I look from Paula to Anna and back, quite at a loss. “Forgive me, ladies, but I have not the honor of understanding you.”
“The only thing I could get out of Suzanne about your case,” says Paula, “is that memory loss and confusion are not uncommon with concussion. She also said it would likely pass. But you really don’t remember what happened with Wes?”
“Or Frank?” adds Anna.
“I must confess I do not,” I say, noting the shocked looks they exchange with one another and seeing the wisdom of Wes’s admonition that I refrain from insisting I am not, in fact, who they believe me to be.
Paula reaches for one of the three basins of coffee with foamy milk which the waiter has just deposited before us. “But you remember who they are, right?”
“Indeed I do not.”
“And what about me? Do you really not remember me?” says Paula, enormous coffee cup poised at her scarlet lips.
“Or me?” Anna’s eyes are eager, hopeful.
I muster what I hope looks like an encouraging smile. “I am sure it will all come back very soon.”
“Jesus,” says Paula, and, calling out to a waiter, “Could I have a mimosa over here?
“Luckily,” she adds, reaching into a large, square black bag with shiny white flowers and pulling out a flat rectangular object like the one Wes tried to show me how to use, “I came armed with visual aids.”
She lays the rectangle on the table and taps its flat, hard surface, sometimes moving her pointing and middle finger across it as if smoothing it out. Small pictures, as colorful and lifelike as the one atop the cabinet in Dr. Menziger’s room, appear on the surface for a fleeting moment, instantly replaced by another, and another, and yet another.
“Here it is.” She slides the rectangle before me.
I am looking at a picture of the blond woman I have become, standing beside a man who is two heads taller than she and has his arm round her, quite an unseemly display of affection for a portrait. He has a playful grin and dark hair, nearly black, which falls over his forehead and tumbles over the open collar of his shirt. Does no gentleman wear a coat or neckcloth in this world? As a matter of fact, not a single gentleman in this establishment is wearing a coat. Unless—
Unless they are none of them gentlemen. Could it be that I have taken on not only a new body, but also a new rank, one lower than that of a gentleman’s daughter? That could account for the unladylike dress and painted lips of the two ladies, unless they are—no, unthinkable—though I must venture to gain some intelligence of their families, their pursuits, their situation in life. And what of Wes? What could account for the air and manner and dress of Wes and Paula and Anna, for their ill-bred familiarity towards me and one another, for the brazen manners of the ladies and gentlemen all around me—if ladies and gentlemen they be?
Good lord. What have I become?
A hypocrite. Nothing less. I, who proclaimed to James that “rank and fortune don’t signify,” and here I am lamenting my fall from the polite world. Although Paula must be a woman of substance in order to keep her own carriage—or car. And while there is no evidence of a servant in the blond woman’s rooms, no one expected her/me to have anything to do with the laundry—Wes did say he folded it, did he not? And the ladies did help me dress.
There it is. They must be my servants after all. And Paula is some sort of coachman—coachwoman. No. Impossible. There is not the smallest degree of deference in their manner towards me. Dictating to me, addressing me by my/her Christian name. In fact—
“Courtney!”
“Don’t shout at her,” Anna says.
“Forgive me,” I say, aware again of my surroundings and wondering how a tall fluted glass filled with fizzing, bright yellow liquid has come to be in front of me on the table. Paula is engaged in finishing what looks like the same type of drink.
She dabs at her lips with a starched white napkin. “You completely disappeared into yourself. Are you okay? Is it the photo?”
“That?” I say, seeing that she is looking at the picture in the rectangle. “Not at all.”
“So you don’t recognize him,” Anna says. “I think that’s a blessing.”
“Let me enlighten you,” says Paula, pointing at the black-haired gentleman in the picture next to the likeness of Courtney, or should I say me. The notion is quite diverting, and I find myself struggling to keep my countenance.
“That,” Paula continues, “is Frank. You were engaged to him. Two months before the wedding, you walked in on Frank cozying up to another woman. The woman who was designing your wedding cake,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “as if infidelity weren’t bad enough. Wes knew about it, but instead of telling you the truth, he agreed to lie for Frank. And Wes was supposed to be your closest male friend. Trouble is, he’s been friends with Frank since high school and clearly made a choice between the two of you when push came to shove.”
She regards me narrowly. “Any of this sound familiar?”
Indeed. For I know that sort of betrayal all too well. I can see myself back on Edgeworth’s estate, watching as he emerges from the stables, smoothing a lock of hair from his face and brushing straw from his clothes. He is walking towards me but does not see me, and something makes me hesitate to make my presence known. And then a pretty young serving woman also emerges from the stables, her apron flecked with bits of straw, her hair, which tumbles from her cap, glinting like burnished copper in the sunlight. She overtakes him, her hand reaching out for him, her smile confident as he turns to her. I am as still as can be, hiding behind a bush like a thief, heart pounding as I watch him stop her hand, then bring it to his lips. She colors deeply, clearly pleased with his attentions. He then hurries away, brushing bits of straw from his coat and giving his surroundings a furtive glance, for it is clear he would not want to be observed dallying with a servant. It is only when he disappears into the shrubbery and is well past me that I realize I have been holding my breath.
