“You don’t need a new year for that,” said Jane.
“Of course not,” Lucy agreed. “But it’s symbolic. A new year, a new you. What are your resolutions?”
“I learned long ago not to make any,” said Jane. “They only set you up for failure.”
This was true. As girls she and Cassie had always made New Year’s resolutions. They wrote them on pieces of paper that were then folded and sealed with the wax from their father’s study, and gave them to each other for safekeeping. They did not open them until the next New Year’s Eve, when they looked at what they had written and debated whether or not they had achieved their goals. Too often Jane had failed, although admittedly this was generally because her resolutions were along the lines of “stop gossiping about the neighbors” and “try to pay more attention in church.” Cassie, who was much more likely to have accomplished her goals, never made Jane feel small. Regardless, her lack of success chafed, and she had eventually stopped altogether.
“Well, I have some,” Lucy continued, undeterred. “I’m going to go to yoga three times a week, learn French, run a marathon, and get at least two poems published—and not online, in real magazines. Oh, and I’m going to volunteer helping underprivileged kids learn to read.”
“Very admirable,” Jane told her. “I applaud your determination.”
“Or maybe I should just lose five pounds, finally paint my bedroom, and stop smoking,” said Lucy.
“You don’t smoke,” Jane said.
“I could start,” Lucy replied. “Then it would be easy to stop and I would feel better about myself.”
Jane laughed, then left Lucy to her work and went into the back storeroom to check the stock. As she counted books she considered the notion of resolutions. If she were going to make any, what would they be? Losing weight was out—she was dead, after all—as was smoking (although she admired Lucy’s novel approach to giving up vices).
“I suppose I could stop eating so much,” she concluded, “or at least so many.” But without Cassie to determine the extent of her success or failure, there’d be no fun in it. Sighing, she pushed the entire matter from her mind and rearranged the cookbooks.
Several hours later, having sent Lucy home and locked up the store, she was faced with another decision—what to wear to Walter’s party. As she looked through her closet, what little enthusiasm she had for the evening disappeared completely. Everything seemed either too drab or completely unsuitable. “It’s not as if I go to a lot of parties,” Jane informed Tom, who sat on the bed watching her.
Dressing had been so much easier in her day. True, there had been a few more undergarments to contend with, but by and large the actual dresses themselves varied only a little. “One always knew exactly what one should wear to what,” said Jane.
She considered, and rejected, a number of different possibilities. She was surprised to realize that it wasn’t because she couldn’t decide what to wear, or even that she had to attend a party about which she was not terribly excited. “It’s because I care what Walter thinks,” she admitted to Tom, who was now asleep.
She suddenly felt very foolish. She was, for the first time in a very long time, worrying about how she appeared to a man. “It’s just Walter,” she told herself. “He doesn’t care how you look.”
But it wasn’t about him; it was about her. For reasons she chose not to dwell upon, she wanted to be attractive for him. It was a worrying prospect, but it was there nonetheless and she had to acknowledge it. Stupid girl, she thought as she renewed her search for something suitable. Even Catherine had more sense.
Eventually she decided on a sleeveless velvet dress in deep green. The occasion for its purchase was long forgotten, but it was the nicest thing in her closet, and so she put it on. It was decidedly modern, a far cry from the confections of her time. The hem fell just above the knees, and there were no unnecessary frivolities like bows or rosettes to get in the way. She vaguely recalled having purchased it somewhere in the late fifties (perhaps a party at the Kennedy summer home?), and for a moment worried that it was out of date. But retro is in, she reminded herself. For once you’ll be fashion forward, even if it’s purely a result of never throwing anything out. She added earrings and a necklace, then checked her reflection in the mirror.
Staring at herself, she wondered what Walter would think. Again she wished that Cassie were there to tell her she was presentable. Maybe I should just stay home, she thought. But she’d promised Walter she would come. And it was only for a few hours. “How bad could it be?” she asked herself.
