Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (10 page)

“Upon my honor, they were here not more than a few—perhaps more than a few hours ago, but it cannot be so very long.”

“Seven hours, according to your friends, and with your accident and all, they wanted to check in. I did, too.”

Should I ask him inside? He looks so forlorn, so much aware of having no right to be here that I cannot be rude to him.

“Will you not come inside?”

He takes one of the chairs at the table, without my inviting him to sit and without any apparent awareness of his deficient manners.

“Are you hungry?” he says, and then with a wry grin, pointing to the larder, “I don’t imagine you’ve restocked the fridge. Not that your idea of restocking means there’s ever the makings of a decent meal.”

He satisfies his own curiosity by peeking quickly into the larder. “Why have a fridge, I wonder? It only takes up room. How about I take you out? I’m starved.”

Out at night. Unchaperoned. With a gentleman. A single gentleman. Perhaps not even a gentleman at all. And certainly not my brother, or my father, or even a cousin. Unthinkable.

“I shall be but a moment.”

Ten

I
no sooner retrieve the oddly shaped, orange, many-buckled reticule that Anna had thrust into my hands and proclaimed as my “bag” when we went out to dine than there is pounding at the door again.

“Courtney? You there?” A man’s voice.

I glance at Wes to see if he recognizes it, and his eyes narrow. “What’s he doing here?” His manner is accusatory.

“Who? Who is that?”

The pounding continues. “Courtney—open up.”

“So you didn’t call him,” Wes says, relief softening his countenance. “I’ll take care of this.”

Wes opens the door to the black-haired gentleman from the picture Paula had shown me. Despite the fact that he was pounding on the door a moment ago, he lounges against the door frame as if he had merely whispered a command for it to open. Black hair falls becomingly over his forehead. His complexion is fair and flawless, and his dark, almost black eyes sparkle as they appraise me. His full lips tilt in a smile that is charming in its lack of symmetry, one side of his mouth turning up higher than the other.

“Slim and gorgeous, I see,” he says, his voice rich and smooth as honey. He flashes a contemptuous glance at Wes. “And not at all neglected.”

“What do you want?” Wes says, his tone icy.

Frank ignores him. “Apparently, Paula’s so desperate about not being able to track you down that she held her nose and called me, wondering if I’d heard from you. Which is how I found out you hurt your head. You are okay, aren’t you?” His eyes are soft, and he reaches for my hand. I allow him to take it, and he strokes the palm with his thumb, sending a thrill through my body. “I was scared there for a minute.”

“You can leave now, Frank,” Wes snaps. “She’s fine.”

Frank gazes at me, his eyes large and liquid. “Is that what you want?” Can this truly be the man who used Courtney ill? His manner is gentle, and there is so much goodness in his countenance.

“It is what you want, isn’t it?” says Wes. I tear my eyes from Frank, and Wes has an almost frightened look about him.

“Hey,” Frank says, “I’m talking to Courtney.”

I clear my throat. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

“Sir?” Frank looks at Wes with raised eyebrows.

“If you will be so kind as to let me continue, sir. I do not know—I do not remember you. I recognize you only from a picture that Paula showed me. Therefore, I have no reason to wish you either here or gone. Do forgive me if my honest disclosure causes you any pain.”

Frank opens his mouth as if to speak, and at first not a sound issues from it. “This is a joke, right?”

He looks at Wes as if for guidance, but Wes’s gaze is stony.

“How do you not remember me?”

“Hard to imagine not being the center of a woman’s world anymore, isn’t it,” says Wes.

“Like you would know,” Frank says. “You’re too busy chasing after my relationship to have any of your own.”

Wes’s face reddens. “Get out.”

“Last time I checked, this was Courtney’s apartment, not yours.”

“I mean it, Frank.”

“What are you gonna do? Throw me out? No, that’s not the way you do things. Nothing so direct as that. No, you pour poison into everyone’s ears till half my friends won’t even speak to me anymore.”

Wes sputters, almost laughing. “You’re the one who cheated on her.”

“So you say.”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re denying this now. Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“I never said I slept with her.”

“She saw you!” says Wes.

“Saw me what? Saw me talking to the cake woman? Saw me touch her arm?”

