Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (19 page)

Thirty-one

M y whole body surges with adrenaline. If this is who I think it is—she looks, from behind, to be the right age, and I thought I caught a glimpse of brown hair as she left the shop—then there’s a good chance I’m going to faint before I reach her. This isn’t just any celebrity sighting, and living in L.A. I’ve had my share of those. She isn’t even a person in the normal sense of the word, and no matter how much celebrities are adored, it’s hard to forget they are also real people who can be caught with their tops off on a beach or trashing a hotel room after checking out of rehab. But she isn’t a person in that sense of the word. She is a legend, an icon, an object of speculation by people who have made her life their life’s work, or her work their life’s focus.

She’s also been dead for almost two hundred years.

This can’t be happening. More than the can’t-be-happening aspect of everything that is happening to me, this definitely cannot be happening.

I’ve just about caught up to her. Please let it be her.

“Excuse me, are you Miss Austen? Miss Jane Austen?”

She stops and turns around, a quietly pretty woman in her thirties, with large brown eyes; very dark, elegantly arched brows; and her face tanned to a golden brown, which strikes me as unusual. A few dark curls tumble out of one of those unflattering, matronly caps that she looks too young to be wearing, and over that is a cream-colored bonnet tied under her chin with a light green ribbon. She’s not gorgeous, but she’s far prettier than the pop-eyed portrait of her in the back of one of my books.

She shifts her parcels to the other arm, her large brown eyes unguarded. “I am she. Are we acquainted?” Her voice is clear and sweet.

Oh. My. God. It really is Jane Austen. My knees turn to jelly, and it’s all I can do to keep the tremor out of my voice. “No, but may I introduce myself? I am Jane; I mean, Miss Mansfield, and I could not help but hear the shopkeeper address you, and—”

I can feel her guard go up slightly as she sizes me up. I can see in the glinting sunlight that her large, widely set eyes are more gold than brown. She is waiting for me to speak, offering nothing to ease the awkwardness.

My stomach flutters. “I know this will sound insane, because I know that no one is supposed to know, but I am a huge fan of your books.”

She lifts her eyebrows momentarily, then composes her face and gazes at me steadily. “I do not know what you mean by ‘fan,’ and I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else. Good day.” And with that, she begins to stride briskly away.

“Please,” I say, running after her.

She doesn’t even slow her pace, so I just continue scuttling alongside her.

“You have mistaken me for someone else,” she says firmly, without looking at me or breaking her stride.

“But I know your work. Sense and Sensibility. Pride and Prejudice. Mansfield Park—”

At that she stops and faces me, naked astonishment in her eyes. Her face downshifts through a succession of emotions: fear, then incredulity, then a hard-eyed challenge.

“What do you know of Mansfield Park?”

“I’ve read it.”

“Impossible.”

“Every word.”

“It has not been published.”

“It will be.”

Her face changes again, as if going through mental calculations. Her eyes narrow. “You are a friend of Henry’s, are you not?”

“No. I just wanted you to know how honored I am to meet you, what a privilege it is, and how much your books have meant to me, will always mean to me.”

Her features soften minutely at this, and she bows her head slightly. “I wish I could thank you for the compliment, but I am sure it is meant for someone else.”

“What would you say if I told you you’re wasting your time trying to be anonymous? That two hundred years from now millions of people will have read your books, and your name will be known by many more as the author of those books? Think of it: Millions of women will dream of living the lives of your heroines and meeting heroes as handsome as Edward Ferrars.”

Here she starts to laugh, a deep, resonant laugh. “Edward Ferrars? Handsome? Are you certain you have read the books you claim I have written?”

“And seen the movies.”

“Movies.”

“Perhaps not all your heroes are that handsome in your books, but they certainly are in the movies. How else would they sell tickets?”

She is no longer smiling. Her eyes are sizing me up again. “Of what are you talking, Miss…Mansfield, is it? Or is that a joke, too?”

“I’m sorry. That was silly of me.”