Chapter 6
That Jonathan Brut had a scandalous past she had absolutely no doubt. His reputation as a scoundrel was common knowledge not only in London, but also in the sleepy towns and villages far beyond that city’s bustling streets. It was said that he had been the ruin of a score of women—maidens and married alike—one of whom reportedly killed herself with poison when he ended their affair. It was for precisely these reasons that Constance had chosen him.
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
“You look stunning,” Walter told Jane when he saw her.
“As do you,” Jane replied. And it was true. Gone were Walter’s usual work clothes. Instead he was dressed in a pair of black pants and a deep blue cashmere sweater over a white shirt. His hair was freshly cut, and he radiated happiness. Jane found herself slightly tongue-tied.
“There are so many people here,” she said quickly, looking around the room. Walter’s house seemed to be overflowing with guests, all of whom were dressed in holiday finery. Suddenly, Jane’s plain green dress seemed woefully inadequate, despite Walter’s compliment.
Walter placed his arm around her waist. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “There are some Historical Society members here, and I promised to bore them with the details of my plans for the restoration of the library. But don’t disappear. I’ll be looking for you later.”
Jane watched him go, feeling her discomfort increase. She’d arrived late, hoping to limit the amount of time she had to endure the party. As a young lady at Steventon rectory, she had loved parties, had looked forward to dancing and playing the pianoforte, to the lively conversations and drawing-room intrigues. How many times she and Cassie had sat together on a sofa, holding hands and whispering scandalously about the goings-on both seen and unseen. Now she scanned the living room for a place of refuge and saw, seated alone on the couch, Sherman Applebaum. The editor of the smaller of the town’s two newspapers, Sherman was into the latter half of his sixties. He had a fondness for waistcoats and bowler hats, which Jane found charming. He was also, she knew from past encounters, an inveterate gossip. Her favorite kind.
She crossed the room and took a seat beside Sherman.
“Finally, someone has come to my rescue,” Sherman said dramatically. “I was starting to think I might spend the entire evening alone.”
Jane laughed. “Somehow I think you’d be your own best company, Sherman.”
Sherman smiled and patted Jane’s knee. “You flatter me,” he said. “Please do continue. At my advanced age I don’t have many opportunities to be complimented by attractive young women.”
If you only knew, Jane thought. Even your great-great-great-grandfather couldn’t accurately call me a young woman.
“Where did you get that lovely drink?” she asked. “I need one desperately.”
“I’ll get one for you,” Sherman said. “Don’t go away.”
“No, no,” said Jane. “I’ll go.”
“Nonsense,” Sherman replied, standing up. “A gentleman never allows a lady to get her own drink. Besides, I fear that if I don’t move around from time to time, I’ll wither and die.”
He got up and meandered toward the kitchen. Jane settled into the sofa to await his return, scanning the room for any signs of intriguing topics of conversation. Then, as if out of nowhere, a woman materialized in front of her.
“Jane,” she said. “What a surprise.”
Jane nearly jumped out of her seat. “Miranda,” she answered. “How nice to see you.”
This was not true. Miranda Fleck was an assistant professor of English at nearby Meade College. She was impossibly young, impossibly skinny, and impossibly ambitious. She spoke almost exclusively in declarative sentences, which had the effect of unnerving most people. To Jane’s irritation, Miranda assumed Sherman’s place on the sofa.
“I was in your shop earlier this week,” said Miranda.
Jane waited for Miranda to continue, allowing the silence to grow. She was unsure whether to thank Miranda or defend herself. Imbuing her words with absolutely no emotion whatsoever was another hallmark of Miranda’s speech.
“You have a particularly conspicuous display of that book combining the text of Pride and Prejudice with—how do they describe it—ultraviolent zombie mayhem,” Miranda continued.
“It’s one of our bestsellers,” Jane replied cautiously.
