Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (5 page)

Nine

W hen I return to the house and go up to my room, a pastel blue dress is all laid out for me on the bed. I hate pastel blue. This must be the one Mrs. M is so hot on having me wear for dinner with that Edgeworth person. Barnes, who’s either psychic or has been lying in wait for my return, taps on the door and offers her services for changing clothes and doing hair.

I notice Barnes’s eyes are red, and her face is blotchy. “Are you all right, Barnes?”

“Oh, it’s my brother, miss. Understands your silence as proof that all is over and done. Which, I says to him, is the best for all concerned.”

“My silence?”

“Don’t you worry none, miss. I’ll see to him.”

My life is complicated enough, and frankly, I really don’t want to know. I don’t need to try and fix Barnes’s brother’s problems on top of trying to pretend I’m someone else.

“Well then,” I say, eyeing the pastel blue thing on the bed. “There must be something else I can wear.”

“But your mother is most particular, miss—” And poor Barnes looks so terrified at the idea of defying Mrs. M’s directive on this point that I sigh and tell her to forget it.

I survey the array of hairpins and brushes on the dressing table. I open a couple of jars whose contents look like they might be used to moisturize or perfume, but I see nothing that remotely resembles makeup.

“So Barnes, any chance I might have a little something to color my lips or cheeks, both, preferably?”

Barnes’s eyebrows fly up, and her right hand grips her chest.

“Come on, Barnes, I’m sure there are women who at least wear a little color on their cheeks, even if they don’t admit to it.”

Barnes looks at her shoes. “You do not do such things, miss.”

“But I’ll bet my mother does.” Actually, I’m bluffing. If Mrs. M is secretly wearing blush or worse, then she does it artfully enough so that it looks natural.

Barnes looks at me like she is about to become roadkill.

“I’m right, aren’t I.”

Barnes starts backing away, not looking me in the eye. “Now, miss, I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Barnes. Be a pal and borrow some for me. It’ll be our little secret.”

Barnes has reached the door. Her voice quavers. “Please, miss. Don’t make me. Your mother would—I cannot even begin to imagine what she would do to me.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Barnes. I’ll sneak in there myself.”

Barnes clutches at the doorframe. “Oh, please, miss. I beg you. If she sees anything like that on your face, she’ll blame it on me, to be sure.”

“God. What kind of fascist regime have I landed in?”

Barnes’s eyes fill, and I force myself to calm down. “It’s all right, Barnes. I’ll be a good girl and leave you in charge of making me beautiful, as I’m sure you’re well qualified to do.”

I make her sit down for a minute, and after I smile at her encouragingly she recovers enough to start getting me dressed.

When she’s done with me, I do (or at least the strange face in the mirror does) look pretty good. And I have to admit that deadly as that shade of blue is on my usual self, it does suit the coloring of this borrowed body of mine. I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips, a poor substitute for the arsenal of paints and powders I’m used to having at my disposal. Oh, well. At least I needn’t worry about being the only woman without so much as a drop of lip gloss at a party full of painted-to-the-hilt beauties, which is my version of the classic nightmare of being naked in public.

When I go downstairs to the drawing room, Mr. and Mrs. Mansfield are waiting for me, along with a broad-faced, middle-aged brunette who turns her dimpled smile on me, and a much younger woman with pale pink ribbons wound into her fiery red hair, dark blue eyes, and a sneer on her face. I curtsey to the strangers and realize that since they aren’t introduced to me, I’m probably expected to know who they are.

Mrs. Mansfield is doing most of the talking, which gives me the chance to gather that the broad-faced woman is her sister, Mrs. Randolph, and that the sneering redhead is Mrs. Randolph’s daughter. Mrs. Randolph is not as superficially pretty as her sister, but her personality is definitely attractive. I can tell from her warm hug that this latest addition to my so-called family, a maternal aunt in the truest sense of the word, likes me a lot, and being an easy mark for any kind of positive attention, I immediately like her back. The daughter, Susan, on the other hand, kisses me on both cheeks, proclaiming her “vast relief” at her cousin’s recovery, but her eyes are hard and her smile is merely a variation of her sneer.

Then a man walks in. I can’t see much more than a silhouette, because the sunlight is behind him.

“Miss Mansfield,” he says. “You look remarkably well. What a pleasure to see you again, all the more so because your parents tell me you are quite recovered.”

He moves closer, and now I can see his features. “Yes, I’ve heard that, too,” I say, trying not to stare.

He flashes me a broad smile. Not bad. Not bad at all.

