“You sit here,” Walter said to Jane, indicating a place on the left. “And Brian, you sit here,” he continued, pointing to the head of the table.
They all sat, and Walter picked up the platter of beef. “I hope you like it rare,” he said as he passed it to Brian. “I can’t stand overcooked meat.”
“This looks perfect,” said Brian as he helped himself to several pieces before passing the dish to Jane. “I do like my beef on the bloody side.”
Jane took a small piece of roast, then accepted the peas from Walter. As she in turn passed them to Brian, their fingers touched. The shock that passed between them startled her, and she dropped the bowl. Before it hit the table, Brian’s hand shot out and caught it. Jane snatched her hand back and held it in her lap, rubbing it with her other one. Her skin still tingled.
“Jane, Brian is another Austen fan,” Walter said. “I told him he should talk to you.”
“Indeed,” Brian remarked. “Tell me, Jane, what is your opinion of the Austen craze that seems to have possessed your country?” He paused. “My apologies. I mean, of course, this country.”
Jane stabbed at the piece of meat on her plate. The juice from the beef was pink with blood, and she felt her mouth water. Before answering Brian, she took a bite and chewed it thoroughly, savoring the taste.
“I think the books appeal to readers of all times,” she answered.
Brian nodded. “Women do like the romances,” he said.
Jane flushed. “They’re more than just romances,” she said. “And their appeal is hardly limited to women.”
Brian waved his fork in the air. “Of course,” he said. “I myself thoroughly enjoy her work. But surely you agree that her subject matter is rather … lightweight, if you will.” Instead of waiting for Jane to reply, he continued. “The critic G. H. Lewes once told Charlotte Brontë that she should study Austen’s work in order to correct her own shortcomings as an author. Do you know what her response was?”
Jane snorted. “She said that Austen’s work was like, and I quote, an ‘accurate daguerreotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers—but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy—no open country—no fresh air—no blue hill—no bonny beck,’” she said tartly.
“I see you’ve read the correspondence,” Brian commented. “And that you disagree.”
“I certainly do,” said Jane. “What nonsense. Just because Austen’s heroines aren’t flinging themselves all over the moors and mooning over disfigured men and being tormented by madwomen and burning up in fires and who knows what other foolishness …” Her voice trailed off. She took up her wineglass and drank deeply. Charlotte Brontë, she thought. Of all people.
To her annoyance she saw that Walter and Brian were laughing. “What?” she said.
“You just sounded so irate,” said Walter. “Almost as if Austen were a dear friend. Which I suppose she is, really.”
Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I suppose Jane Eyre is a good novel,” she said. “In its way. Personally, I find it devoid of warmth and overripe with melodrama.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing Austen died before Miss Brontë passed judgment on her,” Brian suggested. “The chill that would surely have pervaded the drawing room had they ever met would have been formidable.”
“I’d very much like to see that,” said Walter. Looking at Jane, he added, “Or perhaps we could get you to debate that Brontë scholar. What’s her name?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Violet Grey. She’s not an Austen fan either.”
“I’ve met Grey,” Brian said. “And I agree, that would be interesting. Very interesting.”
Jane refused to encourage further commentary on the subject. Instead, she inspected the peas on her plate with great curiosity. “Is this mint in the peas?” she asked Walter.
He nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “How ever did you think of it?”
“Do you write?” interrupted Brian.
Jane looked at him. “I?” she said innocently.
Brian smiled. “You seem to have such passion for novels,” he answered. “I thought perhaps you yourself might be a writer.”
“When I was younger I wrote a bit,” Jane said. “Nothing serious. Now I’m content to sell books.”
“I should very much like to see the kind of thing you wrote,” said Brian. “Perhaps I can convince you to show it to me.”
“Don’t bother,” Walter told him. “I’ve been asking her for years. She won’t do it.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t anything to read,” said Jane. “It all was thrown away.”
Brian frowned. “I’m disappointed to hear it,” he said.
Jane said nothing, focusing on her plate and eating a few bites. Walter turned the conversation to something else, but Jane blocked it out. All she wanted was to finish dinner and go home. When a few minutes later she heard Walter speak her name, she looked up.
“Would you like coffee with your cake?” he asked.
Jane started to decline, thinking perhaps she could excuse herself early. But she felt that would be allowing Brian to win the little battle he was waging with her. Already he had landed several blows, and she was determined not to let him have the better of her.
“That would be very nice,” she said. “Let me help.”
She stood up before Walter could decline her offer, picking up her plate and the platter of beef and carrying them to the kitchen. Walter followed and began making coffee as Jane returned to the dining room for the rest of the dishes.
“He has no idea, does he?” Brian said as Jane picked up the bowl of peas.
“Of course not,” said Jane.
“Do you love him?”
Jane, clutching the bowl, glared at Brian. “What business is that of yours?”
Brian laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t changed at all,” he told her. “The same old Jane.”
