Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life (19 page)

Adam had told me about a high-end pawnbroker in Mayfair, and the transaction took hardly any time at all. I left the store with a purse full of cash and nerves wound tighter than a drum.

Walking was good. It calmed my nerves. I dodged middle-aged tourists in golf shirts and Rockport walking shoes, groups of schoolchildren on field trips herded along by harried-looking teachers, and lovers strolling so close together that I was amazed they could still walk when their bodies were so
entwined. I made my way to Old Bond Street and its luxurious shops. Finally, I found the one I was looking for.

Chanel
.

If I was going to be bad, I might as well be terrible.

The designer clothing that I'd once worn had all been selected and brought home by Edward. At the time, I thought he was an amazing husband for indulging me so extravagantly. Only after the kitchen-table day did I begin to see his indulgence as a need for control rather than a wish to please me. Consequently, I'd never been inside a designer boutique before, and I'd certainly never contemplated doing so in jeans and tennis shoes. But I'd faced the biggest humiliation I could ever encounter--the look of pity that my teaching assistant had given me over Edward's naked shoulder. She hadn't even had the grace, or the sense of self-preservation, to lower her gaze in shame. After that, what could I suffer at the hands of a snobby salesgirl that could possibly be any worse?

The front of the boutique was white, marble probably, with black trim and the simple but famous name above the door in the familiar Chanel font. I ducked inside, prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. The best being, of course, a ridiculously flattering dress that would make Barry drool, bought at a less-than-astronomical price. Even Tiffany rings could only carry a girl so far.

The sales assistant who came forward, elegantly named Jacqueline, was a sweetheart, as we would have said back
home. She ushered me into the depths of the shop, seated me on a comfortable chair, and paraded a bevy of utterly gorgeous dresses before me. Silks and satins, classic and more avant-garde. After fifteen minutes, I had to shut my mouth to keep from drooling. I was too scared to ask about prices. After all, if you walked into Chanel, money should be no object.

Despite my adoration of each and every dress, though, nothing seemed quite right. And then Jacqueline produced The One.

The dress was classic Chanel. A pale pink satin slip dress covered with the sheerest black chiffon. Thin black straps that held up a gathered bodice, its rather low decollete emphasized by the wide black satin band at the empire waist. The diaphanous chiffon skirt would graze just above my knee, while the satin underneath would feel like a sensuous second skin. It was like a black and pink Jane Austen minidress. I was in heaven, or as near to it as Chanel could take me.

Trying the thing on only made it worse. It fit perfectly, and the pink was the perfect shade for my skin tone. For the first time in almost a year, I felt pretty. Desirable. Worthy of attention. I knew that I wasn't supposed to invest my self-esteem in fashion, but when a dress made you look that good, how could you not?

"I'll take it," I said to Jacqueline when I emerged from the dressing room.

My hand trembled as I handed over the fat wad of pound notes, hoping it would be enough. I waited, held my breath,
watched Jacqueline's impeccably made-up face as she counted out the money. And then she looked up and smiled at me before handing some back.

"Bien," she said and handed me the bag containing my dress. "Now, you are ready to bring him to his knees," she said with a knowing look as she escorted me to the door.

"Bring who to his knees?" I asked, startled.

"The man you are seeing tonight. You will be perfection,
non?
"

I smiled, and then I laughed. "Honestly, I just needed something for the theater--"

"Yes, yes, of course. That is what you will tell him when he sees you and cannot breathe. You are so
magnifique
."

Every woman should get to shop at Chanel on a regular basis, I decided as I waved good-bye to Jacqueline and headed down the street. I still had other purchases to make. Shoes. Jewelry. Maybe a pashmina or shawl of some sort in case the theater or the restaurant was chilly. I hadn't done this kind of shopping, girly shopping, in a long time.

Edward had preferred me to dress in tailored, sensible clothes that I usually ordered off the Internet. But Edward was no more, and now I could make my own choices. As I made my way toward Regent Street, yet another amazing length of shops, I felt a little dizzy, like a dancer who'd been spun too many times around the floor by her partner. Like I had felt when Adam whirled me across the ballroom in Bath.

I hadn't bought the dress for him, of course. He would
never even see me in it. But Jacqueline's words, coupled with the image of Adam on his knees, didn't help to make me any steadier on my feet as I made my way through the streets of London.

T
he theater where
The Rivals
was playing was set just off Shaftesbury Avenue. Like most London theaters, it was old, slightly shabby, somewhat musty, and completely wonderful. From the dark paneling, the ruby-red carpets, and the gilt light fixtures to the broad steps that led up to the balconies, the whole thing reeked of culture and magic and mystery. Theater had been one thing Edward and I had seen eye to eye on.

When I approached the main doors, I saw Barry, waiting impatiently. I could tell he was impatient because he glanced at his watch three times in the fifteen seconds it took me to reach him. I wasn't even late, but if he was worried I might stand him up, I felt flattered.

And then he saw me. His jaw dropped, and the exhausting afternoon of shopping and my tired, sore feet were worth it. I'd even sneaked in a semifree makeover at one of the beauty
counters at Selfridges, along with a quick visit to the salon for a blowout. The makeover had been semifree because I'd felt so guilty after the saleswoman made me look so fabulous that I had to buy something. The proceeds from my rings held up well under the strain.

"You look amazing," Barry said, his green eyes lit with pure masculine appreciation. Nothing could have boosted my ego more.

"Thanks. You look pretty spiffy yourself." He was wearing khakis and a navy blazer with a striped shirt open at the collar. No necktie for a Hemingway kind of guy. "Although won't they object at the Ivy?" I nodded toward his collar.

