Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Byron too was floating, his body beneath Jane’s and her head resting on his chest. He held her in his arms like a child as he kicked his legs, pushing them into deeper water. As he swam he hummed a lullaby, the words of which Jane heard in her mind but which flitted away as soon as she tried to capture them.

  They seemed to swim for hours, or maybe days. Then they came to a stop and floated on the still surface of the lake. Byron took Jane’s wrists in his hands and crossed them over her chest, laying his arms atop hers.

  “I feel as if I’m dreaming,” Jane murmured.

  Byron released her, his arms moving to her shoulders. He caressed her gently. “The great art of life is sensation,” he said. “To feel that we exist, even in pain.” His hands gripped her more tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Jane was pushed beneath the water.

  She struggled for breath. Through the water she could see the stars. They broke apart, swarming like bees, as she thrashed around. Her ears rang with the sounds of her muffled screams. But Byron’s hands, like iron weights, held her down.

  Water poured into her mouth, filling her throat. She gasped and found no air. Her eyes grew cloudy, and overhead the stars winked out one by one, until all was black.

  She woke up choking. She was in Byron’s bedroom, cradled in his arms. He was stroking her hair and once again humming the tuneless lullaby. Jane turned and spat onto the floor, clearing her mouth.

  “It’s all right,” Byron said. “It’s all right now.”

  Outside, the storm was still raging. The stars were gone, and the moon was black. Although still naked, Jane was dry, as if she’d never been in the lake, never floated beneath the sky, never been pushed beneath the water.

  “What did you do?” Jane asked. She felt her heart beating, but something was different. She was changed somehow.

  “You’ve been reborn,” said Byron. “I took your life, then gave it back to you.” He showed her his wrist. Blood flowed from a fresh wound. Jane realized with horror that the liquid in her mouth was not water. She ran her tongue over her teeth and found them thick with the taste of meat and iron.

  “No,” she said, trying to push herself away from Byron. “Let me go!”

  Byron pulled her back, holding her tightly against his chest. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s done.”

  “You drowned me!” Jane cried, beating at him with her fists.

  “A dream,” said Byron. “Of your rebirth. We all experience it differently. But you have never left this bed.”

  “What have you done?” Jane sobbed. “What have you done to me?”

  The alarm woke her up. Tom was sitting beside her, staring down at her expectantly. He meowed once.

  Jane sat up. Already the nightmare was fading. But she remembered enough of it. It hadn’t come to her in a very long time. Now, she feared, it would return again and again. Byron’s kiss had given new life to it.

  “Damn him,” she said to Tom. “Damn him for coming back.”

  Chapter 13

  To be a writer, she thought, must be the most wonderful thing in the world, if for no other reason than that one’s characters would have to do exactly as they were told. Unlike flesh-and-blood men, they were not likely to behave in contrary ways, forever-leaving one perplexed and unsettled, never-knowing quite what they were thinking.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  “I’VE GOT GOOD NEWS.”

  It took a moment for Jane to recognize Kelly’s voice. “Should I sit down?” she asked.

  “You’ll just jump back up again. We got a blurb from Margot Aldridge.”

  Jane couldn’t suppress a squeal of joy. “The Beauty of Lies Margot Aldridge?” she said.

  “Is there another one?” asked Kelly.

  Jane laughed. “I certainly hope not,” she said.

  “She doesn’t blurb anything,” Kelly said. “But I know her editor, and I took a chance. Jennifer passed the manuscript on to Margot and she absolutely loved it. Do you want to hear it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jane. “Do I?”

  Kelly ignored her remark and began to read. “‘Constance is the rare novel that so deftly explores the lives of its characters that we forget they exist only on the page. Jane Fairfax’s debut is absolutely magical.’”

  Jane couldn’t speak. “Are you there?” Kelly asked after twenty seconds of silence.

  “Read it again,” Jane said finally.

  Kelly did. “And that’s not all,” he told Jane. “I think we’ll be getting quotes from Fisher McTavish and Anne Gardot.”

  Jane gripped the phone tightly. “Keep naming my favorite authors and I’m going to have a heart attack,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I told you it was a great book,” said Kelly. “Everyone here is excited about it. I haven’t seen them push a book through so quickly since we did the tell-all by that woman who had the affair with the president. Bound galleys are already going out to reviewers, and sales is making a big push to the chains and Amazon to make sure they promote the hell out of this as soon as possible.”

  “Now I am sitting down,” Jane said. “I can’t believe this. It’s only been two weeks since I was there.”

  “And it’s just beginning,” Kelly said. “You should be hearing from Nick Trilling later today. He’s your publicity guy. We need to put together an author bio to send to the press.”

  Suddenly Jane’s excitement waned. She hadn’t even thought about a bio. Getting the book published at all was the only thing that had concerned her. Having to promote herself was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “I suppose I can come up with something,” she said. “But I’m not terribly interesting, you know.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Kelly. “A bookstore owner who writes her first novel when she’s fortysomething? You’re a publicist’s dream. Every woman in America will be able to relate to you, Jane.”