So this fine specimen is Mr. Edgeworth. Certainly nothing approaching the elderly widower I pictured. Mid to late thirties at the most. Dark blond hair, large hazel eyes, and a little cleft in his chin, which reminds me of Wes. I didn’t even know Wes had a cleft in his chin until he shaved off that silly goatee. Why would anyone cover up an asset like that? Speaking of assets, this guy’s aren’t too bad either. I tear my eyes away from his form-fitting knee breeches and am grateful that his eyes are on Mrs. M, who is, incredibly, giggling like a teenager.

“I quite agree with you, Mr. Edgeworth,” she says. “Jane appears to be in the peak of health.”

And suddenly it hits me that all this talk of Edgeworth, all this fuss about the dinner and what I should wear to it, isn’t about her own crush on the guy; it’s all been aimed at me.

I notice Edgeworth stealing glances at me, and suddenly I start wondering if I’m showing too much cleavage or if I’ve spilled wine on my dress. But when I let my eyes rest on him for more than a nanosecond I realize that these are approving looks. That he’s trying through eye contact to get me to join in the conversation. A few sharp looks from Mrs. Mansfield encourage me to break in, but my throat refuses to produce more than a couple of unintelligible croaks and squeaks. My palms are sweating, and my throat is dry.

It’s not like I’ve never been in blind-date situations before. But I’m one of those people who hates them and always has to be tricked into it by being invited to some gathering at which I just happen to be introduced (as if it hadn’t all been planned) to the potential man of my dreams. These particular MOMDs have ranged from the computer nerd with the handshake that felt like a limp sea anemone to the performance artist whose magnum opus was licking dry a dozen opened cans of smoked oysters. Even though I usually feel not the slightest bit of interest in the man who has been summoned to the party, the dinner, or the art opening by the well-meaning friend, I always stupidly agonize over what kind of impression I’ve made on the would-be suitor.

These mental gymnastics were particularly horrid on the few occasions I allowed myself to be persuaded to go on an actual, one-on-one blind date. In fact, I spent many hours afterward depressed because some colorless twit seemed to want to end the evening as quickly as I did. After all, what kind of a loser couldn’t even captivate a colorless twit?

Blind dates and setups of all kinds are completely useless, I long ago decided. Most intelligent men and women like to go forth into the world and stalk their own prey, choose their own mirrors of dysfunction, and repeat their own patterns of abusive relationships, without the well-meaning but futile efforts of friends.

What am I getting myself so rattled about? This whole scenario is only temporary at best, so who cares if this Edgeworth person likes me or not or is just being polite, or what my “mother” hopes for or expects. I have absolutely nothing to lose. I can look at the situation as just another interesting adventure. In fact, I can even turn it into a little experiment. What if I decided to be filled with self-confidence and poise? Wouldn’t that be a refreshing change from my usual reality?

Sure, but what if he isn’t interested in me?

What difference does it make? What if I decide to try on more than just a new face and a new body? What if I try on a new personality, too? Could it be any harder than trying on a new dress in a size larger than mine? Or, for that matter, trying on an empire-waisted, pastel-blue gown and facing the world without so much as a dab of lipstick? What couldn’t I do now, having already committed such a breach of fashion logic and lived to tell the tale? Why couldn’t I pretend to be a woman with a solid core of self-worth, who likes herself no matter what the nearest handsome man or evil mother thinks of her?

Ten

I turn to Edgeworth with a big smile and immediately join the conversation with entire words and sentences. However, I’m careful to follow his lead without asking too many questions, as I have no idea how much I’m already supposed to know about him. After all, I am an imposter in a borrowed body, and have no wish to expose myself and have to answer questions I can’t possibly answer. Which would also ruin my experiment.

Edgeworth offers his arm to me when it is time to go in to dinner, and off we go in pairs. So odd, this buddy system for the field trip to the dining room, but I have to admit I could get used to the press of Edgeworth’s arm against mine.

True to my resolution of trying out a new personality, I have no trouble talking to him throughout the meal. I don’t even lose my cool when I drop a bit of soup on my dress; I just laugh it off and ignore Mrs. M’s laser look.

Edgeworth says to me in an undertone, “Things do seem to have a way of turning upside down whenever we are in close proximity.”

“Do they?” I say with a smile.

“I must say, though, I would not have expected you of all people to be positively cheerful after such a mishap.”

He looks at me expectantly, but I am waiting for a clue to what he might mean.

“Have you forgotten how irked you were at Mrs. Randolph’s party when I had the singular misfortune to spill tea on your gown?”

He grins mischievously, tilting his head slightly. A lock of hair falls onto his forehead, and instantly I have a mental flash of a spreading wet blotch on my dress, the angry heat on my face spreading just as rapidly. It was spilt tea on a white dress, a dress from another day.

