Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

“It’s all that coffee you drink,” Jane teased. Lucy was on her third cup and it was only a little past ten.

  “Maybe,” said Lucy, taking a sip from the mug in her hand. “But I didn’t have any last night.” She set the mug down. “Plus, I had the strangest dreams.”

  “What about?” Jane asked as she arranged a display of new paperback releases. She was in a particularly pleasant mood. Not only was she feeling good about the talk she and Walter had had a few days before, Byron hadn’t once bothered her. Although his presence in Brakeston was still unsettling, and she was certain that he would cause more worry for her before long, for the moment she was determined to enjoy the relative calm in her life.

  “I was in a house,” said Lucy. “By a lake. I don’t know where it was or how I got there. There was a thunderstorm. Then this man appeared. He was wearing a mask, some kind of bird face. A crow, I think.”

  A violent shiver ran down Jane’s spine as Lucy continued. “Anyway, he took me by the hand and led me into a bedroom.” She looked at Jane and smiled shyly. “It’s kind of embarrassing,” she admitted. “It’s not like I go around having dreams about men making love to me or anything.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “Go on,” she said.

  “Well,” Lucy replied, “while we were in bed I reached up to take the mask from his face. I remember touching the feathers, and I remember pulling the mask away. I caught just a glimpse of his face before I woke up.”

  Jane’s heart pounded in her chest. “Do you remember what he looked like?” she asked.

  Lucy shook her head. “That’s the funny thing,” she said. “Sometimes I think I remember it perfectly clearly. I can even picture it in my head. But then it changes to something else and I forget what the first face looked like. It’s as if I’m seeing him in a mirror but the mirror keeps reflecting other men who are passing by behind me.”

  “I see,” Jane said. A terrible thought was forming in her mind, one she didn’t want to entertain even for a moment.

  Lucy scratched at her neck. Jane, noticing it, had to force down the panic rising in her.

  “Stupid spider bites,” said Lucy. “They itch like crazy. Hey, maybe that’s what caused the dreams. Spider venom.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t that be freaky?”

  Jane walked over to her, the display forgotten. “Let me see,” she said, attempting to keep her voice steady. She pulled back Lucy’s long hair and inspected her neck. As she’d feared, two tiny red marks lay a few inches below Lucy’s left ear. They had healed quickly. No wonder Lucy was dismissing them as insect bites.

  “I think you’re right,” said Jane. Her hand had begun to tremble, and she pulled it away quickly. “Don’t scratch them or you’ll make them worse.”

  Lucy responded with a yawn, which she covered with one hand. “I’m just so tired,” she said.

  “You should probably take the afternoon off,” Jane suggested. “You might be having a little reaction to the spider bites. I have to run a couple of errands, but I should be back in an hour or so. I can handle things for the rest of the day.”

  Lucy rubbed her eyes. “Maybe,” she said. “I might feel better after some more coffee.”

  No, you won’t, Jane thought. The effects of a bite didn’t wear off quite so quickly. Nor would the effects of the dream Byron had apparently planted into Lucy’s thoughts. He’d done it on purpose, of course, knowing that Lucy would likely tell Jane about it. He also knew that she would do what she was about to do.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she assured Lucy. “Remember—no scratching.”

  Jane left the store and got into her car. As she drove to Byron’s house, she promised herself that she wouldn’t let him toy with her. “None of his nonsense,” she said.

  She parked at the curb and walked to the front door of the house. Only as she knocked did it occur to her that Byron might not be there. But then she heard him call, “A moment, please.”

  When he saw Jane standing on his doorstep he smiled broadly. “This is an unexpected surprise,” he said. “Come in.”

  Jane entered. She started to speak, but stopped when she saw the interior of the house. It had been meticulously restored. She could hardly believe how beautiful it was. The walnut woodwork had all been stripped of years of paint and refinished, the stained-glass window at the top of the stairs had been repaired, and the lights and other fixtures had been replaced with vintage pieces. Even the wallpaper—a handsome William Morris design of pink poppies on a black background—looked as if it could be original to the house.

