Jane Bites Back

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “Why do I have to be somebody?” Jane asked. “Perhaps I’m just some ordinary woman who got involved with the wrong kind of man. Is that so unusual?”

  “You could be,” Lucy admitted. “But I don’t think so.”

  Jane squinted her eyes. “And why not?” she asked.

  “Because,” Lucy replied, squinting back, “I found this on your dresser.” She held up a locket. It was open, and inside was a small watercolor portrait of Cassie.

  “You spied!” Jane yelped.

  Lucy shook her head. “Actually, I didn’t. I went into your room to see if you had a hairbrush I could borrow. This was open on the dresser.”

  “But you stole it,” Jane said. “That’s even worse.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “I didn’t steal it,” she said. “I borrowed it. To compare it to the portrait in this.” She held up one of the several Jane Austen biographies the store carried. It was opened to a portrait of Cassandra. “They’re practically the same,” Lucy said.

  “So I have a picture in a locket that resembles that one,” Jane said. “What of it?”

  Lucy snapped the book shut. “The jig is up,” she said. “Out with it.”

  Jane shuffled some papers on the counter. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Yes, that’s Cassie. And yes, I’m …” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “Jane Austen,” Lucy said in a gloating tone. “You. Are. Jane. Austen.” She enunciated each word separately. Then she stood with her mouth open, staring at Jane. “You’re Jane Austen,” she said again, this time in a voice filled with awe. “Jane Austen. You’re Jane Austen.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “You don’t have to remind me quite so many times.”

  Lucy shook her head as if trying to wake herself up. “This is too weird,” she said. “I was okay with the vampire thing. I mean, that’s freaky, but I was okay with it. And I was even okay with the Byron thing. But this—this is just too much.” She stared at Jane. “You’re Jane freaking Austen!”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jane said. “Yes, I’m Jane Austen. And I’m a vampire. And it is, as you say, too freaking much. But that’s how it is.” She was talking loudly. She took a moment to calm herself before speaking again. “I’m sorry,” she told Lucy. “I forget that you haven’t had as much time as I have to process this.”

  “It’s all right,” said Lucy. “I think I’m over it.”

  Jane looked up. “What? A moment ago you were acting as if you’d just seen Father Christmas.”

  “Yeah, well, now I’m over it,” Lucy said. “I’m funny like that.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling well?” asked Jane. “Do you need to lie down or something?”

  “You look different from your portrait,” Lucy said. “Prettier.”

  Jane blushed. “Thank you,” she said. “Cassandra had some talent as an artist, but I’ve always thought that portrait makes me look a bit mousy. Also, I’ve changed my hair, you know.”

  A smiled flashed across Lucy’s face. “Does Walter know he’s dating Jane Austen?” she asked.

  “No,” Jane said quickly. “And he’s not going to. Lucy, promise me you won’t say anything. If you do, I’ll tell him you’ve gone mad or have a terrible addiction to painkillers or something.”

  “Relax,” said Lucy. “I’m not telling anyone. For one thing, I wouldn’t do something like that. For another, I owe you for saving me from being the vampire love slave to Lord Byron.” She hesitated. “Actually, maybe I should be mad at you for that.”

  “I just don’t know how I would tell Walter,” Jane said. “Of course I should tell him.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Lucy. “Do you know what kind of pressure that would put on the poor guy?”

  Jane shrugged. “Well, of course it would be difficult accepting the vampire issue.”

  “The vampire issue?” Lucy said. “I’m talking about the Jane Austen issue. How would you like to be the guy dating Jane Austen?”

  Jane was confused. “Would that be a bad thing?” she asked. “I mean, apart from the obvious.”

  “Um, yeah,” said Lucy. “And it’s your own fault for coming up with Mr. Darcy. He’s every woman’s ideal. Some men’s too. What man can live up to that? You ruined it for every man on the planet when you wrote him up.”

