Austensibly Ordinary

by Alyssa Goodnight

  The next entry was even better. . . .

  I find myself in quite a conundrum. Despite having written to you, Aunt Jane, and discovered that, by some strange magic, you are able to advise me through the pages of this very journal, I cannot claim even a vague understanding of how you are able to do so. And while you must know the esteem in which I hold your good advice and opinions, I admit that I can no longer consider this a private journal in the traditional sense, knowing that every careful word is on display. I can, however, delight in using it just as you intended, to record the little dilemmas that life presents, expecting, in response, your prompt and sound advice. I expect I will need it more than you know, because I have decided to follow in your footsteps, Aunt Jane, and dedicate myself to my writing, and I fear that Mother will take very vocal exception to this, a very much unintended path. With lifelong admiration and newfound awe, I remain your loving niece, Anna.

  I waited until I’d reached the end of the page before triumphantly pronouncing, “I knew it! It’s exactly as I suspected: Jane Austen herself, the literary treasure, not the witch,” I specified, cutting my eyes around at Ethan, “is giving the advice. She’s the one trimming off the excess words, editing the entries, and leaving behind little snippets of, well, ambiguity.” A little of the fizz went out of my discovery.

  “That’s not completely conclusive,” he said, “And how is a dead woman—not even a witch—managing that?”

  “I don’t know how she’s doing it, but neither do I know how Wi-Fi works, and I don’t question it every time I use it to get on the Internet. Besides, she’s Jane freakin’ Austen; give the woman some props.”

  “You have got a serious fangirl crush on her.” Ethan smirked.

  “Bet your ass I do,” I said. “So let’s get back to it, shall we?”

  “Okay, hold up. You can pore over the secret diary entries of Jane Austen’s niece later. Let’s try to keep things big picture for right now, okay?”

  “Okay, fine,” I agreed, longingly wishing Ethan shared my fangirl crush.

  “Good. So the snippets are, evidently, gone. The entries are here in their entirety—I’m assuming from everyone who’s owned the journal since Jane Austen Junior. So. . .” He flipped forward, gripping hunks of pages and pushing past them, quickly nearing the end of the book.

  I realized, almost too late, what was about to happen and fairly threw myself onto the book and effectively onto Ethan’s lap in my urgency that he not read the entries I’d written. I couldn’t remember exactly which bits I’d put in writing and which still floated through the ether, weaving in and out of my consciousness as the occasion demanded. It didn’t matter—private was private.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, one eyebrow raised, trying for casual and failing miserably.

  “Right now? I’m wondering if ‘fangirl crush’ is actually code for ‘huge turn-on.’” I could hear the amusement in his voice as he let go of the book to cross his arms over his chest, playing right into my hands. I snapped the journal closed and pushed off his (surprisingly muscular!) thigh back into a sitting position.

  “Interesting question. I’ve never put it to the test,” I said, lifting my own eyebrow. I settled the big book back on my lap and studiously avoided looking at him as I admitted, “I don’t want you to read my entries.”

  A noise escaped him, part laugh and part huff of disbelief.

  “They’re private,” I insisted, shyly smoothing my fingers over the worn leather of the journal and the delicate curves of the key protruding almost defiantly from the tarnished little key plate.

  I suspected him of exaggerated eye rolling and didn’t bother to confirm. “So I’m never gonna get to see them?” He seemed resigned. “What about the excerpts? Do I get to see them?”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Seeing as they’re the only clues we’ve got.”

  “So what’s it gonna be? If you want my help tonight, you need to pull out the key and show me what’s left. Or I can go home and leave you to pore over the details of every previous journal owner’s private life, and we can deal with the rest later.”

  My gaze darted from the journal up to his face as my brain teeter-tottered between the options. It was excruciating. My answer, however, was inevitable.

  “You can go.” I offered him a rueful smile of apology, but knowing me as he did, I’m pretty sure he was expecting me to side with Jane.

