Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict

by Laurie Viera Rigler

  “You can leave now, Frank,” Wes snaps. “She’s fine.”

  Frank gazes at me, his eyes large and liquid. “Is that what you want?” Can this truly be the man who used Courtney ill? His manner is gentle, and there is so much goodness in his countenance.

  “It is what you want, isn’t it?” says Wes. I tear my eyes from Frank, and Wes has an almost frightened look about him.

  “Hey,” Frank says, “I’m talking to Courtney.”

  I clear my throat. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  “Sir?” Frank looks at Wes with raised eyebrows.

  “If you will be so kind as to let me continue, sir. I do not know—I do not remember you. I recognize you only from a picture that Paula showed me. Therefore, I have no reason to wish you either here or gone. Do forgive me if my honest disclosure causes you any pain.”

  Frank opens his mouth as if to speak, and at first not a sound issues from it. “This is a joke, right?”

  He looks at Wes as if for guidance, but Wes’s gaze is stony.

  “How do you not remember me?”

  “Hard to imagine not being the center of a woman’s world anymore, isn’t it,” says Wes.

  “Like you would know,” Frank says. “You’re too busy chasing after my relationship to have any of your own.”

  Wes’s face reddens. “Get out.”

  “Last time I checked, this was Courtney’s apartment, not yours.”

  “I mean it, Frank.”

  “What are you gonna do? Throw me out? No, that’s not the way you do things. Nothing so direct as that. No, you pour poison into everyone’s ears till half my friends won’t even speak to me anymore.”

  Wes sputters, almost laughing. “You’re the one who cheated on her.”

  “So you say.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re denying this now. Isn’t it a little late for that?”

  “I never said I slept with her.”

  “She saw you!” says Wes.

  “Saw me what? Saw me talking to the cake woman? Saw me touch her arm?”

  Frank’s words have a chilling familiarity to them. Could it be that what I saw Edgeworth do with the servant was as innocent as what Frank is claiming for his own actions? I never even confronted Edgeworth with what I saw; he had no idea I was cowering behind a bush as he kissed the hand of the auburn-haired woman. No. Impossible. What possible propriety could attach to what I saw Edgeworth do? His very countenance was evidence of his guilt as he furtively glanced around to see if anyone was about, as he brushed straw from his hair and clothing. And how the woman reached for him, almost possessively, as a lover would reach for her beloved. As I would reach for Edgeworth. No. He was as guilty as he appeared, for it was Mary’s letter which erased any doubt, Mary’s letter which told me of her servant who was with child. Mary’s letter which sent me on that reckless ride with Belle through the woods, that ride that sent me into darkness and oblivion—and this.

  “Courtney?” It is Wes. He and Frank are looking at me questioningly.

  “Did I ever say I slept with her?” Frank says to me.

  “If you were sensible of the impropriety of such language, you would not behave in such an ungentleman-like manner.”

  “I didn’t, did I? You just assumed what you wanted to assume, called off the wedding, and told everyone I was scum.”

  “Upon my word, this is beyond anything. If you cannot speak to me in a civil manner, then please have the goodness to leave.”

  “You knew I wasn’t ready to get married.”

  Wes steps in between the two of us. “Did you hear her tell you to leave?”

  Frank moves as if to shove Wes, then looks as if he thinks better of it, simply ignoring him and addressing me. “And the jealousy. Always the jealousy. That’s what ended this, not me.”

  I do not believe I am jealous by nature, but what I saw that day on Edgeworth’s estate put me in a fury the likes of which I have never known.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” says Frank. “I messed up. I was in the wrong.”

  Wes snorts. “Well, that’s a first.”

  Frank ignores him and puts his hand on my arm. “But I didn’t sleep with her.”

  Wes throws up his hands. “You’re actually incapable of a real apology, aren’t you.”

  “This is between Courtney and me,” says Frank. And to me, “Could we talk alone for a minute?”

