Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Having settled the matter, she returned to her book. She was trying, and failing, to make her way through Barbara Pym’s The Sweet Dove Died. She isn’t a bit like me, Jane thought as she finished a page. I can’t imagine why anyone thinks we’re similar. She’s all tea and garden parties and ladies’ hats.

  Chapter 10

  She had not expected him to be in attendance at the party. Yet when she entered the drawing room she saw him seated on a sofa in intimate proximity to Barbara Wexley. He whispered into her ear. The girl giggled and tapped him lightly on the knee, to which Jonathan reacted with feigned hurt, turning his gaze toward the doorway. Seeing Constance standing there, he smiled mockingly, and she felt her heart burn with hatred for him.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  “SOMETHING’S DIFFERENT,” JANE SAID, LOOKING AROUND THE store. “You moved something.”

  Lucy gave Jane a big hug. “Welcome home,” she said.

  “I was only gone for forty-eight hours,” Jane said. “It wasn’t as if I went off to war.”

  Lucy, who went to hang up her coat in the office, called back, “It’s okay to say you missed me, you know.” She emerged from the office and came to the front desk. “So, did you bring me a present?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Jane said. She reached into her bag and brought out the little gift she’d picked up for Lucy at one of the numerous tourist traps surrounding Times Square. It was a snow globe containing a replica of the Empire State Building. A plastic King Kong was climbing up it, one arm outstretched as he roared in fury. Lucy shook the globe and the tiny pieces of plastic snow swirled around.

  “It’s beautiful,” Lucy told Jane. “Thank you. I didn’t have New York in my collection. Now I’m missing just South Dakota, Arkansas, and Maine. Oh, and I broke Florida, so I need to replace that one.”

  Jane’s eyes suddenly locked onto an area to the left of the checkout counter. “What on earth is that?” she demanded, pointing to a spinning rack containing what looked like dozens of tiny bodies.

  “Aren’t they great?” Lucy said, smiling mischievously. “They’re finger puppets of famous authors. I ordered them ages ago, but they came yesterday.”

  Jane walked over and picked up one of the tiny puppets. Its gray hair was done up in a bun, and the expression on its face was solemn.

  “Virginia Woolf,” Lucy said. She picked up another puppet and placed it on her finger. This one had wild black hair. “Dylan Thomas. We’ve got practically everybody. Well, everybody who’s dead. I’m guessing they didn’t want to pay anybody, so there’s no J. K. Rowling or John Grisham. But we’ve got James Baldwin, Louisa May Alcott, Samuel Pepys, Poe. Of course there’s Shakespeare, and this is the one I think will be our bestseller.” She held up a puppet with brown hair and a white dress gathered at the chest.

  “Jane Austen,” Jane said, looking at her puppet self.

  “I ordered fifty of her,” said Lucy. “We’ve already sold five.”

  “Lovely,” Jane said, trying to sound chipper. “I don’t suppose we sold any actual books yesterday?”

  “It was pretty good for January,” Lucy answered. “But let’s not talk work. Tell me about your trip. Was it fun seeing your friend?”

  “It was,” Jane said. She badly wanted to tell Lucy the real reason for her New York visit, but she didn’t want to reveal her news too soon. Despite Kelly’s enthusiasm for her book, part of her still feared that something might go wrong. “We saw Gypsy.”

  Lucy sighed. “I’d love to see that,” she said. “I’d enjoy seeing anything in New York.”

  “Maybe we’ll take a trip this spring,” Jane said, surprising herself. “Just you and me.”

  “Really?” Lucy said, looking almost shocked. “I’d like that.”

  Jane took out the receipts for the previous day and started looking through them. She trusted Lucy completely, but she needed something to distract her. Now that she was once more surrounded by books, all she could think about was her own novel. She imagined piles of it sitting on one of the display tables. She pictured customers picking it up and recognizing her name. She thought about ringing up copies and putting them in bags. She was so preoccupied by her daydreams that she only barely noticed the sound of the bell as someone entered the shop. A few minutes later someone approached the counter and set a book down. Jane glanced at it and saw that it was a copy of Emma. Instantly the joy she’d felt while thinking about her new book disappeared as she was reminded of how long she’d been forced to keep her secret.