The disorientation of having a memory of myself being in this body and this period-piece world is so dizzying that I feel my hands gripping the edge of the table to keep myself from falling over.

Calm down now. Of course it isn’t an actual memory. It can’t be.

“Do forgive me,” he whispers, his hazel eyes full of concern. “It was most ungallant of me to mention it.”

“It’s not your fault. It sounds like I have some serious anger issues.”

“I, ah—I did not mean for this subject to take such a sober turn. Allow me to make amends by giving you leave to repay my clumsiness. You may aim your next errant cup of tea at my coat, Miss Mansfield.”

I laugh. “I appreciate your generous offer, but I’d rather you didn’t tempt me. We rage-aholics must swear off such pleasures.”

I see Mrs. Mansfield’s ears prick up at the sound of the word “offer,” and I smile inwardly, reminded of Mrs. Jennings believing she’s overheard Colonel Brandon proposing to Elinor in Sense and Sensibility.

After some vigorous whispering between Mrs. M and her sister, who is sitting a little closer to me, Mrs. M appears to have got the message that Edgeworth’s offer was not of the matrimonial kind.

As dinner progresses, Edgeworth continually asks what I think about things, small things like the warm weather or whether I like to take my time with a book or read it as quickly as I can. He seems to be genuinely interested in what I have to say, unlike most of the men I’ve been attracted to. Frank liked to hold forth to me on a regular basis; I called it his “lecture mode,” but he couldn’t care less about what I might think or say about the subjects of his lectures. Wes was different, though. With him I usually did most of the talking, and he was more attentive and solicitous of my opinions than just about anyone. Including Paula, who is often so caught up in venting her own woes that I’m lucky if I get to offer her thirty seconds of advice. But after Frank and I split, she was my self-appointed heartbreak doctor. She’d bring me takeout, force me to eat, drag me out dancing, fill me up with martinis, and hold my head as I vomited out everything I’d eaten and drunk.

Edgeworth interrupts this most inappropriate reverie for the dinner table by talking about art. I chime in with stuff about Renaissance painting that I learned from the two college art history classes I took, and I can tell Edgeworth is impressed. There isn’t much I usually feel knowledgeable about, particularly current events. Which is why I often end up at dinner parties off in a corner playing with the family pet or baby, or helping out in the kitchen.

But here, in an environment without television, radio, or the Internet, I don’t have to worry much about sounding ignorant of the latest crisis in foreign policy. Not that there’s any talk of politics at this table; I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be considered appropriate conversation for the ladies. All right, I’ll admit it. It’s easier for me to try on my new personality of self-assurance in this reality than it is back in L.A. And yes, I’m aware that said self-assurance is purchased with ignorance and sexism. I am a sell-out. I might as well be one of those complacent veiled women from The Handmaid’s Tale.

Edgeworth catches my eye and smiles, and I decide to stop inwardly composing the feminist world court’s prosecutorial summation to the jury. I’d rather talk about art and gaze at that cleft in Edgeworth’s chin when I’m not melting into his hazel eyes.

Speaking of eyes, I feel more than just Edgeworth’s on me. I look around the table and see that the heretofore poker-faced Mr. Mansfield has paused in his methodical shoveling of food to catch my eye and raise his eyebrows in what appears to be mild surprise. Susan Randolph is narrowly observing me, too. And Mrs. M is whispering to her sister, whose eyes dart in my direction as well.

But if Edgeworth is aware of all the observation, his conversation is no indicator. He segues from painting to reading, saying that he cannot understand why so many of his friends regard novels as an inferior class of writing; lately he has learned to fill many an hour absorbed in a novel, and he is eager to read more. I agree, of course, though I can contribute little in terms of knowing what is currently being read, except for Pride and Prejudice, that is. I mention Sense and Sensibility, too, because it is the only other Jane Austen book published to date. I decide not to mention Fanny Burney, because I found Camilla about as compelling as one of those eighteenth-century paintings of frou-frou femmes on a swing surrounded by fat-faced cherubs. As for Maria Edgeworth, I got through Belinda but was definitely underwhelmed, and for all you know she’s one of his relatives. I loved Tom Jones—but that is already almost a hundred years old in 1813. The truth is, most of what I’ve read doesn’t even exist yet.

Edgeworth asks me what I think of Pride and Prejudice, and I expound, in true-believer fashion, on how exciting the story is and how realistic the author’s portrayals of human nature are. Edgeworth hasn’t read it yet, but says he now looks forward to doing so.

Susan Randolph, who’s been eyeing us for some time, says, “Mr. Edgeworth, I counsel you against such pursuits, though your name may account for your tastes in reading.”