  Jane put her hands on her hips. “Are you accusing me of making it impossible for men to live up to an image?” she said.

  “Yes,” Lucy replied simply. “Don’t deny it.”

  “I do deny it,” Jane objected. “He’s just a character in a novel.”

  Lucy looked shocked. “Just a character?” she said. “Just a novel?” She located a copy of Pride and Prejudice and waved it around. “This is only the greatest novel ever written,” she said.

  Jane blushed. “You’re not the first to say so,” she said, trying to sound modest.

  “Trust me,” said Lucy. “Do not tell Walter anything. At least not until you’re married.”

  “Married?” said Jane. “Whatever makes you think I’m going to marry him?”

  “I’ve read your books,” Lucy said. “This is exactly like one of them.”

  “How so?” asked Jane. “I’ve never written about a vampire in my life.”

  “Forget the vampire thing,” Lucy said. “You’ve got the lovely, kind man who adores you but whom you find a little bit boring.”

  “I do not,” Jane denied.

  “Yeah, you kind of do,” said Lucy. “And that’s okay. On the other hand, you have the incredibly sexy but totally-bad-for-you guy you can’t quite get out of your mind.”

  “Go on,” Jane said. Now that Lucy had pointed it out, she had to admit that it really was a bit like something she might write.

  “Well, now you just have to realize that the nice guy is a much better match for you,” Lucy concluded. “Then you marry him.”

  “He hasn’t even asked me,” said Jane. “Not exactly.” She didn’t tell Lucy that Walter had as good as done so several times, and that she had simply pretended he hadn’t.

  “Times have changed,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Times may have changed,” Jane agreed. “But I haven’t. At least not that much. Anyway, I don’t know that I want to marry Walter.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s another hottie in the picture,” said Lucy.

  An image of Kelly’s face popped into Jane’s mind. “No,” she said. “I just don’t know that I’m ready for marriage. Then there’s the whole … well, you know,” she concluded. She pushed her teeth out, her canines protruding over her lower lip.

  “If you ask me, he wouldn’t care,” said Lucy.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Jane said. “There’s already been enough excitement for one day.”

  “That’s true,” Lucy agreed. “I guess I have to get used to being your Alfred.”

  “My what?”

  “Your Alfred,” Lucy repeated. “As in Batman?”

  Jane looked at her blankly. “Batman?” she said.

  “Alfred was Bruce Wayne’s butler,” Lucy explained. “He knew Bruce Wayne was Batman, but he kept it a secret.”

  “Ah,” said Jane. “I see. I hadn’t looked at it in quite that way.”

  “We need a Batcave,” Lucy said. “A secret lair.”

  “I think this is it,” said Jane, indicating the inside of the store. “I’m not a superhero.”

  “You must have some powers,” Lucy insisted. “What are they? Ooh—can you fly?”

  “No,” Jane answered. “Nor can I turn into a bat, so you needn’t ask.”

  “Come on,” said Lucy. “Nothing? Really?”

  “I don’t get cold,” Jane admitted. “I see very well, and I don’t have to sleep, although I can and do. My body heals itself quickly, at least for minor injuries. I’m strong enough that I never have to ask for help getting the tops off of jars. Other than that, no, there’s nothing extraordinary about me.” She didn’t mention her gla
moring ability, and felt guilty about it, but she worried there might be a time when she would need to use it on Lucy.

  “Except the part where you get to live forever,” Lucy suggested.

  “Yes, except for that,” said Jane. “But believe me, it comes at a cost.”

  Lucy made a face. “Can we at least have costumes?” she suggested.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” said Jane. “But do try to remember that this is my life.”

  “Sorry,” Lucy apologized. “It’s just that you’re my first vampire. And you’re Jane Austen. It’s hard not to be a little excited.”

  “I may be those things,” said Jane. “But I’m still your boss, and this is still a bookshop. Let’s see if we can get some work done, shall we?”

