Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (20 page)

Am I really about to risk unprotected sex in a world without antibiotics, a woman’s right to choose, or adequate personal hygiene? And with a total stranger, no less?

Are you kidding me?

“Uh, Andrew,” I say, attempting to gently maneuver myself out from under him.

“Say my name again.” His knee is now engaged in raising my skirt.

Gentle maneuvers are out. “Andrew, stop.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stop.” I have my hands up against his chest now, pushing him away.

He rolls off me, but keeps one leg resting against mine.

“What is it, my love?”

“There are potential consequences to our actions, which I am not prepared to deal with.”

“You shall have my protection, and every comfort you desire. A house in town. The finest jewels. Just name your wish.”

Apparently, some things haven’t changed in two hundred years. Is there anything a man won’t say to get laid? I’ve heard them all, from “I can’t wait for you to meet my mother” to “You’re the first person I’ve ever told that to,” after which I’m lucky if I get so much as a perfunctory, post-coital I-had-a-great-time-with-you email, let alone an actual relationship.

And now I’m expected to believe that Andrew Emery, an acquaintance of under one hour, despite his attempts to mark me with his scent, is planning to make me his kept woman? In an era when I imagine there would have to be serious cash up front—or the deed to an estate—in order for a woman to make such a no-turning-back sort of choice? And even if he is sincere, who would want such a thing? It’s bad enough to be a baby-making machine with no epidural in sight in exchange for the state-sanctioned title of “Mrs.” before one’s name. But to be a “Miss” with an ever-increasing brood of children, just waiting for her man to grow weary of stretch marks and spit-up? No thank you.

And then it hits me. Regardless of what era I’m in right now, or how I’m supposed to fulfill my so-called destiny, I refuse to make my destiny a lifetime of nights in the arms of yet another man I don’t care about but want to care about because the alternative is being alone, or even worse, a man I care about even though I know he can never give me what I really want. I’m tired of settling for two strange bodies fumbling with buttons and zippers and each other to reach the momentary high of sexual release only to have that replaced by the inevitable abyss I fall into afterward. I will not settle for that kind of destiny. Not here. Not anywhere.

And suddenly, I truly understand free will.

And in that moment, I realize that Andrew has grabbed my hand and is moving it toward his now-opened pants, which reveal the largest penis I have ever seen in my life. Guinness Book of World Records material. If I weren’t as struck as I am by the absurdity of the situation, I might run out of the room screaming. Which is when I begin to laugh. And laugh. The human sexual act can be seen in a comic light under the best of circumstances. But in this case it is downright hilarious. No doubt the wine plays some part in my amusement, but I can hardly straighten my clothes I am so doubled over with laughter.

My laughter, to put it delicately, softens Andrew’s resolve, and with a face so red I can see the color in the candlelight, he quickly buttons his now-sleeping beast into its former hiding place.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, in between snorts of laughter. “It’s not you.”

He looks so humiliated that I manage to regain control by biting my lip. “It’s nerves. Fear, really. I have laughing fits when I’m frightened. Please forgive me.”

His eyes are ice. “I shall distress you no more, Miss Mansfield.” He bows curtly, puts his hand on the door latch, and turns to go.

“And your cousin? Will she be waiting to escort me back to the house?”

He looks at me coldly. “You appear to be perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”

“Appearances can deceive. Which is why you might want to find her and ask her to walk me back. After all, I wouldn’t want to worry about returning alone and be carried off by a fit of nervous laughter. People might start asking me all sorts of questions, and what would I say then?”

“I am at your service,” he says tightly, and leaves the room.

Within five minutes, Mrs. Haverstock knocks softly on the door and silently walks me back to the party. I decide there’s no reason to worry about Andrew’s spreading gossip, since the farce in which our tryst concluded likely trumps any triumph he might have felt, or wished to disclose, in nearly compromising my virtue.

Compromising my virtue? Are these thoughts really mine? Or have I already lost my mind?

As I enter the house and part from Mrs. Haverstock without a word, I shudder. I catch sight of Mary at the back of the music room; her smile is innocent, trusting. She has no idea what I just did—or what I almost did. As I make my way toward her, I feel a rush of gratitude for her friendship. Thank God I came to my senses before things got out of control. At that moment I spot Andrew Emery across the room; we both avoid making eye contact.

I settle into a chair next to Mary and try to turn my attention to the music. Within less than half an hour, I see Emery and his cousin, if that’s really who she is, leave.

