Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (16 page)

“Wait. Jane did have a bad fall before I came here and took her place.”

“Ah, yes. I warned her of it.”

“But what about me? I didn’t have an accident.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t you think I would know such a thing?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Then what could it be?”

“Does it matter?”

“Jane isn’t taking over my old life, is she?”

She smiles, her eyes full of compassion. “There is no old life or new life. There is only life. And I can tell you only what you can hear.”

“But can she return here? And can I go back to who I was?”

“Only a fool would wish to go back to who he was.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Do not take what I say so literally. Of course you can return to your old life, as you put it. As Jane can return to hers.”

I jump out of my chair. “I could kiss you! How do I get back?”

“Ah, yes. That is the question. How.”

I don’t like the sound of this.

“Sit, sit,” she says, and I do.

She reaches for my hands and holds them firmly but gently. “You, like everyone else, have a destiny to fulfill. You must stop resisting your destiny. Be where you are right now. Live your life. You are only hurting your chances by struggling so, just as Jane struggled.”

“But this isn’t my life!”

Her black eyes bore into me.

I can only croak out a whisper. “Is it?”

“Did you think this was just some accident?”

The flesh rises on my arms. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Perhaps then it is best you do not think at all. It is something you do entirely too much of, my dear.”

She reaches for a teapot and pours two cups of tea, then gently smiles at me and hands me one. I take a sip. Delicious. I wonder how she heats tea when there’s no fire or stove, but I don’t want to ask.

“What’s been going on in my old life while I’ve been here? I mean, I can’t very well be in two places at once…”

“My dear, all these questions will give you the headache, to be sure. You shall discover all when you are ready.”

Come to think of it, my head is beginning to ache. I rub my temples and look at her. Is this her doing?

She hands me another cup filled with warm liquid. “Here. This will ease the pain.”

I sip it and instantly the throbbing stops, replaced by a calming balm throughout my entire body. Nineteenth-century Vicodin? Somehow I don’t mind being drugged by her. Or is that the drug talking?

My mind drifts to Edgeworth. “May I ask you another question?”

The woman raises her eyebrows and gives me an impish grin. “Ah, love. That is what they all wish to know. Let me see…”

She produces a smoky crystal ball, makes some theatrical wavings over it, and says in an equally dramatic voice, “You will marry a tall, handsome stranger.”

“Come on. Be serious.”

“Oh, but I am serious, my dear.”

My heart pounds. “Edgeworth?”

“What do I look like? A fortune-teller?” At that she becomes the hoop-earringed gypsy again. She laughs so hard that she begins to cough, and at my not-so-amused reaction she collects herself and gently takes my hand again.

“You take yourself far too seriously, my dear. Besides, he is not your problem. Nor is the other one; Frank is his name? Or your friend Wes, for that matter. Your problem is your mind, which, as I said before, does entirely too much thinking. You know, it is a little known fact that thinking is entirely overrated. The world would be a much better place if we all did a lot less of it.”

She pats my hand. “There, there. It will all work out. Now, let us conclude our business. How shall you wish to pay for my services today?”

Flustered, I stammer, “I, uh, hadn’t thought of it. What would you like?”

“I would like to have your lovely pearl necklace. Yes, that would suit me.”

“But I don’t have it with me.”

“Do you not?”

I touch my bare neck and reach for my purse. I open it to show her. “See, all I have is some money and a handkerchief.”

“Look again.”

I follow her eyes to the inside of my purse. And there it is, the strand of pearls I wore to the ball the other night.

I look at her, then back at the pearls. “But how—”

“If you could be here, coming from so far away and in such another time, why would it be so difficult for your pearls to make a mere trifle of a journey?”

She smiles and holds out her hand, and I put the strand of pearls in it.

I start at the sound of a deep, male voice behind me. “Forgive me, madam, you must away.”

I turn to see the man who led me here standing in the now open tent flaps, his features obscured by the brightness of the sunlight behind him. I turn back to the fortune-teller, whose eyes register only a flicker of alarm.

“There is talk of arrest,” he says to her. “You must make haste.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder.” He holds up a dusty drawstring bag, like the one the red-faced man carried out of the tent. “This here was found with the corpse.”

“Preposterous. What is in there wouldn’t harm a baby.”

“Still, you must away. And fast. There’s talk of witchcraft.”

He turns toward me with a slight bow. “Begging your pardon, miss, but if I was you I’d make haste.”