She shifts her packages to her hip. “If I am to have a conversation on a public street, the least I can expect is to know the name of the person to whom I am talking.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, Jane Mansfield isn’t my real name, but that’s not why I said it was. I mean, it is my name, at least that’s what everyone insists my name is; everyone here, that is. But that’s neither here nor there. What I wanted to say is, and I know this will sound strange, but one day, people will be able to go to a theater, and instead of seeing actors on a stage, they will see actors on a screen, moving around and talking as if they were there in person, but of course they are not actually there. What they will see on the screen is merely a flat but very realistic picture of those actors.”

By now she has a distressed look on her face.

“It’s a harmless form of entertainment. You would like it,” I add desperately.

I didn’t mean to, but I sort of have her backed up against a wall and her eyes are darting around, probably in search of an escape.

“Anyway, what I really want to say is that the people who made movies of your books decided the heroes should be handsome. And that there should be a love scene at the end, you know, with kissing and an actual proposal, even though you left that sort of thing to the imagination. But see, that’s the thing about movies. Nothing is left to the imagination. You read a book, and you see a picture of the characters and the scenes in your mind. You don’t have that with a movie. It’s all either up there on the screen laid out for you, or it isn’t there at all. And you can’t blame people for wanting kissing and romance and handsome heroes, because without them they would feel a bit deprived. And don’t get me wrong, I adore your books, but sometimes even I feel a little deprived by those proposal scenes.”

She looks at me for a minute, as if hooking onto a bit of lucidity in the middle of my nonsense. And now I can see that she clearly doesn’t like that piece of lucidity. She suddenly looks much taller than before, and there’s steel in her eyes.

“You will excuse me,” she says, “but I must go.”

I move aside—I don’t dare prevent her from going—but as I watch her take her first few brisk steps I know I can’t just let her go off feeling insulted. If she would even stoop to be insulted by me, that is. Who am I to insult the greatest novelist who ever lived?

I quickly catch up alongside her. She gives out an exasperated sigh but keeps her eyes straight ahead as she strides on. I can’t believe I’ve become a stalker. Of Jane Austen.

“Forgive me, Miss Austen. I had no right to say anything that might be construed as remotely critical of your work. Not that it matters to you what I think. You probably think I’m insane, as well as rude and annoying. But I’m not. Insane, that is.”

I hear what sounds like a stifled laugh, but her face is still averted and hidden by her bonnet.

“Anyway, I just want you to know that one day you will be famous beyond your wildest imagination. And revered. Scholars will write books devoted to your work. Biographers will catalogue every detail of your life. Every word that has ever issued from your pen will be devoured by your adoring public. And still they will crave more.”

She stops walking for a moment and turns to me with the kind of smile you give to children; that is, if you are someone who doesn’t like children.

“Miss Mansfield, or whatever it is your name might be. I fear you have been reading too many novels. Consider adding a measure of less fanciful prose to your daily studies.” And with that she sails off.

I stand there watching her until she disappears around a corner. I don’t dare follow her.

I hardly know how I got back to the shop where I left Mary and Louisa. I had wandered so far down the street and was so confused as to where I’d left them that had they not had the sense to wait outside the shop, I don’t know where I would have ended up. It occurs to me, in fact, that I don’t even know Louisa’s address. But there they are, and I do my best to convince them there’s no cause for alarm. I don’t even know what I manage to say other than that I needed some air and got distracted by all the shops, which Louisa takes as further proof of my worthiness, queen of shopping that she is. Mary doesn’t look as convinced.

W e have a couple of hours to get ready for dinner and our night out, and I take the opportunity to spend some quiet time in the white vastness of the bridal suite. I’ve actually met my favorite dead author, and alive no less. And left her, no doubt, with the desire for a nineteenth-century version of a restraining order. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? Come to think of it, why didn’t I see this meeting as a chance to find a way out of this time warp or whatever it is—why didn’t I see that she could be the key to my getting back to my real life? After all, isn’t she the surest link I have between both places? I feed my Austen addiction at home to such a point that I end up not only in what could be the setting for one of her novels, but I meet the woman herself. This can’t be mere chance; it has to be the key to the mystery. But no, I waste this precious chance. I start holding forth on the pros and cons of adapting great literature to the big screen, and not just to the author of that great literature, but to the author who never gave her consent to a future world that butchers her great literature, and to the author who cannot possibly think any more of that conversation than that she had the misfortune to be cornered by a madwoman who claims to know the future.

