Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (2 page)

Two

A knock at the door. Before I can say anything, it opens, and in walks the doctor. He looks at me warily, then right behind him comes a petite, curvaceous woman, maybe fifty years old, in a long, empire-waistline dress. Golden blond curls and tendrils frame her face and neck, but most of her hair is covered by one of those pouffy, lacy shower caps masquerading as hats. She’d probably look younger if she didn’t wear it, and I have half a mind to tell her so.

The woman glides over to me, places a cool hand on my forehead, and, as if as an afterthought, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Well, Jane, I am pleased to see you back among the living.”

What’s this about?

Her ice-blue eyes examine me. “Have you nothing to say to me, child?”

I most certainly don’t. She looks over at the doctor, who frowns in reply.

“It is best you leave us now, Mrs. Mansfield,” he says. “Barnes will attend me.” He glances meaningfully at the bowl and lancet.

The one called Mrs. Mansfield arches an eyebrow and shrugs. “Well, I suppose you must.” She strides over to the door and hisses in a stage whisper for Barnes, who scuttles in.

Doc bows at Mrs. Mansfield, then smiles at me. His teeth are yellow-and-brown spatulate things.

No way is this creature going to stick anything into my arm. I’ve always been squeamish, but this is too much. Last time I had my blood drawn was at the gynecologist’s, and I had to lie down in an empty examination room for twenty minutes because I almost fainted, and assistants were running around getting me cups of orange juice and cookies to give me a sugar jolt. Somehow knowing this is a dream doesn’t make the prospect of a bleeding seem any less frightening. Besides, by the look of things this is the early part of the nineteenth century, and though I’m no historian, I know that in Jane Austen’s day, antisepsis was still decades away from becoming standard practice. Even though it’s a dream and might have its own Wonderland sort of logic, I’m not about to take any chances. Who knows where that lancet has been before?

“Wait!” I shout as loudly as I can in that strange British voice.

Doc, Barnes, and the petite woman all look at me at once.

“Listen, you guys,” I say. “I’m having a dream, and none of this is real. So why don’t you just put those instruments of torture away right now, because you’re wasting your time. Any minute I’m going to wake up, and you’ll all go back to…I don’t know, wherever it is you go.”

Mrs. Mansfield’s eyes are steel. “Jane. You will refrain from speaking such nonsense. And to your mother of all people.”

“Mother? You’re not my mother.”

The doctor steps in. “My dear lady,” he says to Mrs. Mansfield. “She is certainly not in her right mind. Do be good enough to leave us so that I might bring her to her senses. I have seen such cases of brain fever before, and I flatter myself to say that I have been successful in bringing about a complete cure.”

“Forget it, pal,” I say. “You’re not coming within ten feet of me, even if this is a dream. And I’m sorry, ma’am, but you don’t exist. I don’t even exist, at least not here. My name is Courtney Stone, and I live in L.A. You know, California? In the twenty-first century? I have my own mother and my own life. Not much of a life, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’m sorry if you think you’re real, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Now why don’t you all just please leave me alone until I wake up.”

Mrs. Mansfield’s icy blues are like lasers.

“Don’t waste your time, sweetheart,” I say to her. “I suppose that might be an intimidating look—if you were real, that is.”

The doctor whispers to Mrs. Mansfield, motions to Barnes, and the three of them scurry out of the room. Yes!

I lie here in bed, suddenly too weak and heavy to do anything but enjoy the respite. I must have dozed off (if one could actually doze while dreaming), because the next thing I know, I’m waking to the sound of Mrs. Mansfield coming back into the room. She closes the door behind her, sits on the edge of the bed, leans over me, and grasps my shoulders, hard. I’m so thrown by the steeliness of her voice and the viselike grip of her fingers that I can’t even protest.

Her eyes narrow to slits. “Now you listen to me, Jane. Mr. Jones believes that the only hope for your recovery awaits you in an asylum, but I can assure you that no daughter of mine will ever enter a house for madmen. It would be a disgrace to the Mansfield name that I will not abide. And should you ever leave such a place, your fate as a spinster would be guaranteed. Not that the danger of that is slight at the age of thirty, even without the epithet of madwoman. You would be shunned by society, and all your family would share in your disgrace.”

She lets go of my shoulders and pauses to see my reaction.

“You know, you really should rethink the hat. You’re not a bad-looking woman.”

“This is no joke,” she says, springing off the bed and standing over me, index finger pointing in my face. “If you persist in this shameful conduct, I will allow Mr. Jones to take you forthwith, and I shall let it be known that you have died as a result of your riding accident. Your father would resist such a course of action, but I daresay he would come to a right way of thinking, especially when he realizes the disgrace to be visited upon your sister and brother. And indeed, you will be every bit as dead to me if you enter an asylum as you would be lying in your grave. In fact, from what Mr. Jones has just told me, I am persuaded you will wish yourself in the ground should you choose such accommodations over a more reasonable course of action.”

