Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Jane felt her fangs click into place. Her senses sharpened as the scent of the blood kicked her need into high gear. She felt herself being drawn toward Joy’s injured finger.

  “Whoops!” Joy said gaily. She wrapped her finger in a dish towel. “It’s okay. It’s just a little nick,” she assured the audience.

  Jane continued to stare at the blood. She could practically taste it. Her head was swimming. The lights above her felt like burning suns. Her skin was on fire, and her eyes ached. But all she could see was the drops of blood.

  Then all of a sudden Joy was thrusting a bowl of grated cheese at Jane. She looked at it dully, then remembered what Juan had told her to do. Taking a handful, she leaned over and tried to sprinkle it on the waiting quesadilla. But the heat from her hands turned the cheese into a gloopy mess that plopped onto the tortilla and sat there like a recalcitrant toad. Chef Juan looked at it, then glowered at Jane.

  “Okay,” Jane heard Comfort say. “Now we’ll put this in the oven.” She grabbed the baking sheet with the quesadilla on it and hurried it into the nonfunctioning oven behind them. Then she removed a completed quesadilla from the top rack and displayed it to the audience. “Doesn’t it look great?” she asked.

  “I just loooooove Mexican food!” Joy proclaimed, while Chef Juan smiled crookedly and flicked a stray piece of cheese from his fingers onto the carpet.

  It was all over a minute later. As soon as the stage manager called break, Jane rushed offstage. Away from the lights she felt a little better. She had just started back toward the greenroom to get some water when Joy walked by.

  “Goddamn knife,” she muttered as she went past. “Why didn’t somebody tell me it was sharp?”

  The smell of blood trailed Joy like the tail of a kite. Jane’s nose twitched. She really had to get something to eat. She watched as Joy went into her dressing room. Then she looked around. Everyone involved with the show seemed to be busy. Even Comfort was signing autographs and talking to some audience members. Jane looked again at Joy’s dressing room door.

  I’ll just have a little something, she told herself. Just to tide me over.

  Chapter 25

  She looked at the page before her. Line after line of words written in her hand covered the creamy paper. It had taken her the better part of the evening to compose them. Now, in the light of the fire, she read them to herself. They were fine words, filled with meaning and beauty, and they brought her story to a most satisfying conclusion.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  IT WAS RAINING LIGHTLY WHEN JANE ARRIVED AT LA MAISON DES Trois Soeurs in the French Quarter. The damp air carried a faintly swampy smell, which, combined with the warmth of the day, made Jane feel as if she were wrapped in a very wet wool sweater. Worst of all, it was doing nothing for her hair, which hung limply around her shoulders.

  She paid the cabdriver and carried her two bags into the hotel. At the check-in desk a round-faced young man wearing small steel-rimmed eyeglasses greeted her with a sleepy “Afternoon. May I help you?”

  “I’m checking in,” Jane informed him. She gave him her name and waited as he looked through an old-fashioned ledger book filled with handwritten notations. There wasn’t a computer in sight, she noted. In fact, everything in the lobby was a hundred years out of date. Gaslights flickered on the walls, and the solid wood furniture squatted atop the well-worn carpets like enormous beasts wearing pink velvet saddles. It’s really quite lovely, Jane thought.

  “Here we are,” the clerk said, making a star next to what Jane assumed was her reservation in the book. “I see that you’re in town for the conference.”

  Jane nodded. “Are there many of us staying here?” she asked.

  “A few,” the man answered. “Most of the attendees stay at the conference hotel. But some like to stay here because it’s more out of the way. Also, they enjoy the authentic atmosphere.”

  “It certainly is lovely,” Jane remarked as she was handed an actual key instead of the electronic card she was used to getting in hotels. Like everything else in La Maison des Trois Soeurs, it was old, its metal worn smooth from unknown fingers.

  “You’re in room number nine,” said the clerk. “It’s through the drawing room and up the stairs. Second floor. Would you like some help with your bags?”