Frank’s words have a chilling familiarity to them. Could it be that what I saw Edgeworth do with the servant was as innocent as what Frank is claiming for his own actions? I never even confronted Edgeworth with what I saw; he had no idea I was cowering behind a bush as he kissed the hand of the auburn-haired woman. No. Impossible. What possible propriety could attach to what I saw Edgeworth do? His very countenance was evidence of his guilt as he furtively glanced around to see if anyone was about, as he brushed straw from his hair and clothing. And how the woman reached for him, almost possessively, as a lover would reach for her beloved. As I would reach for Edgeworth. No. He was as guilty as he appeared, for it was Mary’s letter which erased any doubt, Mary’s letter which told me of her servant who was with child. Mary’s letter which sent me on that reckless ride with Belle through the woods, that ride that sent me into darkness and oblivion—and this.

“Courtney?” It is Wes. He and Frank are looking at me questioningly.

“Did I ever say I slept with her?” Frank says to me.

“If you were sensible of the impropriety of such language, you would not behave in such an ungentleman-like manner.”

“I didn’t, did I? You just assumed what you wanted to assume, called off the wedding, and told everyone I was scum.”

“Upon my word, this is beyond anything. If you cannot speak to me in a civil manner, then please have the goodness to leave.”

“You knew I wasn’t ready to get married.”

Wes steps in between the two of us. “Did you hear her tell you to leave?”

Frank moves as if to shove Wes, then looks as if he thinks better of it, simply ignoring him and addressing me. “And the jealousy. Always the jealousy. That’s what ended this, not me.”

I do not believe I am jealous by nature, but what I saw that day on Edgeworth’s estate put me in a fury the likes of which I have never known.

“I’m sorry, okay?” says Frank. “I messed up. I was in the wrong.”

Wes snorts. “Well, that’s a first.”

Frank ignores him and puts his hand on my arm. “But I didn’t sleep with her.”

Wes throws up his hands. “You’re actually incapable of a real apology, aren’t you.”

“This is between Courtney and me,” says Frank. And to me, “Could we talk alone for a minute?”

I look up at him, and in his countenance there is so much eagerness to be absolved of whatever he has done that I feel a little tug at my heart.

“No way,” says Wes. “We’re leaving, Frank, even if you won’t.”

How did I find myself pulled between these two gentlemen? Suddenly, the heat in the apartment is stifling; the white bodice sticks to my skin. “I must go. Fresh air.” I move towards the door.

“I’m going with you,” Wes says.

“So am I,” says Frank.

“As you wish. Only do be civil to one another for two minutes together.”

As we emerge into the street, the dazzling lights of the city provide a welcome distraction. And what a variety of light there is, from huge globes supported on tall poles lining the pavement to the blazing doorway lamps and illuminated interiors which are so bright that I can see people going about their business through the large panes of glass. And then we reach the main thoroughfare, where there are shops and dining establishments, and the light is even more impressive, the prominent signs of daytime claiming even more notice when illuminated.

Some loud whispering between the gentlemen diverts my attention. I cannot hear it all, but Frank’s “the way she talks, it’s like that stupid movie she’s always watching” and Wes’s “it’s the concussion” tell me all I need or want to know. If gossip prevents them from further antagonism, so much the better for all concerned. But I really must endeavor to speak more like the people in this land, if I can learn to do so.

We stop before a dark red, dimly lit building nestled between a place called Ray’s Cleaners, which proclaims its name in brightly glowing tubelike letters in the window, and another named Acme Taqueria, whose sign is less garish and from which a tantalizing aroma of exotic food issues.

“I need a drink,” Frank says, motioning me towards the door of the red building, which is also red.

“I thought we were going to eat,” says Wes, looking to me as if for confirmation.

“Just a quick one,” says Frank, and opens the red door for me with a flourish.

Curious, I walk through the door and into another world, all plush and red and black and gold with gold fringe hanging from overhead lampshades, candle-like (but certainly candle-less) lights glowing from cherubic wall sconces, and sofas and deep armchairs everywhere, all richly covered in red velvet or brocade. The music inside is loud but pleasanter than the music in Paula’s car, though as foreign in sound. The singer this time is a woman, with a haunting, compelling voice.

