Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (12 page)

I suppose it isn’t her fault she was raised to be so tight-assed, but I’m not going to let her off that easily.

“Tell the truth, Mary. Would you still be my friend if I loved someone you didn’t approve of?”

“I will always be your friend. But I have to say that though your loss of memories is certainly a disadvantage in general, in the particular case of your friend Mr. Barnes there may be some benefit to it.”

“Less complicated for you, I suppose.”

“And for you, dearest friend. I would be lying if I told you that such an alliance would be easy for you and your friends. Besides, while it is true you do not remember your connection with Mr. Barnes, would you not remember love? No, I do not believe you were ever in love with this man.”

Suddenly the truth of Mary’s words strikes me. “I suppose I’d have to attribute that sort of amnesia to a lot more than a fall off a horse.”

Mary sputters with laughter, almost choking on her tea, and I start giggling, too. And with that, the mood shifts between us. Still, I decide there are some things better left unsaid. In particular, my determination to keep my appointment with James tomorrow. I can’t help but believe that the more I learn about Jane’s past, the better chance I have of getting home.

Twenty-two

A s I sit before the dressing table in my room, brushing my hair before bed, I am struck with the absurdity of it all. Here I am, having a hypothetical debate with Mary about the types of men I should and should not consort with, when I don’t belong here in the first place.

The more I stay here, the more difficult it is to have some semblance of detachment. After all, I’m doing more than just wearing a costume. I’m wearing another person’s life. And face. And body. I’m looking at that face in the mirror, brushing that hair. Even the nightly ritual of brushing my hair and looking at my face—and yes, I am more and more thinking of what I see in that reflection as my face—has become second nature, even though at home, in my real life, I’d fall into bed with unbrushed hair every night without a thought. But here, living Jane’s life, it’s a challenge not to get sucked in; how could I function on a daily basis otherwise? Especially when Mary is the only person who knows I’m not who everyone thinks I am. But she, of course, puts her own construction on that. Nevertheless, I have to keep my distance somehow. I have to train my focus on reclaiming who I am. All of these distractions are a trap.

I put the brush down and get into bed. Lying here, in the dark, without a mirror, without another person to call me Jane, I can imagine being my old self, being Courtney, looking like Courtney—I mean, like myself. What is happening to me? When did I start referring to myself—to my real self, my Courtney self—in the third person?

It is a long time before I calm my mind enough to fall asleep.

T he next morning is so rainy that it almost ruins my plan to sneak out and meet James. Navigating my way through puddles and mud is not appealing, especially in the long dresses and unwaterproofed shoes that comprise my wardrobe, not to mention the prospect of a rainy chill penetrating the thin fabrics of every dress I own. And I’m pretty much determined that only desperation will make me wear pattens, hideous contraptions meant to elevate one’s shoes from the wet ground. They remind me of horseshoes.

But by the time Mary and I settle into the drawing room after breakfast, the rain has slowed down to a drizzle. By noon, it stops completely, the sun makes a tentative appearance, and I announce my intention to go shopping and walking. Mary is reluctant to go anywhere on such a “dirty morning,” as she calls it, which suits me just fine. It’ll make my two o’clock rendezvous easier to pull off, and I’ll have plenty of time before that to walk and clear my mind. But as I get a pair of gloves and a shawl from my room, Mary appears in the doorway. She’s changed her mind, she says; would I mind terribly if she comes along?

What can I say? I’ll figure out later how to ditch her.

Our first stop is the Pump Room, where Mary peers at the book of books and then turns away from it with a wry face. “As promised, Susan Randolph and your aunt have arrived.”

“I suppose this means we’ll have to see them.”

“We can hardly avoid it.”

“Well, at least Mrs. Randolph, I mean my aunt, seems to be a good person.”

Mary raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Seems to be? Have you not had sufficient time in her company to form an opinion of her character?”

“Yes, but that assumes I remember having spent that time.”

Mary’s expression turns serious, and we walk silently out of the Pump Room.

When we’ve walked down the street for a couple of minutes, Mary says, “Forgive me, dear friend. I now realize to what extent you have lost your memory, and it shocks me exceedingly.”

I shrug, and Mary links her arm through mine. “Still, I am encouraged that you seem to remember Susan is not to be trusted. But I will do my best to help you remember everything.”

“Just how untrustworthy is she?”

