Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (2 page)

I glance around the strange room again, and at the glass window with the people from
Pride and Prejudice
conversing with one another as if I were not here trying to get their attention, and all at once I understand: Of course. I am having a dream. Nothing like the other dreams I have had in which I also knew I was dreaming, but a dream nevertheless. What a relief to know that I do not have to ascertain where I am or find my way back to my own room; all I have to do is wake up.

In the meantime, I shall divert myself by finding out if Barnes is here, and, if so, where; surely she would delight as much as I in the wondrous sight and sound of Lizzy and Darcy dancing in the glass rectangle.

I shall put on my dressing gown and explore. Where might the gowns be kept? I open a door, revealing at least two yards of hanging garments, none of which look like my own clothes. I pull out a long, filmy, sashed thing; it might do. If only there were a looking-glass.

Ah, there it is, on the other side of the door to this vast repository of garments. I pull open the door and see a petite, pale-haired young woman in the glass. She and I gasp in unison. I wheel around, for the woman must be behind me, but there is only the empty room. Except for Miss Bennet and Mr. Darcy, that is.

I turn back to the mirror, and the truth literally stares me in the face: I am looking at my own reflection.

Two

The woman in the glass is no one whom I recognize. I watch the reflection in the glass as I reach up to touch the pale yellow hair striped with light brown that falls to my shoulders, feel the silky texture of it as the woman in the mirror does the same. I touch the round thighs of the short but shapely legs which are completely bare, and the reflection mirrors my movements. I regard my chest and torso, which are covered by a thinly woven, short-sleeved shift whose hem touches the tops of my thighs—I have never slept in such a garment before. Quite immodest; I smile at the thought of what my mother would say if she saw me in it. Fingering the hem, I catch sight of small, shapely feet tipped with azure-blue nails—and my knees nearly give way again.

Don’t be such a frightened little creepmouse. I take a deep breath, look at the feet again, and giggle. In a dream my toenails may be any color of the rainbow, and why should they not be? Have I not always longed to be small and round with fuller limbs, instead of the thin, long-legged creature who never fills out my gowns the way I wish to do? Have I not always wished for my sister Clara’s golden tresses in vain? Now she is not the only Mansfield daughter with fair hair.

Still, I am not sure I would like to remain in this dream much longer. It is, after all, one thing to imagine being someone else. And quite another actually to
be
someone else. I know this cannot be real, but it feels as if it were.

A couple of quick knocks that sound as if they are coming from the next room, a key turning in a lock, and then a male voice. “Courtney?”

I snatch up the dressing gown, which I must have dropped on the floor, and belt it tightly around my waist.

“Are you awake?” That voice again.

I can feel myself trembling, but I shall be mistress of myself. “Who, might I ask, sir, are you?”

Whoever it is pops his head round the doorway, a sweet smile on his bespectacled countenance. Despite my state of deshabille, I perceive not the least bit of danger from this stranger with a head of tousled curls like an angel. His coarse trousers, short-sleeved, collarless shirt, thick boots, and coatless state declare him to be a servant or a laborer rather than a gentleman, but still I cannot summon any alarm at his presence.

He smiles and makes a clumsy little bow. “Your humble servant, madam. With coffee and eggs, as promised.” He gestures for me to join him in the next room.

“I shall be there directly,” I say, and shut the door. My stomach rumbles at the mention of food, but I am not about to converse with an ill-clad manservant while wearing a shift and dressing gown.

His laughter floats in from the other room. “All you need is an English accent, and you’ll sound just like the actors in
Pride and Prejudice
. Which obviously you’ve been watching. Again.”

I turn back to the glass box; the figures are still moving about and talking, completely oblivious to my presence. Actors indeed. That would explain their not acknowledging me when I called out to them. Of course. It takes a great deal of focus to be a good actor. But how very odd that
Pride and Prejudice
should be a play and I not hear of it till now. Of course I would not have heard of it; this is a dream, silly goose. And of course I would dream of seeing onstage the story I love so well.