By the time she got home she probably rationalized it all away. Or maybe I really gave her a class-A freak-out. I didn’t mean to scare her, but who knows; perhaps she’ll open her mind to the possibility that what I said was true. Maybe time is as fluid as the fortune-teller said it was, which means the future is up for grabs. Who knows; perhaps the rantings of this insane woman will influence my favorite author to make different choices. Maybe she’ll start taking credit for her books, or mix more in literary circles, and who knows how that might affect her future? Maybe she’ll meet some really interesting guy who appreciates her talents as a writer and sees her as an equal instead of breeding stock, and then she gets married, and then who knows how many other novels she writes? Maybe I won’t be limited to her six books when I get back to my own time. And so maybe my meeting with Jane Austen could accomplish something after all, even if it doesn’t give me the key to getting back my real life.

Then again, I can’t imagine that marriage could prevent the illness that ultimately kills her, but who knows what the power of love might do? On the other hand, what if she becomes so enamored of married life (or so worn out raising kids) that she doesn’t complete the rest of her books and I end up back in a future where the yet-to-be-published books never got published? Am I willing to sacrifice my own literary pleasures for the thought that my favorite author found true love?

It’s all a perverse sort of wishful thinking anyway. The anonymous lady novelist will remain the anonymous lady novelist, and the memory of the crazed prophetess she encountered on the street will fade. Stop resisting your destiny, was what the fortune-teller said. You, like everyone else, have a destiny to fulfill. Jane Austen, with those penetrating eyes, steely will, and honey-sweet voice that could rip me to shreds if she so desired, sure looked like someone determined to fulfill her destiny, and nothing, certainly not me, would take her off her course.

Is the future so depressingly set in stone? Don’t we have free will as well as destiny? Can’t Jane Austen exercise her free will and still fulfill her destiny? Can’t I go back to my own time and live in a world where she has still written all six novels or even more and died in her beloved husband’s arms? Can’t I use my own free will here to fulfill my destiny, and still get back to the place I’m supposed to be? Does that mean I’ll alter my future in my own time? Will I go back to a reality where my entire life and personal history has changed? Will I even know it happened? My mind is becoming a contortionist again, and the chimes of the big clock down in the entrance hall remind me I have to stop ruminating on destiny and the future and get myself ready for a night out with my hosts.

It’s a good thing Mary sends Hortense in to help me dress for the evening, because if she had not I might have come down to dinner with half my dress unbuttoned or no dress at all. That’s how preoccupied I am, and day-to-day concerns like getting dressed just seem like a big waste of time. I manage to get through dinner without saying much, though I do drink a lot more than usual, thanks to Louisa’s husband, Sir William, who joins us for dinner and makes sure my glass is refilled constantly. I still can’t figure out what Louisa finds so repugnant about her husband; he’s plump and shiny-faced but has kind eyes and good teeth, a quality not to be underestimated here. Most important, he seems attentive and polite to her, but who can say what goes on between them when they don’t have houseguests.

By the time we leave for Lady Charlton’s house, I am pretty tipsy. Which is nice, because I feel little of my usual trepidation at entering a strange home in which I’m expected to make small talk when all I usually want to do, even in the familiarity of such gatherings in my own world, is camouflage myself in a corner of a room. Tonight, however, all I can think of is the juxtaposition of destiny and free will, and whether it makes no difference what I do, or all the difference in the world.

Thirty-two

“So happy you could come to my little soirée, Miss Mansfield,” says Lady Charlton, a stout, heavily jeweled woman swathed in aubergine silk.

Little, indeed. The two hundred or so guests are swallowed up by the palatial proportions of her house, or more precisely, her mansion, and through tall French doors I can see vast, torch-lit gardens and scattered groups of more guests strolling about. If this is what Louisa thinks London is like when it’s “thin,” then I can’t imagine her life during the busy time of year.

