by Mary Balogh
PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING AUTHORS OF BESPELLING JANE AUSTEN
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author
MARY BALOGH
“Noted for romances that stretch the boundaries, Balogh is one of the premier writers of Regency-set historicals.”
—Library Journal
COLLEEN GLEASON
“Witty, intriguing and addictive.”
—Publishers Weekly on the Gardella Vampire Chronicles
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author
SUSAN KRINARD
“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Amanda Quick
JANET MULLANY
“Mullany…takes the reader on a funny romp in this delightful Regency farce.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Rules of Gentility
BESPELLING JANE AUSTEN
MARY BALOGH
COLLEEN GLEASON
SUSAN KRINARD
JANET MULLANY
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
BY SUSAN KRINARD
ALMOST PERSUADED
BY MARY BALOGH
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
NORTHANGER CASTLE
BY COLLEEN GLEASON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
BLOOD AND PREJUDICE
BY SUSAN KRINARD
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
LITTLE TO HEX HER
BY JANET MULLANY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
INTRODUCTION
Two and a half years ago I was thinking about Jane Austen. And vampires.
I’d been writing paranormal novels for fifteen years, and had been a Jane Austen fan for much longer than that. I’d read Emma many times with great pleasure, had seen every version of Pride and Prejudice that had ever appeared on big or small screens.
Today, the combination of Austen and paranormal may seem an obvious one. But in January 2008, as I sat on my couch near midnight and began scribbling my story idea longhand on a steno pad, it was one of the most exciting notions that had ever popped into my head. The words flowed as they had seldom flowed before, and I found a story taking shape…the retelling of Pride and Prejudice as a contemporary vampire story.
Who was better qualified to be an urbane, handsome, slightly arrogant vampire than Fitzwilliam Darcy? And Lizzy would be a modern woman, with all the concerns of a modern woman but the same family problems and romantic qualms. Lydia would still be a troublemaker. Jane would still be the sister everyone would love to have. I could see the retelling as a first-person narrative, presented in the modern Lizzy’s affectionate, wry and sometimes acerbic voice.
And so “Blood and Prejudice” was born.
The rest happened quickly. I knew there was a great anthology here, and so I approached my agent, Lucienne Diver, about a prospective collection of Austen/paranormal novellas. Each author would choose an Austen novel to reimagine in the paranormal milieu, and we’d call it Bespelling Jane Austen.
My agent was enthusiastic. Now it was a matter of finding the right authors! I was joined by Janet Mullany, who calls herself a writer of “funny romantic historicals,” including Improper Relations, a “rakish Regency romance” and Colleen Gleason, author of the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, featuring a Regency-era vampire huntress.
But who should be our headliner? Among my favorite romance writers of all time is Mary Balogh, whose many Regency-set historicals have given pleasure to millions of devoted readers. When I approached Mary, she was enthusiastic about the idea…but she had never before written a paranormal. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, however, that this fine author could write anything she put her mind to. And so she agreed, to the great delight of the rest of us.
Mary Balogh chose to reimagine Austen’s novel Persuasion. In “Almost Persuaded,” Jane Everett finally learns, after several lifetimes of trying and failing, that when it comes to love, all the advice and persuasion in the world from trusted friends and relatives are no substitute for what the heart knows.
In Janet Mullany’s contemporary “Little to Hex Her,” based on Austen’s Emma, vampires populate the Hill, elves run the Pentagon and there’s a witch on retainer at the White House. “Witch without a cause” Emma Woodhouse runs her family’s dating agency and finds trouble and love among the paranormal population of Washington, D.C.
Colleen Gleason revisits Northanger Abbey in “Northanger Castle,” where it’s vampires instead of madmen who lock their wives away. Caroline is so highly influenced by popular Gothic novels that she sees danger and intrigue everywhere. But it’s not until she comes face-to-face with a vampire that she realizes how inaccurate her instincts really are!
Whether modern or historical, the tales in Bespelling Jane Austen will, we hope, intrigue traditional Austen readers as well as those who love the paranormal. If Miss Austen knew how far our love for her works would take us, how much we would want to make her world our own, I don’t think she would be displeased.
Susan Krinard
ALMOST PERSUADED
MARY BALOGH
Dear Reader,
Paranormal literature is something I read, not something I write. And so I told Colleen, Janet and Susan when they asked me to contribute a story to this anthology. But I loved the concept and really wished I could drum up a vampire or a dragon or a werewolf or two in my writer’s imagination.
Susan was not willing to take no for an answer. I mentioned to her that the only paranormal topic I could handle, since it is something in which I believe, was reincarnation. That would be good enough, she said, and I realized (with some terror) that I had talked myself into being a part of this very exciting project. Of course, I still feel like a fraud when I compare my story with the other three! But you must be the judge.
