Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict

by Laurie Viera Rigler

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  • ALSO BY LAURIE VIERA RIGLER •

  Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.);

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, June 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Laurie Viera Rigler

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Rigler, Laurie Viera.

  Rude awakenings of a Jane Austen addict : a novel / by Laurie Viera Rigler.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-08189-1

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. 3. Austen, Jane,

  1775-1817—Appreciation—Fiction. 4. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Social life and

  customs—21st century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.I427R83 2009

  813’.6—dc22 2009007593

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to all who wish for another life, another chance, another place. May they awaken to happiness.

  One

  A piercing sound, like a ship’s horn but higher, shriller, shakes my frame. I open one eye, then the other; the lids seem stuck together. From a gap in the curtains a tiny, knife-thin strip of light slices the darkness.

  I clap my hands over my ears, but the sound is relentless. As is the pain. It feels as if an entire regiment of soldiers marches behind my eyes.

  “Barnes?” My voice is a faint croak, too weak for Barnes to hear. No matter; she will of course be roused by the high-pitched horn. Only a corpse could sleep through such a cacophony.

  Why hasn’t Barnes put a stop to that blasted noise? I fumble for the bell pull behind me, but my hand feels only bare wall. Odd. I shall have to get out of bed and find Barnes myself.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed; they hit the floor instead of dangling a few inches above it. Could a headache make one’s bed seem lower than it is? The worst of my headaches have been heralded by broken rainbows of light before my eyes, but never have I experienced such a lowering sensation. Lowering indeed. I can almost laugh at my facility with words this morning, despite the sorry state of my head. And my ears. How harsh and insistent is that sound.

  My feet touch bare wood floor instead of the woven rug in its customary place. And my bed shoes? Not there. I fumble in the dark and crash my right hip into a great lump of wood; blast it all to—I clench my teeth in an effort not to scream. This is enough punishment to put even the punster in me to rest. Barnes must be rearranging furniture again. Except—

  There are numbers, glowing red, on top of the offending lump of wood. 8 0 8. What is this wondrous thing? The numbers are in some sort of a box, the front of it smooth and cold beneath my fingertips, the top of it scored and bumpy. I run my fingers over the bumps, and the shrill sound stops. Oh, thank heaven.

  Blessed silence. I move towards the thin strip of light to open the curtains wide; surely the sun’s rays shall reveal the source of this odd geographic puzzle which has become my room. But instead of the thick velvet nap of the curtains which have hung on my windows these five years at least, my hands grasp what feels like coarse burlap. Perhaps Barnes slipped in early and exchanged them so that she could beat the dust from the velvet ones. First the rearrangement of furniture, then this. I have never known her to engage in such haphazard housekeeping.

  I grasp the edges of the burlap curtains—why are my hands shaking? I pull them open.

  There are iron bars on my window.

  I hear myself gasp. This is not, cannot, be my window. Indeed, as I wheel around to take in the space behind me, I see that this is not my room. Head pounding, I survey the tall, unornamented chest of drawers; the wide, low bed devoid of hangings; the box with the glowing numbers atop the chest. There is no pink marble fireplace, no armoire, no dressing table. There is, however, a low table bearing a large, rectangular box whose front is made mostly of glass; the rest is of a shiny-smooth, gray material that I have never seen before.

  My knees shake, almost buckling under me. I must move to the bed; just a minute of sitting down will be a restorative.

  I sink down atop a tangle of bedclothes, and the glass box roars to life.

  I jump back, clutching the covers. There are small figures talking and dancing inside the glass box. Who are they? Is this some sort of window? The figures are small, so they must be some distance away. Yet I can distinguish their words and their features as clearly as if they were right in the room with me. How can this be?

  “I remember hearing you once say,” says the beautiful lady in the window to the gentleman dancing with her, “that you hardly ever forgave. That your resentment, once created, wa
s implacable. You are very careful, are you not, in allowing your resentment to be created?”

  The gentleman dancing with her says, “I am.”

  “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” asks the lady.

  “I hope not,” says the gentleman. “May I ask to what these questions tend?”

  “Merely to the illustration of your character,” says she. “I’m trying to make it out.”