Louisa stations us near one of the fireplaces and introduces me to so many people that faces blend into one another and I give up trying to remember a single name.

One thing does stand out, though, and that’s the tone of this party: It’s much less stiff and mannered than other social experiences I’ve had here so far; there are more smiles and meaningful looks passing between men and women, more out-and-out flirtation and less restraint than I’ve witnessed before. And besides, I see several women who are definitely wearing color on their lips and cheeks as well as face powder, and some of them actually know how to put it on. There aren’t quite enough of them to approximate my worst nightmare, but still enough to make me more conscious than ever of my own naked face.

Between the unrestrained atmosphere and the wine in my system (which circulating servants take care to replenish almost as soon as we walk in), I am much more inclined to enjoy myself and much less obsessed with the question of destiny and free will than I would have imagined. Louisa further helps matters by demanding my opinion—the more frank and insulting, the better—of almost everyone who stops by to chat with us. What do I think of Lady Atwater’s turban? Or of Sir Edward’s flirtatious manner? When I suggest that the former’s headdress is big enough to house a family of six, but too small for the latter’s sense of self-importance, Louisa’s squeals of delight only encourage me to continue playing the role of visiting wit.

I realize there is silence, rather than laughter, from my other female companion of the evening, and when I look over at her, she quickly looks down at her lap.

“Mary?”

After making sure Louisa is safely distracted by one of her friends, Mary says in a lowered voice, “Jane, I must confess I am not quite at ease with these new friends of my cousin’s. I observe much here that I am not used to seeing in a party of respectable people.”

As if to punctuate her words, a tall, imposing man who is standing near us and has been talking to a shorter man and a petite woman (the latter a couple, I would presume from their body language) takes the opportunity of running his index finger along the back of the woman’s neck the moment her escort’s back is turned.

I can only imagine how something like that appears to Mary’s virgin eyes.

Mary whispers into my ear. “I wonder if my cousin knows in what danger she may be placing her reputation.”

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Thank heaven Mrs. Smith did not accompany us.” When Louisa demands my attention again, Mary goes back to examining her gloved hands in her lap.

“Miss Mansfield,” Louisa says, “here is someone to give us fresh sources of amusement.”

But this time, instead of a boxy matron decked out in too many diamonds or a candidate for midlife crisis in pants that are so tight he might as well be wearing a sausage casing, I am introduced to a fine specimen of manhood with dark brown hair, dark blue, almost violet, eyes, and a sensual, toothy smile. He is standing with a slender, delicate-featured woman who is far more demurely dressed than most of the other female guests, many of whom must have discovered some Regency version of the pushup bra, if I am to judge by their standing-room-only décolletage. His wife, I suppose. Too bad.

Louisa introduces him as Mr. Andrew Emery and his female companion as his cousin, Mrs. Haverstock.

Much better.

What am I thinking?

A little diversion never hurt anyone, did it?

“Shall I tell you what the charming Miss Mansfield had to say about a few of our acquaintance?” Louisa says, and begins whispering into Mr. Emery’s ear. He looks at me with raised eyebrows, then bursts into laughter, and I find myself wanting to slap Louisa for making me into a spectacle.

“She is very naughty, is she not, Emery?” Louisa says.

“Very naughty indeed,” he replies, caressing the words with his full lips and appraising me with those violet eyes.

“And so many amusing opinions, too,” says Louisa. “Shall I tell Mr. Emery your views on marriage?”

She is clearly trying to amuse her friend by embarrassing me. “As you wish.”

“Very well,” says Louisa, and flicks her fan. “Did you know, Emery, that when I told Miss Mansfield she should waste no time securing a proper establishment for herself, she said she had not yet decided whether marriage was, in the words of one of her friends, ‘an institution designed to subjugate women.’ Have you ever heard anything like it? I declare my cousin’s pretty young friend is the most amusing creature! I am most indebted to you, Mary, for bringing her to me.”