Jane Austen’s Persuasion has always been my cofavorite with Pride and Prejudice. There is something very poignant about Anne Elliot, who rejected the man she loved as a young, hopeful girl because her family opposed the match and her late mother’s best friend, whom she respected and trusted implicitly, advised against a marriage that could not promise her financial security or the social position suited to her upbringing. And so Anne had to wait many years for Captain Wentworth to return as a successful man, though this time all her hopes, if not her dreams, were long dead.
My story does not use the same characters. But the situation is similar. And I asked myself what if love had found my heroine many times, over numerous lifetimes, but each time she had lost it because she had not trusted her heart more than the advice and persuasions of her loved ones? What if that lesson is still to be learned and yet again she has a chance to learn it—or be persuaded yet again to reject it?
I hope you enjoy my slightly paranormal story based upon the same premise as Jane Austen’s classic but with a totally different twist.
Mary Balogh
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br /> CHAPTER 1
MISS JANE EVERETT, MIDDLE DAUGHTER OF SIR Horace Everett of Goodrich Hall in Hampshire, did not call as often as she ought at the vicarage in the village nearby. She called everywhere else—on tenants and laborers and others, on those who were sick or elderly or in need of any sort. She took her duties very seriously.
Mrs. Mitford—the elder Mrs. Mitford, that was, great-aunt of the vicar—was definitely in need since severe rheumatics prevented her from going much farther from the vicarage than the garden, and even that was a great effort on most days. And she liked company. Perhaps she would have liked more of Jane’s.
Louisa, Jane’s elder sister, called at the vicarage far more often, though her visits elsewhere were rare and were always accompanied by such condescending pomp that Jane doubted anyone regretted their infrequency. But she went to the vicarage to see the younger Mrs. Mitford, the vicar’s wife. Amelia Mitford was quite happy to pay obsequious homage to the eldest daughter of a baronet, and since Louisa was always delighted to be worshiped and adored, it was in many ways a friendship made in heaven.
Edna, Jane’s younger sister, almost never called at the vicarage or anywhere else unless it was to attend an evening party that promised lively entertainment, preferably dancing. Social calls were nothing but a dead bore, she always declared, when they must perforce be made on the same people, who invariably talked on and on about the same old things. Charitable calls were even more tedious because all the recipients wanted to talk about was their health, or rather their ill health.
Edna positively lived for the day when she would be married and have her own home and could expect other people to call upon her. However, the only really eligible gentleman in the neighborhood was William Burton, eldest son of Mr. Edward Burton of Highfield House, and William was far more interested in Jane than in Edna. He would not, of course, even consider Louisa since Sir Horace had always made it plain that he expected his eldest daughter to ally herself with no gentleman lower on the social scale than a baron. Louisa herself aspired to an earl at the least.
On this particular August afternoon, however, all three sisters were on their way to the vicarage, squeezed together on the seat of the gig. Jane would have preferred to walk, but she was outvoted by her sisters, the elder of whom did not wish to arrive with a reddened complexion and bedraggled hem, the younger of whom conveniently fancied that she had turned her ankle while strolling down by the lily pond the previous afternoon.
Jane sat in the middle, the least preferred seat, her arms pinioned against her sides. They were on their way to offer formal congratulations to elderly Mrs. Mitford on the occasion of her seventy-fifth birthday.
It was strange, Jane reflected as the carriage bowled along the driveway between sweeping lawns of the park, how the events of seventeen years ago could still embarrass her and make her reluctant either to call at the vicarage or to come face-to-face with elderly Mrs. Mitford.
She had been only four years old at the time.
Her mother, now deceased, had been returning an afternoon call made upon her two days before, and she was taking Louisa and Jane with her. Mrs. Mitford had been recently widowed, though she had remained at the vicarage, her husband’s living having been granted to his son. She was a tragic figure nevertheless, Jane had overheard her mother tell her father before they left home, having suffered a great deal of trouble and loss in her life.
Jane’s father had just succeeded to his title on the passing of his uncle. They had moved to Goodrich Hall only a week earlier, in fact. Jane had never seen either the vicarage or Mrs. Mitford before that afternoon. Though she was to disgrace herself horribly over both when she finally did see them.
She could remember it clearly now, though she had been very young then—and had tried her best ever since to block the memory from her mind.
She did not, after all, want to burn as a witch. Or be snatched away by gypsies.
“Oh, look,” she had cried to her mother and Louisa, pointing excitedly at the vicarage as they approached in the carriage. “I used to live there.”
Louisa had tutted and tossed her glance at the roof of the carriage.
“You are strange, Jane,” she had said. “Why would you even want to live there?”
“You are mistaken, Jane,” her mother had said kindly but firmly. “Of course we have never lived in such a small cottage. You really must learn to confine your imagination to the nursery and your dolls.”