  “Works for me,” he said, rising slowly, sleepily from the couch. “Knock yourself out. Just don’t stay up too late. I’ve still got you on the hook for a date tomorrow night.” Two steps to the door and he turned back. “Should I be expecting Cate or Cat?” he asked, and it was impossible to read his expression.

  “Which do you prefer?” I parried, smugly expecting him to go conservative.

  Standing in my doorway, slightly rumpled in his evening attire and shadowed with the beginnings of tomorrow’s stubble, his dark eyes seemed as sharp as mine were bleary.

  “Surprise me,” he suggested. “See you at seven.” And then he turned and was gone.

  Chapter 9

  I stayed up way too late, and rather inevitably, I dreamt of Mr. Darcy. Normally, that would have produced a lovely, swoony sort of morning, but oddly enough, I woke up a little bit peevish. Darcy had been a bit standoffish, lording it over someone or other in that arrogant manner of his that every true fan knew was simply misunderstood. But I wasn’t in the mood, seeing as I was full up on “misunderstood” at the moment.

  Fully intending to stay in my pajamas today until it was time to get ready for my “date” with Ethan, I shuffled into the kitchen to fix myself a cup of hazelnut coffee, lugging the super-sized journal along with me. I had papers to grade, but I wanted a few more minutes of heartfelt, romantic prose before delving in to run-on sentences, absurd analogies, and dubious connections. Rather than keep reading where I’d left off early this morning, I paged quickly to the entries following those belonging to Jane Austen’s lucky niece.

  Jane Elizabeth had loaned the journal to a close friend who, due to dire financial circumstances, had found it necessary to find work as a governess. And then found it unavoidable to fall head over heels in love. But not with the chiseled cheekbones of the master—nothing so clichéd. She’d fallen in love with the music master. I felt like pinching myself, this was so good. Folding myself onto the couch with my coffee, I slipped into the past all over again.

  The situation I find myself in is awkward in the extreme. Now I need not only deal with a thoroughly unwise and unrequited romance, but with the impossible, albeit well-meant, suggestion that I seek advice on the matter from this very journal, on loan from Jane. But how difficult to reveal the feelings that I have long locked away in secret, or in whispered confidence with Jane herself! For even the barest possibility of a happy resolution, I will. I cannot confess to understanding Jane’s fantastical explanations . . . but with faith and trust in my friend, I will here record my unwieldy dilemma.

  I am governess to the children of Hambleton: two boys, James and Andrew, and a girl, Harriet. By most standards, they are well-behaved children, high-spirited, good-humored, and intelligent. They are not musically inclined. However, their mother Lady T believes that with enough tutelage they will be, and so has engaged a Music Master to instruct the children three afternoons a week. And this decision, I believe, will be the death of me.

  You see, Dear Journal, I have fallen quite irreparably in love with Mr. Edgerton. He would never be described as handsome, with his intense but distracted gaze, his harsh features, and the spectacles that are as often torn off in agitation as they are settled on his face. But I find him as beautiful as the nocturnes he plays in solitude, forever seeping under the door of the music room. He is elegant, and ever a gentleman, but I suspect he would not even recognize me if we met on a walk about the grounds. I am invisible, and consequently yearn to make myself seen. To make him really see me, see my admiration and even my affection. I fear that if subjected to
much more of his polite dismissal, I will shatter, or worse, step defiantly beyond the boundaries of propriety and surely be shamed or dismissed.

  I truly hope for some sort of guidance, Dear Journal, for I fear my sanity is fragile.

  I let out a deep sigh and felt it catch in my throat. If this was a historical romance novel, it wouldn’t be long before this music master became a servant to his desires, tossing off his spectacles and laying this feisty governess over the top of a piano, resulting in a glorious duet. And judging from the next entry, that wasn’t far off. And as telling as it was, I couldn’t help but wish I had a sneak peek at the little snippet of advice culled from this impassioned entry. I read on.