  Jane shook her head. “I can manage,” she said. “But thank you.”

  “I’m Luke,” the man said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  Slipping the key into her pocket, Jane picked up her bags and walked through the lobby and up the stairs to the second-floor landing. The stairs continued up to the third floor, but a hallway lined with doors stretched out to the right. Jane walked along it until she came to a door with a small brass 9 affixed to its mullion. The key in her pocket fit neatly into the waiting keyhole, and the door swung open with only the faintest groan of protest.

  The room was larger than she’d expected. Against one wall was a brass bed covered with an antique quilt in the traditional Jacob’s ladder pattern, all in shades of blue. Directly opposite it was a dresser with a large mirror atop it, as well as a comfortable-looking armchair upholstered in deep blue. To the left a door led into what Jane assumed was the bathroom. The far wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, all of which were shut against the rain. Outside was a small balcony of wrought iron that looked over the street below.

  Placing one suitcase on the bed and the other beside the dresser, Jane went to the windows and opened one of them. The rain had slowed and now steam was rising from the cobblestones below. The smell of earth and rot was stronger now, but not unpleasant. It’s as if the whole city is decomposing, Jane thought.

  She had not been in New Orleans in almost a century. She’d once known several of her kind who lived there, but she’d ceased corresponding with them long ago. At first their obsession with the past had appealed to her, particularly as things in the world were changing so quickly at that time, making her feel as if the world she knew was disappearing. But eventually she’d tired of their mannered speech and morbid fascination with sleeping in coffins and holding masquerade balls, and had bid them adieu. She was certain that they lived here still, but she had no intention of looking for them. They would only depress her.

  She returned to the bed and opened the suitcase. Another shopping excursion in Chicago prior to leaving had provided her with more clothes and other necessities. Removing several items of clothing, she hung them in the narrow closet. She was just carrying her toiletry bag into the bathroom when the chirping of her cell phone interrupted the quiet. Jane retrieved it from where she’d laid it on the dresser.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fairfax,” said a woman’s voice, “this is Farrah Rubenstein. From Entertainment Weekly,” she added when Jane didn’t reply.

  “Yes,” said Jane, startled. She knew who Farrah was. She just hadn’t expected to hear her voice. You’re supposed to be dead, she thought. “It’s good to hear from you,” she told the waiting reporter.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Farrah said, apparently oblivious to any surprise in Jane’s voice. “I just have a couple of follow-up questions about the book.”

  Jane sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course,” she said. She very badly wanted to ask the young woman if she was okay. Like, have you had any urges to bite people in the neck? she thought. But she couldn’t say anything without admitting that something peculiar had occurred, and part of her didn’t want Farrah to know that she had left her stowed beneath the bed while she went shopping. She noticed that she was holding in her hand the red blouse she’d purchased, and she shoved it beneath one of the pillows on the bed lest Farrah somehow know she had it.

  “Okay,” said Farrah. “I forgot to ask you if the names of your characters are meant to symbolize anything.”

  Jane answered the question, not listening to a word she was saying. Farrah had several more questions, all of which Jane replied to in the same way. She couldn’t get t
he image of the girl lying on the hotel room bed, her eyes staring up lifelessly at the ceiling, out of her mind. What had happened to her?

  “Farrah,” she said when she could stand it no longer, “are you feeling all right?”

  “Me?” said Farrah. “Yes. Why?”

  “Just asking,” Jane said, thinking quickly. “I seem to have caught a little bug while I was in Chicago. I think it was the air in the hotel. I wondered if you had experienced any … symptoms after our meeting.”

  “No,” said Farrah. “In fact, I feel great. Maybe you’re sensitive,” she added helpfully.

  “Maybe,” Jane agreed.

  Farrah started to ask Jane a question about the plot of her novel. “You’re sure you don’t feel at all unusual?” Jane interrupted. “Forgetful, maybe? Or tired? Maybe you find yourself craving rare meat?”