“Hey, Courtney,” a tall man, with longish dark-brown hair oddly streaked with light-blond locks and a purple-and-gold depiction of a dragon painted onto his bare forearm, calls out to me from behind a tall bar backed with rows of sparkling bottles filled with brown and amber and green and gold liquids. He hands a glass to another man seated before the bar.

How odd for a gentleman, and most likely not a gentleman at all, but a waiter, to greet me in such a familiar manner, and without my acknowledging him first. Perhaps he is a close friend or even a brother to Courtney? I suppose I should greet him, lest I raise even more speculation. Yet that painting on his arm—perhaps it is a tattoo, like the ones I have read about in a travel diary. What sort of company does Courtney keep, and what sort of person must she be?

“Good evening,” I say, hoping my smile is polite but not too encouraging.

Apparently, my hope is a vain one, for the painted man emerges from behind the bar, strides over to me, and envelops me in a hug. “Darling, your friends told me what happened. Thank God you’re okay.” His accent is more familiar than those I have heard thus far, perhaps English, though not genteel.

The man whispers in my ear, “So when are you going to dump that loser for good and marry me? You told me he was history, darling.”

I feel my face burning, and I extricate myself from his grip. Most certainly not a brother. “Upon my word, I—”

“I know, a drink,” he says, grinning broadly. “It’s on me. Loser buys his own. So does the other one. You’d better hope I don’t start telling tales to the girls.” He’s off to the bar, and so are we, it seems.

I find myself seated before the bar on a high-legged stool with a plush red seat, flanked by the two gentlemen. I learn the waiter’s name, Glenn, when Wes greets him. Glenn is none too friendly to Wes, but Frank receives only a cold glance and a terse “eight” from Glen, which is apparently the price of Frank’s drink. Eight shillings for a drink sounds rather steep, though what Frank extracts from his pocket is a bank-note in the amount of ten dollars with “United States of America” emblazoned on the top. I have long been curious about the former colonies, but never did I imagine anything like this.

“Your money’s no good here,” Glenn says to me with a wink as he places before me a large, somewhat triangular-shaped glass with a pedestal. In it is a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid with what looks like four large green olives skewered onto a thin stake of wood. I raise the glass and take a tentative sniff, and my nose clears from the fumes and my mouth waters, though I have never had such a drink in my life.

I take a tiny sip of the icy liquid—delicious. Strong and salty and tasting of olives and bracing. Perfect for the hot weather, which, now that I put my mind to it, is not hot at all inside this establishment. It is, in fact, strangely cool in comparison to the outdoors. I take a bigger sip. Glenn raises his own glass to me, and I raise mine to him and take a drink. I could easily become accustomed to this manner of refreshment.

And then I am thunderstruck. Am I actually sitting inside a public house, a gentlewoman in a public house, accompanied by two gentlemen who are neither brother nor cousin nor father, but most likely members of the lower orders and not gentlemen at all? Not that entering a public house with genteel male relations would be any less scandalous, but this is highly improper.

“Easy now,” Wes says, pointing to my drink. “I don’t know that vodka and a concussion is the wisest combination.”

“Vodka.” I savor the word on my tongue. And drink some more.

Frank lounges next to me, leaning on the bar and taking long swallows from a long-necked, brown glass bottle. “So. You don’t hate me anymore?”

“Does it signify? Apparently, you and Court—rather, you and I—had a lucky escape from what all parties agree would have been a most imprudent marriage.”

“Courtney, you’re out of control with this weird talking. I know you hit your head and all, but you’ve got to stop watching those movies.”

“I thank you for your kind hints.”

Frank, who has put the bottle to his lips, sputters with laughter. “Concussion, my ass. You’re not fooling anyone. Except maybe him.” He juts his chin towards Wes.

“I have not been accustomed to such language as this,” I say, and start laughing myself. Only Lady Catherine de Bourgh could speak such words and keep her countenance.

“I knew it,” says Frank.

“Knew what, pray tell?”

“That you’re having a little fun at everyone’s expense.” He brings his face close to mine and gazes intently into my eyes. I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “And that you don’t hate me. You don’t hate me, do you.”