Read Online Jane Austen: Blood Persuasion by Janet Mullany - Free Book Online
Authors: Janet Mullany
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the exercise, for it was a favorite spot for walks and, in warmer weather, picnics.
“How is your reading coming along, Samuel?” Jane asked, remembering that Cassandra frequently called at the farm to teach him and his brothers and sisters their letters.
“Pretty well, ma’am.” His step slowed and he clutched his side. “Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, I have a stitch from running.”
“No, I am sorry for rushing you so. I shall go ahead—”
“Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, but father said I should not let you walk on your own. He made a point of it, Miss Jane.” The boy’s chest heaved with exertion.
What on earth had happened to Martha? Jane’s sense of unease grew. Had Martha been attacked in some way, assaulted?
“That’s most thoughtful of you and your father,” she said. “When you are ready to walk again, we shall proceed, and I promise I shall not rush you too much. But tell me, are there gypsies abroad?”
“No, ma’am, he says worse than gypsies.”
Jane, seeing her young companion’s fearful glance at the woods at the side of the road, did not pursue the topic further. Only a few more minutes, and they had arrived at New Park Farm, and Jane splashed her way across the muck of the cobbled farmyard. Mr. Andrews, who sat outside smoking a pipe, rose to his feet as she approached.
“Mrs. Andrews wanted me out of the house, Miss Jane. This is a sorry business.”
“Has she regained her senses?” Jane asked.
“Not yet.”
Jane nodded and tapped at the farmhouse door. The door opened a crack and Mrs. Andrews peered out. “Oh, thank heavens, ’tis you, Miss Jane. She won’t rouse at all. I have burned feathers under her nose.”
Sure enough, as Jane stepped inside the house, the pungent scent of feathers mixed with the scents of the dinner cooked at the open hearth.
“You’ll take some tea, Miss Jane?”
Jane didn’t answer her. The hurdle that had borne Martha lay on the floor, and Martha was stretched upon it, inert and pale, diminished, a smear of blood on her bosom.
“Martha, my dear.” Jane knelt and took Martha’s cold limp hand in her own. “Can you hear me?” To Mrs. Andrews she said, “Where is she hurt?”
“I can’t rightly tell, Miss Jane. I can see no mark, but maybe she took a hit to the head.”
Jane eased off Martha’s cap. Her bonnet was gone, maybe fallen off. She ran her hand over Martha’s scalp and felt nothing. No telltale bump, or heat, and certainly, with the part of her mind that was of the Damned, no thought or memory. Nothing.
“I have bricks beneath her feet and at her sides to warm her,” Mrs. Andrews said.
“Thank you for all you have done.” Jane chafed her friend’s hand and shook her gently. “Martha! Martha, wake up!”
But Martha didn’t move.
Behind her Jane heard the clink of china as Mrs. Andrews made tea.
“I’ve always thought her a healthy sort of lady,” Mrs. Andrews said. “Not slender, but now . . . there’s hardly anything of her. I never saw a woman so changed.”
Hardly anything of her, indeed. Flattened and inert and pale with only a thread of a pulse and only a flutter of movement at her throat to show she breathed. An odd, wild sort of scent hung about her; not an unpleasant scent, at least not to Jane; there was something familiar about it.
“We’ll send for some of the men to take her home,” Mrs. Andrews continued.
She was scarcely aware of Mrs. Andrews pulling forward a chair and placing a cup of tea upon it.
“Of course. I cannot thank you enough for looking after her.”
Mrs. Andrews turned back to her spinning wheel.
Jane took a sip from the cup of tea. It was poor stuff, probably used and dried at least once, and she reminded herself to give the Andrewses some of their own tea by way of thanks. She poured a very little into the saucer, praying that what she would do might help Martha and not kill her, although, with her powers so diminished, it might achieve nothing. She willed herself
“How is your reading coming along, Samuel?” Jane asked, remembering that Cassandra frequently called at the farm to teach him and his brothers and sisters their letters.
“Pretty well, ma’am.” His step slowed and he clutched his side. “Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, I have a stitch from running.”
“No, I am sorry for rushing you so. I shall go ahead—”
“Beg your pardon, Miss Jane, but father said I should not let you walk on your own. He made a point of it, Miss Jane.” The boy’s chest heaved with exertion.
What on earth had happened to Martha? Jane’s sense of unease grew. Had Martha been attacked in some way, assaulted?
“That’s most thoughtful of you and your father,” she said. “When you are ready to walk again, we shall proceed, and I promise I shall not rush you too much. But tell me, are there gypsies abroad?”
“No, ma’am, he says worse than gypsies.”
Jane, seeing her young companion’s fearful glance at the woods at the side of the road, did not pursue the topic further. Only a few more minutes, and they had arrived at New Park Farm, and Jane splashed her way across the muck of the cobbled farmyard. Mr. Andrews, who sat outside smoking a pipe, rose to his feet as she approached.
“Mrs. Andrews wanted me out of the house, Miss Jane. This is a sorry business.”
“Has she regained her senses?” Jane asked.
“Not yet.”
Jane nodded and tapped at the farmhouse door. The door opened a crack and Mrs. Andrews peered out. “Oh, thank heavens, ’tis you, Miss Jane. She won’t rouse at all. I have burned feathers under her nose.”
Sure enough, as Jane stepped inside the house, the pungent scent of feathers mixed with the scents of the dinner cooked at the open hearth.
“You’ll take some tea, Miss Jane?”
Jane didn’t answer her. The hurdle that had borne Martha lay on the floor, and Martha was stretched upon it, inert and pale, diminished, a smear of blood on her bosom.
“Martha, my dear.” Jane knelt and took Martha’s cold limp hand in her own. “Can you hear me?” To Mrs. Andrews she said, “Where is she hurt?”
“I can’t rightly tell, Miss Jane. I can see no mark, but maybe she took a hit to the head.”
Jane eased off Martha’s cap. Her bonnet was gone, maybe fallen off. She ran her hand over Martha’s scalp and felt nothing. No telltale bump, or heat, and certainly, with the part of her mind that was of the Damned, no thought or memory. Nothing.
“I have bricks beneath her feet and at her sides to warm her,” Mrs. Andrews said.
“Thank you for all you have done.” Jane chafed her friend’s hand and shook her gently. “Martha! Martha, wake up!”
But Martha didn’t move.
Behind her Jane heard the clink of china as Mrs. Andrews made tea.
“I’ve always thought her a healthy sort of lady,” Mrs. Andrews said. “Not slender, but now . . . there’s hardly anything of her. I never saw a woman so changed.”
Hardly anything of her, indeed. Flattened and inert and pale with only a thread of a pulse and only a flutter of movement at her throat to show she breathed. An odd, wild sort of scent hung about her; not an unpleasant scent, at least not to Jane; there was something familiar about it.
“We’ll send for some of the men to take her home,” Mrs. Andrews continued.
She was scarcely aware of Mrs. Andrews pulling forward a chair and placing a cup of tea upon it.
“Of course. I cannot thank you enough for looking after her.”
Mrs. Andrews turned back to her spinning wheel.
Jane took a sip from the cup of tea. It was poor stuff, probably used and dried at least once, and she reminded herself to give the Andrewses some of their own tea by way of thanks. She poured a very little into the saucer, praying that what she would do might help Martha and not kill her, although, with her powers so diminished, it might achieve nothing. She willed herself
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