Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (10 page)

“He said he was sorry for her but had no intention of taking on another man’s duties. He is the most unfeeling creature I have ever known.”

Mary is almost shaking with rage.

I say, as gently as I can, “Why do you hate him so much?”

She looks at me uncomprehendingly. “How can you ask such a question? You know as well as I that he has ruined my only chance at happiness.”

She swipes at a tear and pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. I don’t dare ask her what it was her brother did, or supposedly did, as it’s clearly something I’m supposed to know.

The winding path we’ve been following has led us to a pond. There is a wisp of a breeze, the first hint of a respite from the heat. “Why don’t we sit for a minute?” I say. “The grass looks dry here, and I’m about to drop from this heat.”

Mary silently assents, and we arrange ourselves on the grass, no small task with tightly laced stays forcing my upper torso into an unbending position.

For a while we sit looking at the sparkling water and listening to the singing of birds. There is not another person in sight. The air is soft on my face, and a delicate breeze begins to cool my skin a bit, though it would take a much cooler and stronger wind than this to penetrate the damp, lace-up contraption around my middle.

Mary suddenly squeezes my hand.

“Jane, do forgive my outburst. Only you know what has disposed you to give Charles the benefit of the doubt, despite all evidence to the contrary. But do take care, dearest friend. Be observant of Charles’s behavior, not just to you, but to others. Let your observations of him—past and present—be your guide.”

There’s nothing unreasonable about that piece of advice. And I have to admit there is something about her (despite all the sexual prissiness, which really isn’t her fault anyway) that I find genuine and artless.

“Don’t worry about me, Mary. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh really?” Mary gives me a playful tap on the arm. “Is that why you tumbled from your horse after that dreadful fortune-teller warned you against riding in summer?”

“Fortune-teller?”

Mary’s eyes narrow. “You cannot have forgotten. You were pale as a ghost when you left her tent.”

There must be something I can say that will satisfy both her and my curiosity. “It was a bad fall, you know. I’ve been forgetting things lately.”

“My dear Jane!”

“Nothing to worry about. The doctor says the memory loss is temporary.”

“So you really do not remember that fortune-teller at the fair?”

“Just bits and pieces…nothing of any substance.”

I’m evidently becoming a skilled liar, for Mary looks convinced.

“Do tell me what she said, Mary. I love that silly stuff, don’t you?”

Mary shivers slightly, despite the heat, and looks me straight in the eyes. “Not anymore. You only consented to see her because I particularly urged you. What a good joke it would be, I said. And you replied that you would think so, too, but only if the good woman fulfilled your wish to be someone else. Which, it almost seems, has actually come to pass.” Her words choke off in her throat, and she hides her face from me.

I move to put my arm around her shoulder, but she waves me away.

“Do forgive me, Jane. Of course you are not yourself right now.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re right. More right than you can ever know. I wish…”

No. No way.

“What is it, dearest friend?” At this moment, her eyes are like Anna’s were that night I found out about Frank.

“I can’t tell you.”

“But you want to, I can see it.”

Can I trust her?

I take a deep breath and look at her face, and see only concern in her brown eyes. “Promise me you won’t repeat a word.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “My dear, you insult me. But you are serious, I can see it in your face. Of course I promise. But you make me anxious indeed with all this ceremony.”

“I warn you. You might not believe what I have to say.”

“You torture me, Jane.”

I take a deep breath. Here goes. “I know I look like Jane and talk like Jane, but I am not Jane. I know this sounds absurd, but I am actually someone else. I woke up one day, and I was literally in a different body, and in a different life. I have no explanation, but it is the truth. I swear it.”

Mary eyes me narrowly, searching my face. “And what of this memory loss you mentioned? Could that not be the explanation?”

“I only said I lost some memories because I couldn’t think of a better way to explain my lack of knowledge. Jane’s entire life is a blank to me. My memories are of a different life, of a different person.”

Mary is silent for a few moments.

“I believe you think you are telling the truth, Jane. But might not this indeed be a severe case of memory loss, which, I understand, is not uncommon after such a fall as yours? And might not the rest be a product of your own confusion? And a most understandable confusion at that?”

