Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict (3 page)

“No, Anna . . .” His eyes flick over to me, then down. “Yeah, bring her. And no, I’m not leaving. If Paula can’t deal with me, that’s her problem. . . .”

How did I get here? And where exactly is “here”?

What is the last thing I remember about last night? Nothing. It is a blank. But in the morning . . . Riding Belle. Jumping her over a fallen tree, that leap in my stomach as we cleared it; good girl. Galloping into the woods, sending up clods of earth and clouds of dust. Into a clearing dotted with bright blue flowers, back into the woods, the sweep and crunch of branches, my bonnet lifted off my head by a low-hanging branch, turning round to look, then back again, Belle’s muscles bunching against my legs as she shied, the sensation of flying through air.

And then blackness.

“Courtney?”

Four

H
e’s staring at me. The curly-headed angel. Perhaps I died when I fell off Belle, and this is heaven.

“Anna and Paula are on their way. Sure you don’t want to talk to your mother?”

My stomach lurches. “She is here?”

“Of course not. But I can get her for you.” He shows me the little object into which he was speaking, as if for emphasis.

This most assuredly cannot be heaven, for no angel would ever offer to summon my mother. Although perhaps he means to put her inside that little object in his hand? That would be most convenient. I am giggling again; this is most unladylike. “I thank you, no. That will not be necessary.”

He looks relieved and gives me a little smile. “Yeah, probably not a good idea.”

“And the woman I asked you for? To help me?” I indicate the white dress I am still almost wearing, the dressing gown still over my shoulders.

He regards me gravely and thrusts his hands in his pockets. “Anna and Paula will be here in a few minutes. In the meantime I’ll just—I need some water. Would you like your breakfast?” He heads out towards the other room.

The thought of food makes me shudder. “I thank you, no. And do be so kind as to close the door behind you.” The situation may be extraordinary, but it won’t do to have this strange man traipsing in and out of my—whomsoever’s bedchamber this is—whenever he pleases.

I turn my attention back to the
Pride and Prejudice
play in the little window. Perhaps I am dead; that seems far more rational than the thought that I am indeed awake in another country, let alone that I am awake in another body. Is this how it is when you die?

Of course my heaven would be a place where
Pride and Prejudice
is a play performed right in my own bedroom, a place where I see the figures perform my favorite story over and over and see them so close that I feel as if they are my friends and I can practically touch them. And then there is the curly-headed angel who is here to take care of me after my accident and is so gentle and sweet that I could not summon the least bit of alarm at his presence.

To be sure, this is not Mr. Grant’s sort of heaven with its choirs of angels, nor is it the hell he preaches every Sunday till the village children quake in their pews. What would he know of heaven indeed? With all his prosing about virtue, the way he would look at me of a Sunday made me feel as if I needed a good scrubbing.

“Courtney?”

There are now two ladies, the aforementioned Paula and Anna, I presume, standing before the bed. Though which is which . . .

One of them has long, light brown hair streaked with pink and blue in vibrant shades that I never imagined existed, let alone in the color of one’s hair. More shocking than even the color of my toenails. More shocking still is the immodest mode of their dress: Both are in tight bodices without sleeves, skirts which reach mid-thigh, and shoes which are mere strings of leather attached to heels, exposing almost the entire foot. Their toenails are also colored.

The one with the pink-and-blue-striped hair speaks. “You okay, darling? And what’s with the dress?” Despite the vulgar familiarity, her manner is sweet, and the throatiness of her voice reminds me of Mary.

I smile at her. “Are we acquainted?” She is really quite pretty, despite the varicolored tresses. She peers at me with her large, uptilted brown eyes. Her full lips, which shimmer with a sort of sandy color, look as if they would like to smile but are not quite sure about moving in that direction.

“You’re kidding, right? Because Benedict Arnold here isn’t so sure you are.” She inclines her chin towards the curly-haired man, who has reentered the room. “And I hate to admit it, but he may have a point, unless . . .”

She whispers something into the ear of the other woman, who has a cap of shiny brown hair that reaches her chin and which is cut straight just above her brows. The brown-haired woman gives the woman with the peacock hair a worried look and a shrug.