  I look up at him, and in his countenance there is so much eagerness to be absolved of whatever he has done that I feel a little tug at my heart.

  “No way,” says Wes. “We’re leaving, Frank, even if you won’t.”

  How did I find myself pulled between these two gentlemen? Suddenly, the heat in the apartment is stifling; the white bodice sticks to my skin. “I must go. Fresh air.” I move towards the door.

  “I’m going with you,” Wes says.

  “So am I,” says Frank.

  “As you wish. Only do be civil to one another for two minutes together.”

  As we emerge into the street, the dazzling lights of the city provide a welcome distraction. And what a variety of light there is, from huge globes supported on tall poles lining the pavement to the blazing doorway lamps and illuminated interiors which are so bright that I can see people going about their business through the large panes of glass. And then we reach the main thoroughfare, where there are shops and dining establishments, and the light is even more impressive, the prominent signs of daytime claiming even more notice when illuminated.

  Some loud whispering between the gentlemen diverts my attention. I cannot hear it all, but Frank’s “the way she talks, it’s like that stupid movie she’s always watching” and Wes’s “it’s the concussion” tell me all I need or want to know. If gossip prevents them from further antagonism, so much the better for all concerned. But I really must endeavor to speak more like the people in this land, if I can learn to do so.

  We stop before a dark red, dimly lit building nestled between a place called Ray’s Cleaners, which proclaims its name in brightly glowing tubelike letters in the window, and another named Acme Taqueria, whose sign is less garish and from which a tantalizing aroma of exotic food issues.

  “I need a drink,” Frank says, motioning me towards the door of the red building, which is also red.

  “I thought we were going to eat,” says Wes, looking to me as if for confirmation.

  “Just a quick one,” says Frank, and opens the red door for me with a flourish.

  Curious, I walk through the door and into another world, all plush and red and black and gold with gold fringe hanging from overhead lampshades, candle-like (but certainly candle-less) lights glowing from cherubic wall sconces, and sofas and deep armchairs everywhere, all richly covered in red velvet or brocade. The music inside is loud but pleasanter than the music in Paula’s car, though as foreign in sound. The singer this time is a woman, with a haunting, compelling voice.

  “Hey, Courtney,” a tall man, with longish dark-brown hair oddly streaked with light-blond locks and a purple-and-gold depiction of a dragon painted onto his bare forearm, calls out to me from behind a tall bar backed with rows of sparkling bottles filled with brown and amber and green and gold liquids. He hands a glass to another man seated before the bar.

  How odd for a gentleman, and most likely not a gentleman at all, but a waiter, to greet me in such a familiar manner, and without my acknowledging him first. Perhaps he is a close friend or even a brother to Courtney? I suppose I should greet him, lest I raise even more speculation. Yet that painting on his arm—perhaps it is a tattoo, like the ones I have read about in a travel diary. What sort of company does Courtney keep, and what sort of person must she be?

  “Good evening,” I say, hoping my smile is polite but not too encouraging.

  Apparently, my hope is a vain one, for the painted man emerges from behind the bar, strides over to me, and envelops me in a hug. “Darling, your friends told me what happened. Thank God you’re okay.” His acc
ent is more familiar than those I have heard thus far, perhaps English, though not genteel.

  The man whispers in my ear, “So when are you going to dump that loser for good and marry me? You told me he was history, darling.”

  I feel my face burning, and I extricate myself from his grip. Most certainly not a brother. “Upon my word, I—”

  “I know, a drink,” he says, grinning broadly. “It’s on me. Loser buys his own. So does the other one. You’d better hope I don’t start telling tales to the girls.” He’s off to the bar, and so are we, it seems.

  I find myself seated before the bar on a high-legged stool with a plush red seat, flanked by the two gentlemen. I learn the waiter’s name, Glenn, when Wes greets him. Glenn is none too friendly to Wes, but Frank receives only a cold glance and a terse “eight” from Glen, which is apparently the price of Frank’s drink. Eight shillings for a drink sounds rather steep, though what Frank extracts from his pocket is a bank-note in the amount of ten dollars with “United States of America” emblazoned on the top. I have long been curious about the former colonies, but never did I imagine anything like this.