“No, I don’t see it that way, though I understand why you would. And if you’re wondering about my sanity, I assure you that I’m perfectly rational, though I understand that to your ears my words must sound like the very definition of irrational.”

I watch Mary for her reaction. She sighs and looks puzzled, but there is still warmth in every look and gesture. “I will not insult you with anything less than the truth,” she says. “I do believe you are sincere. And for that I am sorry for you. I also believe that in time, your memories will return in full, and your confusion will be at an end. Until then, and forever, if you wish it, I remain your friend.”

I tear up, overcome. “You cannot imagine how I’ve felt these past weeks. No one to confide in. Afraid I’d be locked up in some asylum.”

“My poor dear girl.” She puts her arm around my shoulder.

“May I talk to you about this from time to time? Ask you about things Jane would remember?”

Mary smoothes her dress and gives me a sly look. “Provided you do not refer to yourself in the third person. It is too strange. Agreed?”

I nod my assent, and I can’t help but smile.

“I promise I will try to help you remember everything. It will all turn out well. I know it will.”

I hug her, my heart swelling with gratitude.

As we walk back toward the carriage, arm in arm, I’m energized in a way I haven’t been since my arrival. To have a friend here, someone in whom I can confide without fear of betrayal or ridicule. It’s beyond anything I’ve allowed myself to hope for.

Still, the demon voices who have always second-guessed anything positive in my life begin to clamor for my attention. What if I’m wrong? What if she turns on me, decides to report what I’ve told her to Mrs. Mansfield? What if she decides I’d be better off in an asylum? Maybe even does it out of some misguided feelings of friendship?

No. I won’t worry about that happening. Besides, it would be her word against mine. No one else will know of our talks. And I don’t ever have to put anything down in a letter.

She did warn me to take care, didn’t she?

Eighteen

I n preparation for Edgeworth’s dinner party, Barnes laces and hooks me into a filmy white gown that makes me look like a virgin bride, something I never thought I’d say about myself. But then again, as I regard my reflection in the mirror, I am anything but myself.

The carriage ride to Edgeworth’s estate takes us through a long, shady lane with dense woods on either side. As we round a curve in the road, Mrs. Mansfield nudges me and raises an eyebrow, and a monumental house is revealed. It’s Pemberley, for God’s sake.

“Fifteen thousand a year, my dear,” says Mrs. M. “Can you imagine such riches?”

“Uh, that would be a big negative.” But that, of course, is a big lie. I feel like Elizabeth Bennet when she sees Darcy’s house after having turned down his proposal. And of this place, thought she, I might have been mistress!

Mrs. M opens her mouth to speak, but Mr. M cuts in. “I may not have fifteen thousand a year, but I daresay our daughter hardly lives in deprivation.”

“That is not what I meant at all,” Mrs. Mansfield huffs. “Nevertheless, it is a daughter’s duty to marry well, thus ensuring the welfare of future generations.”

“With such a burden to shoulder, it is a wonder that young girls choose to wed at all.”

At this, he catches my eye with a little wink, and I try not to laugh.

Mrs. M fumes. “Your daughter is hardly a young girl.”

I press my hands against my temples. “Would you two kindly refrain from disparaging my advanced age? You’re making my head throb.”

“Now, Jane, mind you not ignore Mr. Edgeworth and pay all your attentions to his sister,” says Mrs. M, apparently heedless of the possibility that her daughter could be suffering the after-effects of a near-fatal head injury. “Though I do suppose she must be lonely without parents and only one brother. But with such a plain face and masculine voice, her chances of finding a husband who is amiable as well as rich are slim.”

“I happen to like her voice. And so do a lot of men, I imagine.”

Mrs. M snorts her derision. I steal a glance at Mr. Mansfield, who keeps his gaze on the green expanse of Edgeworth’s lawns. Thankfully, we reach the house in another minute.

A liveried footman with a powdered wig shows us through a marble entryway and into an elegant drawing room decorated in muted shades of yellow and blue. Edgeworth and Mary are waiting for us with welcoming smiles and no apparent tension between the two of them.

