Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

“Happy New Year!”

  All around them people cheered and tooted on their horns and kissed one another. Walter released Jane and cheered along with them. “Happy New Year,” Jane said, but the celebration drowned out the sound of her voice.

  Chapter 7

  London was as unlike Glenheath as a peacock was unlike a wren. It swelled with life, boastful and proud. The colours were brighter, the smells richer, the sounds more cacophonous. Even the dogs seemed filled with purpose, trotting beside their masters as if they too were on their way to conduct important business or attend the opera.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  TAKING THE TRAIN WAS NOT NEARLY AS INTERESTING AS IT HAD been a hundred years ago. But it was faster, and that was something. As Jane sat and watched the dreary winter landscape pass by, her spirits were buoyed by the knowledge that she would be in New York City in a matter of hours. She could have flown, but she still wasn’t entirely trusting of airplanes. No matter how many times the principle was explained to her she just couldn’t quite believe that something as large as a plane could stay aloft.

  It had been difficult to focus on running the bookstore the past few days. The prospect of meeting her new editor in person was thrilling. At the same time she was relieved to be leaving Brakeston. It had begun to feel claustrophobic. Her chat with Sherman had reminded her that too many people knew too much about each other’s business.

  Then there was the small matter of Walter’s dead wife. Jane didn’t know why, but the fact that Walter had never mentioned Evelyn to her was upsetting. And it bothered her that it bothered her. Why should she care if he’d been married?

  “I don’t,” she said firmly. “I don’t care at all.”

  Across the aisle a boy of about eight turned and looked at her. He’d gotten on at Utica along with an older woman whom Jane assumed to be his grandmother. Ever since, he had been playing some kind of handheld video game that emitted a continuous stream of beeps and chirps that sounded to Jane like electronic crickets. Now the grandmother was asleep.

  “Don’t care,” the boy said, mimicking Jane. “I don’t care.” He repeated the phrase over and over as he continued to play his game. Maddeningly, the sound of the game provided a musical background to his chanting. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep. “I don’t care.” Bleep-bleep-bleep.

  Jane glared at him. He turned his head and grinned at her. “I don’t care,” he chorused.

  Jane bared her fangs at him and watched as the expression on his face changed from smugness to horror. He gasped, dropping his game. He fumbled beneath the seat for it, and when he came up Jane smiled at him. He turned his face away and sat very still, like a small bird in the presence of a cat.

  Maybe she should give Walter a chance, Jane mused while looking out the window again. When she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she did like Walter very much. He was precisely the kind of man she allowed her heroines to fall in love with—strong-minded but willing to let her be herself, thoughtful and curious without being condescending, talented but without vanity. Yet if she allowed herself to be with him, she would risk wounding Walter deeply. She was especially wary now that she knew of his tragic past. A dead wife was no small thing. How would he ever accept an undead one? she thought.

  It was all rather maddening, and no matter how she looked at it she could not come up with a satisfactory ending for the story. Walter would die and she would continue to live. Or he would ask her to make him a vampire, which she would refuse to do.

  She thought for a long time, coming to no conclusions, and was relieved when a voice announced their imminent arrival at Pennsylvania Station. She busied herself with putting her coat on and gathering up her things. Then she sat and watched as the train crawled slowly through the long dark tunnels, until finally they came to a stop at a platform and the doors opened.

  Jane stepped out and walked along the platform, the heels of her shoes clicking on the floor and her suitcase rolling behind her. Travel had become much easier since her day, but part of her missed the feeling of sophistication that had once accompanied it. Now people moved about so easily that some of the adventure seemed to have disappeared along with the inconveniences. Now it felt less like traveling and more like simply going somewhere.

  As she ascended the escalator to the main concourse she noticed the boy from the train walking with his grandmother ahead of her. He turned back once and, seeing her following, pulled his grandmother quickly in a different direction. Jane cheerfully wondered how long he would have nightmares about the woman on the train, and at what point he would decide that she had never existed at all.

  In the station’s cavernous main hall she stood for a moment, feeling the sea of people moving around her. She sensed their excitement, their hurry, their anxiety and joy. It rippled through her like electricity. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be in a city, particularly one as glorious as New York. Now she shivered with anticipation. Despite the passing of two centuries, she still felt like the girl from the countryside coming to London for the first time.

  She hurried outside, anxious to be on the streets and among the crowds. As she passed through the doors of the station she felt New York envelop her. Its cacophonous voice filled her ears and its breath blew cold on her skin. For a moment she stood absolutely still, her eyes and ears adjusting to the many different sensations that flooded her mind.

  “Move it, lady.”

  A man brushed by her, his head bent toward the ground and his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. Jane laughed at his rudeness. It too was part of New York’s charm.

  Settling into a taxicab, she could hardy believe she was in New York, on her way to a publisher’s office. All of her previous books had been represented by her brother Henry. Not only had she never once visited a publisher, they hadn’t even known it was her work they had published. But all that was about to change.

  I wish Cassie were here, she thought. She imagined sharing the city with her sister, seeing Cassandra’s face as she marveled at the buildings and people, hearing her voice as she chattered joyfully and reached for Jane’s hand, as she always had when they’d visited Henry at his house in London. She would, Jane thought, give anything to be able to see her beloved Cassie again.