  “Your money’s no good here,” Glenn says to me with a wink as he places before me a large, somewhat triangular-shaped glass with a pedestal. In it is a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid with what looks like four large green olives skewered onto a thin stake of wood. I raise the glass and take a tentative sniff, and my nose clears from the fumes and my mouth waters, though I have never had such a drink in my life.

  I take a tiny sip of the icy liquid—delicious. Strong and salty and tasting of olives and bracing. Perfect for the hot weather, which, now that I put my mind to it, is not hot at all inside this establishment. It is, in fact, strangely cool in comparison to the outdoors. I take a bigger sip. Glenn raises his own glass to me, and I raise mine to him and take a drink. I could easily become accustomed to this manner of refreshment.

  And then I am thunderstruck. Am I actually sitting inside a public house, a gentlewoman in a public house, accompanied by two gentlemen who are neither brother nor cousin nor father, but most likely members of the lower orders and not gentlemen at all? Not that entering a public house with genteel male relations would be any less scandalous, but this is highly improper.

  “Easy now,” Wes says, pointing to my drink. “I don’t know that vodka and a concussion is the wisest combination.”

  “Vodka.” I savor the word on my tongue. And drink some more.

  Frank lounges next to me, leaning on the bar and taking long swallows from a long-necked, brown glass bottle. “So. You don’t hate me anymore?”

  “Does it signify? Apparently, you and Court—rather, you and I—had a lucky escape from what all parties agree would have been a most imprudent marriage.”

  “Courtney, you’re out of control with this weird talking. I know you hit your head and all, but you’ve got to stop watching those movies.”

  “I thank you for your kind hints.”

  Frank, who has put the bottle to his lips, sputters with laughter. “Concussion, my ass. You’re not fooling anyone. Except maybe him.” He juts his chin towards Wes.

  “I have not been accustomed to such language as this,” I say, and start laughing myself. Only Lady Catherine de Bourgh could speak such words and keep her countenance.

  “I knew it,” says Frank.

  “Knew what, pray tell?”

  “That you’re having a little fun at everyone’s expense.” He brings his face close to mine and gazes intently into my eyes. I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “And that you don’t hate me. You don’t hate me, do you.”

  “Of course I do not, I—”

  He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, and the touch sends a thrill through my body. “Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

  His lips move so close to mine that they are practically touching. And then he does touch my lips with his own, so lightly and softly that I cannot summon the wherewithal to push him away. And then the kiss becomes more urgent, more intoxicating, and I am drunk with it, and when he runs the tips of his fingers over the edge of my jaw, the touch instantly brings me back to another day, and I see and feel myself with him as he touches me in the same way, kisses me in the same way. And I am kissing his lips, tasting his mouth, lying with him in bed, his body stretched over mine, his skin against my skin, his leg against my bare leg. And I know with all my soul that this is not me, but it is me. My body, this body, knows that this is a memory. A memory as vivid as any memory I have ever had before. Yet it is a memory of something that never happened. It is Courtney’s memory, not mine. I know not how such a thing can be; yet it is as real as any sensation I have experienced since awakening yesterday morning. How can I remember having been with this man? And in a manner far more compromising than anything I ever did with Edgeworth.

  My face burns—and I am pushing him away. Almost without volition I scramble off the chair, away from Frank, away from Wes and the shocked look in his eyes, and I run towards a glowing sign on the other side of the room that says “Ladies.” Perhaps it is a sanctuary, a drawing room.

  “Hey!” I hear behind me. Frank’s voice. I reach the door, a padded door, red of course, and pull on the handle. Inside is a wide mirror to my right with a row of wash-hand basins beneath it. To my left is a series of doors that do not reach all the way to the floor, or to the ceiling. I fiddle with the handles on one of the wash-hand basins until a cool stream of water flows into the bowl. I wet my face.