“Thank you for your hints, Miss Randolph, though I bear no relationship to the Mrs. Edgeworth to whom you allude.”

“Nevertheless,” says Susan, “the authoress of Pride and Prejudice would have you believe that women think of nothing else but marriage.”

“You do not approve of the book?”

“There is nothing to approve in a book wherein all the females spend their days dreaming of being married, scheming to be married, or lamenting because they are not married. That is a narrow and confining portrait of my sex of which I certainly do not approve.”

I take a long swallow of wine to calm down. I don’t buy this burst of sisterhood, not from a woman who could look at another woman with that reptilian chill.

Edgeworth glances at me and clears his throat. “Well, then. Did either of you ladies find The Mysteries of Udolpho amusing?”

I am unable to contain myself. “It is obvious to me, Susan, that the author means to take a humorous stab at the cold and calculating marriage market for which women are bred, and at the same time acknowledges that marriage is actually one of the few career choices for women of her time. Nevertheless, I believe she prizes love, and marriage for love, above all else.”

Susan laughs. “And I believe she condones a woman’s right to aspire to a situation far above what she was bred to do. First there is marriage above one’s level of fortune. Then there is marriage above one’s rank.”

I roll my eyes. “Dear me. What’s this world coming to?”

“Exactly. The more silly novels young women read, the more silly notions fill their heads. If you ask me, cousin, I believe you read too many novels for your own good.”

“And if you ask me, cousin, I’ll tell you what a clever character in a clever novel I read once said: ‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’ As for that post-feminist Camille Paglia crap, you twentysomethings seem to forget that if it weren’t for women aspiring to situations far above what they were bred to do, we’d still be pumping out a kid a year and squeezing ourselves into corsets. If I were you—”

Suddenly I realize the table has gone completely silent. I look around me, and everyone is staring. I catch the eye of Mr. Mansfield, whose wineglass has frozen halfway to his mouth. He clears his throat and raises his glass to Mrs. Randolph. “What spirited young women our daughters are, eh, sister?”

Mrs. Randolph laughs feebly, reaching for her wineglass but knocking it over instead. In the ensuing bustle of footmen mopping up the mess, and Mrs. Mansfield offering to tell a story of how she once got a wine stain out of a white gown, the tension is broken.

Ah well, in vino veritas.

I see Susan shake her red curls smugly at Edgeworth, as if to say, I told you so. As soon as her attention is elsewhere, however, Edgeworth whispers to me, “I cannot say I comprehend all your allusions, Miss Mansfield, but I do admire the spirit of your expression.”

Looking into those warm hazel eyes is much more pleasant than sparring with Susan.

He is the last guest to leave, and when his carriage is finally announced, he bows his good night to me. As he raises his head, that lock of hair falls onto his forehead again, and I am gripped by a sensation I can hardly define. Suddenly I see him with different eyes. He is no longer an attractive man who shares my interests. He is a disingenuous flirt.

I fumble my way through the good-byes, the ceremoniousness of it all, through Edgeworth’s promises to call on us the next morning and Mrs. Mansfield’s honeyed replies. After he leaves, I endure Mrs. Mansfield’s regaling me ad nauseum with the various successes of the evening and the charms of Mr. Edgeworth, as if I weren’t present to see it all myself.

“But,” she adds, “I could hardly keep my countenance when my niece rattled on about women scheming to be married. We shall see how long her high and mighty airs last. Three seasons in London and still she is unmarried. Well, you have had more than that, yet here you are. No one quite good enough for you. I had almost given up hope until Mr. Edgeworth moved into the neighborhood. And then you nearly threw it all away. It is a wonder he has endured it. However, you were quite agreeable to him tonight. Though I am ashamed of you for indulging in that nonsensical outburst. Men do not find harpies attractive.”

I roll my eyes and turn my back on her.

“Look at me, Jane.”

I don’t.

“Very well. But if I were you, I would take great care not to speak nonsense. You never know how it might be interpreted. And what might happen as a result.”

I whip my head around, and the malevolence in her eyes makes my stomach drop.

“Good night, my dear,” she says sweetly, closing my door. I tell myself her threats are idle; after all, what would she gain from bringing upon herself the shame of having me committed? But then I remember what she had said about telling everyone I died as a result of my riding accident, and I go cold all over with fear. I really must watch myself—especially around her.

After I hear her footsteps terminate at her own bedroom door, I sneak down to the drawing room to spend a solitary half hour musing over Mrs. Mansfield’s threats, as well as her allusions to my past with Edgeworth and my odd reaction to him when he said good night.