Thirty-three

W hen there is a break in the music, Louisa asks me if I know where Emery is. I just shrug with as much wide-eyed innocence as I can manage, and finally I overhear one of her friends telling her that he and his cousin left quite some time before. Louisa gives me a penetrating look from over her fan, but I ignore her and turn to Mary.

Louisa then attempts to return me to my role of court jester. What do I think of so-and-so’s hat, or gown, or wife? I refuse to take the bait this time, and answer her with bland neutrality and perfect, ladylike propriety.

Louisa’s eyes narrow, and her fan increases in velocity.

Mary, however, pats my hand and whispers, “Well done.”

Louisa soon disappears into the crowd, presumably to seek out more amusing companions. I figure she’s successful, because by the time she takes us home in her carriage, she seems to be in a cheerful mood again.

The next morning I wake up feeling like I’ve smoked a pack of cigarettes, and Mary, I hear from the maid who comes in help me dress, is in bed with a cold, Hortense reluctant to leave her side to deliver the news herself.

A gap in my room’s white curtains reveals a sky that is sooty gray. I don’t even want to think about how polluted the air must be. Nor, as I watch the coal in my fireplace burn and glow, will I ever think of a barbecue in quite the same way.

I head down the hall and check on Mary, who is under the covers, a few damp strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She gives me a weak smile as I feel her forehead and cheeks with the back of my hand. Not particularly warm, just clammy.

“I don’t think you have a fever.” I blot her forehead with a cloth.

“I think the worst of it passed during the night.”

“Didn’t sleep well?”

She shakes her head.

“Poor girl.”

“A bit more rest is all I need.”

“Shall I send up some breakfast?”

She shakes her head. “Must sleep.”

At the breakfast table, when I tell Louisa why Mary isn’t coming down, she drops her butter knife on her plate with a clatter and springs up to ring for her cook, housekeeper, and maid, dispensing orders that they should do everything to make Mary comfortable, including summoning Louisa’s physician immediately.

I suppress a groan. “You are not going to have her bled, are you? She is weak enough as it is.”

Louisa glares. “I imagine that is for Adams to decide.”

“Did I happen to mention last night that I heard Lady Holloway and Mrs. Davis saying how only the backwards country doctors still bleed their patients, and that in town such practices are considered très outré?”

Louisa snatches up her fan and creates a small wind tunnel. “I can assure you that Adams is highly regarded amongst many of my acquaintance.”

I only nod, keeping my eyes steadily fixed on hers until she looks down and clears her throat. She rings the bell again for her maid, who comes breathlessly into the room seconds later.

“Send Mr. Adams in to see me before he attends Miss Edgeworth.”

“Outré!” says Louisa, the second the maid closes the door behind her. “As if Eleanor Holloway and that vulgar Fanny Davis do anything but embody the word.”

She gazes out the window, the weak sunlight highlighting the pockmarks on her cheeks. As if reading my mind, she raises the fan to her face again, then peers at me from behind its protection.

“What else did that pair of harridans have to say?”

“I am afraid that is all I heard.” Of course, I heard nothing at all.

“A pity. They can be so amusing, you know.”

After breakfast I check on Mary, who appears to be sleeping peacefully, Mrs. Smith having resumed her maternal post in a chair next to the bed.

“She will be all right, won’t she?”

Mrs. Smith regards me with a kinder expression than she’s ever bestowed on me before. “Miss Edgeworth has been prone to sniffles and sneezing ever since she was a little girl. But she is always well again.”

“Would you allow me to watch over her till she wakes up? She seems to be sleeping peacefully, and it would give you a chance to have some breakfast.”

Mrs. Smith assents, but unfortunately Mary’s rest is short-lived, thanks to Louisa’s making a brief, noisy appearance in the room to coo over her cousin, plump up her pillows, and apologize for her “absolute uselessness in a sickroom,” while congratulating Mary for having in me “a most faithful and competent nurse.”

I think I’m going to be sick myself.

As soon as Louisa sails out, leaving a cloud of gardenia in her wake, I soothe Mary back to sleep, which, luckily, isn’t difficult.

A fter a couple of days of hovering over Mary—which is about all Mrs. Smith and Hortense allow me to do—and avoiding Louisa as much as is possible while staying in her house, I can see that Mary is a hundred percent stronger. The doctor agrees and orders her to the country as soon as possible for a change of air. I suspect he’s just as anxious to have us gone as Louisa, to whom we can no longer provide amusement. He has grumbled several times about not being able to give his patient the best treatment and how much faster she would have recovered with a little blood-letting.