  Walter did an amazing job, she thought. She was so dazzled by the house that she almost forgot why she was there. Then she remembered. Without waiting for Byron she went into the living room and stood behind a leather wingback chair. She wanted something between her and Byron while she confronted him. “I know what you did to Lucy,” she informed him as he walked into the room. “How dare you?”

  Byron paused. “I didn’t realize she was off-limits to me,” he said innocently. “Besides, I didn’t drain her. I only took a sip or two.” He smiled wickedly.

  Jane’s face flushed and her jaw trembled. “Stop these games!” she said. “Leave her be!”

  Byron cocked his head. “You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?” he said. “Perhaps she’s almost like a daughter?” He paused a moment, then pointed one finger at Jane. “No,” he said. “Not a daughter. A sister.”

  Jane understood his meaning perfectly. She placed her hands on the back of the chair in front of her, gripping it so tightly that her nails left scratches in the leather.

  “You. Will. Not. Touch. Her.” She spat each word at Byron as if it were a weapon.

  Byron frowned. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he replied. “After all, she’s just a girl.”

  He swept across the room, leaning so close to Jane that for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

  “It isn’t Lucy I want,” he said. His breath was warm on her face. “It’s you. But until you give yourself to me I must make do with what I have.”

  “You won’t have me,” said Jane.

  Byron leaned closer still. “Then I will have Lucy,” he said. “Perhaps I will even make her immortal. Do you think she would like that?”

  “No,” Jane said, barely able to get the word out of her mouth. “You can’t.”

  Byron stepped away, laughing. “Of course I can,” he said. “What’s to stop me?” He snapped his fingers. “Or perhaps it isn’t female companionship I need,” he said. “Perhaps it’s time for a gentleman friend. Someone with whom I can discuss literature.”

  Walter, Jane thought. He means Walter.

  “Yes,” said Byron, as if reading her thoughts. “That might be nice. Then again, there’s no reason why I can’t have both.”

  “Enough,” Jane said. “What do you want?”

  Byron smiled at her. “You know what I want, Jane. I want you.”

  “And just how would that work?” Jane asked. Her anger was returning, and it gave a mocking edge to her voice. “Would we marry and settle here? Would we become respected members of the community? Is that how you see it playing out?”

  Byron’s expression was stony as he replied. “I expect you to leave with me,” he said. “Return to England, where we belong.”

  “Ah,” said Jane. “Perhaps we could set up house on the shore of Lake Geneva. I believe one of the movie stars summers in your old house now. George Clooney, I think, or perhaps it’s the Jolie-Pitts. But I’m sure they would let us lease it the rest of the year.”

  She stared at Byron, awaiting one of his famous bursts of temper. She had pushed him, perhaps too far, but her anger had turned into a bright fire she could no longer contain.

  She was surprised when he laughed loudly. “You’ve changed some since our last meeting,” he said. “I like it.”

  He became suddenly thoughtful. “You know this life of yours has to end someday,” he said. “What do you have, another five years? Perhaps ten? Then what?
Are you going to tell your Walter what you are? Are you going to turn him?”

  “I would never do that,” Jane snapped.

  “Turn him?” asked Byron. “Or tell him?”

  Jane looked away.

  “I thought as much,” Byron said. “You see, you’ve already decided. Which leaves only my proposal.”

  Jane was shaking her head as he spoke. Now she steeled herself and lifted her head. “I don’t love you,” she said firmly.

  Once more Byron laughed at her. “Who said anything about love?” he replied. “We’re both far too old to believe in happily ever after, Jane.”

  “Perhaps you don’t,” said Jane.

  Byron smiled. “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ‘Tis woman’s whole existence.”

  “Stop quoting yourself,” Jane said. “It’s vain even for you.”

  “Yet you know it to be true,” Byron said.