What shall I wear? The row of hanging garments is far longer than that in my own armoire; however, there seems to be an abundance of trousers—could this be the servant’s room? My face grows hot at the very thought of awakening in a man’s room. Nonsense. I am being missish. I shan’t think about such nonsense; I must get dressed.

Ah, yes. Here are gauzy garments that might be dresses. When I hold them against my body, however, they are not gowns at all, falling to just below my knees at best and high above them at worst.

What an immodest chit I am in this dream. Wait; there does seem to be something in the farthest recess that looks a proper length—I pull it out and remove a clear, shiny film that encases it. A white gown of the finest silk, with a pearl-encrusted bodice. Overly fine for my taste, let alone for morning and in such a place as this. The length is unexceptionable, but there are no sleeves at all, merely two thin bands of fabric to go over the shoulders. It will have to do. I pull off the sleeping shift and step into the white gown. The back is all tiny pearl buttons and loops; I most certainly will need help with those.

I call out to the curly-haired man through the closed door. “Hallo there! Would you be so kind as to send in a servant to help me dress?” Again that strange voice coming from my mouth. It is curious indeed.

“At your service, milady,” says the curly-haired man, who has the audacity to open the door and walk towards me.

I back away from him so that the unfastened part of the gown is against the wall. Hugging my bare arms to myself, I say with as much authority as I can, “Entering a lady’s room without her leave is not at all the thing.”

He just stands there, gaping at me.

I feel my face flush. “Have you been struck dumb, sir?”

“I . . . what are you doing in that dress?” His voice is soft, his eyes kind and gentle behind his spectacles.

“I am merely trying to find something appropriate to wear. No easy task, I might add. Now do leave me and send in a woman.”

He stretches out a hand and touches my forehead. I flinch from the pain in my head. “You don’t feel feverish. The pain’s not worse, is it?” His eyes are full of concern.

“It is merely the headache. If I had my aromatic vinegar I should be well in a trice.”

“Hitting your head on the bottom of a pool is not what I’d call a headache. Are you sure you’re okay, Courtney?”

“It is tiresome enough that I do not even sound like myself. But might I have at least the comfort of being addressed by my own name?”

He motions to the bed. “Here, sit for a minute. You’re scaring me.”

I reach for the dressing gown and, throwing it around my shoulders, allow the curly-haired young man to lead me back to the bed. He really does look harmless, and after all, what harm could come to me? Thankfully, he makes no motion to join me; instead, he rushes out of the room. I recline against the wall, which feels delightfully cool; my head really does ache most dreadfully. I do not wish to remain here much longer, although the figures in the box are still acting out
Pride and Prejudice
, which eases the pain in my head more than any aromatic vinegar could do.

The young man hurries back into the chamber, bearing a glass of water, which he sets on the low table at the side of the bed, and a white opaque glass that he thrusts into my hands. No, it is not glass at all; it is heavy paper, I believe—and hot, too. How very strange. I inhale the scent of the steaming coffee within and venture a taste. Strong and rich with foamy milk on top.

“Why don’t you tell me your name, then,” he says.

“So it is a game now, is it? Very well, then. I am Miss Mansfield. And who are you, aside from the most impertinent young man I have ever met?”

He smiles broadly, revealing unusually bright white teeth. “I should have known you were playing with me—just couldn’t resist making a fool out of Mr. Gullibility here, could you? Though you might have had a little mercy after what you put me through last night.”

He even has a lovely cleft in his chin like Edgeworth. No, I pray he is nothing like Edgeworth. I sip the delightfully hot coffee; how bracing it is. The throb in my head is almost gone.

“And what, may I ask, occurred last night, Mr. . . . ? Or do you intend to remain incognito?”

His smile loses its confidence. Indeed, he looks quite as stern as a judge.

“If you are going to be cross, then do be so good as to take your leave and send in a maid.”

“You’re frightening me, Courtney. Tell me what you remember about last night.”

“Dear me. You are becoming most tiresome.”

“You went swimming, remember? Wait—” He runs out of the room and returns with a bit of what looks like soft blue fabric in his hands. He holds it up to me; it looks like short stays with a bottom attached. “Remember? You were wearing this bathing suit.”