I attempt a laugh while visions of some squalid, nineteenth-century version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest dance through my head.

“You’re not serious,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “I would not take such a gamble if I were you. I do not believe you are insane, and I am about to prove I am right. No sane person would ever give up your comfortable situation for such an alternative. And if—heaven forbid—I am wrong, then this removal will be best for all concerned.”

My fears must be visible on my face, for Mrs. Mansfield’s seems to relax in a sort of triumph.

“All right,” I say. “You win.”

“Good.” She begins to pace the room. “Of course, I will have to give that dreadful Mr. Jones a little something—more than a little something, no doubt—to ensure his silence. I’ll not have him gossiping to all the neighborhood. As for Barnes, she is trustworthy, to be sure; however, it cannot hurt to make her trust a more profitable enterprise.”

As if recollecting my presence, she turns to me and says, “As for you, Jane, I insist you say nothing of this to your father. He is very fond of you, though I have no idea why, and this matter would upset him terribly. From now on, you will conduct yourself as you should, and there will be no more talk of not being the person who you so clearly are.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “Though I can’t promise I can pretend to be someone I’m not for very long. However, I have a feeling this will all end very soon.”

Mrs. Mansfield raises an eyebrow. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“You told me not to talk of it, so let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

“‘O-Kay’? And what sort of word is that, pray tell?”

“Never mind,” I say. “Forget about it.”

“With pleasure.”

Interesting. Though the psyche of a twenty-first-century woman has created this dream, it is somehow a hermetically sealed world, isolated from modern references.

Throughout all this talk of asylums and riding accidents, my head has begun to throb again. I press my hand to my forehead.

Mrs. Mansfield eyes me. “I suppose that blow to your head could account for your odd behavior. It was a nasty fall, to be sure. However, you are not the only one who suffered. For almost three whole days, while you slept the sleep of the innocent, I was in a constant state of suspense. Would you awake, or would you die? Should I order our mourning clothes, or should I wait another day?”

“Not to mention all the funeral arrangements.”

“You have not the smallest notion of what that can do to a person.” Mrs. Mansfield stifles a yawn. “Dear me, I am exhausted.” She looks at me, and her eyes narrow. “I shall summon Mr. Jones, and you shall make certain there is no doubt in his mind as to the soundness of your mental state. Have I made myself understood?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You will speak like a well-bred young lady, or you will be sorry you were born.”

She locks my eyes with her own, and I am the first to look down. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes—ma’am.” I can’t believe I’m allowing her to intimidate me.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Mansfield bestows a glacial smile upon me and leaves the room, and I lie there trying to make sense of the situation, and trying to talk myself out of a growing queasiness in the pit of my stomach. After all, why get all bent out of shape over a dream? So what if it seems that I’m stuck in it for the time being; it’s bound to end eventually. Might as well take advantage of my lucidity and deconstruct it while still in it.

Not that it would take a rocket scientist to do so. Aside from my addiction to all things Austen providing the setting, the mother figure’s narcissism is clearly a caricature of my own mother’s self-centeredness. Like Mrs. Mansfield, Mom is mostly interested in my life inasmuch as it affects her own.

On the other hand, Mrs. M doesn’t appear to have my mother’s self-medication issues. Though I’m sure there’s a sherry bottle around somewhere. Mrs. M certainly doesn’t appear to have been swilling, but then again, Mom never actually looks hammered either.

Still, Mom doesn’t have Mrs. M’s killer instincts. Fact is, despite her selfishness, or maybe even because of it, I can always ask Mom for help in a pinch. She seems to get on some kind of high fueled by maternal hormones and self-importance whenever I’m in extremis. Suddenly, she develops an in-depth interest in my life, feeding off the drama like a soap opera junkie anxious for the next installment. My breakups, heartbreaks, and financial crises give her something to talk about with her friends, especially her role as glorified rescuer of the distressed. Inevitably, whenever I emerge from a crisis and get my life back to normal, dear Mom lapses back into her routine lack of interest.

Suddenly, I am struck by a realization. The doctor called me “Miss Mansfield”; the mother figure called me “Jane.” Jane Mansfield! Too bad this Jane Mansfield’s breast size doesn’t live up to the name. And too bad I am doomed to be an anachronism, because I’m sure no one in this period-piece dream would get the joke.

The appearance in my doorway of Mrs. Mansfield and the doctor puts an end to those musings. Perhaps my amusement still shows on my face, because Mrs. Mansfield looks at me warningly.