“Susan has long been jealous of you. Whenever any young man would pay you the slightest attention, Susan was sure to endeavor to make herself look good at your expense. A most unbecoming attribute in a woman.”

“I’m sure she’ll rejoice in seeing me safely single, with not an eligible young man in sight.”

As if on cue, two young men in striped trousers and high collars, one with a mop of dark hair and the other a blond, turn the corner in our direction, pass us on the street, and stare.

“Indeed,” Mary says with a sly smile, “not a young man in sight.”

“Ah, but if they knew of my advanced age, they would cross the street instantly.”

“Nonsense. I happen to know of two women who married in their thirties.”

I turn to her with mock seriousness. “That many?”

“Hush,” Mary says. “Now, what were you planning to buy today?”

“Nothing special. In fact, I thought I might just forget about shopping and spend the rest of the afternoon walking.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“I thought I might just meander and clear my head.”

I can feel Mary’s eyes on me while I develop a sudden interest in examining the architecture of the building we’re passing.

“But,” I say, “I would be happy to walk you home first.”

“Before meandering to Sydney Gardens?”

I stumble and nearly step in a pile of horseshit. “How did you know?”

“Jane, I heard him.”

I get hold of myself and continue walking.

“Of all places, Jane. You will be seen. And it will be a fine piece of news to be canvassed by those with nothing better to do.”

“Listen, Mary. I didn’t come here with you to be placed under house arrest. I am an adult. A thirty-year-old adult, I might add. And if the town gossips think I’m too young to meet a man in a public place, then you can thank them from me for the compliment. Let them shout it from the Crescent and print it in the newspapers, for all I care. Because this stops, right here, right now.”

She has been staring at me, her mouth open in astonishment. She looks like she wants to say something but thinks better of it. That’s fine with me, because it takes me several minutes to calm down. By then we’ve reached the house.

Mary starts toward the door, and ventures a look at my face. Hers looks almost frightened.

I say grudgingly, “I know you have my best interests in mind.”

“Do let me accompany you at least,” she says, her tone wheedling. “This way I can keep watch for any, shall we say, troublesome people and distract them from you and your friend.”

“Thank you but no.”

Mary sighs. “Oh, Jane. What will become of you?”

“I will be careful, I promise.” I pat her hand, unable to stay angry at her. “Besides, I would rather not risk involving you in any potentially compromising situation.”

“But—”

“Stop worrying. I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Do wear this instead of those bright colors,” she says, taking off her large brown shawl and replacing mine. “You will be far less conspicuous.”

She looks at the effect of her shawl. “And that bonnet, the ribbons are too—here, wear mine instead.” Her bonnet, a straw color with buff-colored ribbons, would, I imagine, make me blend into a crowd more than what I had on.

She nods approvingly at my transformation. “And will you still wish to go to the ball tonight?”

“Would I miss an opportunity to show off my new gown?”

Mary smiles her relief. And I escape.

E ven I cannot get lost going to Sydney Gardens, which begins at the very end of the street where Mary and I are staying. About a block from the approach, a piece of paper lying on the ground catches my eye. It’s a verbose advertisement for an upcoming fair, complete with “Delightful Wares, Puppet Shows, Magickal Spectacles, and a Fortune-Teller.”

I zero in on the “Fortune-Teller” part of the notice and stuff the paper into my purse. Perhaps being in a similar atmosphere to what Jane experienced with her fortune-teller could give me a clue, to what I have no idea. I only know I have to go to this fair.

Fortunately for me, as I enter the Gardens I can see that the prospect of walking through mud has apparently scared many people away, despite the sunshine. There are only a few scattered groups of determined strollers wandering about, and I take care to keep my distance lest I run into someone who knows me. I’ve been here once before with Mary, and I know where the labyrinth is. I find what I believe is the northwest corner, but with my screwed-up compass it could be the southeast corner. In any case, there’s no sign of James.

I hear a quick step behind me and turn around. It’s James. He bows and quickly leads me into the seclusion of a grove of trees. We walk deeper into the grove, and I spot a bench that is half hidden by overhanging branches.

“Shall we sit?” I say, pointing toward the bench.

“I fear this was not the wisest idea,” James says, “to bring you out here after such a heavy rain. If you should catch a chill sitting on that cold bench—”

“Don’t worry,” I say.

He frowns, unconvinced.

“See?” I pull out a handkerchief to wipe the few drops of rain from the hard surface.

