Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (8 page)

Fifteen

“B arnes, don’t you think a day and a half in bed is enough already?”

Barnes deposits a tray on the table next to my bed. My mouth waters at the sight of cold roast beef, thick slices of bread, and a pot of mustard. Being confined to my room has made the arrival of my meal trays an unusually welcome break in the dullness.

“But you are unwell, miss.”

“I am not. In fact, I believe I’ve even stopped bleeding.”

Which is enough to send the blood rushing to Barnes’s face. She looks down at her shoes, twisting her apron between her hands.

“Your mother is most particular…”

If I have to hear that one more time I’ll scream. “Can I please get out of this room tomorrow then?”

“Of course, miss. If you are not indisposed.”

I sigh and settle back into bed. It seems that while giving way to the grosser bodily functions seems to raise nary a blush in the Lord’s house, having one’s period makes one a social outcast in one’s own house.

“Thank you, Barnes. That will be all.”

Guess I’ll stretch my legs and have something to eat, then write in my journal.

The roast beef is delicious. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Plate cleaned, I allow myself a little walk around the room, now that I’ve finally figured out how to use that odd menstrual belt contraption. Not that I seem to be bleeding anymore, but just in case. Funny how in this body I’ve bled for only a day and a half with no cramping whatsoever. This is the mildest period I’ve ever had in my life, and it actually seems to be over.

I look out the window at gray, overcast skies and a green expanse of lawn glistening with moisture. At least I’m not being kept from good weather. Never did like walking in the rain. Nevertheless, I’ll blow off some steam in my journal about the position of women in Jane Austen’s world. I certainly don’t have anyone to rant to but myself. What did Anne Eliot say in Persuasion? We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. That’s right, Anne. And it sucks.

I unearth the slim leather-bound volume from its hiding place inside the depths of a hatbox that resides in the very back of my closet. Can’t be too careful with the likes of Mrs. M under the same roof. Funny how with all my searching of this room for letters or a diary that the real Jane might have kept—something that might give me a clue to her life before I arrived—the only thing I came up with is this slim, blank book of pages, hidden, or forgotten, in this very hatbox.

I retrieve the lightweight, portable writing desk from the top of the bureau and settle myself into an armchair covered in dark pink watered silk. Inside the lid of the desk are packets of blank stationery, sealing wax, quill pens, and a pot of ink. But no letters, of course. I still can’t get over how quickly I’ve taken to writing with a quill pen. Not a single blot of ink, neither on clothes nor on paper. Just flowing script, which, as I flip through the pages of the journal, I realize looks almost nothing like my own handwriting. Yet I recognize the words I wrote.

I shudder and turn more pages to get to a blank one, when near the end of the filled-in pages one of them catches my eye. Courtney Stone, it says. Courtney Stone Courtney Stone Courtney Stone. Over and over again, evenly filling every imaginary line, spilling onto a second page.

But wait a minute. Around three quarters of the way down that second page it says Jane. Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane, over and over until it spills onto the next page, where about a third of the way down it says Jane Mansfield Jane Mansfield Jane Mansfield, again and again until the page is filled. And instead of the amusement at the anachronism that I tell myself I should feel, the flesh rises on my arms, and I shiver, slamming the journal shut.

I have no recollection of having filled in those pages full of names.

I shove the journal back into the bottom of its hatbox, my desire to write killed. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and will myself to sleep, so that I don’t have to think about any of this. But as I lie here unable to sleep, forehead sweaty, covers balled into a tangle at the corner of the bed, my mind spins with the vision of those pages of names.

My not remembering having written those names is only a symptom of a larger problem: Despite my daily sense of culture shock, I cannot deny that I am starting to feel like a different person. After all, how can I really think of myself as Courtney when no one around me does, when no one calls me by my real name, shares my memories of who I am? How can I even be sure of who I am when the voice that comes from my mouth is as alien as the face that looks back at me in the mirror?

I will not think about this. I will not. I will read Pride and Prejudice. In fact, I will open it at random for guidance and wisdom. I array the three volumes on my bed, spines facing away from me, and choose one. Then I close my eyes and open the book, letting my eyes fall on the first line I see:

She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot…

And instantly I am comforted. If Lizzy could get home, and if all would turn out well for her, then there is hope for me, too. I will read myself into a state of calm, and then in a few hours I will sleep, and who knows where I might wake up tomorrow?

Sixteen

T he good news when I awake is that I have indeed stopped bleeding, and that means even Barnes won’t be able to come up with a reason to extend my house arrest. I still can’t get over the good fortune of a mere day-and-a-half-long period. One more reason to admire this borrowed body, aside from its glossy hair and slim figure. Anna would say, “I told you so,” she who’s always talking about how women make their periods lengthier and more uncomfortable than necessary by ignoring their biological need to let the blood flow freely and to take it easy for a couple of days while reveling in their womanly power. But normally I don’t have the luxury of taking a few days off to revel in my womanly power, and I doubt that Barnes or anyone of her class does either.

I get so involved in thoughts of feminism and class struggle and the unfairness of it all that I don’t realize Barnes is standing outside my open door until I hear her gently clearing her throat. I motion for her to come in, as I have done every morning, and I nod my approval, as I usually do, at the dress she chooses for me to wear for the first part of the day. Funny how easily I have fallen into that routine, too.