  The cab swerved in and out of the stream of traffic, ten minutes later pulling to a stop in front of the Browder Publishing building. It towered into the winter sky, its gleaming black glass reflecting the snow that fell lazily from the clouds that crowned the city

  She crossed the sidewalk with her suitcase and pushed through the revolving doors, entering a lobby lined with the blown-up, framed covers of some of the most popular books of the past few years. As she walked to the elevators she gazed at them, imagining her own cover hanging among them. Then, just as she reached the elevator bank, she saw that she already was. On the wall the cover of The Jane Austen Workout Book hung between the latest novels from a popular romance writer and the biggest name in thrillers.

  Horrified, she gazed at the cover image—a pen-and-ink drawing of a woman (she gathered it was supposed to be her) wearing an Empire-waist dress and holding a small barbell in each hand. It was ghastly, and she found herself feeling sick to her stomach.

  The ding of an arriving elevator blessedly distracted her, and she tore herself from the poster and entered the car. Selecting the button for the seventeenth floor, she stood with her eyes closed as she was lifted into the air. Don’t think about it, she told herself. But the image of the book’s cover remained in her mind.

  When the elevator stopped, Jane stepped out into a brightly lit reception area. Behind a raised copper and glass desk a lovely young woman sat speaking into a headset. “I’d be happy to connect you with publicity,” she said. “One moment.” She touched a button on a telephone, then smiled at Jane. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Kelly Littlejohn,” Jane said. “I have an appointment,” she add
ed, fearing the young woman might not believe her.

  “And you are?” asked the girl.

  “Jane,” said Jane. “Jane Fairfax. I’m sorry.”

  The girl nodded as if forgiving Jane, then touched the phone panel once again. “Olivia, it’s Chloe. Jane Fairfax is here to see Kelly.”

  Olivia, Jane thought. Chloe. They were such stylish names. She wondered if everyone in publishing was a stylish young woman with perfect hair and beautiful clothes and names that sounded like they belonged in her novels. If the assistants are this lovely, I’m almost afraid to meet Kelly Littlejohn.

  “Kelly will be out in just a moment,” Chloe said. “You can have a seat over there.” With a nod of her head she indicated a smart leather couch against the wall.

  Jane sat down, tucking her suitcase beside the couch. She was suddenly quite nervous, and didn’t know what to do with her hands. She heard Chloe laugh, and for a moment feared the young woman was laughing at her, before realizing that she had simply taken another call. She looked at her shoes. How dreadful they are, she thought. What was I thinking?

  She considered going to the restroom and changing (she had dressier shoes in her bag) but was interrupted by someone saying her name. She looked up and saw standing before her a handsome man of perhaps forty. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit of dark brown wool, and the knot in his red and gold patterned tie was perfectly dimpled. His hair, dark but silvering on the sides, was cut short, and Jane could smell the faint scent of violet, orange, and oak coming from him as he extended his hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, his voice warm and deep. “I’m Kelly Littlejohn.”

  Chapter 8

  She accepted the grape from Jonathan, parting her lips and allowing him to place it gently in her mouth. When she bit into it the flesh burst open and her tongue was bathed in sweetness. She raised her fingers to her mouth and covered it as she chewed the fruit. She did not want Jonathan to see her enjoyment so plainly, as if he had come into the room at the very moment she had stepped naked from the bath.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  “KELLY,” JANE REPEATED, TAKING THE PROFFERED HAND AND feeling the strong fingers clasp hers. “Oh, no.”

  “Is everything all right?” Kelly asked.

  “No,” said Jane, blinking. “I mean yes. Everything’s fine. It’s just that I thought you were a woman.” Embarrassed, she spoke more quickly. “I don’t mean right now I thought you were a woman. I mean before I saw you. Because of your name. We’ve never spoken,” she concluded, feeling like an idiot. “May I just go out and come back in?” she asked.

  Kelly laughed. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s not the first time someone has thought that. You should see how many query letters I get addressed to Ms. Littlejohn.” He glanced at her suitcase. “Let me take that for you,” he said.

  “Oh, I can—” Jane began.

  “I insist,” Kelly said, flashing a smile that lit up his whole face.

  “All right,” Jane acquiesced, blushing as Kelly bent to take the case by the handle. Stop behaving like a schoolgirl, she scolded herself.

  She followed Kelly as he held open the door. “After you,” he said, and again she couldn’t help thinking about how dashing he was. A true gentleman.

  They walked down a hallway lined with offices. Inside each one an editor sat at a desk, peering at a computer screen. Jane glanced at their faces as she passed by. They all looked impossibly young, not at all like editors in her time, most of whom had been men well into the second half of their lives who peered out at the world from behind thick spectacles, their eyes ruined from years of reading in inadequate light, and their fingers perpetually ink-stained and chapped from constantly turning the pages of manuscripts.

  “Here we are,” Kelly said, entering a corner office. “Welcome to my castle.”