Mary inclines her head politely, but I can see she’s in agony.

“Miss Mansfield,” says Mrs. Haverstock suddenly, “would you care to take a turn with me in the gardens? If your friends can spare you, that is.”

“Go, go,” Mary whispers, apparently as pleased as I am at this means of my escape from her cousin and her cousin’s friend, and I allow myself to be chaperoned out of the room by the respectable-looking, cleavage-less Mrs. Haverstock.

As we walk into the gardens, which are much emptier than they were when I first arrived, we seem to be the only pair walking away from the house rather than toward it. I look over my shoulder to see liveried footmen in white wigs opening the French doors for the last few sets of garden-going guests, and in answer to my unspoken question, Mrs. Haverstock says, “The musical program is starting, I believe. Do you mind terribly? I do so enjoy the sweetness of these gardens, which are all the sweeter without the crowds.”

“Not at all.”

We stroll in silence for some time, the only sounds the crunching of gravel under our slippered feet and the faint strains of music and laughter coming from the house. While the gardens are fragrant and the air fresh, my mind is occupied with the scene I left inside. My instinctual dislike of Louisa wasn’t unjust after all. Here she is, using me, a person she barely knows, to insult people she’s probably known for years. Why should I think she would pass up an opportunity to make me look foolish in front of her attractive male friend, despite all that crap about finding me a husband? More important, why should I care if my words (well, Frank’s words, to be precise) sound foolish to someone as insignificant to me as Andrew Emery?

Why then was I so thankful to leave that room? Maybe it was Louisa’s coldness. It was the same coldness that I saw in how she treated her husband. I was only shocked at seeing it directed at me because I had allowed myself to mistake her momentary fascination with me for genuine admiration.

I shiver, and wrap my shawl around me more tightly.

“Dear me,” says Mrs. Haverstock. “It is chilly indeed. Shall we explore this charming little summerhouse and warm ourselves inside for a moment?”

We are, at that moment, walking past the first of a row of small enclosed structures, each separated from the other by ornamental hedges and shrubs. This one, like all the others, is windowed but completely curtained, so it is impossible to see inside.

Why not, I think, and put my hand on the latch of the door, half expecting it to be locked. But it opens easily, and in the softly candlelit interior I can see piles of plush cushions arranged on the floor and lightweight white fabric draping the ceiling and walls, giving an Arabian-nights effect to the small space.

“Here,” says Mrs. Haverstock, picking up a dark red velvet throw and putting it over my shoulders. And fastening it. It’s not a throw, it’s a cape. “Wrap yourself in this. And why not sit for a minute until you warm yourself.”

“What about you?” I say, my words trailing off as the door opens and Andrew Emery slips in.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he says, bowing. Then, he turns toward Mrs. Haverstock, and whether he gives her a look or some sort of signal I can’t tell, but she curtseys to me and disappears into the darkness outside the door.

“What’s going on here?”

He puts his finger to his lips and glides noiselessly to the pile of pillows I’m sitting on.

“Why did she leave?”

Again he doesn’t answer. Instead he sits down with me and reaches for my gloved hand.

“Do you mind?” he says, swiftly pulling off my glove and bringing my hand to his lips.

I sputter with laughter to cover up my shock—his stripping my hand of its glove somehow feels exciting and forbidden and wrong all at the same time—and pull my hand away. “Is this Louisa’s idea of a joke?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Your friend, if I may rightly call her that, knows nothing of our meeting. I would never compromise your honor.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. You only show up, uninvited, to what you refer to as a meeting, dismiss your cousin so you could be alone with me. And—kiss my hand.” (I can’t even bring myself to say remove my glove.) “None of which, I have it on good authority, is considered appropriate behavior. What will Lady Charlton’s guests think if Mrs. Haverstock returns to the house alone? Or if I return alone? Or if I’m found in here with you?”

I realize I’m not even half kidding. I, who have spent many a night alone with many a man in much less clothing than I am wrapped in at present. Yet part of me is outraged at this man’s audacity.