“Courtney? You do remember, don’t you?” Paula’s voice brings me back to the table and the picture of Frank and the bustle of waiters and diners and the clink of tableware and cutlery.
“Unhappily, it is a familiar tale.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you talk about it without tearing up,” Anna says. “You’ve really turned a corner, sweetie.”
I have not the heart to tell her that the story I have just heard is as removed from my own life as the woman I am impersonating. Instead, I venture a sip from the fluted glass. “Mmm. Champagne. And orange juice.”
“At least there’s something you remember,” says Paula. “It’s your favorite. At least for brunch.” She signals to a waiter and points at her empty glass. “And mine.”
“Do I generally take wine at such an early hour?”
Paula’s brows contract. “And that’s another thing. Amnesia I can understand. Confusion I get. But the way you talk? What’s up with that? It’s almost as if you were trying to sound like Keira Knightley. But without the English accent.”
Anna gives Paula an exasperated look. “Do you have to be so blunt?”
Paula looks a little ashamed. “I didn’t mean to be, sweetie,” she says to me. “I’m just confused is all. And you know me; I say what I think. It’s who I am. That’s why you love me. I’m a truth-teller.”
“And I’m a liar, I suppose,” Anna says peevishly.
A second mimosa arrives for Paula, and she takes a sip. “No, you’re just a nice person. And I’m not.”
Anna smirks. “Which is why you love me.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Paula says, at which Anna smacks her playfully, and Paula hooks her arm round Anna’s neck. “You know I love you, darling.”
I can’t help but be affected by their obvious fondness for each other, despite the public display. Or perhaps here such manners are unexceptionable. Would that be so very disagreeable? To show whatever I feel whenever I feel it to whomever I feel it? Have I ever even imagined such freedom? Wou
ld that not be a little bit of heaven?
“And you love us, too,” Paula says to me. “I can tell by that smile on your face. You may not remember us all that well, but you love us. And if not, you definitely will. I guarantee it.”
Anna giggles. “Or your money back.”
“But why you love Wes,” Paula says, her manner more sober now, “I’m sure I don’t know.”
Anna sighs. “Give her a break. She doesn’t remember.”
I gasp. “Did I say I loved him? I was not—quite myself yesterday.” Lord knows what I babbled when I took Dr. Menziger’s pill.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Paula. “But you watch yourself with him. You may not remember how betrayed you felt, but we do.”
“I thank you for your kind hints.” I hope that my countenance does not betray my feelings, which are far more disordered by the ladies’ disturbing reports of Wes than by anything they might say about Frank, a gentleman of whom I know nothing.
I think of Wes and how he looked as he slept on the chair beside my bed. Could a man with such an angelic countenance be capable of betraying a lady? Then again, what do I really know of him after such a short time? Did I not come to know and trust every nuance of Edgeworth’s countenance? I would have given myself to him completely—and ruined myself forever.
“Finally,” says Paula, as a huge, steaming platter of eggs and potatoes is placed before her. “I’m starved.”
A platter just as large, and with food enough for three people, is placed before me, and another one before Anna. I am hungry to be sure, but this must be a joke.
Or perhaps not. For as I look round me at the other diners, I observe that almost everyone is served immense portions. From another table, a waiter removes half-eaten and discarded plates of food, most with enough still on them to make a generous meal. As neither Paula nor Anna betrays any surprise at the wastefulness, I can only conclude that such dining habits are considered unexceptionable.
“Courtney,” says Anna, placing a hand on my arm, “you’re not going to call Frank, too, are you?”
“Don’t even think about it,” says Paula, waving her fork for emphasis. “If I hear you went within ten yards of that lying, cheating narcissist, I’ll give you a bigger concussion than you already have.”
“I promise I shall do no such thing. Truly.” I smile at them, and their countenances relax. “I can assure you that my life is confusing enough.”
And that is no lie.
“Nothing confusing about it,” says Paula. “All you have to remember is that this is what men do. They cheat. They lie. They stick together. So don’t forget it the next time you need someone. Men are all the same. It’s women who’ll have your back.”
Anna raises a hand. “Excuse me, I’m not saying Courtney shouldn’t be on her guard with Wes, but do we really want to make such a sweeping statement about half the human race?”
“Why do you think my mother divorced my father?”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve sworn off all contact with the evil gender,” Anna says, giving Paula a meaningful look.
“Don’t start,” says Paula with a warning edge in her voice. “And whose side are you on anyway?”
“Hers,” says Anna. “And yours. Which is why I wish you weren’t giving that—Michael person another chance.”
“I told you not to bring that up.” And then, to me, “Sweetie, I didn’t say anything because you’ve got so much going on right now.”
“And because she trusts him even less than I do.”
Paula ignores Anna and addresses me. “He’s completely over his ex, okay?”
Of course I have no idea of whom they are talking.