Jane had forever been suffering scolds for the vividness of her imaginings, which at the time she had called real and her father had called falsehoods and her mother had called inappropriate. Her nurse had occasionally made her stand in a corner to reflect upon her fibs.
After the housekeeper had admitted them to the house, Jane had looked about at the familiar scene with wide-eyed interest, noticing what was still the same and what had changed. And then, before she could say anything about her observations to her mother, a straight-backed, sweet-faced but sad-looking lady dressed all in black had stepped into the hallway to greet them. Jane had smiled brightly at her and committed the horrible social error of speaking up before any of the adults had had a chance to do so and before anyone had spoken to her.
“Oh!” she had cried—and she had laughed aloud with glee. “You used to be my mother.”
Mrs. Mitford had looked mystified, Jane’s mother had looked mortified and Louisa had smirked, because she was behaving with perfect six-year-old manners.
Jane had made matters worse before anyone could stop her.
“I fell in the river and drowneded,” she had said, eager to explain. “The water wasn’t terribly deep, and it wasn’t terribly cold, either. But it took me by surprise and I drowneded. You need not have been dreadfully unhappy, though, and I would have told you so afterward if I could, but I couldn’t. I went down and down into the water until I came to the light, and it was the most lovely light in the world. And he called me with his hands and I went and everything was—oh, so lovely that I didn’t really want to come back after all. Not just then, anyway. But you can see now that you need not have worried. Here I am, safe and sound.”
She had been beaming with happiness, her arms outspread, waiting to be recognized and embraced, when Mrs. Mitford crumpled into an insensible heap on the floor.
Back at Goodrich Hall a short time later, Jane had spent a few hours alone in the nursery, seated on a hard chair, before being fetched down to her father in the library and informed in a long speech, most of which she did not understand, what it meant to be Miss Jane Everett of Goodrich Hall, daughter of Sir Horace Everett, upon whose head she must never ever again bring down such shame. If she persisted in her wicked untruths, it was altogether probable the gypsies would come one night and take her away.
And back in the nursery she had faced what had seemed worse to her—her mother’s sorrow. She had shed a few tears as she questioned Jane about how she knew the story of Mary Mitford, who had been abandoned by her lover and had then thrown herself into the river to drown. Though the official version was that she had slipped and fallen in and drowned by accident. Only so could she be granted Christian burial in the churchyard where her father was vicar.
“But it really was an accident, Mama,” Jane had whispered. “I did not mean to fall in, and I did not mean to drown. Maybe I could have fought harder, but the light was so lovely. And he was there waiting for me, calling me with his hands. And then I was very happy. I had been sad before that.”
Her mother had looked more troubled than convinced. She had taken Jane’s hands and held them tightly while entreating her to curb her imagination in future.
Jane had promised. By then she was thoroughly frightened and did not wish to keep having the memories everyone called lies. She was afraid gypsies really would come for her one night when she was all alone in her bed and nurse far away in the next room.
That was not quite the end of the matter. The following day Jane’s father had made mention of the burning
of witches, whose numbers included those who lied and pretended to be dead people come back to life.
Her memories could not be memories, Jane had told herself, if everyone said they were not. The vicarage must look like a house she had once made up in her imagination. Mrs. Mitford must look like a mother she had invented for one of her games. She must have overheard some of the servants talking about the poor dead Mary Mitford, though she certainly could not remember doing so and she had only been at Goodrich for a week. Her mother said that was what must have happened, though.
And so Jane had suppressed all memories from that time on—or all memories that were unlike everyone else’s anyway. She became a quiet, solemn, obedient child.
Her sisters had been talking all the way to the vicarage while Jane was lost in uncomfortable reverie.
“I do not know why our father could not spare the carriage,” Edna was saying when Jane took notice. “There is not enough room in the gig. If Jane would move her arms forward instead of insisting upon keeping them at her sides, there would be more room for the rest of us, but it is ever her way to be selfish. I daresay I shall have a sore side all the rest of the day.”
“I wonder,” Louisa said, “if Captain Mitford has arrived at the vicarage yet. He is expected this week, according to Amelia, and it would be a courtesy to arrive on his great-aunt’s birthday, would it not?”
“Who is Captain Mitford?” Edna asked, all sudden interest.
Louisa looked triumphant. She was fully aware, of course, that they did not know of whom she spoke.
“The Reverend Mitford’s brother is coming to stay for a few weeks,” she said. “He was in India with his regiment, but he was wounded a year or two ago and has only recently been well enough to come home to England to finish recuperating before rejoining his regiment in Portugal. I daresay he will be fighting the forces of that dreadful monster Napoleon Bonaparte before the winter is over.”
“The Reverend Mitford’s younger brother?” Edna asked hopefully.