I can hear the faint pounding of horses’ hooves and men’s voices shouting. The fortune-teller, once again a plainly dressed old woman, snatches up a large linen bag, stuffs a few items in it. “Go,” she says to me. “Now.”

“But I still don’t—”

“Stop struggling to be somewhere else.” She’s already starting to crawl under the tent on the opposite side of the flaps, the man moving quickly to assist her. “Fulfill your destiny.”

The frenzied sounds of the approaching crowd and the neighing of horses are getting closer.

“I don’t understand.” My heart pounds with the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

Her body is halfway through the underside of the tent, surprisingly agile for such an old woman. “Just be where you are. That is the only way to get where you’re supposed to go.”

She disappears behind the tent, and I can feel the man’s hands pulling me toward the floor, helping me crawl through the same small opening. I scrape my knee as my dress hikes up, then scramble to my feet and feel his hands pushing me toward a crowd of pleasure-seekers who are still enjoying the fair and merely curious about the approaching horses. I look around to thank him, but he’s gone. Hands shaking, I make a weak attempt to straighten my dress and dust myself off while walking briskly and trying to act composed, the result being that I stumble into a high-collared, foppishly dressed young man with a sweaty red face.

He puts an arm around my waist. “I say,” he whispers into my face, his sour, beery breath nearly making me gag. “Where are you off to all by yourself?”

I try to extricate myself, but his grip is like iron.

“Get off me!”

“Leave the lady alone, Stiles.” This one’s in his twenties, impeccably dressed and sober. Stiles loosens his grip, and I pull away.

Stiles’s friend makes me a sort of half bow and a shrug, grabs the sweaty one’s arm, and hauls him away.

I shoulder my way through the crowd, pushing against a tide of thrill-seekers who are surging toward all the excitement. I hear the words “murder” and “arrest” several times. I shudder, and hope to God my fortune-teller has managed to get away.

Twenty-six

A t the edge of the fair, I spot Mary’s coach and her coachman. With a great surge of relief, I run toward him. Grimfaced, he bows stiffly. I catch sight of Hortense, who is huddled against the back of the coach, wiping her tear-stained face with a corner of her shawl. She straightens up when she sees me, and bobs a curtsey with downcast eyes.

“Hortense, you’re not upset because I—because we got separated?”

“No, miss,” she mumbles, her eyes on the hard-packed dirt of the road.

As she and I settle into the coach, I see my erstwhile bodyguard walking toward it, looking apprehensively at the coachman. The coachman’s back is to me, but whatever is on his face causes the footman to flinch.

When the coach rattles off down the little country road, I turn to Hortense, who is attempting to hide her tears by covering her face with her shawl.

“What is it then, Hortense?”

She uncovers her face, her eyes red and swollen.

“When I went looking for you, miss, there was all these men on horseback talking of murder and hanging. They were so angry that I swear if they weren’t getting near to doing more murder. Two of the ones on foot began hitting each other, and two more joined in, and the magistrate had a time of it making them stop. I was near frightened out of my wits, but that wasn’t the worst of it—”

“You mean they didn’t find the murderer.”

“They did not, miss, I am sorry to say.”

“Good.”

“Begging your pardon, miss?”

“Good that you told me, I meant. Anyway, you’re safe now.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but I don’t—” With that, she retreats under her shawl again, her shoulders shaking with sobs. After a couple of futile attempts to get her to talk, which only seem to upset her more, I give up.

When we arrive home, I check on Mary, who is asleep. Mrs. Smith is dozing in a chair by her side, a book on her lap. I tiptoe out, and realize how hungry I am. Might as well have a dinner tray sent up to my room.

A couple of hours later I am contemplating the pink and gold sky from my window and puzzling over the fortune-teller’s words when Mary storms into my room.

“Is it true, Jane?” She has her hands on her hips, her brown eyes trained on me.

“Mary, what are you doing out of bed?”

“Hortense said she did not know whether I would be angrier if she told me herself what happened at the fair, or if I found out from my coachman.”

“Is that what she’s so upset about?”

Mary’s eyes narrow. “So it is true. Do you know my coachman told her he would urge me to dismiss her? That he has already urged me to dismiss Matthew, not for any reason he chose to disclose to me, of course.”

“Who’s Matthew?”

Mary laughs, but without humor. I’ve never seen her like this. “Matthew is the footman I sent to watch over you at the fair. For someone who claims to care about the welfare of servants, your actions say something quite different.”