I’m so happy to get out of this room that I feel positively sunny at the sight of Mrs. M at the breakfast table, despite her arched eyebrow and laser eye. The sun itself shines through the French doors, and with that the promise of a turn in the shrubbery. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking in terms like “turn in the shrubbery.” I giggle and turn it into a smile, which I bestow on Mrs. M as I spread strawberry preserves on my toast.

“Stop giggling, my dear. It is most unbecoming in one whose age suggests the tutoring of schoolgirls rather than the manners of one.”

I put my knife down so that I won’t be tempted to fling it at her.

She stares at me as if daring me to take the bait.

But I only smile and dab my lips delicately with a napkin. “Thank you for your kind hints, Mama.”

Her eyes narrow in skepticism, but I am unmoved. “Well.” She throws her own napkin on the table and stands up. “When you have had your walk, I shall expect you in the sitting room.”

Round one of the day goes to me.

H ow lovely to be outside again, the sun warm on my face, the knots in my limbs untangling with the joy of a long walk. As I make my way back toward the house down the gravel path, the pretty cream-colored horse spots me and trots over to the fence that encloses the paddock, nodding its head as if in greeting, irresistibly drawing me to it.

I stroke her velvety nose and, without thinking, snuggle my cheek against hers. And in that moment I am swept into split-second sensations—the sound and feel of pounding hooves as I ride the horse, wind whipping through my hair, the sweep and crunch of narrowly missed branches, and a lurch in my stomach as I sail through the air—

I gasp, realizing I am holding fast to the mane of the horse; Belle, that is her name—how do I know that? Her luminous brown eyes with their long white eyelashes regard me with concern. I pat her, my hand shaking. “It’s all right, girl.”

Is it really? My legs wobble slightly as I continue toward the house. Get a grip on yourself. You’re imagining things, no doubt wondering what Jane might have felt when she fell off her horse before you realized you were wondering it. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Anyone would be disoriented in your position. Calm down. Mustn’t let Mrs. M suspect you’re feeling anything but in top shape.

By the time I reach the house and make my way to the sitting room, I am a thousand times better. Mrs. M nods to me as I enter, and I take up my embroidery frame with more eagerness than ever before. I need the clear-minded, meditative calm that sewing gives me.

Once again I find myself marveling at the slender fingers of these alien hands as they draw the needle through the cloth and create intricate designs without any thought or effort. It’s as though I am simply allowing the fingers to do their work, hold the needle, choose the colors of threads, fashion flowers and birds and leaves on the cloth. And like all the other times I have sat here embroidering, a detached sort of calm comes over me as I observe these fingers—my fingers—doing their work. I have nothing to do with it.

As I sit here, absorbed in the movement of my fingers and the ticking of the clock, I have a split-second mind flash, an image of Edgeworth emerging from his stables, bits of straw clinging to his hair and clothes. That is all, but it sends a chill up my arms. It isn’t like an imagining, it’s like a remembering. But how can I have a memory that isn’t mine, that I couldn’t possibly have access to?

Yet I know it is a memory. As disturbing as the sensation of being thrown off that gentle horse. Or of seeing the dark, spreading stain of spilt tea on my white gown.

The problem is, they aren’t my memories.

T he next day, I’m stalked by that same, split-second image of Edgeworth coming out of the stables. Why does it flash through my mind when I walk in the garden, or sew, or drift off to sleep? Why, when I wake up the following morning to the sound of birds singing, is it there again?

A walk before breakfast will clear my mind, I decide while Barnes buttons me into my dress. But I barely make it to the first gravel path when I realize what I have not allowed myself to know: My mind, my very identity, is tied up in all the memories of the life I called my own, my life as Courtney Stone. Yet that bundle of memories, that thing I call my self, is residing in Jane’s body. And that body has a physical brain of its own. And that brain has memories imprinted on it—visual, experiential, sensory memories. Perhaps the more I become used to living in Jane’s body and using her brain, the more I am starting to access her memories.

A chill runs up my arms despite the warmth of the sun, and I wrap my light shawl tightly around my shoulders. What did I think the embroidery thing was all about anyway? Or the accent? Or the way I know, without thinking, just how to curtsey when I enter a room? Or how to pour the tea? Or how to walk in to dinner? And that doesn’t mean just putting one foot in front of the other. A part of me instinctively understands that body language is everything in a place where so little is actually said out loud. The placement of people, who enters a room first, who follows next—it is all an unwritten communication of who is more important than whom, and it is as potent as anything spoken. How could I, who have done little more than read a few novels of the period, have such an intimate knowledge of this language?

The embroidery is what stood out in my mind because it’s so pronounced, but the fact of the matter is that it isn’t just luck or some kind of fluke. The pure scientific explanation, if anything about this situation could possibly be called scientific, is that I am reaping the benefits of memory, cellular and kinesthetic, in playacting this role of Jane. With all this help from Jane’s brain, which contains her body’s memories of embroidering, curtseying, speaking in a particular way, and God knows how many other things, it’s no wonder I am so apt at playing the part. Without those unspoken memories, I would stick out as an anomaly to even a casual observer. But I haven’t. Everyone is fooled. They were fooled even when I was insisting to them that I wasn’t Jane.