"They never have before," he said with a wry grin. He fished in his pocket and produced a tie, coiled neatly so it wouldn't wrinkle.

"You really got the table?"

"You doubted me?"

We both laughed, and then he offered me his arm and we headed into the theater. After ordering our drinks for the interval at the bar, we made our way to our seats. London theaters were clearly built when people were much, much smaller, so the moment we sat down, our shoulders made contact. Barry turned and smiled at me, and I was glad that my broken heart made me immune to his charms. If I'd still believed in handsome heroes, Barry could have done a number on my heart to rival Edward's performance. But for now, I was safe, I was making progress in my quest, and I felt beautiful for the first time in a long time.

I should have known better than to let my guard down.

"Excuse me." A voice to my right, a voice attached to a very nice gray pin-striped suit, interrupted my contentment. I half stood to allow the man to shuffle between my knees and the row of seats in front of me. And then I realized who the man was.

"Adam!"

He was looking at me strangely, and I'm sure I was returning the favor. I straightened to a standing position, which still left me a good half foot shorter than him.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, unable to come up with anything less cliched.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Apparently, Adam couldn't do any better, cliche-wise. He was clean shaven and looked amazing in a suit and tie. In all our time as grad students, I had never seen him wearing anything more formal than a polo shirt. "You didn't tell me you were going to the theater tonight."

"I didn't know."

And then Adam noticed Barry sitting next to me. Barry, too, rose to his feet. "Are you a friend of Emma's? Pleasure to meet you."

They shook hands, and then Barry placed a possessive hand on the small of my back. Adam bristled. And I wanted to slide beneath the seats and slither to the nearest exit.

"I'll just take my seat." Adam squeezed past Barry and then stopped. He looked at the ticket at his hand, and then at the number on the seat. And then I heard the sound of fate locking
into place. Mrs. Parrot. It had to be. She was the only other person in the world who knew where I was. And apparently she knew Adam as well, because she had to have given him the ticket.

"This is me," Adam said, gesturing toward the seat next to Barry.

"Great," Barry said, although he didn't look all that excited.

"Em, you should trade with me. Sit between us."

And that's how it happened, how I came to be wedged between Barry's broad shoulder on my right and Adam's even broader one on my left, even as my mind whirled, trying to make sense of it all. I didn't need the pashmina I'd bought earlier. We were packed in like sardines, and the last thing I would have to worry about was catching a chill.

Mercifully, the house lights dimmed and the play began. I had forgotten the plot of
The Rivals
, but all it took was the opening scene to jog my memory. Jane Austen would have been quite familiar with Sheridan's play, and her family, who loved to put on theatricals of all kinds, might have enacted it in the barn for family and friends. Their love of novels, that somewhat scandalous new format in the late eighteenth century, had been exceeded only by their love of the theater.

The Rivals
centered around a young heroine, Lydia Languish, who was determined to marry a poor soldier, in keeping with her rather foolish notions of romance. The hero, an army captain and the son of a gentleman, disguises himself as a lowly ensign to win her heart. Much hilarity ensues, along
with mistaken identities, false suitors, and other farcical conventions. But in the end, Lydia casts aside her romantic notions of poverty and marries the wealthy Captain Jack Absolute like any woman of sense would do.

I was smiling before the principals even walked onstage. Mrs. Parrot was sending me yet another message, but as with Adam's presence, I was uncertain of its exact meaning. Had Jane Austen been like Lydia Languish, enamored of Jack Smith in part because of his impoverished state?

From the letters I'd seen so far, he had clearly been a penniless naval lieutenant hoping to make his fortune through his share of captured treasure. I knew it had been the practice at the time that if an English ship captured an enemy vessel, the spoils were divided among the crew according to rank. Many men had become gentlemen of fortune and property by such means during the course of the Napoleonic Wars. Had Jack been among them? And if not, had Jane rejected him for his lack of fortune?

I tried to focus on the play, to decipher Mrs. Parrot's meaning, but the men on either side of me proved a significant distraction. At one point, early in the first act, Barry slipped his arm around me, his hand resting on my shoulder where I was wedged against Adam. Adam shot me a sideways look, and even in the darkness, I could see his disapproval. But was his condemnation on general terms or on his own account? And what was his connection to Mrs. Parrot?

By the time intermission arrived, I was so tense that I could
barely straighten my legs to stand. Thankfully, Barry was too self-absorbed to notice.

"Ready for that drink?" he said as we made our way toward the aisle. I was ready to bolt for freedom, but Adam's voice stopped me.

"If you don't mind, I'll join you since I'm on my own."

Barry shrugged. "Suit yourself. You'll have to wait at the bar, though."

"Actually, you can have my drink," I said before I could think through what I was saying. "I'm not thirsty. And I need to find the ladies' room."

I stumbled past Barry and practically ran up the aisle, trying not to bump and jostle the other patrons in my rush to escape. I moved so fast, in fact, that I made it to the restroom before all the stalls were full. I slipped inside the nearest one and locked the door behind me, shut the toilet lid and collapsed on the seat.

Why was Adam there? I thought back over the past few days. His presence in London. Running into him in South Kensington that first morning I went to Mrs. Parrot's. His willingness to drive me to Steventon, as well as to accompany me to Bath. His failure to turn up for lunch at Sally Lunn's. His own mysterious disappearances and late-nights on the computer. And finally his presence in the theater at that very moment.

A shiver ran across my bare arms. Adam must be in the hands of the Formidables too.

It all made sense. He was after the letters, just as I was. In
his work on Sir Walter Scott, he could have stumbled across Mrs. Parrot, just as I had. Not easily, but it wasn't beyond the bounds of reason. Adam wasn't only a threat to my heart. He was a threat to any hope I had of restoring my career.