“This is insane. They had no idea what I was going to do.”

“How could you, Jane? How could you put yourself in such danger?”

“I just wanted to be by myself. I didn’t think—”

“No, you most certainly did not. If you care nothing for your own safety, your own reputation, have you no thought for mine?”

“Mary, I’m begging you. Please don’t send Hortense or Matthew away.” I grab her hands, hot tears springing from my eyes.

Mary gives me a long look, then sinks into a chair. “Oh, Jane. What am I going to do with you?”

I squeeze her hands, and her face relaxes into tenderness. “Besides never speak to me again?” I ask.

“Do be serious.”

“I won’t cause you any more grief. I won’t play any more tricks on the servants. I promise.”

She pulls out a handkerchief and wipes away my tears.

“Are we still friends?”

“Have you no more faith in me than that?” she says with her sweet smile.

“What about Hortense and Matthew?”

Mary pats my hand. “They are safe. I cannot expect a footman, let alone a silly girl I had a notion to train up as a lady’s maid, to be gaolers. I shall say it was all a mistake, that you saw your cousins in the crowd, went to greet them, and lost sight of Hortense and Matthew. That may satisfy John coachman as well.”

Mary goes off to make peace with her servants and then early to bed, and I spend the rest of the night pondering what were—and what could have been—the consequences of my actions. Just as Elizabeth Bennet reflected on Darcy’s social position and the responsibility it entailed, I reflect on my own. As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship!—How much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!—How much of good or evil must be done by him! And I see how much power even a single woman who is dependent on her parents, who can’t even go to a ball without a chaperone, has over the welfare of others. No matter how unwillingly I might have assumed guardianship of Jane’s life, the power that comes with it is mine as well.

T he next morning, Mary behaves as if we never had a disagreement. In fact, when I bring up the previous day’s debacle she tells me not to distress either of us by mentioning it again. Even Hortense gives me a timid smile with her curtsey. Mary doesn’t even ask if I got to see the fortune-teller, and I’m happy not to have to tell her half-truths.

Before breakfast, she announces her intention to return to the hot baths. Her cold is nearly gone, and the hot baths will be the crowning cure. I try my best to talk her out of it, but she’s determined. I can only hope that her absolute faith in the powers of those putrid waters will provide not only a placebo effect against any cold that might still be lingering, but also guard her against picking up something new.

After Mary leaves with Mrs. Smith for the baths, I spend the first part of my time alone pacing my room and thinking about what the fortune-teller said. Obsessing is more like it; it’s too irresistible not to do so. I try to take my mind off it by answering a letter I received from Mrs. M yesterday. I hate to do it, but after all, she does hold the purse strings.

Happily, I discover that I can play dutiful daughter while indulging my taste for passive-aggressive behavior. To wit: I pointedly ignore her questions as to whether I’ve heard any news of Edgeworth from his sister. I gleefully imagine Mrs. M worrying over whether Mrs. Talbot’s matrimonial plans for her daughter are progressing. With even more glee I deny her even the bare fact that I have seen him. No doubt she’ll hear about it from Mrs. Randolph, but that will only increase her aggravation at not having heard it from me first. Excellent. I smile as I drip wax on the edges of the paper to seal the letter.

Now what? I try losing myself in my embroidery, but my hands are independent of my brain, which rehashes over and over what the fortune-teller said, what I said, what I should have asked her but didn’t, what she might have meant but perhaps I misinterpreted, ad infinitum.

Then, somehow, without preamble, I go into that semi-meditative state that I have experienced several times while embroidering, and I am completely at peace. And every time the thought of how I’m going to leave here and what I should do comes up, I simply decide that I will not obsess. And I don’t.

For me, this behavior is nothing short of miraculous. Of course, the old behavior keeps poking its nose into my peace every now and again. You’re in denial, it says. You’re getting sucked into Jane’s life. And even worse, You’re possessed.

And still, a new voice, a calmer and quieter voice, keeps coming back to echo the fortune-teller’s words. Be where you are now. Stop struggling to be somewhere else.

New-age platitudes, the old voice sneers.

New age, my foot, I say. From my vantage point, looking out the window at horse-drawn carriages, bonneted women strolling arm in arm, and men rushing by in tall hats and morning coats, the world looks anything but new. At least by my old standards.

That shuts up the old voice. For now.

“J ane?”

I bolt up from a slumped position on one of the drawing room sofas, my neck stiff and sore.

“What time is it? I must have fallen asleep.”

