Miss Austen's Vampire (10 page)

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 few 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.

Gabriel, I have one simple request of you. Love again. Do not allow this to kill that part of you. You are the best of men, and another woman should one day be allowed to know that, and to be loved by you. Please allow this to be. My soul will rest peacefully if you let this be.

If only my hand would allow me to write the many pages of love I wish to express to you, my dearest love. But alas, it will not. Know my love for you. Know it cannot be expressed in mere words.

I love you, my Gabriel.

Forever yours,

Jane

For the next hour, he sat in the shadows of the building that would soon be her final resting place, and read the letter again and again. His last bit of Jane. His love.

How could he ever fulfill her last request, to love again?

Oh, Jane.

Epilogue

1843

Chawton House

Sitting hunched over before the fire, the woman’s withered, wrinkled hands held the neatly tied bundle of letters. Not all the letters were intact. Some had sections carefully cut out, leaving gaping holes in the otherwise well-preserved papers. Written on a slip of paper on the top of the bundle were the words ‘To be burned.’ She clutched the letters to her chest, and a tear dropped onto the bundle.

The woman then laid them in her lap and slowly untied the knot, freeing the letters. She picked up the top one, unfolded it, and slowly ran a finger over and over the words written so long ago by her sister. One name appeared several times throughout the letter: Gabriel.

She repeated the process with the next letter, this one with many sections cut out. Years earlier when she had first received this letter she had been more careful and had cut out all references to the man. Seeing the shaky, uneven handwriting of her ailing sister her heart clenched, bringing back the painful memories of those last months.

Not caring to revisit all the letters, knowing all too well what they contained, she gathered them up and leaned toward the fire. The tears now coursed down her face as she placed the bundle in the flames. First one corner caught, then the tongues of flame found purchase on other places in the bundle. When the letters were fully alight Cassandra Austen took the back of one hand and wiped away the tears.

Winchester, 1900

The elderly vicar stared at Gabriel, mouth ajar, eyes narrowed. Gabriel sat quietly, waiting for the clergyman to comprehend his proposal. He looked around the tight, cramped office with its bookshelves heaving under the weight of hundreds of ancient books, the religious symbols hanging here and there on the walls, and the desk covered with the paperwork that comes with running a large, popular, English cathedral, not only a place of worship but a tourist attraction as well. He heard the vicar clear his throat, and Gabriel’s gaze returned to the man.

“So, Mr. Augustine, if I am to understand you correctly, you wish me to cease the public subscription for the Austen Memorial window, and you wish to cover the cost in its entirety.” His head shook slightly, whether from confusion or an elderly palsy, Gabriel couldn’t ascertain, but he thought the poor man still was in some state of shock.

“Yes, sir, that is what I ask. Though I think it would be best for your parish if you were to continue the subscription, allow the contributors to believe they are assisting in the creation of the Jane Austen memorial window, and use that money for other charitable needs within your parish. My money, however, would cover the window, with a generous amount donated to the parish itself.”

Tapping a pencil on the desk, the vicar said, “I see. Yes, I see. But why? What is your connection?”

Gabriel stared down at his folded hands. In little more than a whisper, he said, “Let us simply say I have a great affinity for the author and her work. As such a devotee, I would like to memorialize her in a fitting way.” He glanced up at the vicar.

The vicar nodded. “Yes, I understand she is quite admired by many, hence the memorial window.” He laughed a short laugh, before catching himself and continuing, “I think we can work something out, Mr. Augustine.”

“Excellent. Now I do have one request in the design of the window. While I want my contribution to remain anonymous for all time, I would like the window to depict St. Augustine. It may have other appropriate saints and biblical figures as well, but I want it to be centered around that great saint.”

The vicar sat up straight and furrowed his brow.

Gabriel could see the man pondering the situation, his thoughts apparent on his face. While the money would be most welcome, and one didn’t argue with local aristocracy when taking their money, the audacity of demanding a saint who shared the patron’s name was unusual. Gabriel had known the request would be received in this manner, but he also was confident that in the end he would have his window.

Over steepled hands, the vicar considered Gabriel. “Well, I suppose that under the circumstances, we could honor your request. It is a most generous donation, and one I am hardly in a position to turn away. Mr. Augustine, thank you. The Jane Austen Memorial window will be a jewel in the cathedral’s crown. Directly above her grave, I am certain it will see many a literary pilgrim admire it. As a devotee yourself, I’m sure this should gladden you.”

“Indeed, Vicar. Indeed it will.” Gabriel’s voice broke as he spoke, and the clergyman looked at him, alarmed, before returning his attention to the preliminary paperwork for the donation. He signed with a flourish and passed it to Gabriel who simply marked it with an anonymous X.

The saint whose name his family shared would now watch over Jane for all eternity.

And their love would forever be memorialized.

Author’s Note

While attempting to keep to the historical record as far as Jane Austen’s activities and whereabouts, for the purposes of this narrative some liberties have been taken.

The first part of the epilogue, that section that has Cassandra burning the letters, is based on fact, though of course none of the letters mentioned anyone named ‘Gabriel.’ The letters that remain today to tell the story of Jane’s life are but a small portion of what she wrote during her lifetime. No one knows for sure why Cassandra chose to burn many of the letters, though there are several theories. None of these theories involve a vampire, however.

Winchester Cathedral does indeed boast a beautiful Austen Memorial Window above Jane’s grave, and it does have at its center St. Augustine. In truth, it was paid for by a public subscription, not by the vampire Gabriel Augustine.