Miss Austen's Vampire

by Monica Knightley

  But, my love, the other bit. The part I worry about. Surely, it cannot be good for your health to lose so much blood, so often. I am most concerned for your well-being and do wish you could accept my pleas for moderation. I do understand your feelings on this matter, and appreciate the joy it brings you. But, as I said last night, I think it best that we be more moderate in that area.

  Until I see you on Wednesday, I seal this with a kiss.

  Yours,

  G.

  February 9

  My Dearest Gabriel,

  To be with you, it does bring me such joy. I do not believe I shall ever forget last night.

  But alas, I must share something most unfortunate that has occurred. As I slipped into the house last night, I was most surprised to find my sister still awake. She was adamant that I tell her where I had been, as she had made excuses throughout the evening to my mother for my absence. I confessed. I confessed that I am no longer a maiden, and that I have no qualms about having a lover without the sacrament of marriage, because I am so deeply in love with him. With you. Gabriel, she is quite terribly angry with me. I must believe that sisterly love and felicity will win over. Someday. I pray. Until that day should arrive, however, I believe we shall need to be ever so discreet.

  Most affectionately yours,

  Jane

  Chapter 15

  March 12

  Mr. Augustine,

  I send this with a most discreet servant. I am not well today, am keeping to bed, so regretfully will be unable to meet with you. Trust that I will let you know when I am feeling well again. Surely it will be soon.

  Miss Austen

  March 12

  Miss Austen,

  I instructed your servant to wait whilst I compose this reply to your missive. I hope some of my righteous anger is apparent in my writing: to wit, Miss Austen, I believe I pleaded with you for moderation, and yet neither of us had the wherewithal to follow through, and now here you are, ill. This cannot be allowed to happen again.

  I will not be at ease until I have heard you are well.

  Mr. Augustine

  March 14

  My Dearest Love,

  While I was most thankful to gain admittance to your home this morning, what I saw concerned me greatly. Jane, your paleness and weakness are nothing to be trifled with. You remain quite unwell. And that your illness is my fault, my doing, weighs heavily upon me. But that aside, we simply cannot continue to enjoy what has brought you to this point. I will brook no argument on this point, Jane.

  I am sure that I will have looked in on you again before this letter ever reaches your hands. I pray that I will see a great improvement in your health.

  Yours,

  Gabriel

  Chapter 16

  May 18, 1816

  My Dearest Gabriel,

  Yes, I know we did not keep to our promises once my health improved in March. Yes, I demanded IT. Yes, you gave in to my wishes. But I am not sorry for the joy it brought me, and dare I say that it brought you joy as well. So, please save your anger and your vitriol.

  Of course the truth is, I am once again unwell, as you well know. It is the belief of Cassandra that time in Cheltenham and imbibing in the healing waters there will restore my health. The true cause of my illness is still and ever shall be, kept from my family, do not fear. However, I feel I should, indeed, go to Cheltenham, if for no other reason than to placate my dear sister. And yes, time away from our particular activity cannot hurt, either.

  I shall miss you. My heart breaks at the thought of a lengthy separation. You will be my first thought every morning, and the last thought before I sleep, and every thought in-between. I love you, Gabriel. Please keep me in your heart whilst we are separated.

  Yours,

  Jane

  Chapter 17

  July 21, 1816

  Chawton

  Mr. Augustine,

  While I would be insincere if I were to tell you my sister does not long for you to return to her, I must tell you how grateful I am that you do not, and implore you to keep away from her. Yes, she is bereft that she has not seen you since our return to Chawton. Indeed, she is but a shade, wandering about the house and even refusing to write. However, she is, at long last, in better health, which I am sure you would agree is what is most important. It is my belief that she will only continue along the road to full recovery and vitality if you stay away from her. Cheltenham worked its wonders. Now it is up to you, sir, to make the choice that allows her to continue her recovery. I am not a woman susceptible to the whims of superstition, but as a Christian woman I cannot help but think that the continual breaking of the Commandments played a role in my sister’s illness.

  Do not, again, make my sister a fornicator.

  I send this by copying the directions on Jane’s letter to you that she sends today. You may trust that this is the only such missive you will ever receive from me.

  C. Austen

  Chapter 18

  May 30, 1817

  Winchester

  Dear Francis,

  I write to tell you that you were always correct in your assertion that I am nothing but a monster. I am a monster. A monster that kills that which it best loves.

  I fell in love, Francis. I fell in love with the most wonderful, delightful, brilliant woman. And she with me, which is the most astonishing part of this story.

  And now I sit by her as she lie in what is most certainly going to be her deathbed. I put her there, Francis. The monster in me has slowly killed the only woman I could ever love.

  We could not help ourselves. Our love manifested itself in a physical form, as all great loves do. But as a monster, our physical love included my abhorrent activity, and though you will be hard pressed to believe it, she begged for that part of our lovemaking. It is that, that has slowly killed her.

  Oh, Francis, for a time we were able to stay apart. She had been very ill, and as I knew what was causing the illness I insisted we stop our activities. But, oh god, after she was again well we slowly began to give into our passion once again. And now, the inevitable outcome of our, no MY foolishness.

