Jane Bites Back (25 page)

“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.

“Oh, I do understand,” said Violet. “I understand that unless you stand up tomorrow at your panel and admit to what you’ve done, I will be forced to expose you.”

“What?” Jane said. “I can’t do that. It’s not true.”

“Tomorrow,” said Violet, turning to leave. She looked back at Jane. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

Chapter 26

J
ANE WISHED IT WERE DARKER
. A
LTHOUGH TWILIGHT HAD
descended and rain continued to fall, it was still bright enough for Violet to see Jane if she happened to turn around. But so far she hadn’t so much as paused, walking briskly through the French Quarter in a peculiar zigzagging route that made Jane wonder if the woman knew she was being followed.

Which of course she was. Jane had waited only long enough for the shock and anger cause by Violet’s demand to subside, then had trailed her as she left the hotel. She wasn’t sure why, or what she was going to do, but her instinct told her to keep Violet in her sight. And so she followed, staying a block behind in the event she needed to duck into a doorway to escape being seen.

So far Violet had traversed Chartres Street until reaching Jackson Square, on the far side of which she turned onto St. Ann and headed northwest. Turning again, she headed in an easterly direction down Dauphine, eventually crossing the Esplanade and entering the Faubourg Marigny. She continued past Washington Square, crossed Elysian Fields, turned onto Mandeville, and a block later made a final turn onto Burgundy. Halfway down that block she stopped in front of a small red house on the west side of the street, walked across the porch to its front door, and went inside. Jane stood in the shadows across the street, wishing she had worn sensible shoes. Her feet ached, and she could tell that a blister had already formed on her right big toe.

A light went on in the house Violet had entered, shining through the slatted wood shutters and casting watery yellow stripes across the white-painted floorboards of the porch. Jane could see nothing because of the shutters, and so she quickly crossed the street and ducked into the space between Violet’s house and the next. There was another window there, but it was covered by heavy drapes, preventing Jane from seeing inside. She continued on, hoping to find a more revealing opening.

She found it at the back of the house. The yard was small, and its garden had been allowed to grow wild, so it now resembled a jungle of flowering plants that perfumed the air. There was a smaller version of the front porch outside a simple door that Jane assumed led to the kitchen. A narrow window on one side of the
door glowed faintly in the gloom. Jane thought grimly of snakes as she made her way to the porch and peered through the glass.

She’d been right about the kitchen. It was a fairly large one, shabby but clean. The appliances were quite old—almost antique, Jane thought—and the wallpaper had worn away in several spots due to water damage.
She really ought to have the roof looked at
, Jane thought.
Walter would be appalled if he saw this
.

To one side of the room was a table, rectangular in shape and painted a kind of celery color. Four chairs were arranged around it, one on each side. Three of the chairs were occupied by seated figures. Seeing them, Jane stepped back, afraid that she would be detected. But when after a full minute had passed with none of them moving, she took a second look.