  The room was not terribly large. A desk, piled high with folders and what Jane assumed were manuscripts, sat in front of a bank of windows that looked out on the street. The floor too was covered with stacks of manuscripts, and one whole wall was taken up by shelves filled with books. Jane, relieved to see evidence of the publishing world she had always imagined, felt herself relax.

  “It’s not much, but it’s all mine,” Kelly said. “Please, have a seat.”

  Jane took one of the two chairs across from Kelly’s desk. She looked around the room, trying very hard not to stare at him. “Do you have to read all of these?” she asked, indicating the mountains of manuscripts.

  “My assistant reads most of them first,” he answered. “But I try to look at everything. I like to make decisions for myself.”

  Jane wondered if her manuscript had languished among the paper, and how Kelly had come to rescue it from the crowd.

  “It’s something of a miracle that anything gets published at all,” said Kelly, as if reading her thoughts. “Especially an unsolicited manuscript such as yours. May I ask why you don’t use an agent?”

  “It never occurred to me,” Jane answered truthfully.

  Kelly laughed, shaking his head. “I must tell you, it’s refreshing to meet an author whose sole goal in life is to be published. Most authors come in here and I can tell that what they really want is to be famous. I don’t get that from you, or from your book.”

  She wondered what Kelly would say if he knew that she was already one of the world’s most famous authors, was in fact arguably the most popular writer of all time. And that she very badly wanted to be published again.

  “Most of them want to be Stephen King or Danielle Steele,” Kelly remarked. “I don’t know when authors went from being storytellers to being celebrities, but more and more I think we cast writers rather than publish them.”

  Jane was nodding as she looked around the office. Then she noticed a book resting atop a pile on the corner of Kelly’s desk. Her heart sank.

  Kelly’s eyes followed her gaze. “Oh, that,” he said, sighing. “This is exactly what I mean,” he added as he held up a copy of The Jane Austen Workout Book. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I guarantee you we’ll sell a hundred thousand copies.” He looked at the cover and snorted. “Austen would roll over in her grave,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Jane, chuckling with relief.

  “You’re British,” Kelly said.

  “Pardon?” said Jane. She was still staring at the image of herself on the book’s cover.

  “Your accent,” Kelly said. “It’s British.”

  “Oh,” said Jane. “Yes, it is.”

  “How long have you lived in America?” Kelly asked.

  Jane laughed lightly. “It seems like a hundred years. My parents moved here when I was quite young,” she added quickly.

  “I thought there was a British sensibility to your writing,” said Kelly. “I think that’s what attracted me to it. I’m a bit of an Anglophile.” He smiled again. “Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century.”

  “I know just what you mean,” Jane said.

  “You must be hungry after your trip,” Kelly said. “Shall we have lunch?”

  “That would be lovely,” Jane replied.

  Kelly stood and retrieved his coat from the back of the office door. “You can leave your suitcase here,” he told Jane. “We’ll come back before I send you off to the hotel.”

  They took the elevator down to the lobby, and as they walked outside Kelly said, “Is this your first time in New York?”

  “I’ve been here once before,” Jane said. “But it was a long time ago.” Before there were cars on the streets, she thought. And long before you were born.

  They walked several blocks until they arrived at a restaurant. Stepping inside, Jane found herself in a reasonable replica of a French bistro.

  “Now then,” Kelly said after a waiter had brought them two glasses of merlot, “let’s talk about your book.”

  “I’m very glad you like it,” said Jane.

  “I don’t just like it,
” Kelly replied. “I love it. In fact, I haven’t been this excited about a book in a long time.”

  Jane felt herself blush with pride. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  Kelly shook his head. “I mean it,” he said. “There’s something about it that’s timeless. People don’t write books like yours anymore. Especially for women. Now it’s all about middle-aged women going to Bermuda and falling in love with twenty-two-year-old surfing instructors, or young women working at fashion magazines and whatnot. I wonder sometimes if people would even recognize a quality book if they were given one.” He waved his hand around. “But your book is actually about something.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said. She was slightly embarrassed by Kelly’s effusive praise, although hearing it was not at all unpleasant after so many years of disappointment. “I feel it’s important that a book make people think and feel.”

  Kelly lifted his glass and said, “To your novel. May it stay atop the bestseller lists for many weeks.”

  “Indeed,” Jane agreed. “And to you for your most excellent taste in literature.”

  They both laughed. Jane took a sip of wine and set her glass down. “May I ask when you’re thinking of publishing the book?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” Kelly said. “Normally we like a long lead time in order to pull together publicity. But I want your book out much sooner, preferably by summer.”

  “Summer,” Jane repeated. That’s only five or six months from now, she thought.

  “I want to get it out in time for vacation season,” Kelly explained. “I know it sounds crass, but it’s a reality of the industry that books for women sell best in the summer.”

  Jane nodded, taking a long drink from her wineglass.

  “And you’ll be selling it in your own store,” Kelly said. “When customers bring it to the register you can offer to sign it for them.”

  Jane smiled broadly. She wanted to tell Kelly how many times she’d been tempted to take a customer’s copy of Pride and Prejudice and do exactly that. Now she could. But what if Lucy—or anyone—notices the similarities? she found herself thinking. What if they discover who I am? The thought dampened her joy.