But mostly she thought about how much she missed Elizabeth. There could be no dash across the hall for comfort and wisdom here. It would be a long dash indeed to find anyone she knew at all, for Jane had been quartered (for propriety’s sake, the baron explained) in a deserted wing of the house far from the other guests. Lt. Tindall and Capt. Cannon (how wonderfully cheerful the man had been when returning from his “reconnoiter” that afternoon!) had been given rooms downstairs on the opposite side of the grand foyer, along with Ensign Pratt and the company surgeon, a crusty old campaigner named Dr. Thorne. The rest of the soldiers were in tents out on the lawn, the only exceptions being Right Limb and Left Limb (who slept in the captain’s room, though in what arrangement Jane couldn’t guess) and a single guard dozing in a chair outside “Dr. Keckilpenny’s sanitarium” (as Papa had cryptically called it).
So she was alone—as alone as she’d ever been, except when out walking or riding by herself. Certainly, she’d never felt more alone. And it wasn’t a feeling she liked.
Of what importance were her feelings, though? So she’d been ruined socially. So no matter what the baron might do, she’d never make a match with a gentleman of the sort she admired most—a true gentle man, as warm and soft and pliant as a puppy’s fuzzy belly. So it would only be cold, hard warriors like Master Hawksworth who’d look twice at a woman who wore the sword, except to gape or sneer. So . . . what of it? It would be pure, selfish vanity to think of all that when the unmentionables might be on the rise again.
But, oh, how she longed for love! How she longed for kisses! How she longed for . . . the rest of it. Whatever that looked like.
Yet none of this was to be hers. She would be forever denied, forever alone.
There was a soft knock on the door.
For a moment, Jane was torn between her nunchucks and her dirk. The dirk won.
“Yes?” Jane said, lifting the dagger by the tip of the blade.
A woman answered.
“Are you awake, Miss?”
Jane could guess how Elizabeth might reply to that: “Not unless I’m talking in my sleep.” (Jane wasn’t without wit herself. It just rarely seemed charitable to wield it, and charity for Jane always came first.)
“Yes, I am,” she said.
Her bedroom was blessed with its own hearth, and by the orange glow of the dying embers within, she saw the knob on the door begin to turn.
“I brought you something, Miss.”
As the door swung slowly open, a new light spread into the room—the dull yellow gleam of a candle. It sat upon a tray being carried by a roly-poly young chambermaid.
On one side of the candle was a decanter of amber liquid. On the other was a single crystal goblet.
Jane slipped the dagger back under her pillow before the girl spotted it. She didn’t want it spreading through the household staff that she was the sort of person who’d pull a knife on a servant.
“Thank you. That is so kind,” she said. “What is it?”
The maid toddled over to a table and set down her tray. “Our Mr. Belgrave—he’s His Lordship’s steward, you know—he was worried you might have trouble sleeping, this being your first night in a strange place. So he sent up a splash of medicinal brandy. The baron swears by it. Always does the trick when he’s having trouble abed.”
The girl made an abrupt hiccup of amusement not unlike Lydia and Kitty’s chirpy “La!”
“Shall I bring you a glass?” she asked, already reaching for the brandy.
“Well, I don’t usually—”
“Oh, but tonight’s different, isn’t it? Hardly usual.” The maid half filled the goblet, then turned and started toward Jane with it. “Go on. Do yourself a kindness.” She didn’t stop coming until she was pushed up against the side of the bed with the glass practically thrust under Jane’s nose. “Just a little nip, and before long you’ll be having such sweet, sweet dreams.”
“But I—”
“Oh, go onnnnnnnnnnn.”
Jane took the goblet and sipped.
The maid smiled.
“Good, good. Now how about a nice big gulp to bring the Sandman calling?”
“Mmmmmmm,” Jane said.
She tried to hand the goblet back to the chambermaid, but the girl backed away, still grinning.
“Oh, you keep that for now. Drink your fill, and there’s plenty more over there if you want it.”
“Mmm mmm,” Jane said, nodding.
“Good night, then, Miss. And if there’s anything you need, just ring. Someone will get it up for you quick.”
“Mmm mmm!”
Jane waved as the maid slipped out the door. Then she leaned forward and spat the brandy back in the glass.
Not only did she not care for spirits in general, the one brandy she’d ever tried had struck her as particularly repulsive. To her surprise, the baron’s was even worse. He was well off enough to afford only the best, yet there was a gritty quality to the drink the girl had brought, and a faint aftertaste of licorice.
Jane got out of bed and walked the goblet across the room.
Now, where was I? she thought as she settled the glass on the tray beside the decanter. Oh, yes. Alone. Forever.
Something thumped directly above her head, and she whipped into the sumo stance so quickly she knocked the carafe of brandy into the fireplace. The glass shattered, there was a burst of here-and-gone flame, and a billow of black, spice-scented smoke plumed into the room.
Jane didn’t even notice. She was staring at the ceiling.
There was another thump, then a pause, then—so muffled they were little more than a drone, at first—words. Jane had to strain to make them out.
“Down, Mr. Smith! Smithy, down!” a man seemed to be saying. “Bad zombie! Bad, bad zombie!”
Jane assumed she wasn’t hearing correctly.
There was one more thump, then silence. Jane stood there, staring up, still in her stance, for a long, long time.
She heard nothing more from above, though eventually she did detect the creak of a floorboard just outside her door. She waited for the chambermaid to come barging back in with a glass of milk or a bed warmer or some other unwanted succor she’d insist on foisting on her. Yet no one entered, no one knocked.
The floorboard creaked again.
Jane picked up the nearest weapon—a mace she’d left propped up against the table—and slipped silently across the room. With a sudden jerk and a half-hearted battle cry, she yanked the door open and brought the mace up high.
Lt. Tindall threw up an arm to block her blow. “It’s just me! It’s just me!”
He was standing outside the door in full uniform.
“I do beg your pardon!” Jane lowered both her mace and her gaze, and she felt her cheeks flushing with a blush she prayed it was too dark for the handsome young officer to see. “I heard a noise and . . . oh, Lieutenant, I’m so sorry!”
“There is no need for you to apologize, Miss Bennet. The fault is entirely mine. If I hadn’t been dawdling out here in the hall like a fool . . .”
Jane peeped up quizzically.
“I couldn’t bring myself to knock, you see,” the lieutenant explained. “I knew it was most improper, coming to a young lady’s room like this. Yet still, I felt compelled to assure myself of your safety.” He looked down at Jane’s mace, and his expression soured. “I suppose I need not have bothered.”
“Yet you did,” Jane said. “And your consideration touches me deeply. I know that you put great stock in what is proper, so for you to come here, at night, on my account . . . I . . . I find it quite admirable, actually. It was a fine thing to do. The gesture of a true gentleman!”