying.

  “I trust I didn’t take too much,” she said, a little anxious. After all, the poor boy had to wait at table in a little while, and she didn’t want him to swoon.

  “No, ma’am. You were most eager, that’s all; it quite took me by surprise.” He gazed at her with admiration. “Let me make the tea, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense.” She gave the teapot a brisk stir. She felt quite splendid, strong and energetic, and hoped there would be dancing tonight. The Damned enjoyed dancing for all their lack of musical taste, for as Luke had once explained, the rhythm of the music was akin to the pounding of a human pulse.

  She poured him a glass of wine and dripped a little of her blood in it to revive him. To her relief the color came back into his face as he sipped.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am, you look most handsome.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, not much inclined to make conversation, for her mind was drifting back to her writing.

  “More so than when I first came into the room.”

  “Do I? It must be your blood. I enjoyed i
t very much.” She turned to gaze at the mirror over the mantelpiece and not even her usual, fuzzy blur of a reflection showed.

  She put her teacup down with a crash on the table and jumped to her feet in alarm. Her writing. Oh, let her still be able to write, for now she was sure her metamorphosis was complete. She rushed to the scatter of papers on the floor and began to gather them.

  Simon, his coat half buttoned, knelt at her side. “May I help you, ma’am? Is everything well?”

  She snatched pages from his hand and put them back in order. With a great gust of relief she read over what she had just written. Yes, it still made sense; she knew she could immerse herself in the novel (for she supposed that was what it was) once again, and in fact, invigorated and confident, knew what should happen next.

  “Oh, thank you!” she cried and kissed Simon, who blushed with pleasure. “I am most grateful and all is well; all is very well indeed.”

  Later that day she went upstairs to find the bedchamber in chaos. A half-dozen footmen hauled water to fill a tin tub, the air thick with steam. A new gown lay on the bed and Maria stood by, ferociously ordering the footmen how to do their job; Dorcas and Clarissa presided over an arsenal of rouge, curling irons, hair ornaments, ribbons, and silk flowers laid atop a dresser.

  “What on earth is happening?” Jane asked.

  “Mr. Venning sends his regards, ma’am, and requests that you become ready.”

  “You’re to officially become his Consort tonight,” Clarissa said. “Jane, your hands are like a schoolboy’s—we shall have to scrub away that ink.”

  “What will happen?” Jane asked. She remembered Cassandra scrubbing at her inky hands and pushed the painful thought away.

  “Oh, it’s a simple enough ceremony,” Dorcas said, turning Jane so she could unfasten her gown. “You both swear fealty to each other and drink a glass of wine.”

  “Dear Jane!” Clarissa embraced her.

  “What’s the matter?” Jane asked. “You become sentimental. What troubles you?”

  Clarissa shook her head and blew her nose. “Oh, you know, for us it is like a wedding. I wish William were here to see it.”

  “I wish I’d had more time to prepare,” Jane said with some anxiety.

  “We’ll make the best of a bad job, ma’am,” Maria said. “Although you look well today.”

  “Who was it?” Dorcas asked. She sniffed at Jane’s skin. “Ah. Simon. Such a pretty boy. Yes, you are in excellent looks. Luke will be much relieved, for he has been dragging himself around like a horse on its way to the knacker’s yard.”

  “May I not see the gown?” Jane asked. “I have not had a new gown in so long.”

  “No, you must wash. There will be other gowns.”

  “Something troubles you, Clarissa,” Jane said as she lowered herself into the hot water, and Clarissa’s mind snapped closed to her. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to pry.”

  “It’s nothing,” Clarissa said. “Try to think of me as a sentimental bridesmaid.”

  Jane was not convinced. “What are you not telling me? Is a public consummation of our union expected, or must I fight a duel with the hundreds of women who believe they have a claim to Luke?”

  “Vulgar girl,” Clarissa said, and poured water over Jane’s head.

  It seemed like hours later that she was released, very clean, painted, primped, curled, and wearing a gown that, with her new stays, fit like a glove and revealed most of her bosom. Jewels and silk flowers were woven into her hair. If she could have seen her reflection, she doubted whether she would have recognized herself. The footmen, come to empty the bath of its water, cast her admiring looks, and Simon a wink.

  “Hands, ma’am.” Maria dropped blobs of cream onto her hands, scrubbed almost raw in the attempts to remove the ink.

  Both Clarissa and Dorcas were uncharacteristically silent and distant as they finally made their way to the Great Hall where the ceremony would take place. Jane had expected that they might receive company that night, but it was the household only that were present, Tom and Luke awaiting them. She found it reassuring that a large crowd of onlookers might be considered vulgar, just as most considered a wedding to be a private, family affair.

  She ran into Luke’s arms, feeling like a girl—yes, surely her metamorphosis was complete for her to feel so young and strong and confident. Yet he, too, had an air of reserve about him, despite his obvious pleasure at seeing her in her finery.