We are the first, but not the only guests to arrive. Their cousins, a nondescript, thirtysomething man named Mr. Talbot, and his sister, Anne Talbot, a pretty girl of about seventeen, all arms and long neck in her pink puff-sleeved dress, enter the room a few minutes after our arrival. They are with their mother, a bustling woman in a peach silk gown whose fluttering eyelashes as she greets Mr. Mansfield make him clear his throat and look down at his shoes. In my world she’d be one of those fiftyish Beverly Hills matrons who dress like their daughters and still turn heads, but minus the airbrushed Botox freeze.

“Miss Mansfield,” she says as she crosses the room to the butter-yellow sofa where her daughter has gingerly placed herself next to me, and maneuvers herself between the two of us. “You are every bit as pretty as my niece said you were.” Her smile reveals a gap between her slightly protruding front teeth, which is sort of girlishly sexy.

Before I can open my mouth to reply, she says, “What a pleasure it is to be once again in the quiet of the country, after enduring the rushing about of Anne’s first season in London. They say it is a trial for the girls, but I dare say it is far worse for their poor mothers, who must sacrifice every hour to the endless crush of parties, dinners, and balls. I am sure you can hardly imagine having to endure such exhaustion at your time of life, Miss Jane.”

My shoulders stiffen. “Actually, I love to party.”

Her mouth opens as if to speak, then she purses her lips. “I see.”

She fans herself rapidly, then flashes me another smile. “A party of respectable people is always a delightful thing, especially when the host is an angel. Do you not agree, Miss Mansfield, that my dear Charles is such a man?”

Edgeworth, who is standing by the massive marble fireplace talking with Mr. M, overhears his name and bows in our direction, then catches my eye with a slight roll of his own.

Mrs. Talbot begins speaking in a sort of stage whisper. “Why, I only had to mention how knocked up with the gout my poor husband is, and dear Charles insisted on riding over to Hargrove Court.”

“Oh, is that a retirement home?”

“I suppose its situation might be called retired, but Hargrove Court is my dear Mr. Talbot’s ancestral home. Mr. Talbot, of course, is too proud to ask anyone for advice, but I know he will be gladdened at the sight of his favorite nephew, who has offered his services in some matters of business. You know how men can be about business, always shutting themselves up in the library and talking about I don’t know what for hours.” She gives me a conspiratorial look.

Another bewigged footman appears in the doorway to announce dinner, his voice as somber as that of a mortician greeting mourners arriving at a funeral. As we troop into the dining room, Mary sidles up to whisper in my ear. “Do forgive me for seating you next to my aunt Talbot; she insisted upon it.” To which I can only sigh. I’ve barely had a chance to observe Edgeworth, let alone spend any time with him.

The meal itself is staggering in its sheer proportions. By now I’m used to seeing a ridiculous number of dishes on the table at the Mansfields’. At first I was shocked by the sheer waste; the table and sideboard were always filled with more dishes than five times the people there could possibly consume. I was relieved when I realized that no one was expected to eat every dish. Otherwise, everyone would be hopelessly obese and constantly drunk, since the quantity and variety of wine served is also remarkable. As it is, I can hardly believe the capacity for alcohol these people have, even the women, though they usually water down their wine. As for the food, I stopped fooling myself about imaginary calories and began to watch my own intake after I noticed this body was the not-so-proud owner of a burgeoning pot belly.

Nothing prepares me, however, for what we’re served at the Edgeworths’. I lose count of the number of dishes, which are changed at least three times. I also lose count of how many times Mrs. Talbot either brags about her daughter’s accomplishments or praises Edgeworth for his many fine qualities. It’s almost as if she has a crush on her own nephew.

She reminds me of Frank’s mother, who, at our engagement dinner, talked to me incessantly about what a catch Wes was. Not her son, whom I was going to marry, but Wes, his best friend. Did I understand why such an extraordinarily good-looking young man such as Wes was still unattached? Did I know Wes had once saved her husband’s life when he choked on a piece of steak? And did I know that Wes used to carry her grocery bags to the car when he had his high school summer job at the Safeway?

Poor Wes, looking like he was about to crawl under the table, while Frank just continued to throw back shots of tequila and pretend there was nothing odd about his mother’s praising his best friend to his bride-to-be, rather than praising her own son.