This was true. The book, which had come out earlier in the year, was a surprise hit. Part of her bristled at the notion of someone taking her novel and inserting new, decidedly unorthodox text into it, and she’d briefly considered visiting some unpleasantness upon the author, but ultimately amusement had won out over irritation and she’d even begun to recommend the book to customers. Although receiving royalties from it would be nice.
“I know it’s only Austen,” Miranda continued. “Even so, polluting a beloved novel with something so crass …” She shook her head as if bemoaning a great tragedy.
“Have you read the book?” asked Jane.
Miranda snorted. “Of course not,” she said. “I wouldn’t read such trash.”
“Perhaps you should,” Jane said. “It’s quite funny.”
“Funny,” Miranda repeated. “I suspect Austen wouldn’t agree with that assessment.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jane told her. “Austen was a great fan of the novels of Ann Radcliffe. She had a real fondness for the gothic.”
“I would hardly call zombies gothic,” Miranda argued. “Vampires, perhaps, but not zombies.”
Jane, with great relief, saw Sherman approaching with a drink in each hand. When he noticed Miranda, his face visibly stiffened. Then, just as quickly, a smile returned.
“Ladies,” he said, “I have arrived with refreshments.”
He handed a glass of wine to each of them. Miranda, as if she’d assumed all along that Sherman had gone to get her a drink, accepted her glass without comment. Sherman, now without his own glass, sat beside her. Jane almost offered him her wine, but she knew he wouldn’t accept it. He’s too much of a gentleman, she thought. And Miranda is too much of a boor.
“Jane and I were just discussing whether or not Austen would appreciate her landscape being overrun by the undead,” Miranda told Sherman.
“Ah, the zombie book,” Sherman said. “A rollicking good read.”
Jane stifled a laugh. Miranda frowned.
“Mind you, I prefer the original,” Sherman continued. “But there’s nothing at all wrong with giving the classics a bit of a tweaking. I gave that book to my nephew’s youngest. What would that make her, my great-niece? No, grandniece. At any rate, she’s twelve. She loved it. Now she’s reading all of Austen. So there you are.” He looked at Miranda as if this were the last word on the subject.
“Miranda fears that vampires will be next,” Jane said, unable to resist. “Sense and Sensibility and Dracula, perhaps.”
“I’m partial to werewolves, myself,” Sherman said. “I think Emma would make a fine lycanthrope.”
Miranda sipped her wine. “Well, if they’re going to bastardize anyone, I’m not surprised that it’s Austen,” she said icily.
Jane bristled. Miranda was a Brontëite, and like most of them, she not-so-secretly resented the fact that Jane’s books regularly outsold those of the beloved sisters.
“Austen is our most popular author,” Jane parried.
Miranda reacted to Jane’s maneuver without flinching. “I suppose keeping your doors open requires appealing to the public’s tastes,” she remarked.
She’d do very well in a drawing-room battle, Jane thought, admiring Miranda despite her personal distaste for the woman. One would never quite know what she was saying, or on which side of her opinion one fell.
All of a sudden a sharp twinge stabbed through her side. She almost cried out. She placed her hand on the site of the pain. Again the feeling came, this time more intensely. It was followed by a flash of cold fire behind her eyes.
No, no, no, she thought. Not now. Not here.
She needed to feed.
“Everybody having a good time?”
Jane looked up to see a smiling Walter standing before her. “Wonderful,” she said as the cramps hit her again.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Walter. “So, what were you all talking about?”
Jane winced as the pain returned and made it impossible to speak. She needed to get out of here before it got any worse. But how could she excuse herself without seeming rude or, worse, letting Miranda think she was giving up the battle?
Thinking quickly, she jostled Miranda’s arm, causing Miranda’s glass to tip precipitously. Wine poured onto her lap, staining her dress. Miranda let out a little shriek.
“I’m so sorry!” Jane exclaimed.
“It’s going to stain,” said Miranda angrily.
“Not if we blot it with seltzer,” Jane said. “Come with me.”
She stood and, gripping Miranda’s wrist, pulled the woman to her feet. Miranda let out another surprised squeal, no doubt shocked by Jane’s strength.