  I doubt that, Jane thought. “Perhaps,” she replied to Kelly. “Anyway, I’m happy to speak with—what did you say his name is, Nick?”

  “Nick Trilling,” Kelly repeated. “I’ve got a meeting to get to, but I wanted to tell you what’s happening.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane. “I must say it’s all a bit surreal.”

  “Think of it as a dream come true,” Kelly said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Jane.”

  Jane hung up. A dream come true, she thought. That’s not always a good thing.

  She thought back to her dinner with Walter and Byron and to what had happened afterward. That night she’d remembered everything vividly. The secret visit to his house on the shore of Lake Geneva. The loss of her innocence. The pain that followed. It had all come back to her. Her death and resurrection. Her declaration of love for Byron once he’d explained what she now was. His callous dismissal of her affections, and her shameful return to England.

  The worst of the memories was of having to leave Cassie. Staging her own illness and subsequent death over the course of a year was difficult, but she had managed it with the help of a sympathetic physician recommended to her by another of her kind, several of whom she had met seemingly by accident, though she now suspected that Byron had told them about her. Leaving Cassie had been almost unbearable. For months she had done nothing but weep and wish herself truly dead.

  It was this loss for which she couldn’t forgive Byron. For now all she wanted was to tell Cassie about her book. Her earlier work had all been published anonymously, her identity known only to a small circle of friends. Fame had come after her death. She knew Cassie would be thrilled for her and would be more excited even than Jane was that she would finally get to hold a book with her name on it in her hands.

  She had managed to avoid Byron for several days, and he had not called upon her. She assumed he was busy with his work, and was relieved to be free of him, if only temporarily. She had forced herself to feed so that she could be rid of the residual fogginess caused by their encounter, driving to a town an hour awa
y and, assuming the identity of a weary housewife, asking a pimple-faced bag boy at the Price Chopper to help her to the car with her bags filled with corn chips, salsa, and lite beer. She had eaten quickly and left him to sleep it off beside a Dumpster in the parking lot, his head resting on a box of day-old donuts. Now she felt more or less herself.

  “Hey. Whatchya doing?”

  Lucy’s voice startled Jane, who spun around in her chair.

  “Sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re officially out of Mark Twain finger puppets. Should I order some more?”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “I think not,” she said. “Don’t we still have half a dozen Tennysons to get rid of?”

  Lucy leaned against the desk. “Yeah,” she answered. “But the Austens are almost gone. Mr. Hunky bought one yesterday.”

  “Who?” Jane asked.

  “The new guy,” said Lucy. “Brian George.”

  “He was in yesterday?” Jane inquired.

  Lucy nodded. “When you went to the bank. I think he has a crush on you,” she added.

  “What?” Jane said, a little too loudly. Had Lucy really noticed something between the two of them? The thought horrified her.

  “He said the puppet looked just like you,” Lucy explained. She squinted at Jane. “Now that you mention it, you do kind of look like her,” she said.

  “Rubbish,” said Jane. “All middle-aged Englishwomen look alike. Anyway, no more puppets. It was a fun idea, but I think we should stick to books.”

  “I guess that puts the kibosh on the Little Women action figures,” Lucy joked. “Pity. I was looking forward to the Beth doll with real scarlet fever action.”

  “Out,” Jane said, pointing to the door.

  Lucy cackled evilly and scurried out, leaving a laughing Jane behind. Lucy reminded her a bit of Cassandra, always looking for the fun in things. It was no surprise that Jane was so fond of the young woman.

  She was about to get up when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Nick Trilling, she picked it up.

  “Good morning,” Walter said.

  Jane felt a twinge of guilt as she said, “Good morning yourself.” Although technically nothing had happened between her and Byron, she still felt as if she were doing Walter a disservice.

  “I was wondering if you might be free for lunch,” said Walter. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

  Jane hesitated. She really didn’t want to see either Walter or Byron at the moment. But she knew she couldn’t put it off much longer. “I’d like that,” she said. “Why don’t you come by around one? We can get something at the Soup Kitchen.”

  “Wonderful,” Walter said. “It’s a date.”

  No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again. “One o’clock,” she said, assuming it was Walter, who almost always had to call back because he couldn’t remember what they’d decided. “The Soup Kitchen.”

  “How did you know I was calling to ask you to lunch?”

  Byron’s voice practically purred through the line. Hearing it, Jane felt her pulse quicken. “I-I-I thought you were someone else,” she stammered.

  “I could pretend to be,” Byron suggested. “I’ve been many different men since you last knew me.”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Jane. “And I can’t have lunch with any of you. I have an appointment.”

  Byron sighed as if he was deeply disappointed. “I see I’ve lost your heart to another man,” he said.

  “You never had it to lose,” Jane snapped.

  “We’ll see,” said Byron. “Perhaps dinner, then?”

  “No,” Jane told him.

  “I’m just going to keep asking until you agree,” said Byron. “Besides, I’m sure we can find something much nicer to eat than what you had the other night.”

  Jane bristled. “You followed me,” she said.