“You’re one to talk,” she replied. “I don’t know what—”
“Here’s the coffee,” Walter announced, interrupting the moment. “And I’ll be right back with the cake.”
Jane started to follow him back to the kitchen, but Brian grabbed her arm. “Meet me tomorrow,” he said.
“Why would I do that?” asked Jane, snorting.
“Because you want to,” Brian said. “I can tell.”
Jane hesitated.
“Tomorrow,” said Brian. “You choose the place.”
Jane sighed. “The bookstore,” she said. “Nine o’clock, after closing.”
Brian grinned. “I look forward to it,” he said.
Dessert seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Jane picked at the cake; despite its being chocolate, she couldn’t bring herself to eat more than a few bites of it. She contributed little to the conversation, which had turned to American politics. When finally Brian announced that it was time for him to leave, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good night,” Brian said to Walter after he’d collected his coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I suspect.” Then he took Jane’s hand. “And I hope to see you again as well.”
When he had gone, Jane offered to help Walter clean up. They were in the kitchen, Walter washing and Jane drying each dish as he handed it to her, when Walter said, “You’ve met him before, haven’t you?”
Jane finished drying the plate in her hand. She was unsure how best to answer Walter’s question. She decided to be honest. “Yes,” she said. “I have.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jane took the bowl Walter held out. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “At first I was shocked to see him. Then … well, it’s difficult to explain.”
“He didn’t say anything either,” Walter noted.
Jane nodded. “I think he was just as surprised to see me,” she said.
“Were the two of you lovers?” Walter asked unexpectedly.
Walter finished rinsing the last dish. “I see,” he said.
Jane could tell that he didn’t quite believe her. And she didn’t blame him. She was not telling him everything. Not nearly. But for the moment it was all she was willing to share.
“I should be going,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
“Thank you for coming,” Walter said. He paused a moment, then leaned in and kissed her.
To her surprise, she kissed him back. When did I decide to do that? she asked herself. But apparently she had.
Walter pulled back. “I’ll get your coat,” he told her.
At the door he kissed her again. Then she was outside, walking home through the crisp, cold night. When she reached her house, she took her key from her pocket and began to insert it into the lock. But as she grasped the knob the door swung inward. She remembered having locked it as she left.
Stepping inside, she looked around. Everything seemed to be in place. If she’d been burgled, it had been by very neat thieves. Then she sensed someone behind her. The next moment a pair of warm lips grazed her neck just below her ear.
“You didn’t really think I could wait until tomorrow, did you?” Brian whispered.
Chapter 12
“You knew what you wanted when you came here,” Jonathan said. “We both knew what you wanted. Yet now you hate me for giving it to you? That strikes me as most ungrateful.”
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
Jane shoved Brian away, but he was too strong for her. His arms circled around her and he continued to kiss her neck. “It was all I could do not to take you there in his house,” he said. “You’re as lovely now as you were when we first met.”
“That’s because I’m dead,” Jane said. She drove her elbow into his stomach. He let out a surprised grunt and his grip on her loosened. She took the opportunity to escape, whirling around to face him. “Get out,” she ordered.
Brian, bent over as he tried to catch his breath, looked up and smiled seductively. “I don’t think so,” he replied.
Jane started to argue, but she knew better. He was stubborn. She could yell at him all she liked, but she knew he wouldn’t leave. She briefly considered threatening him with calling the police, but that would achieve nothing.
“Oh, how I despise you,” she said icily.
“You don’t really,” Brian said as Jane walked into the living room and turned on a light. “As I recall, you were once very fond of me.”
“Not least because you led me to believe that you were fond of me as well,” said Jane.
Brian laughed. “But I was fond of you, my dear. I still am. If I wasn’t, why would I have come here?”
“Funny,” said Jane. “That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering ever since you appeared in my bookshop.”
Brian sat down in one of the living room chairs. “I suppose it has been a long time,” he admitted. “You probably thought I was dead. Well, more dead. Deader.”
Jane suppressed a smile as she seated herself on the sofa. “The thought did cross my mind,” she told him. “As you yourself said, ‘I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of my temper and constitutional depression of spirits.’”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Brian laughed.
Jane glowered. “So, how did you find me?”
“Ah,” said Brian, holding up one slender finger. “I’d like to say that it was difficult, but you must admit that you haven’t exactly gone to great lengths to hide yourself. Elizabeth Jane Fairfax indeed.”
Jane picked at the cloth of the couch. “Yes, well, I got rather tired of it all after a century or two, didn’t I? Besides, you haven’t exactly strayed too far from the path yourself in that regard, Lord Byron.” She said his name with all the venom she could muster.
Byron laughed. “So we’ve both tired of being other people,” he said.
Jane couldn’t argue that point. She hesitated before asking, “Why now?”
Byron leaned back in the chair and sighed deeply. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit nostalgic of late. Missing the good old days and all that.”