Within twenty-four hours, we are packed and ready to carry out the doctor’s orders. Louisa dabs her dry eyes with a delicate handkerchief and kisses me on both cheeks, but if she’s fooling anyone it’s certainly not me. As the carriage door closes behind me and I settle in for a bone-jangling journey back to Jane’s village, I am happy to leave behind the smog and pretense and duplicity of Jane’s London. And I hope my favorite author soon has the chance to do so, too.

A couple of skin-crawling nights in the best of England’s coaching inns and a few bruised bones later, I’m back home, such as it is. If being in a city I’ve visited in two different time periods and meeting Jane Austen herself haven’t given me the magic key to getting back to my real life, I don’t know what will. I no longer feel desperate about it, though. I realize this with quiet certainty rather than resignation. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up. I’m just tired of struggling, that’s all.

In the meantime, Mary’s heartfelt good-byes and entreaties that I call on her soon, and Mr. M’s warm hug as I step out of Mary’s carriage almost make me feel like I have come home.

Until, that is, Mrs. M greets me in the entranceway with a double air kiss, and the temperature in the room drops about thirty degrees.

Thirty-four

“C ome into my dressing room after you have removed the dust of your journey,” Mrs. M says. “And be quick about it, dear,” she murmurs into my ear, withdrawing with a smile that in no way reaches her pale blue eyes. “I have missed you.”

Mr. M slinks off, mumbling something about his atelier, and I shiver as I head toward the stairs and my room.

A grin splits Barnes’s broad face as she greets me with a curtsey, then swipes at her eyes with a corner of her apron, asking me to pardon her silliness. Instead, I give her a hug. “Oh, miss,” she says, turning away and dabbing at her face until she is composed enough to face me again. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

Within a few minutes I am sponged, perfumed, wearing a clean gown, and padding down the hall to Mrs. M’s dressing room.

I tap on the door, and even before her imperious “Enter,” my stomach does its habitual two-step.

She is settled regally on a sofa beside a window, the fading daylight and candles in sconces giving her pale skin a golden glow as she reads a letter. Should I really be intimidated by someone in a frilly cap and ruffles around her neck?

She looks up from the letter. “You can be at no loss, Jane, to know why I have summoned you here.”

I am unable to repress a snort of laughter. “Sorry. You sounded just like Lady Catherine De Bourgh when she showed up at Long-bourn to frighten Lizzy Bennet away from marrying Darcy.”

She taps the letter with her forefinger, her eyes boring into me. “Do not flatter yourself. If this report is true, you are less likely to marry than Miss Bennet’s sister was before Darcy bribed her seducer into marrying her.”

Suddenly I’m not so amused. “Report?”

She sits back against the cushions, eyeing me like a cat who is wondering whether to kill the mouse or torture it.

Can she possibly have heard about Emery? No; that’s impossible…isn’t it? My knees start to tremble, so I move toward one of the chairs opposite her.

She holds out a hand, as if to bar my way. “I did not invite you to sit.”

Very well. I’ll just stand here and see who blinks first.

She smiles. “Were the shops in Bath to your liking?”

“I—yes, of course.” What is she up to?

She eyes my figure appraisingly. “I was simply noticing your new gown. That buff color suits you. Must look well with the buff ribbons on your new bonnet and brown shawl.”

I am about to open my mouth and tell her I don’t have a new bonnet or a new brown shawl, but something tells me not to—wait a minute. Brown shawl? Buff-colored ribbons? That’s exactly what Mary lent me for my rendezvous with James.

That’s exactly what Susan saw me wearing. She must have written the letter Mrs. M is holding.

I will myself to betray nothing with my voice or facial expressions. “It is a pity you were not there to advise me on my purchases, Mama. For I bought no such shawl or bonnet, though you are right; they would look well with this gown.”

Mrs. M narrows her eyes. “Do you know to whom you are talking?”

I keep my eyes on her, commanding myself not to flinch.

She rises off the sofa and shakes the letter at me. “My dear niece Susan informs me that you, clad in that very same bonnet and shawl—and God help you when I find them in your wardrobe—come, we shall settle this now.” She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room, down the hall, and into my bedroom.