“You’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” Jane said to Walter and Sherman.
“Of course,” Walter said. “But make sure you’re back in time for the countdown.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jane assured him.
She hurried through the crowd, pulling Miranda behind her. Seeing that the door to the hallway bathroom was closed, she detoured into Walter’s bedroom. She bypassed the bed, covered in coats, and dragged Miranda into the en suite bathroom. Closing the door behind them, she turned to Miranda.
“Now then,” she said. “Let’s take care of you.”
“But we didn’t get any seltzer,” Miranda objected. She turned the water on in the sink and started wetting a hand towel. “It’s going to set.”
“First things first,” said Jane. She spoke in a low voice, concentrating on clouding Miranda’s mind. Glamoring was one of the few vampiric tricks Jane had at her disposal. She very rarely used it, saving it for times such as this. Now she concentrated on manipulating Miranda’s thoughts.
Miranda hesitated, the towel in the stream of water. Slowly she let it fall into the sink, then turned and looked at Jane. “First things first,” she said softly.
Keeping her eyes on Miranda’s, Jane put her hand on the back of the woman’s neck. “Relax,” she said. “This will take just a minute.”
She bit into the soft skin beneath Miranda’s left ear, where her long hair would cover the bite marks until they could heal. Miranda slumped against Jane as she lost consciousness. Blood slipped into Jane’s mouth.
As she drank, the cramps subsided. Miranda’s blood was bitter, which surprised Jane not at all given the woman’s literary preferences. But it did the trick and, more important perhaps, prevented Jane from drinking more than she needed. When the pain in her had abated, she released Miranda, who slumped to the floor. Wiping her hand across her mouth, Jane giddily murmured, “Austen one, Brontë zero.”
Opening the door a crack, Jane peered into the bedroom. It was empty. Lifting Miranda in her arms, she carried her to the bed and placed her on it. Then she arranged the coats around her, not covering her but obscuring her enough that anyone taking a casual glance into the room would not immediately notice her. And if they do, she thought, they’ll just assume she’s sleeping off her wine.
When she returned to the living room, she found Sherman on the sofa ex
actly where she had left him. Smiling broadly, she sat beside him. “Here I am,” she said. “As promised.”
“I trust Miss Fleck has been taken care of?” Sherman said.
Jane nodded. “Yes, but I’m afraid she’s decided to abandon our company for more agreeable friends,” she said.
“Pity,” Sherman replied. Jane noticed that in her absence he had gotten himself a new drink. She also noticed that Walter was missing.
“Walter was called away by his duties as host,” Sherman said, as if reading her mind. “I’m so glad you’re back. It’s been dreadfully dull.”
“Well then, let’s make up for lost time,” Jane said. “Tell me everything you know about everyone here.”
In short order Jane learned that both Mr. and Mrs. Primsley were having an affair with the high school debate coach; that Miranda Fleck’s dissertation was late not because of her need to research more primary sources but because her original work had been found to be not at all original; and that a surprising number of the party guests had at one time or another been arrested for shoplifting, driving under the influence, indecent exposure, or a combination of all three.
“Next you’ll tell me that Walter has a sordid past,” Jane remarked.
Sherman waved one hand and laughed. “Walter has no past,” he said. “I don’t think he’s had even one date since his wife died.”
“His wife?” Jane coughed, choking on her wine. “I didn’t know he’d been married.”
Sherman nodded. “Evelyn,” he said. “She died, oh, it must be almost fifteen years ago now. It was quite a tragedy. They’d been married only a few years.”
“How did she—What happened to her?” asked Jane.
Sherman sighed deeply. “She drowned,” he said. “On the Fourth of July. There was a picnic at the lake. She went swimming. No one knows exactly what happened. One minute she was waving to us, and the next we couldn’t see her. By the time anyone realized something was wrong she was dead.”
“How terrible,” said Jane. “Poor Walter.”
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