  She set Lucy to work reorganizing the children’s section, and went into the office to collect her thoughts. Everything had changed overnight. For the first time ever, someone besides Byron and a few other undead knew her identity. She was putting herself at great risk trusting in Lucy to keep her secret. She’s young, Jane thought. She could make a mistake. She wondered if maybe she should leave Brakeston after all. Then if Lucy said anything, everyone would just think she was crazy. I couldn’t do that to her, Jane thought. She also couldn’t leave Lucy or Walter exposed to the danger posed by Byron. Even if he really was gone, he could always come back.

  No, she would have to stay and she would have to trust Lucy to keep her promise. It was the only honorable thing to do. But what about Walter? He knew nothing. Was it fair to keep the truth from him when Lucy knew? She knew it wasn’t. Yet she also knew that she couldn’t tell him.

  “You’re a coward, Jane Fairfax,” she said. “You’re afraid he won’t love you if he knows.”

  It was true. Although she wasn’t sure that she could ever marry Walter, she wasn’t ready to give him up. It was a horrible thing to realize about herself, but there it was. Once more Kelly’s face appeared in her thoughts. Yes, there was that as well. She did find him attractive, and she still believed that he was worldly enough to accept her for what she was. But he’d shown no romantic interest in her at all.

  I really am living inside one of my novels, she thought.

  Her moment of self-pity was interrupted by the arrival of the mail carrier. “Here you go, Jane,” Paula said, handing her a stack of mail. She held up a white envelope. “This one was dropped in the box at the station. No stamp, and just your name on it. Technically, I should charge you the cost of the postage, but I’ll let it slide this time.” She winked as she gave Jane the envelope.

  “Thank you, Paula,” Jane said. She placed the stack of mail on her desk and looked at the envelope. As Paula had said, her name was written in black ink across the front of the envelope in spidery script. She slid her finger along the back and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

  My dear Jane,

  At the risk of sounding melodramatic, by the time you get this I shall be gone. I’ve mailed it rather than leave it on your doorstep or some other more obvious place because I don’t want you to read it until I’m halfway back to England. My apologies for forgetting your address. I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’m sure this will find its way to you in due course.

  You will of course be thinking that you have bested me. And perhaps you have. But this is only one battle. I am now determined more than ever that it is our destiny to be together.

  For now I will leave you to the life you have chosen. But know that I will be thinking of you, and that one day I will return.

  All of my love,

  Byron’s signature was scrawled across the bottom of the page. Jane read through the note one more time, then crumpled it up and threw it into the trash. Only one battle, she thought. Who does he think he is, Charles de Gaulle?

  Chapter 19

  What kind of writer did she want to be? She had never considered the question. Now that it had been asked, she found that what she wanted was to tell the stories of women. Not women whose primary interest in life was marriage, but women like herself who wanted more than just a husband.

  —Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript

  WINTER GAVE WAY TO SPRING, AND EVENTUALLY JANE STOPPED looking for Byron everywhere she went. She still did not tell Walter about herself, and after nagging her for weeks about it Lucy stopped, but mostly because she had something else to torment Jane about. The announcement of the publication of Constance appeared in Publishers Weekly the first week of March, with a full-page ad trumpeting it as “the must-read book of summer.” The cover was featured prominently, along with a photograph of Jane, which against her objections Nick Trilling had insisted they use. There were several flattering blurbs, and a box at the bottom announced a fifty-thousand-copy first printing.

  “When were you going to mention this?” Lucy asked Jane the day the magazine arrived. “When I opened the box of books?”

  Since then life had been a whirlwind. First the galleys arrived and Jane spent two weeks going over them. Several times she’d called Kelly in tears because she was convinced the novel was dreadful and should never be published. Each time he’d talked her down, assuring her that it was a very good book. After that had been the unpleasantness of the author photo, which Walter had taken with his digital camera and which Jane thought made her look like a woman who spent all her time knitting scarves and doing acrostics. Nick had proclaimed it just the thing, which did nothing to allay her fears.