The scrape of the chair next to me brings me back to the present; Mrs. Talbot is standing, as are the other women, and I scramble to my feet for the after-dinner exodus to the drawing room. Just what are the men going to talk about when we leave the room? Discuss sexual exploits? Tell dirty jokes and guffaw through clouds of cigar smoke? Give me my after-dinner cigarette any day over a stinky cigar.

Which is another thing. Though there are moments when I imagine putting a cigarette between my lips and taking in a soothing lungful of nicotine, I haven’t had any actual withdrawal symptoms since being here. The other times I quit, and voluntarily at that, I was so edgy I bit my cuticles until they bled and felt myself fully capable of committing indiscriminate murder with the nearest sharp object. Here, however, not smoking has been easier than I would ever imagine. And that’s a good thing, because even if there were a cigarette available, I imagine lighting it up would be out of the question.

In the drawing room, Mary extricates me from Mrs. Talbot’s grasp by luring her into a conversation with Mrs. Mansfield about the latest fashions in London. I gather that dresses with a waistline are not yet in the cards, however, and my eyes glaze over as Mrs. Talbot describes the latest sensation in ribbon trimmings.

By the time Mary sinks down next to me on the sofa, she hardly has time to apologize for my situation before the men join us.

“Do join me for a drive in my carriage tomorrow,” she says. “We can really talk then.”

As soon as Mary makes sure all her guests have coffee or tea, she sits down on the sofa next to me again, only to be called from it this time by her brother.

“Would you favor us with some music, Mary? I am sure our guests would enjoy hearing your new pianoforte.”

Which I suppose was a special gift he bought for his sister? Like Darcy did for his sister?

I can see that Mary isn’t pleased, but when the rest of the guests add their own entreaties to her brother’s, she shifts gears and heads toward the pianoforte as if she has no other desire in life. The Actors Studio could take a few lessons from her.

Edgeworth now heads over to me, where he takes the place Mary vacated. I catch a poisonous glare from Mrs. Talbot, upon which she instantly morphs her face into a display of teeth and dimples. What’s up with that woman?

My stomach flutters as Edgeworth settles into his seat and smiles at me. He smells like soap and freshly washed linen. His lips and cheeks are reddened, perhaps by the wine. His eyes are more brown than green in the candlelight.

Mary’s fingers strike the first note on the keyboard and I look up at her; she quickly casts down her eyes, in the way that one does when caught staring.

Edgeworth whispers in my ear, “I believe a commendation for bravery is in order for you, Miss Mansfield. It is said that the wife of an émigré French nobleman volunteered for the guillotine rather than be seated next to a certain lady at dinner.”

I muffle an explosion of laughter and have to take several deep breaths before I can allow myself to look at him. His sly smile almost sets me off again.

Then a lock of hair falls over his forehead, and as he reaches up to smooth it back into place, the music fades and I see him making this same gesture as he leaves the stables. Again, he walks toward my hiding place, my heart pounding as he comes closer, and at the last second he turns. My face burns as a slim young woman emerges from the stables, strands of auburn hair falling down around her face, her apron flecked with bits of straw. She catches up to Edgeworth, her hand reaching out for him, her smile confident. He stops her hand, then brings it to his lips in a courtly gesture. He rushes off, brushing straw from his clothes and looking around as if to make sure he is unobserved, while I tremble in my hiding place, leaden and hollow.

The applause from the dinner guests brings me back to where I am. I am the only one who isn’t clapping, and I realize that Edgeworth is staring at me. I give him a cold glance and clap dutifully.

“Are you unwell?” he asks in an undertone.

“Is that all you people ever ask?” I spring out of my seat and go to Mary at the pianoforte to tell her how much I enjoyed her playing, even though I heard almost none of it. While the others chime in with their own praise, I steal a glance at Edgeworth, who is trying to put on a brave face but keeps glancing at me with wounded eyes.

Thankfully, the evening is soon over, because I can barely allow myself to look at him. In the carriage, I am silent while Mrs. M rhapsodizes over Edgeworth’s coming to sit next to me in the drawing room. All I want is to be alone and quiet so I can figure out what I’m feeling.