  “It’s my favorite of all your books,” said a man’s voice.

  “It’s a very good one,” Jane said as she rang up the purchase.

  Only as the scanner read the bar code and beeped its acceptance did she realize what the customer had said.

  Her eyes jerked up. The man standing before her was striking, with pale skin and a face that could only be described as beautiful. His dark eyes were matched by the darkness of his hair, which was cut slightly long, so a lock of it curled over one eye. Jane’s heart seemed to have stopped, and she found it difficult to breathe.

  “You,” she whispered.

  The man smiled, and his eyes sparkled. “Me,” he said.

  Jane fumbled with the book in her hands and it fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up, hoping that when she stood up the man would be gone. But he wasn’t. If anything, his smile had grown more intense.

  “I see you’ve met.” Walter’s voice drew Jane back to the moment. He was standing beside the man.

  “You know him?” Jane asked, looking at Walter.

  “Brian is my client,” Walter answered.

  “Brian?” Jane repeated.

  “Brian George,” the man said.

  “You know how I’ve been restoring the old Roberts place?” Walter said.

  Jane nodded. Walter had done a wonderful job of bringing the neglected Victorian back to its former glory. He’d told Jane that he’d bought it for practically nothing and was going to sell it as soon as he was done with the work.

  “Brian is the one who hired me to do the work,” Walter said.

  “I asked Mr. Fletcher to keep my purchase of the house a bit of a secret,” said Brian.

  Jane very much wanted to ask why Brian George wished to keep his move to Brakeston a secret, but fortunately for her, Walter began speaking again.

  “Brian is a writer,” he said.

  Jane looked at the man. “Is he?” she said.

  “Well, I try,” said Brian.

  “Oh, yes,” Jane said. “Now I remember. You wrote that book about the … um … those …”

  Walter, watching her search for the answer, became clearly uncomfortable. Jane knew he was embarrassed for his client, although Brian himself seemed not the least bit ruffled.

  Jane sighed. “I’m sorry. With eighteen billion books around here, I can’t possibly remember them all,” she said, ignoring the grin she could see forming on Brian’s face.

  “Brian is the author of Winter Comes Slowly,” Walter said quickly.

  “Winter Comes Slowly?” said Lucy, poking her head up from behind the shelves in the gardening section. “I love that book.” She stepped into the aisle and walked to the counter.

  “And who might this lovely young lady be?” Brian asked.

  “This is Lucy,” said Jane. “The manager of the shop.”

  Lucy turned her head toward Jane. “Manager?” she said. “When did—”

  “Surprise!” Jane said, hoping to distract her. “I was going to tell you this afternoon.”

  “Wow,” said Lucy. Then she looked back to Brian. “Wow,” she said again, smiling, and Jane knew her tactic had failed. “I really loved your book. Your poetry is so beautiful. Spare and haunting.”

  Brian touched his hand to his chest. “I’m humbled,” he said. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “Lucy,” Jane said sharply.

  Lucy turned her head, but slowly, as if she couldn’t bring herself t
o stop looking at Brian.

  “Hmm?” she said.

  “I noticed that the display of new titles is a little untidy,” said Jane. “Would you mind straightening it up?”

  “Sure,” Lucy replied.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” Brian said to her.

  Lucy smiled. “For me too,” she said.

  Jane watched as Lucy walked away, turning her head and gazing with what appeared to be longing at Brian’s back. Jane resisted the urge to yell at her to snap out of it.

  “I came by yesterday looking for you,” Walter said, interrupting her thoughts. “Lucy said you were in New York.”

  “Yes,” Jane croaked, her throat suddenly dry. “I, um, went to meet an old friend.”

  “I love New York,” Brian said. “It has such wonderful energy.”

  “Can’t say I care much for it myself,” said Walter. “Too loud. Too many people.” Jane wondered if she detected a note of irritation in his voice, as if he was annoyed with her for going away without telling him.