“I was just telling Mr. Jones how well you are feeling now, Jane. Why do you not put his mind at ease?”

I open my mouth and say, in perfectly nineteenth-century ladylike language, “I assure you I am perfectly well now, Mr. Jones. I was momentarily confused when I awoke, but I am quite recovered.” I almost giggle at the sound of my voice. It’s like being in the seventh grade play. Or even better, in a Jane Austen novel.

And to Mrs. Mansfield I add, “Forgive me for worrying you…Mama.”

“Mama” pats me on the cheek, then turns to the doctor again, looking at him smugly.

He frowns a bit, no doubt disappointed at having his fun spoiled. But he clears his throat and then favors us both with a broad smile. “This is all very promising, I daresay, Mrs. Mansfield. Nevertheless, unless I can satisfy myself with medical proof of Miss Mansfield’s health, I would be remiss in advising you to keep her here. After all, what if she should become violent? In such cases as these, you know, it is not uncommon.”

Mrs. Mansfield’s confident look vanishes.

“Be not alarmed, madam,” says the doctor. “If you leave Miss Mansfield to my care for but half an hour, I shall bleed out of her any vicious humors that might bring forth such an inclination. Then we might all rest easy.”

Dear God. I have to talk them out of this. As Mr. Jones reaches for his bag, I silently hiss my vehement refusal at Mrs. Mansfield. She chooses to ignore me.

“Very well,” she says to my would-be torturer. “I shall send Barnes to you directly.”

“Jane,” she says to me, “you shall cooperate fully with Mr. Jones.”

This isn’t happening. I have to do something, say something. “Wait a moment, Mother,” I say, again marveling at the alien voice coming out of my mouth. “I am perfectly well and there is no need to put Mr. Jones to any more trouble. Besides, I am already in a weakened state; if I should lose blood I am likely to feel much worse rather than much better.”

Mr. Jones smiles at me as one would to a child who has just said that the sun must be hot indeed to survive its nightly descent into the ocean.

“I can assure you, Miss Mansfield,” he says with barely restrained triumph, “that draining the offensive humors in the blood will do quite the opposite of weakening you.” And, turning to Mrs. Mansfield, he makes a polite bow. She nods and approaches the bed, leaning over as if to give me a kiss.

“You will do as he says,” she hisses into my ear. “His silence depends on his being satisfied that it was he who enacted the cure.” When she attempts to straighten herself up again, I clutch at her dress, but she extricates herself with those surprisingly strong fingers, and with one quick dagger look at me, leaves the room.

Barnes, who has evidently been waiting outside, steps in. Jones moves toward me, surgical knife and bowl in hand. I scream, and he motions to Barnes to hold me still. I must be really weak, because she doesn’t have much trouble restraining me. I watch in horror as he lowers the knife. Oh God, please let me wake up from this nightmare. The knife touches my arm and…that is all I remember.

Three

W hen I open my eyes, it’s dark in the room. Mrs. Mansfield is standing over my bed, a candle in her hand.

“Poor dear. You have been sleeping for hours. Will you have some dinner now?”

I shake my head, wanting more than anything to throttle her.

“Now, Jane. You haven’t eaten in almost four days.”

“Like you care. That vampire nearly drained me dry. I’m so weak I can hardly move.” I show her my arm with the offending cut, glaring at her accusingly.

She shrugs. “All the more reason for you to eat something. Cook made your favorite.” She bustles around the room, lighting candles with the one in her hand.

“Whatever.”

She touches my arm lightly. “I shall have a tray sent up.” And turns to go.

She pauses in the doorway. “You are wrong, you know. I do care. Someday you will understand that I did what I had to do. For you.”

I turn my head, and I hear her leave the room.

Who is this woman? Does she really think she cares about me or, more accurately, Jane? I fume for a while, becoming aware of the emptiness in my stomach. I’m so hungry that I’m on the verge of having a stomachache. Where is that alleged tray? It’s bizarre that I can have this intense and visceral feeling of bodily hunger in the midst of a dream.

And that isn’t the only bodily feeling I’m having. I have an absolutely pressing need to take a pee, too. And have no idea where the bathroom is. Or if the bathroom even exists.

Just as I’m forming a desperate plan of dragging myself out of bed to urinate into the washbasin, Barnes arrives laden with a huge tray of delicious smelling food. She looks at me anxiously, as if afraid to approach.

“Please,” I say to her. “Could you help me?”

She rushes to my side, depositing the tray with a clatter on the dressing table.

“What is it, miss? Please don’t be ill again.”

“It’s not that. I need to go to the bathroom.”

Her face goes blank momentarily, and then she frowns. “You’ll be wanting a bath now, miss?”