“You may ease your mind on all those points. Mrs. Haverstock will certainly not return to the house alone. She will wait for us and accompany you back to the party. As for anyone discovering us…” He goes to the door and bolts it, then makes a little bow.

“And as for my kissing your hand, I hope you will forgive me. I was overcome by my good fortune in meeting a woman who does not surrender to the tyranny of social convention. I supposed you were as weary as I of what passes for conversation in a room full of strangers. And thus I seized my chance when I saw you and my cousin enter this room.”

Emery produces a slim flask from an inside pocket of his coat and a couple of small metal cups from another pocket. “Shall we drink to the honest discourse of friends?”

“Why not.” He does have a point, and he looks harmless enough. After all, he only removed my glove.

Emery sits beside me again, and I take one of the small cups from his hand. We raise our glasses to each other, and I drink. Or attempt to. Whatever is in my cup is so strong I almost choke. I was expecting wine or maybe the watered-down version of wine I’ve become used to drinking, and instead I’m tasting something more like whiskey, and not very smooth whiskey at that.

“I apologize,” he says. “May I offer you something else?”

I laugh. “I don’t suppose you have a full bar hidden in those pockets?”

“I do have a small bottle of good wine, which I stole from the house.”

He reaches for my cup. “May I?” He downs its contents, then uncorks the wine bottle and pours me some.

The wine is red and delicious, with a faint taste of blueberries, and as I sip it I take as good a look at his face as I can in the soft candlelight and decide he’s not going to try and pull anything funny, especially not with his cousin waiting outside. Though there is something a little off about her role in all this.

“May I speak plainly, Miss Mansfield?”

“No, lie away.”

He smiles. “I do understand. You are not sure I am to be trusted. After all, it was Lady Ashwell who disclosed your confidences to me in such a public manner. If a friend could have such little regard for your feelings, how could you credit a man of her acquaintance with more?”

I hold out my cup for more wine. “Good point.” Though he did laugh at said disclosures.

“I can only hope you will allow me to prove myself worthy of your company. I have only the highest respect for you.”

“If you say so.”

He refills my cup and his own, and for a few minutes we drink silently, listening to the faraway sounds of stringed instruments, a piano, and what sounds like a tenor coming from the house.

The wine is spreading a pleasant warmth through my veins, and I lean back into the pillows. Then I remember Mrs. Haverstock.

“Don’t you think your cousin must be cold waiting outside?”

“I can assure you,” Emery says, softly caressing my hair, his voice fading to a whisper and his breath warm on my cheek, “that she is neither cold nor waiting outside. She is as safe,” he continues, punctuating his words with soft kisses on my forehead and eyelids, “and as warm, as we are.”

He softly touches my lips with his own, and, what the hell, I let him kiss me, open-mouthed, tongues exploring. I fall into that familiar, heightened sensation of desire and wanting and mindless heat accompanied by an overly mindful analysis. It is that excitement that is all about newness and unknowns, the newness of this man, of this situation, the triumph of knowing I’m desired, of hearing him breathe and feeling him grow hard as he pushes himself against me, and that anticipatory wondering of how far I will venture into the as-yet unknowns. Will I let him take off clothes and which ones, will I let him into my bed, will he be a good lover, will I be a good lover…

Wait a minute. I don’t even know this man. Not that such considerations necessarily stopped me before, given the right mixture of loneliness and alcohol.

He moves his lips to my neck and runs his fingers down my one bare arm, sending a tingling sensation all the way down to my toes. Yes, I am tired of what passes for conversation in a room full of strangers. I am tired of surrendering to the tyranny of social convention. I want to be drunk and have sex and forget everything I’m supposed to do or be or say.

Emery is now maneuvering one of his legs between mine, a preparatory move that sets off alarms, those of the birth-control-sexually-transmissible-disease kind. But there is no bathroom to retreat to in order to insert diaphragm, nor a drawer from which to retrieve condoms. Nor is there any hope whatsoever that my inadvertent partner of the night has a supply in his pants pocket or wallet, or in this case, in one of the inside pockets of his long coat with tails.