  Brian laughed gently. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said. Then he looked at Jane. “How about you, Jane? Are you a small-town girl?”

  He was teasing her, and she knew it. How dare you, she thought. But she forced herself to smile and say, “I find that both have something to offer, if you know where to look.”

  She glanced at Walter as she spoke, and noted with some satisfaction that Brian’s eyes had followed her gaze. “I see,” he said. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Well then,” said Walter, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air. “Brian’s going to come to the Crandalls’ house with me today,” he told Jane.

  “I’m thinking of working on a novel,” Brian explained. “I’m considering adding a builder to my story, and I thought it would be good to have some firsthand experience with the trade before I attempt to write about it.”

  What are you up to? Jane wondered. What possible reason could you have for coming here? Whatever it was, she knew that nothing good could come of it.

  “Jane,” said Walter, “I’ll give you a call later. Maybe we can all have dinner tonight at my place.”

  “Maybe,” Jane said. “That might be nice.”

  Walter nodded. “Great,” he said. “Now we’ll get out of your hair.”

  Brian looked at Jane. “Until tonight, then,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I look forward to it.”

  Jane said nothing in reply. She watched as Walter and Brian left the store. Only when they were out of sight did she bring a hand to her forehead. No, she thought. No, no, no, no, no.

  A moment later, Lucy had joined her at the counter. “I can’t believe I just met Brian George!” she exclaimed. “I love his accent. It’s British, right?”

  “Scottish, actually,” Jane corrected.

  “Have you got a headache?” asked Lucy.

  Jane took her hand away from her head. “Just a slight one,” she said. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  “I wonder what it would be like to date a writer,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

  “Hideous,” said Jane. “It would be hideous. Especially that one.”

  Lucy turned to her. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked. “And how do you know?”

  “He’s a poet,” said Jane quickly. “Poets make dreadful partners. They’re always mooning around and asking you what rhymes with what. It’s so tedious.”

  “Okay,” Lucy said slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind. But he’s still a hottie.”

  Jane wanted to say more, but she didn’t dare. The last thing she wanted was Lucy getting near the man who called himself Brian George, but there was no way she could tell the young woman why without having to tell her many other things she wished to keep to herself. Most of all, she didn’t want to sound like a bitter older woman.

  Which of course is exactly what you are, she told herself.

  Chapter 11

  She and Charles were returning from the picnic by the river. She was wearing the crown he’d woven for her out of daisies, and she carried her shoes in her hand. Despite her hat the sun had pinked her cheeks, but Charles, accustomed to hours spent in the gardens, had simply grown even more brown. He reached out and took her hand, and for a moment she was perfectly happy. Then a shadow fell across the path, and she looked up to see Jonathan standing in their way.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  JANE PAUSED ON WALTER’S FRONT PORCH. JUST RELAX, she told herself. There’s no reason to worry.

  But there was reason to worry, and no amount of wishing it away would calm her anxiety. She would simply have to get through the evening as best she could.

  Walter answered the door moments after she’d rung the bell. He was wiping his hands on a dish towel, and an apron was tied around his waist. It was spattered with what appeared to be some kind of sauce.

  “Come in,” Walter said, smiling and waving her inside. He appeared to be in a very good mood.

  “Hello again.” Brian George stood in the living room, a glass of wine in his hand. A second glass, nearly empty, stood on the table beside the couch.

  “Hello,” Jane said coolly as Walter helped her off with her coat and went to hang it in the hall closet.

  “I’m so pleased you could join us,” Brian said, as if he and not Walter were the host.

  “Yes,” said Jane vaguely, avoiding Brian’s gaze. “Well.”

  Walter, oblivious to what was passing between them, returned with a glass and a bottle of wine. “Brian brought the most wonderful wine,” he said as he poured a glass for Jane. “I’ve already had two glasses.”

  That explains the good mood, Jane thought as she accepted the glass. She hesitated a moment before taking a sip. Walter was right; it was delicious.

  “Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” she said.

  Brian nodded. “I brought a few bottles with me,” he replied. “It’s my favorite.”

