Writing Jane Austen

She never dreamed she would be
WRITING JANE AUSTEN…

“Georgina tried to keep her voice low and reasonable. Livia was in la-la land, but with the right approach, she must be able to make her agent understand how impossible it was. ‘You don’t understand, I’m not being wilful nor ungrateful. It’s can’t, not won’t. I’m not capable of writing a book like Jane Austen. Oh, there are just so many reasons why I’m not the right person for this,’ she finished, knowing how weak it sounded, but determined not to reveal exactly why Livia and Dan had chosen the wrong writer to do the job. . . .”

Praise for
Mr. Darcy’s Dream

“Miss Jane Austen would be very comfortable in Ms. Elizabeth’s Aston’s world.”

—Historical Novels Review

“With the author’s excellent knowledge of Jane Austen… witty dialogue… and a charming cast of characters.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“A perfectly charming read… the story has all the delights of an old friend with the fascination of a new one.”

—Romantic Times

Praise for
Mr. Darcy’s Daughters

“There is a comfortable charm in revisiting this simpler world, where a misunderstood glance can turn the plot… a bit like cotton candy at the fair.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Those who enjoy Austen… will certainly enjoy Aston’s work.”

—Library Journal

Praise for
The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy

“Delightful… captivating.”

—Publishers Weekly

Praise for
The True Darcy Spirit

“For Jane Austen lovers… Light historical romance with the benefit of a sterling pedigree.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Praise for
The Second Mrs. Darcy

“Aston writes smoothly, with wit and humor.”

—Library Journal

“Makes for good reading. Fans of the series will enjoy this chronicle of reversals of fortune.”

—Publishers Weekly

Praise for
The Darcy Connection

“Utterly charming, with all the verve, humor and Austenian turns of plot one expects from Aston.”

—Publishers Weekly

Also by Elizabeth Aston

Mr. Darcy’s Daughters

The Exploits and Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy

The True Darcy Spirit

The Second Mrs. Darcy

The Darcy Connection

Mr. Darcy’s Dream

A Novel

Elizabeth Aston

Touchstone A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by AEB Ltd.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Touchstone trade paperback edition April 2010

TOUCHSTONE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Designed by Renata Di Biase

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009018014

ISBN 978-1-4165-8787-3

ISBN 978-1-4165-9678-3 (ebook)

For the young ladies of Pinnace House:
Eloise Aston, Elizabeth Bonnice, and Irene Leung—
who read, encouraged, commented, and laughed.
Thank you!

Writing
Jane Austen

Email from [email protected]

To [email protected]

Ring me.

Henry stood at the door of Georgina’s room, holding a weighty textbook in one hand and marking his place with a finger. He looked at his lodger with concern. “Gina, why the screech of terror? What’s up? Why are you looking at that screen as though it had grown fangs?”

“It’s an email from Livia.”

“Okay, fangs is right. What does she want?”

“She wants me to ring her.”

“I’ll get the phone.”

“I don’t want to ring her. It’s bad news.”

“What precisely does she say in her email?”

“Ring me.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You can’t deduce from those two words that it’s bad news.”

Oh, but Georgina could. Good news, Livia rang her. Bad news, she expected the recipient to foot the cost of the call. Except that it didn’t actually cost Livia anything to make a call, it wasn’t as though Georgina were on the other side of the Atlantic.

“Wish I were in America,” she said, staring at the screen. “Or Tasmania; in the bush would be good.” Perhaps if she looked long and hard enough, the words would rearrange themselves. The message would say, Enjoy more Viagrous sex, every time. Or, You have inherited a million zoots, send us a hundred dollars and we’ll show you how to claim your rightful inheritance. Or…

Ring me.

Like Alice, faced with that bottle which was labelled
Drink me
. Only there’d be no magical change of being for Georgina. Although after a few minutes of conversation with Livia, she’d feel about two foot high, so…

Henry was back, with the phone in his hand. “Call her.”

Livia’s direct line, ringing and ringing, thank God, she’d gone out, was in a meeting. “Yes? Who? Georgina? I’m on the other line, can’t talk. Get over here. Right away. See you in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? Livia, it takes me—”

Brrrrrr.
The sound of an empty line, of a phone put down, of an agent who is too busy to talk.

“What can she want?”

Henry looked up from a page dense with equations and formulae and gave her a quizzical look. “Go and find out?”

“I suppose so. Should I take a chapter of
The Sadness of Jane Silversmith
?”

“Which of the—how many is it now?”

“Forty or so. All right, forty-eight, to be precise.”

“If she wanted to see a chapter, she’d say so. I judge she wants to see you, rather than a chapter.”

“Twenty minutes! She’s mad.”

“Less than that, in a taxi.”

“More than that by bus. I don’t do taxis except in emergencies, remember?”

“Perhaps this is an emergency. Go, okay? Taxi, underground, bus, camel, donkey, yak—just go.”

Henry went back to his study, which overlooked the street. It had been his parents’ study when they lived in the house. They now had a flat in Cambridge, overflowing with books and papers; his study was somewhat more orderly, but still the room of a man who liked to have everything at hand. He kept his desk clutter-free by dumping whatever he was finished with on to shelves and another table, where the pile of books obscured a silver framed photo of Sophie, his extraordinarily pretty girlfriend. He watched Gina, dark curls escaping from the red beret she’d thrust on her head, hurrying along the pavement beneath the autumn-coloured poplars, energy in every step. She did everything with such intensity, it must be a strain on her nerves.

It was a five-minute walk to the bus stop. There was no bus in sight, and Georgina circled the post, knowing that seconds would seem minutes and minutes hours because of her impatience. Calm down. Breathe in, then slowly out. Why wasn’t she like her landlord, Henry, imperturbable?

She had a ten-minute wait before the double-decker bus appeared. She still got a thrill from the red London buses, even after more than five years in England, and the sight of the splash of colour raised her spirits, as it always did. She climbed up to the top deck of the bus, squeezing her way past two women with shopping overflowing into the gangway, and sat down in the front seat.

The bus roared round a corner and braked violently as it joined the end of a long tailback of traffic.

The first time she’d come to London, her father had taken her for a ride on the top of a red double-decker bus, and it was the highlight of her trip. She’d been in England with her father and the second of five stepmothers on their honeymoon, but that particular stepmother hadn’t cared for London, and considered public transport
unhygienic. Georgina had been a skinny eight-year-old then, legs dangling from the seat, all huge eyes and unruly hair. The legs had grown and filled out in the right places, but the hair and eyes had stayed much the same through another three stepmothers.

Georgina didn’t remember her own mother, who had walked out on her and her father when she was six months old, taking a wardrobe of clothes and Georgina’s two-year-old brother with her.

Her first stepmother had been into pink and prettiness, and Georgina hadn’t taken kindly to being decked out in the frills and fussiness that made her look, she told her father in a fit of rage, like something just out of the poodle parlour. Number three stepmother was a hippie and way-out; her lasting legacy was teaching Georgina how to relax and tune out, which she’d done so effectually at school that there’d been talk of remedial classes. That one had gone off to India to join an ashram, presumably to assuage the materialistic guilt she must have felt over taking Georgina’s father for every penny he had.

After her had come Louise, the brightest and the best of her stepmothers. Intelligent and thoughtful, raised in a Quaker family, she had encouraged Georgina to take her studies and life seriously. Without her, there would have been no top college for Georgina, and no chance of the career as academic and writer that she now enjoyed. Although Louise, presently living the pure life with a woman friend in the wilds of Canada, would have frowned at the word
enjoyed
.
Endured
was more her style.