The laughter explodes out of me; it is impossible to be irked by such a character. “Indeed! As if any respectable woman would go around clothed in such a costume, if I may use such a word for this diminutive article.”

He thrusts the bit of fabric at me again, and I wonder at its oddly silky texture.

“Courtney, listen to me. You went swimming and hit your head on the bottom of the pool. They called an ambulance, and you asked the nurse at the hospital to call me.” His eyes are pleading with me. “Don’t you remember anything?”

I sigh; I have had quite enough of this drama. “If you will not take your leave, sir, then I shall. Good day to you. I command all of this”—and I wave my hand to indicate the room and the young man “to end now.” I close my eyes tightly.

I open them.

The curly-haired man is still standing at the foot of the bed. “You do not exist,” I say with as much command as I can summon, but there is a hollow in my stomach now. “I awaken!”

Yet in the strange bedchamber I remain. How can this be? Sometimes I awaken from my dreams, the pleasanter ones, that is, long before I wish to do so. But when the dream is disagreeable, I simply command myself to awaken, and I do. Instantly.

How can I still be here? The only possible explanation is—

“Courtney,” he says. “You are not asleep.”

It is as if I am sinking into the floor, and I grip the bedclothes. This cannot be possible. I must have a quiet moment to think this through.

Here is what I know to be true: I dream of what is most delightful; I almost always awaken before I wish. I dream of what is unpleasant, and I need only command myself awake to leave it all behind. Yet I have not awakened; here I stay. How can this be? There is only one possibility, but it cannot be—

“Courtney?”

“What is it you said?”

“You are not asleep.”

Three

Indeed I am not. But how can I be awake yet not have my own name, my own body, my own voice?

When I am able to form words my voice croaks. “Where am I?”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine,” he says.

“What is this place?”

His eyes widen. “Your apartment.”

“And where, might I ask, is this apartment?”

He sits down next to me on the bed and takes my hand. “L.A.”

“I do not understand.”

“Los Angeles. California. United States of America. Oh dear God, please be okay.”

I snatch my hand away. “What? Has my mother had me drugged and transported to the Americas? Lord knows she told me a dozen times that a girl who committed the sin of filial disobedience as many times as I, deserved transportation to the Americas. But that was when I was a child, and even then my mother was teasing me with what could not be, for it was my history master who relieved my fears and . . . No! Impossible.”

“Courtney, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The young man starts to pace back and forth and pulls a smooth squarish object from his pocket. “Should I call your mother? Maybe Anna or Paula? Tell me what to do, Courtney.”

Laughter bubbles out of me, unbidden; I seem to have lost control of that particular faculty. “Blast your infernal names!” Dear me. Now my voice is croaking so that I sound like a frog. I cannot stop laughing. “I am Jane. Jane Mansfield.”

“Of course you are.” He blanches. “Jane Mansfield, screen legend. Hang on; I’m calling Anna.”

Finally, there is no more laughter. Only a cold hard lump in my stomach.

The young man is now talking into the strange little object, which he holds to his ear. How absurd he looks. I cannot treat my situation with any degree of seriousness if I am to watch a grown man speak into an I-don’t-know-what and act as if he were actually conversing with another person in the room. Especially when there is no other person in the room. How droll he looks. Hand gestures, dramatic delivery. Perhaps he is an actor, not a servant.

“. . . no, Anna. If I bring her back to the emergency room they might want to keep her there. . . . No, I won’t agree to that. . . .”

Ah. The imaginary person in the room has a name.

Well, then. Here are the facts. I am not asleep. I have a body and a voice that bear no resemblance to my own. And I am not the person the man named me to be. Courtney. I shiver, though the room is warm. I will not surrender to fear. I shall be mistress of myself. I still have my rational mind, though nothing about this situation is rational. I may not look like myself, but I know who I am.

The man continues to pace and talk to an imaginary woman named Anna. Perhaps I am in—dear God, no—an asylum? No. Impossible. Too clean and tidy by half.