The peacock turns her attention back to me. “Did you, and God help you if you did, decide to see a certain ex who shall remain unnamed, or more important, take something he gave you? Something that might inspire you to lie on your bed channeling Miss Havisham? Because if you took anything, let alone saw that philandering piece of dirt, Courtney, I swear . . .”

The young man cuts in. “No way she saw him. No way.” His eyes search my face. “You didn’t, right?”

They are all mad. “Who?”

“Frank,” the three of them say almost in unison. The brown-haired one gives me an encouraging smile. “You didn’t honey, did you?”

“Who’s Frank?”

“You see, Paula?” curly-hair says to the peacock. “I told you she wouldn’t.”

“That’s my girl,” says Paula to me.

“All right then,” says the one with the brown hair, who must be Anna. “One: We know that this is a psychotropic-free situation. Two: We know you hit your head.”

She tilts her chin towards the curly-haired gentleman. “Though if your friend Wes here”—and she sneers at the word “friend”—“had seen fit to let us know right away you had an accident instead of waiting till half an hour ago to call Paula and me, we would have been here for you last night. Though none of that explains why you’re wearing that, that . . .”

Paula cuts in. “Go ahead. Say it. Wedding dress. Which, I might add, should be in your Dumpster by now or run over by your car or burned to ashes instead of hanging in your closet, let alone on your body.”

Anna says, “She could give it to charity, you know. Then at least it’s not wasteful.”

Paula rolls her eyes. “Give me a break, Anna.”

Wedding dress? I look down at the frothy skirt, the pearl-encrusted bodice. “It is overly trimmed, to be sure, and I am most certainly not marrying, but that is a trifle compared to all—this. This voice. This body. This place. Why should my gown be of any consequence to you?”

Paula sputters, hands on hips. “Excuse me. We’re only your best friends. And you’re acting like a lunatic.”

“Just because I tried to cover myself with a garment of a respectable length does not mean I have lost my mind. My identity, yes. My body, yes. My voice, yes. But not my mind.”

Paula turns to Wes. “I told you she should see a doctor. Didn’t I, Anna?”

Anna regards me kindly. “Sweetie, maybe we should take you to see someone.”

Paula turns her attention back to me. “You said you lost your identity. So who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Miss Mansfield. Jane Mansfield. My father’s estate is in Somerset.”

Paula turns to Anna. “This is worse than I thought. Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the bed, “I’m taking you to a doctor. Anna, get her into some clothes.”

Wes—I do like this name somehow—puts his hand up and scowls at the two ladies. “No shrinks, okay? They’ll just pump her full of drugs till she really doesn’t know who she is.”

Paula flicks back a strand of bright pink hair. “Since when are you so concerned with her welfare? Where was all that concern when you knew Frank was sneaking around?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Paula.”

But she merely turns her back on Wes and pulls out a shiny little flat object, which she taps several times, then starts talking into it in the same odd manner that Wes did. “Suzanne,” she says, “it’s Paula. I’ve got a little emergency here.” And with that she leaves the room and I cannot make out anything else.

Anna rummages through drawers and the hanging garments and presents me with a miniature dress and a pair of ridiculous, strappy shoelike things.

“You must be joking,” I say. “I most certainly will not appear in public with my legs and arms completely exposed.”

Anna sighs, rummages a little longer, and produces a pair of long, dove-gray trousers and a white, short-sleeved bodice with buttons down the front.

I hold up the trousers in front of me. “What a novel idea—I’ve always wished to wear trousers and ride Belle astride. It always struck me as the most practical and comfortable way to ride.” And then the thought darts through me: Could Belle have been lamed in the fall? Would they have had to—dear God, please let that sweet creature be well.

Anna’s lower lip trembles. “Courtney, you’re frightening me.”

I feel a tear rolling down my cheek, and I brush it away with the back of my hand. I realize I have dropped the trousers on the floor. “Do calm yourself,” I say, retrieving them from the floor. “I am merely commenting on the advantages of masculine attire.”

Anna looks at Wes, who shrugs. Paula strides back into the room, flinging a stray strand of pink-and-blue hair out of her face. “My cousin Suzanne, a respected psychopharmacologist, has agreed to squeeze us in.”