  Farrah laughed. “Eww,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian. No, I feel great. Now, if I could just ask you a few more questions …”

  They talked for another ten minutes before Farrah thanked Jane for her time and told her when to expect the issue of the magazine to be on the stands. She hung up and Jane turned her phone off. Jane continued to sit on the bed, looking at the phone in her hands and wondering what was going on. I saw her, she thought. That girl was dead.

  But clearly she wasn’t. Somehow she had left that hotel room and now either didn’t remember a thing or was lying about it. Either way it was distressing. Why would someone go out of their way (out of his way, Jane suspected) to drain the reporter and set Jane up for murder, only to then get rid of the body? It didn’t make any sense.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to dwell on it. There was a cocktail reception for conference attendees beginning in an hour, and Jane was expected to make an appearance. Although she felt hot, damp, and now thoroughly confused, she had to go. She forced herself up and into the bathroom to see if she could do anything about her hair.

  At a quarter past six she walked into a second-floor ballroom at the conference hotel. It was packed with people—mostly women—talking loudly and taking finger food from trays being carried around by bored-looking waitstaff. Jane noted with some alarm that there was a lot of pink clothing to be seen.

  She located the sign-in desk and approached two women whose name tags identified them as organizers. Before she could even say a word one of them shrieked. “Jane Fairfax!” she exclaimed. “I love your book.” She extended a hand as the people around Jane turned to look at her, clearly wondering who she was to command such enthusiastic attention. Jane, blushing, took the proffered hand.

  “I’m Sally Higgins-Smythe,” the woman said. “With a y,” she added, underscoring her name tag with one pudgy finger. “I’m the one who invited you to the conference.”

  “Then I owe you a great deal of thanks,” said Jane. Sally Higgins-Smythe had a wild look in her eyes, bordering on hysteria, and Jane suspected she had been running for the past twenty-four hours on caffeine and sugar.

  “Here’s your badge,” Sally said, pinning on Jane’s chest a name tag in the shape of a large heart. “And here’s your schedule.” She thrust a piece of paper at Jane. “I have to work the table right now, but I can’t wait for your talk.”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “I—” She stopped. “My talk?” she asked, registering what Sally had said.

  “Didn’t they tell you?” Sally said. “You’re going to be on a panel about what women want from romance novels. It’s you, Penelope Wentz, and Chiara Carrington.”

  “Nobody mentioned anything about a panel,” said Jane. “Is it possible for you—”

  “You’ll be fine,” Sally interrupted. “All you have to do is say a little bit and then answer questions.”

  Jane began to rebut, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to cause trouble at her very first conference. Isn’t it enough that you almost got a reporter killed? she asked herself. You don’t need to add to it by getting a reputation for being difficult. “You’re right,” she told Sally. “It will be fun.”

  She left Sally to greet the other arrivals, and made her way to the far corner of the room, where she hoped she could keep out of the way. On her way she lifted a glass of wine from a passing tray and downed most of it before she’d gotten even halfway across the floor. She wished Kelly were there, or Nick. Alone, she felt like the new girl at school. She recognized no one, and everyone was looking at her chest as they tried to figure out who she was.

  She found a spot next to a potted palm and tried to blend into the crowd. With a little luck, no one would notice her and she could skip out early. Then she could worry about what she was going to say at her panel. What women want from romance novels, she thought. Honestly.

  “Jane?”

  Jane looked up to see a tall, lovely woman standing before her. The deep brown of her skin was set off by the gorgeous amber-colored dress she wore. A simple diamond necklace circled her slender throat, and her hair was done up in a tight, shiny knot. Jane racked her brain, trying to identify which movie star she was.

  “Chiara Carrington,” the woman said, flashing Jane a stunning smile. “I thought I’d introduce myself before our panel tomorrow.”

  “Oh!” said Jane. “I’m so pleased you did. I just now found out that I’m even doing it.”