“It is time to get those ribbons for your bonnet. The bath did me a great deal of good, the sun is shining, and a walk to Milsom Street is just what I need. Mrs. Smith has engaged to spend the rest of the day with an old school friend, and I am in need of your company.”

I shrug the kinks out of my neck and shoulders. Actually, Mary does look better. Her skin has a healthy glow, and the pale yellow dress she has on is perfect with her coloring.

“Give me a minute to get my things.”

About ten minutes later we have just reached Pulteney Bridge when Mary, who has been walking beside me, stops abruptly, grabs my arm and turns completely around, blocking my path, her face about three inches away from mine. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Then her body sags, and I grab both of her arms to steady her.

“What is it? Are you ill?” If she collapses on the street I don’t know how I’m going to get her home.

“It is he—right there—do not look—dear Lord, do not let me faint in his presence.” Her face is white and her lips are trembling.

“What? Who?”

Still grasping my arm with one of her hands, Mary fumbles in her bag with the other and extracts a handkerchief. She dabs at her brow, her voice a raspy whisper. “Please. Say nothing. And no matter what, do not release my arm.”

She turns back around, while I hold her arm, bracing myself, for what I have no idea. And then I see a thirtyish man and a tall, striking-looking woman of about the same age walking deliberately toward us.

“Miss Edgeworth. What a delightful surprise.” The man’s voice is deep and smooth. He bows and then regards her appraisingly, with a familiarity I don’t like. “It is still Miss Edgeworth?”

Mary nods. “Indeed it is.” Her voice is strong again, but I can feel her trembling.

“I cannot say I am sorry to hear it,” he says, raising an eyebrow. His eyes are large, almost black, with the illusion of being outlined and the kind of long, thick lashes that women are never lucky enough to be born with. His full lips curve into a smile, revealing large white teeth. The better to eat you with, little girl.

I squeeze her arm. She turns her head toward me, her eyes a mute appeal. And then: “Allow me to introduce Mr. Templeton to you.”

Templeton? Will Templeton? No wonder she’s trembling. This is the man she was—probably still is—in love with. Not only is she running into him for the first time in years, but he is with another woman, probably his wife. I get hold of myself and we exchange courtesies. Is anyone going to say anything about the elephant in the room, i.e., the woman on Templeton’s arm? No demure virginal type, this one, with cleavage up to her neck and a dress that somehow manages to cling to every curve, despite the empire waist. She’s observing us from behind heavy lids, a look of detached amusement on her face.

I hold onto Mary’s arm with one hand and stroke her arm reassuringly with the other.

Mary clears her throat. “Would you do me the honor of introducing me to your wife?”

Templeton exchanges an amused glance with the woman. “Miss Edgeworth, Miss Mansfield, this is Mrs. Lawrence, an old family friend.”

Mrs. Lawrence entwines her arm even closer within Templeton’s, as if to demonstrate just how close a friend she is.

“I beg your pardon,” Mary says, curtseying to Mrs. Lawrence.

Mrs. Lawrence arches an eyebrow and looks like she’s struggling to hold in her laughter.

“What brings you to Bath?” Mary says to Templeton, her face now bright red.

“Oh that.” His black eyes twinkle with amusement as he exchanges a conspiratorial smirk with Mrs. Lawrence. “I have come in search of my wife.”

And then he looks at both of us confidentially and lowers his voice, as if we’re a couple of guys throwing back a few beers after work. “Like many women born into wealth, she does not understand the business of men, nor should she. I have the unhappy task of explaining that to her and bringing her back home, which is where she belongs.

“With all due respect to the ladies here present,” and he makes a sort of flourish with his hand, like a courtier’s bow, “there is divine wisdom behind the principles that put a woman’s property into the hands of her husband, and make his word her law.”

I do my best to skewer him with my eyes. “I have news for you, sir. Those days are numbered.” I can feel Mary almost sinking against me, and I put my arm around her. “And you,” I say to Mrs. Lawrence, who is stifling a yawn, “should be ashamed.” Her only reply is a bored shrug.

“Come on, Mary,” I say, steering her back toward the house. “This conversation is over.”

Templeton calls after us, “I hope to repeat the pleasure of seeing you again, Miss Edgeworth. With or without your lively friend.”

He laughs, and I feel Mary stiffen against me. “Keep walking,” I say, stealing a glance at her face, which is death on a stick. “We’re almost there. Don’t look back,” I tell her. “Never look back.”