“What do you expect her to do?” says Anna. “Give you her blessing?” And then, to me, “She’s seeing him tonight.”
“Paula, I wish you a pleasant evening. And I thank you both for your kind hints.”
Both ladies seem to be rendered speechless, Anna opening her mouth as if to say something, then closing it as if thinking better of it.
“Okay, then,” Paula finally says, and downs the rest of her mimosa.
Nine
After announcing that breakfast is her treat and settling the bill with a shiny golden card which somehow serves as money—though the waiter gives it back to her after she signs the bill—Paula, along with Anna, extends her generosity by allowing me to sit quietly during the ride back to my rooms. “Quietly” is, however, a relative term, for music accompanies the ladies’ chat during the drive. Somehow it seems that music can be had in any space, mobile or stationary, and without benefit of musicians. This is music of a sort which I have never heard, a rhythmic, pounding, repetitive sound with a man’s voice that is not exactly singing, more like shouting some words that I cannot make out. Thankfully, Anna persuades Paula to soften the noise, and I am left to my own thoughts.
It is natural enough, if anything about my situation could be deemed natural, that I cannot think of the engagement of which they informed me as my engagement. Yet I cannot deny feeling almost injured, not by Frank, whom I do not know, but by Wes. My feelings are in all ways unaccountable. After all, I have known Wes little more than a day.
“This is what men do,” Paula had said of Wes and Frank.
“This is what men do,” said my mother to her cousin Beatrice when I was but thirteen years old. It was wrong of me to listen to their conversation; indeed, I am sure they believed me asleep on the sofa, but I shall never forget the resignation in cousin Beatrice’s voice as she spoke of how she had turned aside two maidservants for being with child and that she suspected her husband of fathering them.
“This is what men do,” said my mother.
“Not Mr. Mansfield,” said cousin Beatrice.
“Indeed, I would stake my life he does not,” said my mother, and I imagine what she really meant was that she would stake his, “but it is an all-too-common tale, my dear. I shall never forget when I was but a young bride, and a particular friend had the sad truth thrust upon her. Her aunt—a lady of sterling character—urged her to bear with it, declaring that such dalliances were what we women must strive to endure, and indeed are blessings that preserve our sex from yearly confinements.”
Recalling these words I see, for the first time—how did I not see it before—that what stopped Edgeworth from compromising my innocence was not, as I believed, his noble character. Or his respect for me. It was his inconstancy.
What else would have prevented him from taking me completely and making me his, body and soul, when I kissed him and held him so closely that I tremble still with the memory of it? It was he who broke away, not I. He who said we must wait till I would make him the happiest of men, he who asked me, once again, to marry him. For I am sure that he, like all men, wished for an unsullied bride.
And it was I who was so frightened by my reckless behavior that I begged for a day or two to reflect quietly on this most important step.
And so I returned to my home and contemplated the words I had heard at my sister Clara’s wedding, indeed at every wedding I had had the honor to attend, that marriage is “not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites.” That one should enter the state “reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.” One married for the “mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other.”
Yes, I desired to be a help and comfort to him, and that he should be a help and comfort to me. No, I would not marry him merely to satisfy my carnal lusts and appetites. But that I had those appetites I could not deny, and they frightened me. They had made me imprudent to the point of recklessness. And now they made me eager to marry him.
For had I not refused him before I knew I even had such feelings? I had disbelieved that a man who had loved before could be capable of a second attachment. I had doubted how this handsome, agreeable wido
wer could possibly love again. And if he did love, then I wondered if he had ever really loved his wife, and thus if he could ever really love me.
Marriage, the service declares, was “ordained for the procreation of children.” I knew not whether I had the courage to bear children, for I knew of too many women who had died in childbed, a fate as common as being with child. And being with child was the natural result of lying with a man. I feared the yearly confinements that were the lot of so many married ladies. My aunt Mansfield had nineteen children; the last took her life. My mother’s brother had twelve. His wife lived. Even my mother, with her small family of three children, had had two more, their brief infant lives marked with gravestones in the churchyard.
But I loved Edgeworth, of that I was sure. With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship. Any children that came of our union would be blessed by our love. I would risk everything for that love. And yes—I smiled inwardly—I would have Barnes be my emissary with Cook and her wise woman in the village who could make teas and potions that were indispensable to a lady, or so believed Barnes and Cook, whose conversation I overheard. I would avail myself of those potions and keep my family from an unreasonable increase.
And so, my answer ready, I mounted Belle and off we went. I imagined the surprise on Edgeworth’s face when I appeared without any notice of my arrival. I pictured a smile of delight overspread ing his countenance, like Darcy’s, when I told him I was there to accept his offer. I imagined the feel of his arms around me when I kissed him to seal the bargain.
But it was I who was surprised, not he. I who found him with the copper-haired servant. I who rode back and wandered the lanes, ranting and crying out my grief so that I could return home to my mother and father with some semblance of composure in my bearing. I who lost all hope of happiness.
No, I will not dwell upon these memories.
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 6