  Jane sniffed. “I’ve yet to become so cynical.”

  “Give it time,” Byron told her. “At any rate, my offer remains the same. Come with me or sacrifice Lucy and Walter. Is that a price you’re willing to pay?”

  Jane fought off the urge to turn and run. That would be useless. Byron would find her. And she knew as well that if she refused him, he would do exactly what he was threatening to do.

  “Walter would never understand what you are,” said Byron, interrupting her thoughts. “And you would watch him grow old and die. With me you would not suffer that.”

  “Yes,” Jane agreed. “It would be easier.”

  “Then you’ve decided,” said Byron. “Good.”

  “I have decided,” Jane answered, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. She took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to tell them the truth.”

  Chapter 15

  She closed her eyes. His arms went around her, pulling her close. His fingers stroked her hair. She resisted only a moment. Then she opened her eyes and looked into his face. As he kissed her, she imagined it was Charles’s mouth covering hers.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  “DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS?”

  Walter, who was dicing carrots, stopped chopping for a moment. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Do you?”

  He resumed his knife work. The nick-nick-nick of the knife against the wood was annoying. Jane’s nerves were already frayed, and the sound grated on her ears as if someone were rapping ceaselessly on a door. Who can it be (cried I) who chops these unoffending vegetables? she found herself thinking. She wished he would stop.

  “I used to see them,” she said, speaking more loudly than usual to be heard above the noise. “When I was a child.”

  Walter finished the carrots, swept them into a pan, and picked up an onion. “Really?” he said. He didn’t sound incredulous or mocking, and Jane wondered if he’d even heard her. “My grandmother believed she could see ghosts.”

  Jane was making the salad to go with dinner. She’d been told to tear the lettuce into smaller pieces. She’d done such a thorough job that she now had a pile of what resembled wet green confetti. It was useless, and she quickly deposited it in the trash can before Walter could see it. The conversation was not going as well as she’d hoped, mainly because she had no idea how to begin.

  “Yes,” she said. “Several times. Once it was a man who stood on the stairs of a church, and another time it was a little girl who appeared in our garden. She said she was looking for her cat. She said its name was Mogger.”

  “She spoke to you?” Walter said as he cut the onion in half. Although she was several feet away, Jane’s eyes began to water almost immediately.

  She nodded. “Isn’t that odd?”

  Walter shrugged. “Who can say?” he answered. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “Hamlet was mad, of course,” Jane replied. “But the sentiment is appreciated.”

  “Why are you asking?” said Walter. “Have you been seeing ghosts?”

  Jane shook her head and tore violently at a fresh piece of lettuce. I wish that were all it was, she thought. To Walter she said, “No. It’s just that today Lucy was talking about something to do with them and it made me realize that I don’t know much about what you believe about … things,” she concluded inadequately.

  Having finished with the onion, Walter rinsed his hands and dried them on a dish towel. “Things,” he repeated.

  “Yes,” said Jane. “Things.”

  “Like ghosts,” Walter said.

  “Ghosts,” Jane agreed. “And … I don’t know. God, I suppose. Heaven. Hell. What happens when we die.”

  Walter raised one eyebrow. “Those are big questions,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a drink if we’re going to tackle them. Would you like one?”

  “Please,” Jane answered.

  Walter took two glasses from a cupboard and selected a bottle from the half dozen cradled in the wine rack. He uncorked it and poured some into the glasses. He handed one to Jane.

  “This has about another thirty minutes,” he said, nodding at the lamb stew that was bubbling on the stove. “Why don’t we go sit down?”

  Jane gratefully abandoned the disastrous salad and joined Walter in the living room. He’d lit a fire, and the room was warm and smelled faintly of pine smoke. Under other circumstances she would have felt relaxed, but considering what she was about to do, she could enjoy none of it.

  “Do you want to start with ghosts and work our way up to God, or start with him and work our way down?” Walter asked as he sank into the cushions of the couch. Jane began to seat herself in one of the chairs, but Walter patted the place beside him. “Sit here,” he said.