“I want the toilet, privy. Whatever you call it. I have to, you know—pee!”

“Oh, of course.” She reaches under the bed and produces a china pot painted all over with little flowers, and thrusts it in my direction.

“You expect me to pee in that?” The thought is revolting, but if I don’t relieve myself soon, the alternative will be much worse.

I reach for the pot. “Here, let me. I can handle this myself.” But when she releases the pot into my grasp I almost drop it, I’m so weak. Shocked at the state of my physical condition and too desperate to think any more of modesty, I surrender to Barnes’s helpful hands. Quickly covering the pot with a cloth, Barnes rushes out of the room, promising to return posthaste to see to my dinner.

I sink back on the bed, sweet relief flooding through me, and the aroma of some kind of roasted meat from the tray making my mouth water. I hope Barnes intends to wash her hands before she reappears.

Barnes is back in a flash, but I can’t tell if she’s attended to personal hygiene, and it’s too awkward to ask outright. Anyway, I’m too famished to care much and gratefully surrender to her feeding me roast beef and potatoes. Yummy. It’s not long before I can’t eat another bite, though I really haven’t consumed much of what was on the tray.

As Barnes bustles about covering dishes, she looks at me shyly and says, “You’re not in anger at me for helping Mr. Jones, are you, miss? I was only doing my job, and me and you was always such good friends. Surely you know I want what’s best for you.”

Her face flushes red as she lowers her eyes and busies herself again with the tray.

“No, of course I’m not angry,” I say.

“My brother has been beside himself these past few days, worrying and fretting.”

She’s looking at me, almost expectantly.

“Your brother?”

“He’s beside himself with joy at your recovery, as we all are, miss. But he seems more distracted than ever. And the worse he gets, the more trouble Mr. Dowling gives him. First there was the two crystal glasses he knocked over and broke the other day, and then today he was late for breakfast on account of Cook letting him have a bit too much brandy last night. Why, Mr. Dowling is this close to dismissing him. Which might not be the worst thing.”

She has been twisting a handkerchief in her hands, but now looks up at me, as if wanting a response. “Perhaps you are of the same mind, miss?”

“I…I’m sure you know what’s best for your brother. Sometimes even a lateral move can lead to more rewarding opportunities.” Suddenly I am channeling a human resources drone.

Barnes has a sort of glazed look in her eyes. “Right, miss. Anyway, I says to him, what good can come of this if you stay? But he won’t hear none of it. Will you think of none but yourself, I says? You’ll have nothing to live on, and neither will I. Because sure as I’m standing here, I’d lose my place as well. And there would be nothing to send my mother, and…”

Barnes’s voice cracks, and she starts to cry. “Dismiss me if you must for speaking so freely, miss, but please do not throw everything away. You’ll be cut off without a penny, and I can’t bear to think of you starving in the streets…”

Now she loses it. She keeps trying to control herself, apologizing incoherently, blowing her nose into a handkerchief, eyes streaming, and all I can do is keep telling her that it’s okay for her to cry. But I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Unless—could it be that the fretting, about-to-be-fired brother has something to do with my starving in the streets? Is Barnes implying I’ve been doing the nasty with a member of the serving classes? Perhaps ordering him to service me?

Barnes looks like she’s just been slapped, and I realize I’ve got a smirk on my face. Poor Barnes. How could I be so insensitive? Just because I know this isn’t real doesn’t mean that she knows it, too. If she did, she wouldn’t be crying her eyes out. Which means her brother wouldn’t know this isn’t real either, so the least I could do is have a little compassion. Poor guy, whoever he is, suffering over me like that, and his sister, suffering over all of us. Imagine a man daring to risk everything for love. Of me.

Then again, it’s not for love of me, it’s for love of this dark-haired woman’s reflection I see in the mirror. Which makes sense, because a man’s risking everything for love of me could only happen in a dream. Real life is populated with the likes of Frank, formerly known as fiancé, and Wes, formerly known as friend. Both currently known as pond scum.

I wonder if I’ll see my alleged lover from the oppressed classes before I wake up. Much as I want to wake up and get back to my life, I can’t help but be curious. Is he cute? Does he have some kind of blue-collar magnetism like Joe, the carpenter who spent a month earthquake-retrofitting my building and another three walking around my bedroom wearing nothing but a tool belt?

I realize Barnes is looking at me.

“Sorry?” I say.

“Do you forgive me, miss, for sobbing all over you like that? And you just recovered yourself.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Oh, miss. You’re so kind, you are. Always thinking of everyone else but yourself.” She wipes a tear away. And with a curtsey, leaves me alone in this room. To think. And sleep.

Which I do within seconds, the last fuzzy thought being that I trust this will be all over when I awake.