  Yes, Jane thought, I remember. It was also one of the most coveted wines in the world, far too expensive for a poet to afford. She wondered if Walter realized what he was drinking.

  “Have a seat,” Walter suggested.

  Jane waited until Brian took a seat on the couch, then seated herself in one of the armchairs on the side of the coffee table opposite him. Walter took the other chair.

  “Tell me, Jane, how long have you lived in Brakeston?” Brian inquired.

  “Nearly ten years,” Jane said, her voice clipped.

  “Ten years,” Brian repeated. “Long enough to be considered a local, I think.”

  Walter chuckled. “Oh, she’s definitely one of us,” he said. “It’s like she’s lived here forever.”

  “So it seems,” said Brian. He looked once more at Jane. “You’re from the UK, though, if I’ve identified your accent correctly. Have you been long in the colonies?”

  “Since I was a child,” Jane answered.

  A sly smile crossed Brian’s face. “Then you don’t miss your homeland?” he said.

  Jane shook her head. “I was quite young when I moved here,” she told him. “I don’t remember very much about it.”

  “Have you been to the States before?” Walter asked Brian. He was pouring himself more wine. He offered the bottle to Brian, who accepted.

  “No,” said Brian. “This is my first time here. My family has lived in England for a very long time.” He looked at Jane. “Have you any family left in England?”

  “No,” Jane said, meeting his gaze. “They’re all dead, I’m afraid.”

  Brian took a sip of wine. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  A buzzer sounded in another room, and Walter jumped up. “That will be dinner,” he said. “Everybody to the table!”

  As he hurried to the kitchen, Jane and Brian stood. For a moment they faced each other. “What are you doing here?” Jane hissed.

  “I thought Walter mentioned that,” said Brian. “I’ve come to soak up the local flavor.”

  Ja
ne gave a short, sharp laugh. “How fortunate for us,” she said. “Are you certain that’s all?”

  Brian reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Jane pulled away. “I had hoped to renew an old acquaintance,” he said.

  “Dinner’s on!” Walter called from the dining room.

  Jane turned and walked away, the sting of Brian’s touch still burning on her cheek. In the dining room, Walter was placing a dish of peas on the table, which already held a roast on a platter, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and the usual assortment of cutlery and glassware.

  “You sit here,” Walter said to Jane, indicating a place on the left. “And Brian, you sit here,” he continued, pointing to the head of the table.

  They all sat, and Walter picked up the platter of beef. “I hope you like it rare,” he said as he passed it to Brian. “I can’t stand overcooked meat.”

  “This looks perfect,” said Brian as he helped himself to several pieces before passing the dish to Jane. “I do like my beef on the bloody side.”

  Jane took a small piece of roast, then accepted the peas from Walter. As she in turn passed them to Brian, their fingers touched. The shock that passed between them startled her, and she dropped the bowl. Before it hit the table, Brian’s hand shot out and caught it. Jane snatched her hand back and held it in her lap, rubbing it with her other one. Her skin still tingled.

  “Jane, Brian is another Austen fan,” Walter said. “I told him he should talk to you.”

  “Indeed,” Brian remarked. “Tell me, Jane, what is your opinion of the Austen craze that seems to have possessed your country?” He paused. “My apologies. I mean, of course, this country.”

  Jane stabbed at the piece of meat on her plate. The juice from the beef was pink with blood, and she felt her mouth water. Before answering Brian, she took a bite and chewed it thoroughly, savoring the taste.

  “I think the books appeal to readers of all times,” she answered.

  Brian nodded. “Women do like the romances,” he said.

  Jane flushed. “They’re more than just romances,” she said. “And their appeal is hardly limited to women.”

  Brian waved his fork in the air. “Of course,” he said. “I myself thoroughly enjoy her work. But surely you agree that her subject matter is rather … lightweight, if you will.” Instead of waiting for Jane to reply, he continued. “The critic G. H. Lewes once told Charlotte Brontë that she should study Austen’s work in order to correct her own shortcomings as an author. Do you know what her response was?”