  My beloved is dying.

  I hope you are most satisfied to know you were right. Yes, Gabriel Augustine is a monster that kills.

  I shall not ask that you pray for my soul, as I do not have one.

  Your brother,

  Gabriel

  PART III

  TO HAVE BEEN LOVED

  Chapter 19

  Late June 1817

  Winchester

  Cassandra stood at the foot of her sister’s bed, watching as she peacefully slept. That the calmness of her sleep was due to the presence of the man who lay at Jane’s side was impossible to deny, but still not easy to accept. Since her most recent setback, Gabriel was always on the bed with Jane, except when visitors came by, at which time he hid in the other bedroom until they left. The previous night had been one of Jane’s worst, with raging fever and vomiting throughout the night, and each time she was ill he tenderly held her head then cooled her temples with cool, wet cloths. While Cassandra did not care for the usurpation of her role as caregiver for her beloved sister, she had to begrudgingly admit that the man seemed to be good for her sister. He was certainly a devoted and gentle caregiver. And that he loved Jane deeply was truly undeniable.

  Cassandra sighed. Was she jealous that her sister had the undying love of a man? Perhaps a little.

  She let her eyes rest on the sleeping Gabriel. After months of despising the man who loved her sister, Cassandra had come to a new understanding, as she had watched him with Jane. He was indeed a most handsome man. A charming man. A gracious man. A caring man. Yes, her sister was a most fortunate woman to be loved by such a man. Months earlier, while still in the full bloom of health, Jane had confessed to Cassandra that Gabriel was everything Mr. Darcy should wish to be. Now, having had the opportunity to spend time with him and watch him lovingly tend to her ailing sister, she could see that Jane had spoken the t
ruth.

  Yes, Mr. Augustine was the best of Jane’s men.

  July 17, 1817

  Gabriel sat on Jane’s bed, cradling her in his arms. She had been unconscious for hours, and all that time he had been holding her. A sunbeam shone through the window, landing on the bed. He wished she could see the sun today, enjoy it. After days of rain, she would have loved seeing the sun.

  He leaned to her and placed his lips on her forehead, and let them rest there. The scent of healthy Jane was gone now, replaced by a scent that he recognized as death. His dead heart, a giant stone in his chest.

  As the hours passed with Jane in his arms, every moment they had spent together played in his mind, from his first sight of her at his sister’s party, to the first time they were lovers, to the hours they spent reading to one another. Each minute was a gift. A gift he had sorely not deserved, but had greedily taken.

  And a gift he had ruined, killed. Never would he be able to forgive himself his selfishness—selfishness that had destroyed the woman he cherished.

  “Jane, my love, I am sorry. God, forgive me,” he whispered.

  Jane stirred, and her eyes opened. They found Gabriel, and she smiled. She held him in her smile for several long seconds, before her eyes closed again, and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

  The rain returned later in the day, casting the sickroom in dark shadows. Even the many candles burning throughout the room could not dispel the pervasive darkness. Gabriel still sat with Jane pressed against him, her head cradled in his arms like an infant. Cassandra sat in the chair next to the bed, and neither spoke.

  A seizure an hour earlier had wracked Jane’s body, and the doctor, who still stood in the room, observing his patient, thought it was perhaps brought on by a large blood vessel giving way. Gabriel found this sad diagnosis ironic, given what he knew had truly caused her illness.

  Now they sat, he and Cassandra, awaiting what both feared was the inevitable. That they were both losing the person they each loved more than any other in the world was the monster in the room that they could not bear to face. Gabriel was jealous of Cassandra’s quiet weeping. Never since his change had he so regretted his nature and its inability to form tears.

  July 18, 1817

  In the darkness of the early morning hours, Cassandra climbed up on the bed and sat on Jane’s other side. Gabriel adjusted Jane so that both of them could hold her. He held her hand in his, and pressed it to his heart. Cassandra held Jane’s other hand. Thus they stayed for Jane’s remaining hours.

  Just before the dawn, Jane’s labored breathing slowed. Gabriel tightened his grip on her and buried his face in her hair. A dry sob wracked his body as he listened to his beloved Jane breathe her last breaths.

  “I love you, Jane. And will for all time,” he whispered into her ear. Then, bending to her mouth, he gently pressed his lips to hers as Jane breathed her last breath.

  Cassandra took Gabriel’s hand, opened it, and placed the lock of Jane’s hair on his palm, then closed his fingers over the strands.

  An hour had passed since Jane’s death, and her body lay as if sleeping, on the bed. Neither Cassandra nor Gabriel was yet able to leave the room and spread the word of her passing. Each found little tasks to attend to, forestalling the inevitable.

  “Cassandra,” Gabriel said.

  She turned from her task of snipping another lock of Jane’s hair—this time for herself—and looked at Gabriel.

  “Yes?”

  “I know you now understand the depth of my love for your sister. But I also must implore you to keep that love secret. Jane and I never wanted it to be known. That you know of it, that is fine, and as Jane wanted it. But beyond that it must be something I simply keep in my heart—for all time.”