  It seems I shouldn’t have doubted either you, Dear Journal, or Jane Elizabeth, for the transformation occurred precisely as described. The mystical nature of it all puts me in mind of the gypsy fortune-tellers that sometimes camp in the woodlands surrounding Hambleton. Cross their palm with a piece of silver, and they will read the future in the lines of yours. But this was no vague prediction, but rather precise instructions, sufficiently specific as to eliminate the weighing of decisions and the uncertainties of a decision made misguidedly alone.

  I wish to confide that I’ve begun. The slow and steady erosion of Mr. Edgerton’s blissful solitude is progressing nicely. Sunday, gifted with a bit of time to myself, I stepped quietly into the music room and inquired as to whether I might sit with my needlework and listen. Between the blinking and the staring, you’d think I’d asked if I could sit on the top of the piano as he played! But he agreed. Today, when the children went out riding, I sought him out a second time and sweetly inquired as to whether he might spare a few moments to take on a new pupil. How amusing it was that I needed to specify that I referred to myself! I know I am flustering him and should probably be feeling a bit contrite, but wicked or not, I find instead I’m feeling rather triumphant!

  I could guess how the advice read this time, because by the next entry, things had progressed significantly, and the sassy little minx had made it on top of the piano!

  Tipping my head back against the couch cushions, I marveled at this . . . firecracker trapped in the body of a governess. She may as well have been me a hundred plus years ago, except that I was more of a sparkler trying to amp things up with some clingy dresses and sexy heels. I had a sudden, vivid image of Ethan’s face when he got his first glimpse of Cat—there was definitely blinking and staring. A slow grin seeped over my face as I imagined a repeat performance, maybe even upping the shock value just a tad. Then again, I couldn’t go crazy; this was a wedding, after all.

  I spent the rest of the day task-hopping between grading papers, de-cluttering the apartment, and imagining romantic pair-ups among my acquaintances. I never would have had the nerve to throw people together the way I planned to if not for the journal. . . and Gypsy Jane. But now here I was, almost giddy with excitement. The journal was obviously magic—there was no other way to explain words disappearing, pages reappearing, or advice mysteriously arriving as needed—and I had wondered, more than once, whether it had somehow bewitched me. Whatever that meant.

  I was overwhelmed to have fallen into an opportunity to pair up with the phenomenal Jane Austen, particularly in this quirky, puzzling, romantic way. It was as if Jane had rolled up—to the Austin Trailer Park & Eatery, no less—with a funky, gypsy vibe and settled in to tell romantic fortunes from behind a makeshift crystal ball (i.e., magical journal). I suppose that made me the medium. Who’d recently started to dress like a siren. Nowhere, but in Austin.

  By the time the knock came at seven, I was totally transformed.

  Ethan gave me a long look that felt like a slow perusal before saying a word, which was lucky. I was hoping his own distraction made my gauche gawping at the sight of him in charcoal gray khakis and vest a little less noticeable. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and he wore black Converse sneakers on his feet. I just wanted to rumple him all up. As it was, he actually looked kind of adorably sexy. . . . “Which one are you?” The question derailed a rather awkward train of thought.

  I rallied. “Which one do you think I am?” I’d rifled through the dry cleaning bags and picked a simple style with Grace Kelly glamour. The dress had a fitted black bodice, dipping in front and back into matching V’s, and three-quarter-length sleeves. Beneath its patent leather belt, it flared out in layers of tulle and chiffon in palest beige, edged in frilly black lace. Paired with my highest black slingbacks and a decolletage-dipping necklace, I figured I matched him sexy for sexy.

  His eyes roved around again, and the backs of my ears started to burn. “Well, your mouth is putting off a Cate vibe, but that’s definitely a Cat dress, so I give up.”

  Interesting.

  “How about I go easy on you, and I’ll be Cate, dressed for a date?”

  The side of his mouth quirked up. “Will you be rhyming too?”