  “You weren’t the only one out hunting,” said Byron. “But really, being a blonde doesn’t suit you. And that fellow you chose. What was his name? Paul? I bet he tasted of acne cream and too much sugar. I’m surprised you could stomach him.”

  “I feed to survive,” Jane hissed, afraid that if she spoke any louder Lucy would hear her. “Not for pleasure.”

  “That’s a difference between us,” said Byron. “I find that I quite like American food.”

  “I’m hanging up now,” Jane told him. “Please don’t call me here again.”

  “Wait,” Byron said, stopping her. “You haven’t said when we can meet again.”

  Jane shut her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth. He’d already said that he wouldn’t cease bothering her until she agreed to see him, and she knew he was serious about it. She was going to have to do it. But she couldn’t give in so easily.

  “I’ll have to let you know,” she said.

  She could hear Byron laughing softly. “Very well,” he said. “But remember, I’m not a patient man.”

  “Goodbye,” Jane said curtly, and hung up.

  She couldn’t believe what a roller coaster the morning had been. First there’d been the high of Kelly’s fantastic news, and now she felt deflated by the tiny matter of her life being turned upside down by Byron’s arrival. Standing in the middle was Walter. Good, sweet Walter, who only wanted her to love him.

  Men, she thought. The downfall of women since Adam blamed Eve for that stupid apple. She wondered briefly if it was too late to become a lesbian. “I’m sure they have just as difficult a time of it,” she said to the empty room. “Love is dangerous for everyone.”

  For the rest of the morning she stayed in the office, catching up on the endless paperwork, poring over publishers’ catalogs to see what books she might want to order, and generally trying to avoid interacting with anyone. She was feeling pulled in too many directions to think properly, and her thoughts raced from one thing to another as she attempted to sort out her thoughts about her book, Walter, Byron, and pretty much her entire life. She had half a mind to just disappear, run off to another town and start all over again. But that would be only a temporary solution, she reminded herself. Also, it would be rude.

  Precisely at one Walter knocked on the office door. “Ready?” he asked.

  “I just have to get my coat,” said Jane, doing just that.

  Five minutes later they were seated at a table in the Soup Kitchen, looking at the menu.

  “I’m thinking clam chowder,” Walter said. “How about you?”

  Jane picked something at random, not really caring what she put in her stomach. “Perhaps the chicken and wild rice,” she said.

  They placed their orders and settled into what Jane felt was an uncomfortable silence.

  “I want to apologize for the other night,” Walter said after a few minutes.

  “Whatever for?” asked Jane.

  “For asking you about Brian,” Walter explained. “It was none of my business.”

  Jane stirred a packet of sugar into the iced tea she’d requested. “Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so mysterious about the whole thing. I hope you haven’t been fretting over it.”

  “Maybe a little,” Walter admitted, playing with his fork. “After all, he’s a popular guy.”

  “Do you think so?” said Jane.

  Walter nodded. “All the women in town are smitten with him,” he said. “You should see them following him around.”

  To her surprise, Jane felt a pang of jealousy. She hid it by stirring another packet of sugar into her tea, rattling the spoon vigorously against the sides. “You don’t say,” she remarked.

  “Personally, I think it’s the accent,” said Walter. “Women seem to love men with British accents.”

  “It’s Scottish, actually,” said Jane automatically. “But they’re practically the same,” she added hastily.

  “Anyway, he’s quite a hit,” Walter told her.

  Their soups arrived at that moment, saving Jane from having to reply.

  “There’s something
else I want to apologize for,” said Walter. He didn’t wait for Jane to respond before continuing. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Evelyn.”

  Jane looked at him, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

  “Sherman told me that you and he talked about her at the New Year’s party,” Walter said. “I should have told you about her a long time ago.”

  Jane returned her spoon to the bowl. “Walter, you don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do,” he interrupted.

  Jane concentrated on her soup. Secrets were one thing she was not ready to share with Walter. But she let him talk, not only because it prevented her from having to, but also because she genuinely wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “For a long time I blamed myself for her death,” he said. “I know that it wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t help it. I asked myself over and over why I didn’t go into the water with her, why I wasn’t there. Why I couldn’t save her. Eventually I got tired of asking myself those questions. And I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s not that I forgot about Evelyn; it’s more that in my mind that loss happened to someone else. Not to me, to some other man. Does that make any sense?”

  Jane was trying hard not to cry. What Walter had just said was very much how she felt about the loss of her own family. She reached across the table and took Walter’s hand. At that moment she felt as if they shared something that went beyond simple friendship, or even love.

  “It does makes sense,” she said as a tear slid down her cheek. “It makes all the sense in the world.”

  Chapter 14

  Her cheeks burned with fury as she fled the room. What Jonathan had proposed was unthinkable. She could never accept such an arrangement, not even to protect Charles from harm. She cursed her vanity. She cursed herself, too, for allowing Charles into her heart. By doing so, she had perhaps doomed them both.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  LUCY YAWNED AND SHOOK HER HEAD. I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S wrong with me,” she said to Jane the next morning. “I feel as if I haven’t slept at all.”