  “I shall never forget this night,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand.

  “Why should you?”

  He looked extraordinarily handsome, dressed in simple black coat and breeches but with a waistcoat of elaborate embroidery, his tawny hair in fashionable disarray.

  Two glasses of red wine stood on a small table next to a book with an ancient, battered leather cover bound with clasps.

  “This is what we shall read,” Luke said. He opened the book with great care. “Are you able to read this script? It is from several centuries ago and written by hand. Then we each vow fealty to each other and drink wine.”

  “Very well,” Jane said. The ceremony seemed ludicrously simple to her, yet the reverence with which Luke handled the book impressed her.

  “So we shall begin.” He opened the book and read. As Jane listened to the cadence of the archaic words she understood why this ritual, for all its simplicity, was so important to Luke. He had inherited William’s position at a difficult time in the history of the Damned; the emergence of les Sales and the threat of civil war made it essential that now the traditions of the Damned be honored.

  He smiled and handed the book to Jane.

  She read: “I swear fealty to this man, Luke. I will be with him until the heavens fall, the seas dry, and all on earth be destroyed. I will be with him through fire and ice and storm. I swear by blood and by love that I will be a faithful Consort.”

  He took the book from her hands and laid it on the table.

  He handed her a glass of wine. “Drink, my love.”

  She raised the glass of wine to her lips, the wine so dark that it almost looked like blood, but she tasted the transformed grapes and oak and other stranger, and more complex, flavors.

  He drained his glass and threw it to the floor, and she followed his example, for glasses used for such serious purpose could never be used again.

  “So.” He took her hands. “We are truly Consorts forever now.”

  He leaned to kiss her, and his touch held desire and sadness and profound loss.

  “What’s wrong, Luke?” But she had trouble saying the words, for things were changing and she clutched at him in terror. “Help me . . .”

  “I promised William,” he said, and before she spun away in darkness, she saw the tears spill from his eyes.

  Chapter 24

  Outside a donkey brayed.

  Jane groaned and pushed her head beneath the pillow. She didn’t want to wake just yet; she wanted to return to that wonderful oblivion and peace, and soon enough Cassandra would wake and chatter like a magpie and the day would begin.

  But why was Cassandra making that strange squeaking sound? And the warm heaviness at her feet—one of the cats must be visiting from the kitchen. “Go away,” she said sleepily.

  But the creature snuffed and huffed and squeaked again and lurched up the bed, and something warm and wet and smelly brought her to a full awakening.

  She opened her eyes to meet the bulbous gaze of Jacques the pug busily licking her face in bright sunlight in the bedchamber at Chawton.

  “Good Lord! You’re awake, Jane!”

  She blinked and turned to see her brother James at her bedside, papers spilling from his hand onto the floor. “Thank God. How do you do, my dear?” But he bounded to his feet and bellowed down the stairs, “Ma’am, Cassandra, Martha, Anna, Edward, Henry, she is awake!”

  “I most certainly am now, you shout so loud,” she said, trying to make sense of why she was here and feeling so weak and strange.

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sp; But the rest of the family came thundering up the stairs to embrace her with cries of joy and tears and overwhelm her with their presence, filling every available space in the bedchamber, until Martha very sensibly suggested that possibly Jane, after lying in a swoon for so long, would tire easily and told everyone to depart.

  “How long have I been here?” Jane asked. She clung to Martha’s arm, her legs weak, as she got out of bed.

  “Four days. We feared you would not awake. We have prayed.”

  “Is that why my brothers are here?” Moving from bed to chair had exhausted her.

  “We thought you were dying. And . . .” Martha washed Jane’s face as tenderly as she might an infant’s. “Edward has some business at the Great House now his tenants are gone.”

  “His tenants?” Jane repeated. She closed her eyes as Martha brushed her hair.

  “Oh, yes, just a day or so ago. The village was quite surprised. Come, drink some of this wine and water, my dear.”

  “I am sorry. I feel so very stupid. I cannot remember anything.” She let Martha help her back into bed.

  The next couple of days passed in a blur of sleeping and awakening to find her mother or sister or Martha at the bedside and urging her to take some tea, or wine, or soup. Quite often they cried; Jane wasn’t sure why, for she became stronger and knew she recovered, but she wept too and knew something terrible had happened.

  But they also talked of goings-on in the village; how one of Mr. Papillon’s pigs had escaped and devoured Goody Walters’s vegetables, and she had chased the greedy animal through the village with a spade, threatening to butcher it. And Mr. Prowting and his daughter had returned from London where she had had a dress made there almost as fine as the one Jane had worn on her return. “But much more modestly cut,” Cassandra had added. “I have sewn in a panel at the neckline for you, Jane. I think it is quite pretty.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said, wondering which gown Cassandra spoke of, for she owned no gowns that could possibly be described as fine or cut in an indecent fashion.