  “Maybe I will, for you,” I parried, grabbing the fringed shawl I’d laid on the chair by the door.

  He pulled the door open and waited for me to go ahead of him, and my heart felt suddenly heavy, which was ridiculous. Ethan was a total gentleman, and somehow always managed to have a door open for me before I even realized there was one to be opened. But wearing The Dress, and The Hose, and The Heels, it felt different. Nervy. Almost like a first date.

  As I passed him, he murmured, “Is that how you dress for all your dates?”

  I shot him a sideways glance, my lips quirking up on the same side, and didn’t answer. It was obvious we both felt a little awkward. We just needed to get back into our nerd zone and we’d find our footing.

  “So,” I started, settling into the leather bucket seat of his car, “what’d you do today?”

  “Nothing much. Some computer stuff.” He glanced over at me and quickly away again.

  “What sort of computer stuff?” I’d long wondered over the mysteries inherent in the words “computer stuff.”

  “Just general maintenance, upgrades, that sort of thing.”

  I sensed an attempt at a brush-off was being made, and I braced myself against it, fully determined to dig in and ferret out the bits he wasn’t telling me.

  “What’d you upgrade?” I made it sound so casual, like I had a clue what I was talking about. I could have tacked on a “dude” at the end and nodded like a bobbleheaded gamer, but the reality was he could have said anything, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

  As he slid to a stop at Riverside Drive, Ethan turned again to look at me, probably to gauge the seriousness of my question. Little did he know, I fully intended to go terrier on him. The brush-off was not going to save him this time.

  “Why do you want to know?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me?” I countered.

  I could see the confusion warring with exasperation on his darkened profile. “How about we start over, and you be Cat for the evening?” He glanced over at me with a single eyebrow raised, clearly pleased with his subtle poke.

  “All right,” I agreed, letting the words roll off my tongue in a slow, throaty drawl. I pitched my voice lower, wispier. “You can show me. I’d love to see your new and improved . . . computer.”

  I could sense him stiffen in the seat beside me. But, give the man credit, he rallied quickly.

  “After the reception? It’ll be pretty late.” His tone was all business.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be wired.” I tamped down on the fit of giggles I could feel bubbling to the surface and said suggestively, “And what better way to talk upgrades.”

  After two solid beats of silence in which Ethan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened considerably, Ethan cried uncle. “I changed my mind. I’m not ready for Cat. I’d rather take my chances with Cate.”

  I grinned in the darkness. “How about we both come over?”

  I thought I heard a muttered curse word as he shook his head and stared momentarily out the driver’s side window. �
�Why? Why do you want to come over tonight?”

  “We could talk about the journal. . . .”

  “Have you gotten another little pearl of advice?”

  “No, but I did some reading up, and I’m even more convinced that the journal once belonged to Jane Austen.”

  Ethan shot me a quick glance. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that every owner pours out her love troubles, and matchmaker extraordinaire Jane Austen finds a way of getting her a happily-ever-after.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’ That’s awesome.”

  “So what advice do you think she’s giving you?”

  I blinked. Initially I’d been under the impression that I was being briefed for some sort of spy work. . . and after that I’d just assumed the advice was urging me to make a few love connections between friends. Ethan’s question had me stymied. How could I be making such sweeping statements without even considering my own situation?

  “Have you been pouring your heart out?” Ethan prompted.

  “What?! No!” I snapped, still stuck on the first question. And I wouldn’t be prepared to answer it until I’d answered it sufficiently for myself.

  I couldn’t think—couldn’t remember. I needed to see all the little snippets side by side to figure this out. What was Gypsy Jane’s MO? Could she be matchmaking me? With Jake, or. . .? I let my gaze stealthily slide over to look at the man sitting in the dark right beside me. Ethan??

  “Oh crap. ”

  Judging by the swift turn of Ethan’s head, there’d been no volume control on my savvy assessment of the situation. “What?” he asked.