  I know these words—I have read them! It is the Netherfield Ball from my favorite book, Pride and Prejudice, and the gentleman and lady are Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. To think that Elizabeth and Darcy are real people, and that I am watching them, right now, through a window! This is something I cannot explain, nor can I make sense of the fact that they are apparently far away yet completely distinguishable.

  I shall call out to the lady and see if she can solve the mystery. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. We have not been introduced, but I seem to be your neighbor, and I am lost. Can you hear me?”

  But the brightly lit figures in the window make no sign of having heard me, though I continue to hear their conversation as clearly as if they were right here in the room with me.

  I reach out my hand to the glass box and touch its hard, shiny surface. I tap on the glass to see if I can get the attention of the figures inside; no luck. I move my face closer to the glass to see if I can get a better look, but indeed the figures look flatter and less real, somehow, the closer I am to the window. How very curious.

  But that is not the worst of it. Odder still is the sound of my own voice, which is, as a matter of fact, not my voice at all.

  “Miss Bennet?” I say, marveling at the tone and accent of what issues from my own mouth, and not at this point expecting Miss Bennet to hear me. The voice is not my own, the accent having hints of something almost of Bristol and perhaps a bit like Captain Stevens sounded when he was imitating people who lived in the Americas. How incensed my mother would be if she could hear me speak like a barbaric American. Delightful thought.

  I glance around the strange room again, and at the glass window with the people from Pride and Prejudice conversing with one another as if I were not here trying to get their attention, and all at once I understand: Of course. I am having a dream. Nothing like the other dreams I have had in which I also knew I was dreaming, but a dream nevertheless. What a relief to know that I do not have to ascertain where I am or find my way back to my own room; all I have to do is wake up.

  In the meantime, I shall divert myself by finding out if Barnes is here, and, if so, where; surely she would delight as much as I in the wondrous sight and sound of Lizzy and Darcy dancing in the glass rectangle.

  I shall put on my dressing gown and explore. Where might the gowns be kept? I open a door, revealing at least two yards of hanging garments, none of which look like my own clothes. I pull out a long, filmy, sashed thing; it might do. If only there were a looking-glass.

  Ah, there it is, on the other side of the door to this vast repository of garments. I pull open the door and see a petite, pale-haired young woman in the glass. She and I gasp in unison. I wheel around, for the woman must be behind me, but there is only the empty room. Except for Miss Bennet and Mr. Darcy, that is.

  I turn back to the mirror, and the truth literally stares me in the face: I am looking at my own reflection.

  Two

  The woman in the glass is no one whom I recognize. I watch the reflection in the glass as I reach up to touch the pale yellow hair striped with light brown that falls to my shoulders, feel the silky texture of it as the woman in the mirror does the same. I touch the round thighs of the short but shapely legs which are completely bare, and the reflection mirrors my movements. I regard my chest and torso, which are covered by a thinly woven, short-sleeved shift whose hem touches the tops of my thighs—I have never slept in such a garment before. Quite immodest; I smile at the thought of what my mother would say if she saw me in it. Fingering the hem, I catch sight of small, shapely feet tipped with azure-blue nails—and my knees nearly give way again.

  Don’t be such a frightened little creepmouse. I take a deep breath, look at the feet again, and giggle. In a dream my toenails may be any color of the rainbow, and why should they not be? Have I not always longed to be small and round with fuller limbs, instead of the thin, long-legged creature who never fills out my gowns the way I wish to do? Have I not always wished for my sister Clara’s golden tresses in vain? Now she is not the only Mansfield daughter with fair hair.

  Still, I am not sure I would like to remain in this dream much longer. It is, after all, one thing to imagine being someone else. And quite another actually to be someone else. I know this cannot be real, but it feels as if it were.

  A couple of quick knocks that sound as if they are coming from the next room, a key turning in a lock, and then a male voice. “Courtney?”

  I snatch up the dressing gown, which I must have dropped on the floor, and belt it tightly around my waist.

  “Are you awake?” That voice again.

  I can feel myself trembling, but I shall be mistress of myself. “Who, might I ask, sir, are you?”