  Although she’d been hoping to keep some distance between them, Jane did as Walter asked. However, she sat as far away from him as she could without appearing to be rejecting him. He turned sideways, his arm along the back of the couch, and looked at her. “God or ghosts?” he asked.

  “God,” Jane said. “Might as well get the biggest thing out of the way first.”

  Walter rested his glass of wine on his knee as he spoke. “I was raised Episcopalian,” he began. “Mostly we were Christmas and Easter Christians, but I did like all of the ceremony.” He chuckled. “At one point in college I actually considered the seminary, until I realized it was only because I didn’t think I could afford grad school. If it weren’t for a scholarship, I might very well be delivering sermons instead of refinishing wood floors and restoring Victorian façades.”

  “So you don’t believe in God, then?” Jane asked.

  Walter drank some wine before answering. “There’s no way of really knowing, is there?” he said. “It’s not as if it can be proved one way or another.”

  “A bit like ghosts,” said Jane cautiously.

  “Except you say you’ve seen and spoken to them,” Walter reminded her. “Some people believe they talk to God on a regular basis, and that he talks back. Just because you or I don’t doesn’t mean they’re lying.”

  “Very true,” Jane said. “So then do you think that things—creatures—might exist that to most people seem completely impossible?”

  “Give me an example,” said Walter.

  Jane thought for a moment. “Unicorns,” she blurted. “Angels. Werewolves. Vampires.” She clamped her lips shut on the last word, so that it came out almost as a whisper.

  “Now I know what brought this on,” Walter said. “You and Lucy were reading those Posey Frost novels to each other, weren’t you? I know you said you think they’re trashy, but I had a feeling you couldn’t resist.”

  It took a moment for Jane to realize that he was making reference to a wildly popular series about a woman who was a celebrated designer of lingerie by day and a monster hunter by night. They were terrible novels, but they sold out as quickly as they came in. Jane had tried to read one but had given up after the first fifteen pages when the heroine, the sultry Vivienne Minx, had dispatched a demon with a cor
set stay.

  “You caught me,” said Jane, making a face that was supposed to look comically guilty.

  Walter thought for a moment. “People certainly love to pretend that those things exist,” he said. “But whether they do or not, who’s to say?”

  “Arrgh,” Jane growled. “You’re impossible.”

  “What do you want me to say?” asked Walter, holding his hands up. “Do I think it’s possible that there’s a God, or ghosts, or … werewolves? Sure. Anything is possible. But have I seen one? Do I know that they exist? No.”

  “Fine,” Jane said. She could tell that that was as much as she was going to get out of him.

  “Don’t be mad,” said Walter.

  “I’m not mad,” Jane said in a voice that contradicted her words. “I just think that if we’re going to continue seeing each other, we should be able to talk about anything.”

  “We are talking,” Walter said. “Are you sure there’s not something else you want to say? Do you really want to know what I think about God?”

  “No,” Jane said. “I mean yes. Not about God. I don’t really care what you think about God.”

  “Then what is it?” Walter asked.

  Jane turned and looked at him. It was now or never. “There’s something you need to know about me,” she began. “Something important. It’s about who I am. It’s about what I am.”

  “What you are?” Walter said. “I don’t get it. What are we talking about here?” His eyes widened. “You’re a Scientologist!” he said. “That’s it. Or Wiccan! Hey, that’s fine with me.”

  Jane held up her hands. “No,” she said, stopping him. “I’m not any of those things. I’m …”

  Walter was looking at her questioningly. Jane looked into his honest, kind eyes and saw that he believed with all his heart that whatever she told him he would be able to handle. That’s how much he cares for me, she thought.

  “I’m going to be published,” she heard herself say.

  Walter blinked. “Published?” he said.

  Jane nodded crazily “Published,” she said, wondering where in the world that had come from. “A novel.”