So what will become of who I really am? What will become of that bundle of memories called Courtney, my real self that resides, hidden from view, inside this body? Will I/it slowly disappear, inexorably surrender to the onslaught of synaptic activities, the cumulative effect of cellular memory that is now evolving into conscious thought?

Is this mental image of Edgeworth coming out of the stables just the first of an avalanche of memories not my own, memories that will take up space in my mind until I finally forget who I really am? Or will my mind be split up, a storage space for two different lives? How will I manage it all without going insane?

Can I consciously stop the flow of memories so I can hold on to my self? Would this compromise my believability as Jane, and would I then be exposed as an impostor, or worse, insane?

Then again, do I really want to stop the flow of memories? After all, this unconscious, second-nature sort of memory gives me a decided advantage. I needn’t worry about appearing clumsy or have to relearn physical things Jane already knows how to do, things that if I could not do I’d never be able to explain why to anyone.

Given that kind of logic, why then can’t the thought-memories also give me an advantage? Why should I assume that allowing Jane’s memories in would necessarily mean having to empty my mind of my own memories? Why should I entertain the thought that the brain’s hard drive lacks space for two lives’ worth of memories?

And what might I discover if those memories really do come back fully? Everything. I’d know everything about the woman whose body I’m in, everything about her family, her life, her friends, even Edgeworth. Everything that her letters, her diary, anything she might have written or received in writing, might have told me, if such papers exist. I’d no longer have to watch my conversations when I meet new people. I’d no longer have to fear exposing myself as not knowing something I should already know. What a relief that would be. It’s exhausting to be always vigilant against exposing my ignorance.

But where, in a world devoid of land lines, cell phones, or email, are those damned letters? Why does Jane’s room, and indeed her entire house, appear to be devoid of anything she might have written down? Or received in writing?

Despite rummaging through every drawer and potential hiding place I could think of in my room, and in every other room whenever I’ve had an opportunity to snoop around, I’ve found nothing.

I realize I’ve reached the house and am struck with an idea: What if Jane put her journal or letters or even both in her father’s atelier? That’s one place I haven’t looked, haven’t even considered looking. But wouldn’t that be the perfect hiding place, since Mrs. M’s delicate sense of smell cannot abide it? I could even search through it now, since Mr. M will be gone for at least another half hour on his morning ride.

Keeping an eye out for servants, I slip into Mr. M’s sanctum sanctorum, which he, thankfully, leaves unlocked.

Taking care not to get paint on my clothes, I open every drawer and cupboard in the room and rifle their contents. Nothing. Then I spot, under a table in the far corner, almost completely obscured by a tall standing vase of flowers (Mrs. M refuses to give up), an odd-looking wooden box. Could that be it? If I were Jane, that would be the very place to hide my precious papers.

Heart racing, I move the vase to the side and scramble under the table, pulling out the box, which has a heavy lid with a strange-looking, sticklike handle. There’s something solid in there; I can feel the weight of it shifting as I place the box on top of the table. Maybe a thick packet of letters? A heavy journal? I try to lift the lid, but nothing happens. I jiggle it a little and realize it slides open. I hold my breath as I slide it back.

Inside a brown rat lies on its back, glassy eyes staring, paws curled up stiffly.

I hear screaming before I realize I am the one doing it. I practically collide with Barnes, who is flying into the room as I am flying out of it.

“Heaven help us, what is the matter?”

But all I can do is point toward the box, which lies open on the table. Barnes rushes over to it.

“Barnes, don’t!”

But she’s already looking inside. “Never you mind, miss. That there rat is dead as can be. He can’t do you no harm, I swear it.”

She rushes over and pats my arm, a kind smile on her face. “There, there, miss.”

Thank God. Of course it’s dead. Why else would it be lying on its back with its paws in the air? I shudder.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and throw some cold water on your face?” Barnes says.

I manage a nod and lean over, suddenly dizzy. “Barnes?”

“Do we have many of those”—I gesture in the general direction of the evil rat trap—“in the house?”

“Yes indeed, but thanks to old Jack, the best carpenter that ever was, they’ve been empty for years. I’m as surprised as you to find what you did today, but I guarantee old Jack will sniff out the place this one came in through and patch it up before you can finish your breakfast.”

My stomach lurches at the thought of food. “And Barnes?”

“Yes, miss?”

“You won’t say anything about this to Mrs.—I mean, my mother, will you?”

Barnes’s eyes are full of empathy. “Of course I won’t do anything of the kind, miss. Now you go upstairs and take care of yourself.”

“You’re a real friend, Barnes.”

“Aw now, miss.” She curtseys and ducks her head, the frills of her cap only partially obscuring a face glowing with pleasure.

Sure enough, after throwing some cool water on my face and lying down for a couple of minutes, I am not only calm, I am also hungry. That’s about all the excitement I can take for today. And then, as I head down the stairs toward the breakfast room, I remember that tomorrow is when Edgeworth is expected to return from London.