'…rain is expected again on Tuesday,' Prudence Percy was saying, 'but should…'
'…clear up by Wednesday,' Drusilla Percy said. 'Thursday at the latest.'
'Oh no. Definitely Wednesday.'
'Surely not. Jane, what do you think?'
Nineteen-year-old Jane Austen didn't care either way. She wasn't thinking about rain or the weather. What she was thinking was that she shouldn't have come to this late afternoon luncheon at the Percy estate. The crusty loaves had been rather too crusty, the meat too dry, and the gherkins so tart that her eyes had watered.
But that wasn't the worst of it. The Percy sisters were two of the most uninteresting people she'd ever known. Their sole topics of conversation were the weather, the state of the carriage roads, and which flowers were blooming. One of their particular concerns was daisies.
If they move onto the subject of dahlias, Jane thought, I will go quite insane.
The two sisters were twins, almost identical, with auburn-red hair and plain faces. Jane desperately tried to think of something else she could bring into the conversation. The really interesting topics, such as politics, and England being at war with France—yet again—remained the preserve of men.
'Have you noticed that the daisies are still—' Prudence began.
Jane groaned. 'My goodness!' she said. 'Look at the time.'
The two sisters glanced at the bracket clock on the mantelpiece.
'Oh yes,' Drusilla said, sighing. 'It's getting rather close to four o'clock.' She lowered her voice. 'And you should be careful. There was that poor woman in Overton.'
No one spoke. A woman had been recently attacked and killed in Overton, and her killer had not been found. Much of the village had been consumed by gossip regarding her death.
'So true,' Jane said, finally.
She thanked the sisters for their hospitality, and they escorted her to the door. The sky was already darkening. The year was 1795. At this time of the year, although it was not uncommon for evenings to come on early, the weather had been particularly dire over the last decade. Just that January, the temperatures had dropped to the lowest ever recorded in England.
'We can have a carriage to take you home,' Prudence offered.
'Thank you,' Jane said. 'But I'll walk.'
The Percys' station in life was rather quite different to Jane's modest life. She adored her father as she did her mother and siblings. Still, the Reverend George Austen was not a rich man. Being a man of the church, his concerns revolved around the practicalities of life: preaching to the local people of Steventon, guiding his sons into suitable careers and his daughters into the right marriages.
On the subject of marriage, Jane did not always see eye to eye with her father. He often extolled marriage and love as if they were the same thing. Jane did not agree. Love did not exist. Oh, there was the love of family, but love between men and women was not real. Marriage was a business contract that enabled the transfer of land and wealth to the next generation. Anyone who believed otherwise was naïve.
'The fresh air will do me well,' Jane continued, adding, 'and thank you again for the loan of the book. I enjoyed it very much.'
The sisters had lent her a book entitled The Mysteries of Udolpho, a supernatural tale set in a castle. It had been most chilling, although possibly not the best choice of reading at this time of year.
After wishing the sisters well, Jane wandered off into the deepening gloom. As she made her way down the darkened road towards her home at Steventon Rectory, she tried to drive the novel from her mind. It was early November, but the evenings were already razor-edged with cold. Fog had settled about the surrounding fields like a hoard of ghosts, and the only light to be seen was that of the rising moon.
She turned off onto a thin, winding lane where the hedgerow closed in on both sides. It was dark, but she knew the way well. Both she and Cassandra often joked that they could make their way around the streets of Steventon blindfolded.
She sighed. Jane loved her family, but she often wished for more in life. Some way to make an impact on the world. At least she had her writing. She had three volumes of short works so far, as well as the first draft of a novel entitled Elinor and Marianne. Her parents loved her writing. Even Cassandra and her brothers were impressed by it. They all said she had a skill for pointing out the absurdities in life.
A rhythmic sound came from the road behind Jane—footsteps. She stopped, straining her eyes against the obsidian fog as her mind returned to the woman killed in Overton. Highwaymen were less commonplace these days, but they were still to be found. More worrying than them were footpads: horseless highwaymen. Their inability to escape on horseback often made them more dangerous; they would kill their victim rather than run the risk of being caught.
She quickened her pace. The fog was thicker than ever now, and she was sure she could hear something behind her.
Jane stopped, turned and called out. 'Hello?'
No answer.
Jane balled up her fists. She didn't like to be afraid, and she was frightened now. Hastening up the narrow lane, she had only gone a few feet when she heard the sound of running feet to her left. Someone was racing around on the other side of the hedgerow. She stared in horror at the leafy wall. Although it towered over her head, an attacker could easily scramble through.
The tread continued, circling around in front of her, and then scurrying about to her right.
'I am not amused!' she said, her voice quaking with fear and anger. 'My father is Reverend George Austen, and he will—'
The thing growled.
Jane bolted. She sprinted up the lane through the swirling mist towards her home; it was less than a mile away. Although not of an athletic nature, Jane could run when needed, and she did so now. Jane was almost there when she heard the scrambling sound again. This time, it came directly from in front of her, and she skidded to a halt. Whatever pursued her was now blocking her path.
How is this possible?
The murderer—and that was how she thought of him—seemed to move with some kind of superhuman speed. Jane peered into the dark, twisting mist, striving to make out a shape. A form. Anything that would give body to the unearthly predator that had haunted her. At first, the fog moved about in viscous layers, and then she saw a figure: a body, arms, and legs, and a face.
She bit back a scream.