  Chiara laughed. “So did I,” she said. “Sally has a way of forgetting to tell authors little details like that. You’ll get used to it after a couple of conferences.”

  For several minutes Jane and Chiara made small talk. Then Chiara said, “I’m ashamed to tell you this, but I haven’t read any of your books.”

  Oh, I bet you have, thought Jane. “It’s all right,” she told Chiara. “This is my first. And since we’re confessing, I haven’t read yours either. Is it your first as well?”

  “My fifteenth,” Chiara answered. A chill had crept into her voice, and Jane realized immediately that she’d made an error. “So many?” she said quickly. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have—”

  “Excuse me.” Another voice interrupted Jane’s attempt at an apology. Jane turned to see a woman, small and dressed all in gray, standing beside her. Her skin was fair and her eyes were the same gray as her dress. Her brown hair was gathered into a severe chignon at the nape of her neck.

  “I’d like a word with you if I might,” the woman said to Jane. She glanced at Chiara. “Alone.”

  “It’s all right,” Chiara said. “I was just leaving.” She gave Jane an icy look. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she walked away.

  Jane turned back to the new arrival. “I didn’t get your name,” she said.

  “Violet,” said the woman. “Violet Grey.”

  Jane, about to shake hands with the woman, kept her hand at her side. “Oh,” she said. “I’ve read your work.”

  Violet smiled grimly. “I’m sure,” she said. “And I yours.”

  Jane wasn’t sure how to proceed. She already knew what Violet thought of her book. Was she supposed to confront her? Or was she expected to just stand there while Violet got some sort of perverse enjoyment out of seeing her squirm?

  “I’ve no intention of making a scene,” said Violet, as if reading Jane’s mind. “I don’t think either of us wants that.”

  “No,” Jane said. “No, we don’t.”

  Violet nodded curtly. “Then I’ll say what I’ve come to say. I intend to expose you.”

  “Expose me?” Jane said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I imagined you would say that,” said Violet. “What I mean is that I can prove that you are not who you say you are.”

  Jane hesitated. Did Violet know about her? And if so, how? She started to reply.

  “Don’t bother denying it,” said Violet, stopping her. “I have all the proof I need.”

  “Proof?” Jane repeated.

  “That you plagiarized your novel,” said Violet.

  Jane heard herself laugh with relief. The woman didn’t know about her after all.
Then her words sank in.

  “You think I stole someone else’s work?” she said.

  “Not just someone’s work, Miss Fairfax,” said Violet. “Charlotte Brontë’s work.”

  “Brontë?” Jane said. “What in the world makes you think that I stole from Charlotte Brontë?”

  “As it happens, I am in possession of the original manuscript that you call Constance,” Violet informed her.

  “That’s impossible,” said Jane.

  “And yet I do have it,” Violet insisted. “I also have a witness—an expert in nineteenth-century manuscripts—who will testify to its authorship.”

  Jane thought for a moment. What had happened to the original manuscript for the novel? She tried to remember. Then it came to her—she’d given it to Byron. She had, in fact, written the book as a love letter of sorts to him, keeping it a secret from her family, unlike the works in progress she usually read aloud to them. The thought sickened her now, but at the time she’d thought it the perfect way to show Byron how much she adored him. Then, after what he did, she’d fled his house without the manuscript. She’d had a copy hidden at Chawton, of course, but the original had remained in the house on the shore of Lake Geneva.

  “I don’t know how you obtained a copy of the manuscript,” Violet continued. “I suppose there could be several of them in existence. Brontë was known for always having two or three, in case one was destroyed. But you do have one, of this I’m certain. And I intend to prove that you used it as the basis for your book.”

  “There’s been some kind of mistake,” Jane said.

  Violet snorted. “A very large one, I would say. What do you think the literary world will say when they find out that not only have you plagiarized your novel, but you’ve prevented the world from knowing that another Charlotte Brontë novel exists?”

  “You don’t understand,” Jane said.