  What have I done? How could I let a man kiss me, and in public? A man I do not even know. I who never kissed a man till Edgeworth, the man I loved, and we would have raised a scandal had anyone seen us in the woods that day, though he asked me to marry him. Yet I let Frank kiss me. And I feel it again, his lips on mine, his body lying on top of mine, and my arms pressing him closer to me, my hands running down the length of his torso, his—dear God, what is happening to me? What sort of woman have I become? Have I longed for a new life and had my dearest wish fulfilled, have I been transported somehow, transmigrated somehow, into this body, only to learn that I am an unmarried woman who has actually bedded a man she would not marry, that I am a woman who frequents public houses with men, who imbibes liquor and does not attend church, a woman who is godless and profligate and fallen?

  The realization that I have inherited all this sin almost takes my breath away. What has become of me? How will I live with myself? And how will I ever face that man again? I must get out of here. I cannot look at him. My breath comes fast and hard, and I have to grip the edge of the wash-hand basin to avoid stumbling back against the row of doors behind me. I may be mad. I may be fallen. But I shall not faint.

  “You okay?”

  I hear myself gasp. I look up, and in the mirror’s reflection is a young lady who has just emerged from one of the three-quarter doors behind me. Her skin is the color of chocolate laced heavily with cream.

  “Oh, it’s you, Courtney,” she says, smiling her delight.

  Oh, dear. Another person I am supposed to know but whose countenance is wholly unfamiliar to me.

  “You don’t remember me, do you. I’m Deepa. You were at my party a couple of months ago?”

  Her accent is like that of the actress from the Pride and Prejudice movie. Could she be from my country?

  She frowns, a concerned, good-natured sort of frown. “We talked for quite a while, actually. Hey, you okay? You don’t look okay.”

  I suppose the sour countenance looking back at me from the mirror must be the opposite of what “okay” means.

  “I assure you I am,” I say, but that is all I can get out, for my eyes begin to fill and my mouth quivers with the effort to keep back the tears.

  Deepa pulls a paper handkerchief from a brown spangled reticule, sparkly bracelets jangling, and hands it to me. There are rings on almost every one of her fingers, and from her ears clear globes studded with diamonds dangle from the thinnest wires imaginable.

/>   I take the handkerchief and wipe my eyes, and she looks upon me kindly with large brown eyes as she hands me another one. Her hair is shiny black and cut short, with jagged strands over arched black brows.

  “You were unhappy the last time we met as well. And I was in a bit of a strop, too, I might add. All those people coming up to me and telling me how sorry they were about my divorce. When all I wanted to do was breathe a big sigh of relief. Though I must say, you and I ended up making each other laugh.” She gazes at me searchingly. “You really don’t remember, do you? You’d had a lot to drink, but I didn’t think you were that drunk.”

  “Do forgive me,” I say. “I am told I have a—concussion, and there is much I do not remember.”

  “No way. What happened?”

  “I hit my head in a pool, I’m told.”

  “And you don’t remember that either?” She regards me kindly. “But it’ll all come back, won’t it?”

  I shrug.

  “Hey, some things aren’t worth remembering, believe me.”

  At that moment, there is pounding on the door, which then opens slightly. Wes peeks in and looks sheepish when he sees that there is another lady here beside me. “Oh, hi, Deepa. Sorry, but I just wanted to see if—Courtney, you okay?”

  I can hardly bring myself to meet his eyes after what he saw me do with Frank, who, in that moment, strolls in and leans against the wall as if he has every right to intrude upon our sanctuary.

  Deepa gives me a significant look, and my face burns. “Like I said, some things aren’t worth remembering.”

  How much does she know about my connection with Frank?

  “You do realize,” she says to the gentlemen, hand on hip, “that this is a women’s bathroom?”

  Frank smirks. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Wes reaches for me. “Courtney, let’s get out of here.”

  I am so stunned that he would still wish to escort me home that I cannot even speak.