“I don’t remember there being a lot of good involved,” said Jane. “At least not as far as you’re concerned.”
“Come now,” Byron said. “Our time together wasn’t all bad, was it?”
“No,” Jane admitted. “Dinner the first night was quite nice, as I recall. It was everything after.”
“Come now, Jane,” said Byron. “Look what I did for you. Despite your age you were still a child. Why, you were practically imprisoned in that vicarage. I saved you from all that.”
“Saved me?” Jane exclaimed. “I was perfectly happy in my little world.”
Byron waved away her protest. “If you were happy, then why did you come to me?”
Jane started to speak, but found she couldn’t. He had hit upon the weak spot in her argument. Sensing this, Byron smiled at her, his eyes bright. “You see?” he said. “You came because you wanted experience. You were determined to offer up your virginity to me.”
“I came at your invitation!” Jane objected.
“Yes, yes,” Byron agreed. “But it was you who wrote to me first. I simply did what I could tell you wanted. You didn’t have to come. In fact, I believe you took great pains to make the journey.”
Jane stood up. “You’re impossible,” she said. She turned away from him so he wouldn’t see the frustration in her face.
He was beside her in a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.
“You’re not,” said Jane. “You never were.”
Byron put his hands on her shoulders. She allowed them to stay there. “I am now,” he said. “I’ve changed over time. I know now that what I did to you was wrong.”
“It’s a bit late for that realization,” said Jane.
Byron kissed her hair. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “I was careless.”
“Careless,” Jane repeated, shaking her head. “Is that what you call it?”
“What other word is there for it?”
Jane turned, facing him. She looked into his eyes. “Evil,” she said. “I would call it evil.”
She was surprised to see that Byron was genuinely hurt. He stepped back, his face twisted in confusion. She almost reached out to him, but forced her hands to stay at her sides.
“Do you really hate me so much?” Byron asked. His voice shook with emotion, and his eyes betrayed the sadness in his heart.
A long silence passed during which Jane wrestled with her emotions. Don’t let him in, she warned herself. Not even a little. She knew she should listen. She should end things once and for all. But another part of her wept to see Byron in despair. He says he’s changed, she argued.
“No,” she said finally. “I don’t hate you. Not anymore. Because of you I’ve seen and done wonderful things. Have I hated you sometimes in the past? I would be lying if I said I haven’t. But what good does it do?”
Byron dropped to his knees before her and grasped her hands, laying his cheek on them. “I knew you couldn’t,” he said. “Jane, you don’t know how often I’ve longed for you. But I couldn’t face you, knowing how you must feel about me. About what I did.”
Jane closed her eyes. She was remembering too much. Things she had buried deep within her mind were rising to the surface. Memories. Images. Feelings. None of them welcome.
“Stand up,” she told Byron, pulling him to his feet. She continued to hold his hands as they faced each other. “I don’t hate you,” she said. “But I don’t love you either.”
Byron brought one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it. “No,” he said. “Not now you don’t. But perhaps you will again.”
Before Jane could contradict him he kissed her. His mouth closed over hers, his lips full and warm. Jane struggled only a moment before giving in. She kissed him back, hating herself
but unable to resist. His arms slipped around her, pulling her close so that their bodies were pressed tightly together. Almost immediately Jane was overcome with a tingling that flowed over her skin, causing her to shudder. She’d forgotten what it was like to kiss one of her own kind.
The sensation grew more intense the longer they kissed. Jane felt her thoughts begin to join with Byron’s. She knew that soon she would lose all control as her connection with him intensified. She had only moments left.
Summoning what was left of her will, she pulled away from him. The separation was painful, and she gasped. It was as if she’d been torn away from a dream and plunged into reality. She was suddenly intensely cold, and put her arms around herself in what she already knew was a futile attempt at getting warm.
“I can’t,” she whispered as Byron reached for her.
“You can,” he said. His voice was seductive, and for a moment she felt herself slipping back into the dream state.
“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “Please, just go.”
She was surprised when Byron turned and walked to the door. He opened it and turned back to look at her. “Who listens once will listen twice,” he said softly. “Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, and one refusal no rebuff.” Then he was gone, and Jane was alone in her living room.
“Damn you,” she said to the door.
She turned the lights off and went upstairs. In her bedroom Tom was curled up on her pillow. He opened one eye and gave her a brief look before returning to sleep. Jane sat on the bed and began to pet him, and he purred softly.
She still felt the effects of Byron’s kiss. She knew it would last for some time, probably until she fed again. She resented the fact that she would have to feed earlier than usual. But she could go another day or so before the need became too great. Had she remained in his arms much longer the need would have been nearly impossible to resist.
As it was, her thoughts were all jumbled together. And some were Byron’s. She saw faces she’d never seen, smelled scents foreign to her, felt longing and fear and lust that were not her own. It was as if she’d been drugged.
Jane Bites Back jb-1 Page 8