“As I was saying”—she flings open the doors of my armoire, pulling out gowns and bandboxes, rifling through every article of clothing and dumping them on the floor, on my bed—“You were seen in, shall we say, intimate discourse with a man in Sydney Gardens.”

Mrs. M continues to go through clothes and drawers and boxes, while I try to smooth away the terror that must be on my face. Did Susan recognize James as a former footman in this house? If so, I’m finished.

“And this man with whom you were conversing so intimately, according to my niece, was neither your brother, nor any man of her acquaintance. This man, who has not even the air of a gentleman, in her words, who is perhaps a common tradesman”—and here she stops ransacking my room to watch my face—“is seen in public, with my daughter, touching her cheek, as if they were lovers.”

I try not to sigh my relief audibly. Thank God Susan didn’t recognize James.

“Do you deny it? Consider carefully before you answer.”

I stand as tall as I can, meet her eyes, and summon some quiet outrage into my voice. “There is nothing to consider. Of course I deny it. The only possible explanation is that Susan saw someone else and mistook that person for me. As you can see, I own no such shawl or bonnet. And I was in Sydney Gardens only with Miss Edgeworth and Mrs. Smith, not with any man. Ever.”

“I do not suppose Miss Edgeworth has such a shawl or bonnet?”

My eyes never waver from her face. “Surely you do not think my friend is the person Susan saw.”

“You are a cool one.” She circles around me, her look detached and predatory. “Should I discover anything to disprove your claim, you shall find yourself confined to this house, without so much as a shilling at your command, until such time as I find a proper situation for you. One that will make a sojourn in Newgate sound like an agreeable alternative.”

She gestures toward the mess on the floor and glares at me accusingly. “Now look at all this time I have wasted, when I still need to prepare for my own journey tomorrow.”

She’s going away? I feel the corners of my mouth twitching as I will myself not to smile, and I cough to cover it up.

She pulls out a lace-trimmed hankie and holds it up to her mouth. “I hope you have not caught a cold. I do not wish to be ill for my journey.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see Clara, as I told you at least three times in my letters, if you would ever pay attention. With a slight detour to see my niece in Bath first.” She bares her teeth in a chilling smile. “I do not know what you are about, dear daughter. I do not even want to know. However, I shall make certain Susan sees that the sword of false witness can cut both ways. Depend on it.”

She gives me a sort of can’t-be-bothered little wave with her handkerchief. “I shan’t see you in the morning.” She flourishes the hankie toward the piles of clothes, hats, and bandboxes. “Do put that in order.”

And that’s it, it’s over. She’s gone.

That was close, too close. I sit down in a chair, taking deep breaths, trying to slow the beating of my heart. It’s all right. She doesn’t know anything. And as soon as I can get word to Mary, I’m going to ask her to burn both bonnet and shawl. I owe my freedom to the fact that they are in her closet, not mine.

In the meantime, I’m going to turn this room back into an orderly place. Just looking at the piles of gowns and shawls and bonnets makes my stomach knot. I start picking up clothes and fold everything into neat piles. I want to get it all put away. In the closet. Just like my meeting with James. Just like my tryst with Andrew Emery.

Oh, God. How stupid have I been? If Mrs. M was this incensed over an alleged touch of my face by a strange man in a public place, what would she do to me if I’d succumbed to self-destruction and actually bedded Emery? What would she do if I was pregnant? If he abandoned me? Would I ever be able to get back to my old life with a baby inside me? Would I want to?

And then it hits me. Even if reclaiming my old life is still an option, what sort of life would I have left behind for Jane? If she was able to reclaim her own life, she would have every reason to regret having done so. I would have doomed her to a life of social ostracism, of, at best, expulsion to a remote farmhouse somewhere, like Maria Bertram of Mansfield Park. Or at worst, a descent into prostitution, tuberculosis, and a poorhouse, like Eliza Brandon of Sense and Sensibility.

Some guardian of this life I’ve been. Like Willoughby, the whole of my behaviour, from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. When I ditched Mary’s servants, I never gave a thought to how it might affect them. Or Mary. When I was indiscreet with James, and when I nearly slept with Emery, I gave no thought whatsoever to the consequences for Jane. I gave no thought to what it might mean for a woman whose entire well-being hinges on obeying the inflexible laws of propriety, or at least giving the appearance of doing so.

Like Darcy, I have been a selfish being all my life. Or at least in Jane’s life.

I’m sorry, Jane, I whisper into the darkness as I lie in bed, sleepless despite my fatigue. I’ll do better. For both of us.