  She stared into the glorious, grief-stricken face of her sister’s lover, and nodded.

  “I will go fetch the doctor. You may have some time alone with Jane.” Her voice was soft, clear, and matter of fact.

  He watched Cassandra leave the room before kneeling beside the bed and laying his head on Jane’s silent chest. If he could have any wish granted, it would be to stay like this for all eternity.

  At last he raised his head, and looked into the lovely face of his lover. So at peace. So calm. Removed from pain. He caressed her face, from temple to jaw, and back up to forehead.

  “Oh, Jane. Jane. My loveliest, dearest Jane. You know I love you, and will for all time. And you will never be forgotten. Not by me. Not by anyone who has ever had the joy of knowing you, my love. And I will make it the mission of my long existence to see to it that your talent is never forgotten. Forever I shall spread the word of the talented, delightful writing of Miss Jane Austen. And, I confess, my reasons for doing so are selfish. Because by making sure your name is never forgotten, I shall forever feel close to you, even as we are no longer together.”

  Gabriel drew a ragged breath, and softly kissed her lips one last time.

  Chapter 20

  July 23, 1817

  Winchester

  Cassandra looked up from her needlework when she heard her brother James’ familiar step enter the sitting room. His presence during the days leading up to the funeral were a great comfort to her, and this somewhat surprised her as they had never been particularly close siblings. He hesitated briefly before walking over to where she sat, and once in front of her he lifted one of her hands and placed a sealed letter in it. Her name, written in the familiar handwriting, caused her heart to seize and a tear escaped her eye.

  “She asked me to give you this. After. She was quite adamant, as you can well imagine.”

  Cassandra glanced up at her brother and saw the wry and knowing smile on his face. In return, one corner of her mouth turned up in a similar smile. Yes, she could easily imagine her sister’s adamant instructions.

  After James left the room, she carefully broke the seal and read her sister’s last letter to her.

  June 16, 1817

  Winchester

  My Dearest Cassandra,

  I have come to accept the fact that I will soon be in the presence of my Almighty creator. Try as we might to fight this, He has His plan, and it is not ours to question.

  I have left instructions that this letter is to be placed in your hands after I am gone. For I have something of the utmost importance I wish you to know and understand.

  Cassandra looked at the shaky, nearly illegible writing and her heart broke yet again. The writing of this letter had to have been dreadfully painful for Jane, and as such Cassandra realized the importance it must have held for Jane.

  Cassandra, I do not want you to mourn me. I know you blame Gabriel and the sin you feel we have committed. But do not blame him. The last two years of my life have been the happiest of all my years. If indeed you are right and my death is the result of my love for Gabriel, then it is a cost I happily pay. I have known love, true love, passionate love. Such a thing was something I had never thought would be mine. I have lived two glorious, happy years, sharing a love with a remarkable man. I am a woman greatly blessed, not one to be pitied and mourned after my death.

  My hand is tired now. Please take these words to heart. God bless you, dear sister.

  With great love and affection,

  Jane

  Cassandra pressed the now-tear-riddled paper to her heart, and let her tears flow unimpeded. Jane. Oh, Jane. For you, I will try, she thought.

  Gabriel assumed he’d hidden himself well. The shadows behind the back of the cathedral were never frequented by the locals nor by the pilgrims. So when Jane’s brother James found him, sitting with his back leaning against the stones of the building, he was shocked out of his reverie—the thoughts that were now his constant companion—thoughts of each moment of his time with Jane.

  When he handed Gabriel the letter, James did not attempt to hide his disgust for him, and Gabriel chose to ignore the slight. James merely grunted, “Augustine,” as he gave him the folded paper, and turned to leave. He had taken only a fe
w steps when he turned his head, but not his body, to say over his shoulder, “I promised her.”

  Of course, Gabriel thought. Why else would he bother?

  The letter lay in his hands for many long minutes, Gabriel staring at his name written on the front. He ran a finger over and over the familiar writing. “Jane,” he whispered to no one.

  Taking great care he broke the wax seal then slowly unfolded the paper. He lifted it to his face and inhaled her scent, savoring it, eyes closed to the rest of the world, wrapping himself in her scent.

  When he at last cast his eyes on the letter, he cried out when he saw her pained handwriting. “Oh, Jane . . .”

  June 17, 1817

  My Dearest Love,

  I have seen the pain in your face, these past days. But, my love, my Gabriel, it is not with sorrow that I want you to remember me, but with joy. Yes, joy. For that is what you have given me these past two years.

  Before the wonderfully fateful day we met, I had no idea of ever knowing love—the love of a man and a woman. I was an old maid, and an old maid I would die. A woman who was nothing more than the books she had written. But for whatever reason, God smiled upon me and gifted me with you. The years I have loved you, and been loved by you, are simply and truly the best, happiest, most fulfilling of my life. I have no regrets. No regrets, Gabriel. I have known the fullest love a man and woman can share.

  Yes, I was sure I was destined to die an old maid, without knowledge of love. But that was not to be. No, instead, I became the most fortunate of women.