  There was a lull from March until the middle of April, when the first reviews began to appear. That was when people other than Lucy and Walter began to realize that there was an author in their midst. Soon Jane was something of a minor celebrity in town and could walk no more than a few blocks without someone stopping her to congratulate her on her first book. She quickly adopted a standard response (“That’s so kind of you”) and perfected the art of appearing thankful yet busy (“I’d love to chat, but I must get to the bank before it closes. Yes, we’ll probably have a party when it comes out”).

  “If I’d known how exhausting this would be, I never would have sent the manuscript in,” Jane complained to Walter one evening after dinner at her house. “Having to be relentlessly cheerful is making my face cramp.” She massaged her cheeks and sighed.

  “It’s the price you have to pay for literary stardom,” Walter joked.

  Jane began to say something about how things had been easier when her books were published anonymously, but caught herself in time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember what she could and could not say, and to whom. She had begun to cherish the freedom she felt when she was talking to Lucy. Having to watch herself around Walter always put her on edge.

  “Kelly sent me an early review,” she told Walter. “From a newspaper in Chicago, I think. It’s quite nice.” She handed Walter the clipping, which he read silently.

  “Nice?” he said when he was finished. “Jane, they compared you to Inez Gossford. That’s not just nice, it’s fantastic.”

  “I suppose it is,” Jane admitted. “She’s rather popular, isn’t she?”

  Walter wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you start that,” he said.

  Jane looked at him. “Start what?” she said.

  “The whole popular-versus-literary thing,” Walter said. “I hate it when people try to say one is better than the other. Like books people enjoy reading are somehow beneath books that literary snobs approve of.”

  “Where is this coming from?” Jane asked. “I’ve never seen you so annoyed.”

  “Oh, it’s just a particular peeve of mine. Whenever I mention that I like certain novels, someone has to say something snide about how although they may be popular, they aren’t real novels. It’s stupid. Then they get all put out when I remind them that some of the books we consider classics today were considered popular fiction in their time. Dickens, for instance. Even Austen.”

  Jane felt herself tense up, but Walter didn’t seem to notice. He continued talking. “Where are all the ‘literary�
� novels from that period?” he asked, using his fingers to emphasize the quotes. “And what about Trollope? His Barchester books are basically soap operas, yet today they’re considered great English novels. And do you know what the critics of his time said about him? They said that his work couldn’t be taken seriously because he wrote too much and admitted that he wrote for money. Like authors are supposed to languish in drafty garrets waiting for inspiration to strike.”

  Jane didn’t know what to say. Of course she did know what the critics had said about Trollope. She had been outraged when the man’s delightful books had been so cruelly treated. She herself had weathered some terrible notices. But nobody remembered those now save for some academics who insisted on recording every tiny thing about a person’s life. What people remembered was that her books were read and that they were enjoyable.

  “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she told Walter. “I do like Gossford’s books. I suppose I’m just afraid I won’t be taken seriously.”

  “I take you seriously,” said Walter. “Your friends take you seriously. Do you honestly care what some critic who doesn’t even know you thinks?”

  Jane thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do. Oh, I know it’s shallow of me, but I can’t help it. I do care, Walter. This is my first novel. I want people to love it as much as I do.”

  “Well, so far no one has said a bad thing about it,” Walter reminded her. “I’m sure someone will—”

  “Thank you,” Jane interrupted. “That makes me feel immensely better.”

  “But they’ll be wrong,” Walter concluded. “You just have to remember that.”

  She knew what he said was true. It was, however, difficult to keep herself from looking to see what was being said about her book. In addition to the reviews Kelly sent her, she had taken to looking herself up on the Internet. As the book was only available as a review copy, there was not a lot she hadn’t seen, but she had found a handful of blogs and such in which she was mentioned. As with the reviews, most of the things written about her were positive, although a couple had been less than flattering.