“Allow me.” He snatches his own handkerchief from a pocket and lays it down on the bench for me.

We sit, and as he adjusts the tails of his coat I notice that his hands shake slightly.

Through a small gap in the trees, I can see a well-dressed, middle-aged couple taking a leisurely walk in our direction. James glances at them and then turns to me. “What was I thinking? If folks should see us together, it would be very bad indeed.”

“I assure you I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks.”

James’s face registers his surprise. “But I thought that’s why you—well—stopped talking to me.”

“James, you have to understand that after that fall I wasn’t myself, I didn’t know—oh, the hell with it—”

I see the look of shock on his face and don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.

“I wish everyone would stop treating me like a porcelain vase. Including you.”

He looks at me with wounded eyes, and suddenly I’m not upset anymore. I’m just plain numb.

“What is it, Jane?

“Okay. Here it is. Straight out. I don’t remember anything. About you. About us. About a lot of things.”

At the stricken look on his face I forget all about getting everything straight out. “It’s because of my fall. It’s temporary.”

I wish he would stop looking at me like that.

“I’m sorry, James, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I came here today because I want to know what happened. With us. How it started. How—serious it was.”

His eyes widen. “Good God. You mean you don’t remember?”

I meet his eyes. He looks down at his hands.

“I’m so sorry, James.”

“It’s all right, miss.”

“Would you stop calling me that? I can’t stand all this ceaseless formality.”

“But it doesn’t seem right. Especially now.”

“James, you mustn’t buy into all that Lady Catherine nonsense about rank and fortune.”

“Lady Catherine?”

“Just plain old nonsense then.”

James’s face releases into a broad grin. “You always did talk like that. I remember all those times you said that someday it wouldn’t matter what a man’s mother or father was, that someday a man could do whatever he wanted, be whatever he wanted. And that women too would have a say in how the world was run.”

I swallow hard. “I did?”

“And you’d make up all those stories. Like the one about the man who lived in a house made of logs and grew up to rule a country. And the black lady who refused to give up her seat in the coach to the white gentleman who demanded it. Which changed the way her people were treated in her country.”

The flesh rises on my arms. Abraham Lincoln? Rosa Parks?

“You made those stories sound real,” he says softly.

“Tell me more.”

“I remember the day we first talked. Mr. Dowling was fleaing me good for dropping a plate, and you heard how he said I would never be anything approaching respectable, that I was a good-for-nothing common lout who had no right waiting on folks of rank and fortune. And afterwards you said, ‘James, I’ve seen little of the world. But I’ve seen enough to know that rank and fortune do not a respectable man make. What is in a man’s heart is what makes him respectable. This I know,’ you said, ‘from experience.’ And then you began to cry so pitifully, like a little child whose heart is broke. I put out my hand and then—”

“Yes?”

“And we—”

“Go on.”

“Perhaps it is better we both forget.”

“Did we—spend much time together?”

He shakes his head. “It was dangerous.”

“But you told your sister?”

“Never. She happened upon us once and never ceased to plague me about it until the day I left your father’s house. She said I would ruin you.”

“Ruin me? Do you mean we—”

He frowns in confusion, then his eyes widen as comprehension dawns. “No. Good God, no.” He flushes and stares at the ground.

“But did I ever tell you—did I ever say that I loved you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “You love me? You always said how I was a kind man, a good man.”

He clears his throat and glances to his left, toward two young women walking up the path in our direction. “We should walk.”

We set off down a more secluded path, walking in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a watch. The way he holds it looks oddly familiar.

He pauses and meets my eyes. “Might I show you something?”

I nod.

He opens the pocket watch and from inside the cover extracts a slim coil of braided dark brown hair, almost black.

“Do you remember?”

I touch the hair, and in a split-second flood of sensations and images I see/feel myself in his arms, crying into his shirt, which is damp with my tears. I’m giving him the braided hair, watching the quiet glow of his face as he puts it in his pocket. And I’m kissing him, hearing him breathe hard, hearing the little moan that escapes as he tightens his arms around me but there’s something wrong; it’s not how it was with Edgeworth, when my whole body trembled with the force of my need as I held his face in my hands, touching his lips with my own, feeling him pressed against me through my clothes and aching with newly awakened desire. And so I’m pulling away from James, tears stinging my face, a cold knot of shame in my chest. I’m reaching for his hand and holding it to my cheek. Forgive me, I say.