Wes glares at her. “Fancy name for a high-priced drug pusher.”

Paula ignores him. “We have to leave right now. It’s just over by Huntington Hospital.”

I do not see how I am going to step into these lovely soft trousers if they keep arguing. “Do be kind enough to take your disagreements outside so I might dress.” I hold up the trousers for emphasis. “Besides, your shouting is making my head throb.”

“Sorry,” says Wes, moving towards the door. He turns back to Paula. “All I’m saying is, there’s a lot of overprescribing going on. And not everyone who’s grief-stricken or heartbroken or—”

“Or lying around wearing a wedding dress and saying she’s someone else? Even you must admit we’re out of our depth. And why are you still here anyway?”

“She asked me to be here.” Wes regards me. “But if you want me to leave . . .”

If you want me to leave.
The heat rushes to my face as those words take me back to the library of Mansfield House, where I stood before the glass doors opening onto the garden. “If you want me to leave,” said Edgeworth, “I will of course do as you choose. But I beg you to tell me what I have done.”

How dare he act the innocent? “Sir, I see no need to tell you what you already know. Now leave me in peace.”

Face bleached of color, he closed his eyes and let his head fall down, as if all the life had gone out of him.

“Courtney? What are you talking about?”

It is Wes who is looking at me, not Edgeworth. His eyes are soft behind his spectacles.

“You will leave my room at once. I am not in the habit of explaining myself, particularly to a man who is nothing to me.”

He blinks, as if flinching from the force of my words, and for an instant I want to take them back.

But he turns and walks slowly out of the room. “That’s my girl,” Paula says, jabbing a thumb in the air for emphasis, and sails out the door after Wes.

While the quarrel continues unabated in the next room, Anna helps me out of the white dress, puts it away, and produces two tiny garments from a drawer.

“I don’t get it,” says Anna. “You said weeks ago that you wanted nothing to do with Wes.”

“I never set eyes on him till this morning.”

“What?” Her eyes widen in alarm.

“Whatever you are talking of has nothing to do with me.”

“You poor thing,” she says. “Don’t worry, Paula’s cousin will know what to do.” She indicates the two odd-looking garments on the bed. “Why don’t you get dressed, okay?”

One of the garments is bright pink with three large openings; the other consists of two bowl-shaped pieces of fabric in a pale yellow, connected with strips of fabric and decorated with lace and embroidery of the same color. Anna hands me the yellow article; I turn it this way and that. Ah. I could fit one of the bowls inside the other and—yes, that must be it. I place the bowl-like sections upon my head and attempt to tie the strips of fabric under my chin.

Anna’s mouth is agape, then she starts to giggle, snatching the bonnet off my head. “At this rate we’ll never get out of here.” She unfolds the bonnet and places it against my chest, and I realize that it is no bonnet at all. Apparently, it is meant to serve as fitted stays to go under the bodice. I have not the slightest notion of how one dons such a garment, and I suppose Anna can deduce that fact from my posture and countenance, as she tugs my crossed arms, puts my arms through the semicircular straps, fits the bowls over my breasts, and fastens the back of the garment. Astonishing how the garment lifts the bosom and how comfortable it is compared to the busk in my stays that forces my torso upright.

“At least you didn’t call Frank,” she says. “That’s something to be thankful for.” She picks up the bright pink garment. “You’re really not going to dress yourself, are you.” She sits me down on the bed, pulls off the sheet in which I’ve wrapped the lower part of my body, and has me step into two of the openings in the garment, then pulls it up to cover my bottom. Some of the faster women of the ton may wear drawers under their petticoats, but such garments are most certainly a good deal longer than this tiny bit of fabric.

The rest I can manage myself, and I don the trousers—they have the most curious front closures, no buttons, but a device that closes when pulled up and opens when tugged down—and button the bodice.

The quarrel in the next room, which had descended from shouting to hissing, now erupts every several seconds to outbursts such as “What gives you the right” or “You have no idea what you’re talking about” and then a final “Then I’m going with you” from Wes, followed by more hissing.

I tuck the bodice into the waistband of the trousers—a comfortable garment indeed—and roll my eyes at Anna. “Do you think they will cease anytime soon?”