  Whoever it is pops his head round the doorway, a sweet smile on his bespectacled countenance. Despite my state of deshabille, I perceive not the least bit of danger from this stranger with a head of tousled curls like an angel. His coarse trousers, short-sleeved, collarless shirt, thick boots, and coatless state declare him to be a servant or a laborer rather than a gentleman, but still I cannot summon any alarm at his presence.

  He smiles and makes a clumsy little bow. “Your humble servant, madam. With coffee and eggs, as promised.” He gestures for me to join him in the next room.

  “I shall be there directly,” I say, and shut the door. My stomach rumbles at the mention of food, but I am not about to converse with an ill-clad manservant while wearing a shift and dressing gown.

  His laughter floats in from the other room. “All you need is an English accent, and you’ll sound just like the actors in Pride and Prejudice. Which obviously you’ve been watching. Again.”

  I turn back to the glass box; the figures are still moving about and talking, completely oblivious to my presence. Actors indeed. That would explain their not acknowledging me when I called out to them. Of course. It takes a great deal of focus to be a good actor. But how very odd that Pride and Prejudice should be a play and I not hear of it till now. Of course I would not have heard of it; this is a dream, silly goose. And of course I would dream of seeing onstage the story I love so well.

  What shall I wear? The row of hanging garments is far longer than that in my own armoire; however, there seems to be an abundance of trousers—could this be the servant’s room? My face grows hot at the very thought of awakening in a man’s room. Nonsense. I am being missish. I shan’t think about such nonsense; I must get dressed.

  Ah, yes. Here are gauzy garments that might be dresses. When I hold them against my body, however, they are not gowns at all, falling to just below my knees at best and high above them at worst.

  What an immodest chit I am in this dream. Wait; there does seem to be something in the farthest recess that looks a proper length—I pull it out and remove a clear, shiny film that encases it. A white gown of the finest silk, with a pearl-encrusted bodice. Overly fine for my taste, let alone for morning and in such a place as this. The length is unexceptionable, but there are no sleeves at all, merely two thin bands of fabric to go over the shoulders. It will have to do. I pull off the sleeping shift and step into the white gown. The back is all tiny pearl buttons and loops; I most certainly will need help with those.

  I call out to the curly-haired man through the closed door. “Hallo there! Would you be so kind as to send in a servant to help me dress?” Again that strange voice coming from my mouth. It is curious indeed.

  “At your service, milady,” says the curly-haired man, who has the audacity to open the door and walk towards me.

  I back away from h
im so that the unfastened part of the gown is against the wall. Hugging my bare arms to myself, I say with as much authority as I can, “Entering a lady’s room without her leave is not at all the thing.”

  He just stands there, gaping at me.

  I feel my face flush. “Have you been struck dumb, sir?”

  “I . . . what are you doing in that dress?” His voice is soft, his eyes kind and gentle behind his spectacles.

  “I am merely trying to find something appropriate to wear. No easy task, I might add. Now do leave me and send in a woman.”

  He stretches out a hand and touches my forehead. I flinch from the pain in my head. “You don’t feel feverish. The pain’s not worse, is it?” His eyes are full of concern.

  “It is merely the headache. If I had my aromatic vinegar I should be well in a trice.”

  “Hitting your head on the bottom of a pool is not what I’d call a headache. Are you sure you’re okay, Courtney?”

  “It is tiresome enough that I do not even sound like myself. But might I have at least the comfort of being addressed by my own name?”

  He motions to the bed. “Here, sit for a minute. You’re scaring me.”

  I reach for the dressing gown and, throwing it around my shoulders, allow the curly-haired young man to lead me back to the bed. He really does look harmless, and after all, what harm could come to me? Thankfully, he makes no motion to join me; instead, he rushes out of the room. I recline against the wall, which feels delightfully cool; my head really does ache most dreadfully. I do not wish to remain here much longer, although the figures in the box are still acting out Pride and Prejudice, which eases the pain in my head more than any aromatic vinegar could do.

  The young man hurries back into the chamber, bearing a glass of water, which he sets on the low table at the side of the bed, and a white opaque glass that he thrusts into my hands. No, it is not glass at all; it is heavy paper, I believe—and hot, too. How very strange. I inhale the scent of the steaming coffee within and venture a taste. Strong and rich with foamy milk on top.